Page 11 of Just My Type of wrong guy

“We were so nostalgic. Now smile!” she orders, holding the phone in my face. “We need to update your photos, and this one’s going to be gorgeous.”

I shake my head, take a deep breath, and press my mom's guitar pick into my palm, striking a few classic poses. Then we head to the stairs that will take me to the stage in a few minutes, and I sit down to snap a few more.

“Okay, spill it.” My manager lowers the phone, now fully in ‘cousin’ mode.

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow, accepting her hand to help me up.

“You’re acting weird. Quiet, just agreeing with everything I say. What’s going on, are you nervous?”

“Of course I’m nervous. I’m about to sing for seventy thousand people, and I don’t even have the right to mess up on the new song because they’ve already learned it! And I can’t even show I’m nervous because A.J. thinks that means I’ll run off." The words come out so fast I don’t even know if I made sense.

“Ah, dodged the question.” Thalia squints at me.

I throw my head back, breathing deeply.

“I went to see my dad today.”

My words almost make her drop her phone.

“Really? How was it?”

“Sad. I don’t think there’s ever going to be an ‘us’ again.” I push her into the wall as five crew members rush by, carrying coolers to the stage.

Six minutes until I sing in my amazing city for the last time.

“And…?”

“You already know, Thalia. He said he’s happy because I’m happy, but it felt like he was talking about a funeral.”

“That’s normal. You guys have had that talk a million times.”

“Yeah, but this time he said my mom would never put her own wants before the family’s...”

“Low blow from Uncle Luiz.” Thalia touches her chest.

“So I said that doesn’t mean anything anymore because she’s dead.”

My dad blames himself for Mom’s death, and even though he never says it out loud, I can see he resents my career because he’s terrified of losing me too.

My mom passed away on one of the few nights my dad didn’t go see her perform. It was MPB – a genre he wasn’t too fond of – so he stayed home. That night, she died in an accident caused by a drunk driver, and for months – maybe over a year – he kept saying she only died because he wasn’t there.

It always hurt me: there was nothing he could’ve done, and I’ve never, ever blamed him for her death. I used to think that if he had gone, it would’ve been worse –they both would’ve been in that same accident, and I would’ve lost them both.

For a long time, that was my only comfort.

But it doesn't matter anymore, because every time I look at my life, it feels like I lost them both anyway.

“If he said anything else, Thalia, it would break me, and I’d forgive him, but he’d never be able to live with it..."

“Ready to rock?” A.J.’s English invades my ears, and I jump, facing his smiling face with dimples, his loose bun, and Rick in a stunning leather jacket, ready to hit the stage in five minutes.

“My God, where did you guys come from?” I’m so shocked I ask in Portuguese.

“From here,” Richard answers, also in Portuguese, reminding me he’s fluent in our language. Judging by the pitying looks A.J. and Richard exchange, they must’ve heard at least part of the conversation. “We came to wish you luck for the last show of the first weekend and...”

“Remember when English was the official language of the band, Richard? I remember.” A.J. jokes to make it clear he doesn’t understand much. My laugh fills the hall, easing the tension in my chest like only a walking skyscraper having a meltdown could. “And we also want to see your outfit. The costume designer gave it high praise.”

“Thanks so much, Imade upwiththe look,” Thalia stumbles over her English, but delivers the message. “Do a little spin.” She asks, and I do, receiving applause from both men.

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