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Liberosis (n.) the desire to care less about things.
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Enconjonado. I cannot believe I went to that interview wearing this damn dress. Somehow, I scored the job, and I hope it was because they saw something inside me that they liked, not just liked what they saw—or rather, didn’t see—on the outside.
Bordeaux was interesting. My mind lingers, attempts to make sense of my feelings. Of course, I know who he is. Bordeaux Daniels, regular guy who was thrust into the limelight after a talent scout heard his band play at Iconic, the music venue above the record shop, a few years ago. He’s the lead singer for Reckless Desires and probably on the bedroom wall of every woman ranging from preteen all the way through midlife-crisis. What I didn’t know is that he was the owner of that panty-dropping voice I heard earlier on the phone, or that he would be the one to interview me at The Vinyl Kitty. I didn’t even know the owner of the shop was the grandmother to a famous rockstar.
The moment I walked up to TVK, it was clear something was going on. There was a horde of women outside, staring into the shop windows with six large, muscular men wearing all black standing between the women and the store. A line wrapped around the brownstone—people waiting to get in and browse either records or Bordeaux—and I had to bypass them while they screamed obscenities at me about skipping the line. I would have thought it was a sale or some kind of special going on, but then I saw women with signs. Emotionally attached to Bordeaux Daniels. Reckless Desires, Kiss Me Bordeaux. I Love You Bordeaux. The poster board signs were bordering on obsessive and at first, I thought maybe Reckless Desires was doing some kind of album drop in there. But then I walked in and saw him behind the counter.
The way his eyes locked with mine sent electric shocks up and down my spine, though I’m unsure of what the hell that means because that has never happened before—not even with Manuel, who was the love of my life.
My favorite part of the entire interview was the look of surprise when I didn’t freak out over him like he’s some piece of man-meat to devour. I’m assuming that’s what he expects any woman in close proximity to do, and while I love music, as far as I’m concerned, musicians are regular people. I’ve never understood why fans lose their minds when it comes to celebrities, but that’s not me.
Bordeaux is very, very far from the type of man I would normally gravitate toward. I’ve never been into the bad-boy type, and Bordeaux definitely has the bad-boy thing going on. His shirtless body is what sells his band’s records. I mean, their music is decent enough for what it is, but his body is definitely the focal point for their marketing team.
His handshake was firm but fleeting, and I couldn’t help but notice how tall he was in comparison to me. He towered over me so much that I had to tilt my neck up slightly to meet his eyes. And his eyes... They were a whole other story. I am fully convinced that sparkling blue ocean waves are locked inside his almond-shaped eyes. The very first thing I noticed about him—despite the black ink that decorated his skin—were those eyes. They pulled me in, and I had to fight, beg for them to let me go. I don’t remember ever having such an intensely magnetic, visceral reaction to a man before. And that tells me all I need to know. Steer clear, girlfriend. If there’s one thing I don’t need to do, it’s fall for a goddamn rockstar.
Bordeaux is an ungodly, attractive man, but he isn’t the man for me. I’m supposed to marry someone with a college education, something I assume he doesn’t have since he was whisked into the whole instant stardom thing. I’ve only dated clean-cut guys, the kind who bring my mother flowers and walk me to the door after dates to the movies. Guys who ask to kiss me and definitely do not have their skin decked out with art. I also haven’t ever dated a man with muscles like his, either.
He’s definitely something else. Untouchable.
I realize I’m judging him, and hard. I don’t know this guy, and I have no idea why I’m trying to convince myself that he’s no good.
I try to think about what my therapist would say if I told her all of this in a session. She’d probably tell me that I’m trying to protect myself. That I don’t want to let myself fawn all over him because, what if I actually have a connection with a rockstar and get my heart broken?
Jesus. Reel it in, girl. In fact, aside from his eyes roaming all over my body multiple times, it didn’t seem like he had any feelings whatsoever.
“Guess who just got a job at The Vinyl Kitty?!” I allow myself a flicker of happiness before my mother stomps it out with her disapproving tone.
“The Vinyl Kitty sounds like a sex shop,” Mami says, and I laugh so hard I snort and then laugh even harder.
Once I calm myself down, I say, “You know very well that it’s a record shop. I told you this earlier. Now, I have a question for you. What was that letter? With the stamp. Is it what I’m assuming it is?” I told myself earlier that I needed to face this, and I also need to change the subject from all things record shop right now. I know she doesn’t actually disapprove of me working at the record shop; she’s just worried I won’t have time for my studies. We’ve talked about me getting a part-time position before, but she always says they’ll pay my way until I’ve graduated. I just hate it. I feel like I’m not contributing, and I don’t want to be that person.
Then I remember. The envelope.
My ex-fiancé, Manuel, is getting married. I pushed this out of my mind during the interview, not allowing it to take over every single emotion inside of me, knowing it would sting. And it does. Actually, it does a hell of a lot more than sting; it guts me.
Mami slides the annoyingly, eye-catching glittery envelope in front of me on the kitchen table and a flood of tears pool in my eyes. I press shaking fingertips to the paper, running it along the swoopy black letters. I carefully slide the cardstock out like it’s a bomb, and really, it is. A ticking time bomb that I knew was coming. I just didn’t think it would be here so soon.
You Are Cordially Invited…
To the wedding of
Manuel Rodriguez
And
Emilia Castillo
I don’t bother continuing, not needing to dig the knife into my chest any deeper. The damage is done. I drop the invitation onto the table and push it toward my mother as my chest constricts.
“Did you know about this?” I ask her, forcing the tears back as they sting the corners of my eyes, not allowing her to see me upset. Our families are undeniably close; his parents and mine have been friends for decades, long before Manuel and I were an item. Our parents were the reason we were pushed together in the first place.
“I had a small idea, yes.” She thumbs at the invitation instead of looking at me.
“A heads-up would have been wonderful. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,” I say, forcing my eyes anywhere other than the invitation. I know he’s been dating Emilia for the better part of six months, but Jesus Lord in Heaven, I did not expect this. Manuel and I have barely spoken to each other since our breakup, but it seems like common courtesy to tell a woman that you were with for years—a woman you were engaged to—that you’re going to be marrying someone else.
Mami doesn’t say anything. I know she’s still conflicted with me for breaking things off with him, but would she rather I stay with a cheater? Sure, she doesn’t know that I walked in on him fucking another woman in the bed we shared, but she knows he cheated on me. I just spared her and my father the details.
