by Aya De León
* * *
This became her late summer hustle. The businesswoman whose flight was canceled. She pocketed the change fees. She started charging $150. Some airlines did. If guys turned out to be jerks, she “caught” her next flight. If they turned out to be fun, she let them “talk her out of it.” She used condoms. They paid for the hotel, all the food, and bought her the occasional gift.
One guy took her on his yacht, which was actually kind of a drag, because he complained to her the whole time about his wife.
But other times, it was room service or fine dining, shopping, and spa treatments.
In her designer carryon, she had four outfits, which she eventually identified as a series of costumes.
A cleavage-bearing silk blouse and pencil skirt: “my flight was canceled.”
A spaghetti-strap rayon jumpsuit: “I can’t believe I’m still in your hotel room.”
A clinging red-orange dress: “pay my plane change fee.”
A linen vest-blouse and matching pants: “parting is such sweet sorrow.”
All the colors were pale earth tones, except the red dress. The linen outfit only worked on the last day. It wrinkled in the suitcase, but by then she would have had time to order it steamed by the hotel staff.
She kept her hair blown out straight. She wore the Cartier chain. She kept the makeup subtle.
Sometimes, they would tell her how much more “classy” she was than the Puerto Rican women, with their bright colors and loud voices. Dulce would wave away the backhanded compliment with a shrug and a smile, and change the subject. Fuck them if they didn’t respect Caribbean women. They were getting hustled by one.
The island had a steady stream of businessmen. Laying in the spa one day, with a woman scrubbing her all over with sugar, she decided she might never leave.
* * *
She met Ellis one afternoon when she was between businessmen. She wasn’t wearing any of the uniforms, rather her tank top and shorts. She had been swimming, so her hair was kinky, and she had on red lipstick.
She went into a cafeteria to eat some comida criolla, and heard him cheering for the Knicks in an accent that broadcast New Jersey, even from across the room. He was African American, well-built, and handsome. She ordered her meal at the counter and sat down on the barstool beside him.
Ellis groaned as the Knicks missed a shot.
“Why isn’t their best player in the game?” Dulce asked.
“He took a fall earlier,” the young man said. “Where you from?”
“Washington Heights.”
“I’m from Newark,” he said, and they exchanged names.
After the Knicks’ defeat, they continued to chat. Eventually they went out for a drink.
“When you walked in that place, I was like damn, she’s fine,” he said. “But thank god you spoke English. I got no game in Spanish.”
Dulce laughed. It was nice to be with someone brown and handsome, closer to her own age. She thought of Zavier. This guy was more of a hunk, cooler, a total chick-magnet. But still, something about Zavier, with his nerdy glasses and skinny frame—something about the way he looked at her, the intensity of it, dwarfed all the beefcake bodies in the world.
But Ellis had a room at the Intercontinental Hotel. He was some kind of tech whiz. He asked her to stay with him. She said yes. She was herself with Ellis. And perhaps because she wasn’t busy playing the role of the Brazilian writer, she couldn’t stop thinking about Zavier.
But Ellis was fun. They watched “Love and Hip Hop Miami,” ate junk food, and smoked a little weed.
They took excursions into San Juan, not luxury stuff, just checking out the old part of the city, shopping like regular people. She finally found a copy of Nashonna’s new book.
When they went out, Ellis picked up the check, because he could charge it to his company. But the company wouldn’t reimburse for alcohol. So Dulce paid the bar tab when they went drinking outside the hotel. She didn’t really pay attention to how much she was spending. She was so obviously getting the better end of the deal with Ellis paying for the hotel and all the meals.
When Ellis was out at work, he didn’t spring for spa treatments, but she did love room service and swimming. Or she lounged around reading and watching A Woman’s Dark Past.
Xoana is waiting in her husband’s OB/GYN office. The baby sits on her lap, playing with her necklace.
Her husband sweeps in. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting darling,” he says. “One of my patients had an emergency. I won’t be able to make lunch today.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “It’s good to get out of the house. These days with just me and the baby can be so long.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll see you at home for dinner tonight.”
With a quick kiss on her forehead, he sweeps out again.
The baby begins to fuss, and Xoana bounces her. “We missed lunch,” she tells the baby. “But now it’s somebody’s naptime.”
As the baby begins to cry in earnest, Xoana puts her in the stroller. “I know you’re tired. Let’s have a little walk to put you to sleep, no?”
As she steps out of the building, Guilherme approaches her.
“I thought I might see you here,” he says.
“I can’t really stop to talk,” Xoana says. “I’ve got to get her to sleep.”
“I can walk with you,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be asleep in no time. You were always so good with Izabel’s brothers.”
“They must be so big now,” Xoana says.
“The older one is turning ten years old.”
“What?” Xoana asks loudly.
The baby begins to fuss again.
She reaches into the carriage and soothes her.
“I’m so surprised to find you in the city,” Xoana says. “You used to say that you never liked it here. You wanted to stay behind the scenes. Focus on the science.”
“I did,” Guilherme says. “I do. But Izabel was restless in such a small town. I want to keep her happy.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you,” Xoana says.
“I have to be honest,” Guilherme says. “Part of the reason I moved to the city was that everything back home reminded me of you. I thought if I got away. Maybe then I could just be happy with my life now. Happy with Izabel. But now . . . now I don’t think I can.” His voice has grown in volume and intensity.
“Shhhhh!” Xoana says. “The baby’s almost asleep.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it,” Guilherme says in a choked whisper. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that surge of electricity when we first saw each other. At that moment I knew. I could never be happy with anyone else. Why didn’t you tell me that your mother was sick? I would have come with you. We could have postponed the wedding.”
“My mother was a prostitute,” Xoana says. “I thought she was already dead. I didn’t know how to explain it, or if you’d understand.”
“I don’t know what I did to make you think I would’ve judged you for your mother’s sins,” Guilherme says.
“How do you know what my mother’s sins were,” Xoana says. “Some women don’t have a choice about these things. And then, once they’ve been in that life, every other door closes to them. And some women choose it, and who’s to say that’s a wrong choice. It’s not like most women have so many choices. Women from places like where I came from. Not from fancy places like the town we used to live in. You thought you weren’t good enough for Izabel. Where I come from, you would have been like a millionaire.”
“There’s so much about you I didn’t know,” Guilherme says. “I was so wound up in myself. I didn’t ask the right questions. Now, I wish I had.”
“You’re right, Guilherme,” Xoana says. “There’s so much about me you don’t know. It wouldn’t have worked out, no matter what you asked. Some answers have no questions.”
“How can you say it wouldn’t have worked out?” Guilherme asks. “After Izabel left me, I found m
yself falling in love with you. I went to a fortune teller. I’ve never done anything like that before. She said one sister was my true love, and the other sister was just a bridge to get me to her. After you left, I thought—I assumed you were the bridge. Keeping me connected until Izabel got back. But now—now that I’ve seen you again, I know that you are the love of my life. Izabel was the bridge. Xoana, you and I are meant to be. Can’t you feel it? Nothing can stop us. Nothing can stand in the way of this love we have.”
He leans forward and takes her in his arms.
For a moment, Xoana surrenders to it. She melts into his arms, his kiss, his love, the love she barely let herself even think about for so many years.
But then she pulls away.
“It’s wrong!” she says. “My husband. My baby. I can’t—”
And she hurries off, pushing the stroller between a pair of joggers and leaving him behind.
At that moment in the show, Ellis came into the room and Dulce immediately knew something was wrong. He didn’t have his usual grin.
“Baby, I got to cut this trip short,” he said. “There’s a hurricane warning.”
“Okay,” she said, and started packing her own suitcase.
“No need for you to leave,” he said. “My company has a deal with the hotel. The room is prepaid til the middle of the month. Feel free to stay the whole time. If you like, I can put your name on the reservation. I’d sit out the storm with you, but I have a big presentation in Houston next week. I can’t get stuck here.”
* * *
Dulce’s family had stories of hurricanes. Some were worse than others, but by the end, they had bounced back and were all laughing about it.
After Ellis left, Dulce started getting warnings from the hotel, papers slipped under her door. She had expected to sit out Hurricane Irma on the fourth floor of the hotel. She had imagined herself sitting there, the winds howling and the rain slashing at the windows, but she would be above it all, with good food, good booze, and good weed.
Instead, the written warnings became increasingly dire: “pack all your belongings into your suitcase, and put them in the bathroom. Close the bathroom door.”
Then later: “guests will need to be evacuated to the safe room.”
She joined a throng of travelers who pressed into elevators and trooped down stairs. They checked her name off a list (thank God Ellis had put her on the reservation) and gave her a special wristband.
She was prepared for the “safe room” to be some kind of dungeon, but it was more like a party. Then they sent her into a ballroom on the second floor, with an open bar and plenty of food. She befriended a pair of young Latinas from Detroit who were in Puerto Rico for a dance competition. One had on bright pink lipstick.
Her friend asked. “Where’s that hot as fuck guy we seen you around with?”
“Ellis?” Dulce said. “He had to go back to Houston.”
“How you gonna let your man out of your sight?” the dancer with the lipstick asked.
“How’d you let him get out of the bedroom?” the other one asked. “I wouldn’t let him wear anything more than a pair of boxers.”
“Better yet boxer briefs,” the lipstick girl said.
“He’s not my man,” Dulce said.
“If I’d have known that, I’d have been like ‘Hey Ellis, you can take me to Houston!’” lipstick girl said.
“Wait a minute,” the other girl put up a hand and scrutinized Dulce. “You got a man of your own, don’t you? You were getting a little action on the side?”
“Nothing like that,” Dulce said.
“But you have somebody, some kind of way, don’t you?” lipstick girl asked.
“Not really,” Dulce said, but of course she was thinking of Zavier.
“Did you see that smile?” lipstick girl asked. “You just thought about your real man.”
“Your real man must be putting the dick down so hard for you to be like, ‘bye Ellis. Have fun in Houston,’” her friend said.
“We haven’t even had sex,” Dulce said.
“But you were fucking Ellis, right?” lipstick girl asked. “I will personally be heartbroken if all that dick went to waste.”
“Yeah, I was,” Dulce said with a chuckle.
“And I bet he had you all, oh yes, papi!” she gave an orgasmic moan.
Dulce dropped her eyes and smiled. Sex with Ellis had definitely felt good, the same way making out felt good, but nothing even close to bringing her to a climax.
After the first time they had intercourse, he’d asked her point blank: “what about you?”
Dulce had blinked. With the other guys, she’d always faked it as part of the act. But she had been enjoying herself and not bothering to put on a show. He wasn’t a client or a sugar daddy. But then, he was looking at her like she was supposed to know. What about her? She had no idea. She opened her mouth, and the “I don’t know,” was on the tongue that had just been in his mouth, but she couldn’t speak.
“You want me to go down on you?” he asked.
Did she? Would she like it? She didn’t know that, either. Her Miami boyfriend was a bust, but maybe it was just the way he did it. Suddenly, she felt ashamed. What kind of stupid girl did all this fucking and didn’t even know what she liked? Could he see her blush in the dark?
“It just takes me a minute to get comfortable,” she had told him, her voice carefully modulated. “I usually come the second time.”
So from then on, she faked it.
“Oooh!” lipstick girl said, pulling Dulce from the memory. “They brought out a new plate of desserts.”
The three of them joined the rush toward the buffet table, and filled their plates with cookies and small squares of cheesecake and flan.
* * *
The hotel had a generator. Even when the power went off in San Juan, the hotel lights stayed on. They continued to prepare food. The three young women were up all night drinking and cracking jokes. In the pre-dawn, Dulce fell asleep for a few hours. By morning, they were all allowed to go back to their rooms.
And that was it. The hotel moved a little slow those first forty-eight hours after the hurricane. A lot of the staff couldn’t get in to work. But soon, things were back to normal. Dulce ordered room service. She hung out with her new friends. The dance contest was delayed a couple of days, but they invited Dulce. The girls were good dancers. They came in third.
After her new friends left, things were boring at the hotel.
Finally, her phone came back online. She checked social media, and found @ZaviJourno had tagged her in a series of tweets:
@ThugWoofer
“I been to jail
I shot a gun
Been chased by the cops in a life & death run
But nothing strikes terror in a thug’s tatted chest
Than when the time comes for him to express
The love he has for his girl (not to fuck)
But to let her know that she got him fucked
up . . .” (1/3)
“To drop the illusion, let go of control
Admit to himself that he’s vulnerable
If he can tolerate the panic
If he can stand the heat
It’ll forge him into someone life can never
defeat . . .” (2/3)
“Which is why the best brothers got queens at their sides
Rocking they own royal queendoms with strength and pride
So when you meet that queen who’s for real for real You better drop the armor and let her know how you feel.”
#LettingYouKnowHowIFeel (3/3)
Dulce fired back, tagging him in a tweet thread:
@ThatGirlNashonna
“a woman with a goal
whose career is on a roll
can’t afford to have a man
so I get it when I can . . .” (1/3)
“but if I keep it real
and reveal the way I really feel
do some serious introspection
> see I long for that connection
But let me ask you, sis:
Where’s the brother who can handle all this?”
Each Mr. Right that gets anointed
only leaves me disappointed . . .” (2/3)
“So I have the rap spotlight
To keep me warm at night
Curl up with my microphone
And I go to bed alone.” (3/3)
Dulce was feeling sorry for herself. Sure, she had a plush hotel room, but not for long. And she was alone. She wished Zavier were there. Or if not him, then Ellis. Even Phillip would have been a welcome distraction. Something to look forward to in the day. Now, her only excitement was the new episodes of A Woman’s Dark Past.
Izabel follows Xoana, who wheels the baby toward the park, and comes up behind her.
“I’ve seen the way my husband looks at you,” Izabel says. “Whatever is going on between you, I know he won’t look at you the same way after he sees those photographs.”
Xoana freezes, then keeps walking. “Nothing is going on between us,” Xoana says. “I’m married.”
“Once a whore always a whore,” Izabel says.
“I don’t have any designs on your husband,” Xoana says. “He married you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not with whores like you around,” Izabel says. “Keep away from him.”
Night in the city. Izabel climbs in the window of Xoana’s house. She slips into the nursery where the baby is sleeping. She approaches the crib, and looks down at the tiny girl. She runs a finger across the child’s cheek, and the baby whimpers.
Then Izabel turns to the bottle of water beside the nursing chair. She pours several drops of a clear liquid into the bottom of the empty water glass.
With a last look at the baby, she slips back out the window.
* * *
Later, the baby begins to cry. Xoana comes in.
