Page 2 of Just My Type of wrong guy

With an exasperated sigh and a look filled with mockery, A.J. grabs the waistband of his boxers, pulling it away to examine the internal contents.

“It looks exhausted…” He shrugs, and my mouth forms a perfect “O” with my shock. “But I’m not sure if it’s from the daily grind or because we exercised.”

“Shut up, Anthony!” I scream, raising my right hand. “I told you I was weak with drinks, and now I wake up naked in the living room of the guy who said, ‘It’s going to be okay, I’ll take care of you.’ Great help!” I yell, pointing my finger at him.

“You were the one who made all those Brazilian drinks!” He accuses me. “But calm down. Probably nothing happened. We’d remember. I’d definitely remember if I’d slept with the most incredible girl I’ve ever met,” he assures, walking toward me to try to calm me down.

“Not today, A.J., not today.” I stop him with my hand on his chest and take a step back.

I can’t believe I was so stupid and let someone else take my focus away.

Now we’re hungover, with no memory, and even though we don’t know, even though we don’t remember, I’m sure that nothing, ever again, will be the same.

Chapter One – Alex.

Wake up, wake up, if it's all you do

look out, look inside of you

it's not what you lost it's what you'll gain

raising your voice to the rain.

Wake Up - Julie And The Phantoms

Six Months Earlier

I’m the girl who sang before she spoke.

It may sound weird and contradictory, but the DVDs with footage from my childhood carry some videos that show this paradox.

I rewatched a video the other day where you see eight-month-old Alexandra sitting on a rug in front of the TV, dancing and babbling along to the chorus of a Brazilian song about how the scent of a loved one invades our lives and changes everything – making everything about them. That little girl had no idea what the words meant, but you could feel how happy she was singing.

In another video, the funniest one, there's a scene from my first birthday. As usual, my dad and some other singers gathered to play at the end of the barbecue. While they were singing I, without hesitation, grabbed the microphone from one of the percussionists and started murmuring unintelligible words, swaying my body back and forth.

Maybe, back then, I already knew how much music would be a part of me. What that little girl couldn’t imagine, though, was that, twenty-four years later, I’d be on stage at the biggest stadium in Brazil, opening for the world’s biggest boy band.

“Good evening,Vagabonders!” I shout, watching the sea of people in front of me with my heart racing, as if it were my first time singing here. “How are you?” I ask, and I can barely hear my own voice when they start responding before I even finish. “I couldn’t be better,” I say, and I’m not saying that to sound nice.

Even being the girl who sang before she spoke, I can’t count the number of events that pulled me away from music over the last few years without using both hands. So, being here today is so much more than just “opening the show for my friend’s band,” and being so warmly received was everything I needed to gain a little bit of confidence.

I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that opening with a medley of the latest Brazilian hits andMas que Nada–The Black Eyed Peasversion – would go so well. It was eight minutes of pure nervousness, but now, as they scream my name so affectionately, I can tell I’ve already won over all the Vagabonders present.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding, and take a sip of water, trying to cool down from the infernal heat of Rio.

“I know you’re all anxious to see the boys, but thank you for the beautiful show you’re helping me put on so far,” I say. They scream “Vicious,” “Vicious,” and I take another sip of water. After that, it’s time to risk an original song. I place the cup on one of the drum stands behind me and return to the microphone. “I hope you listen to this one carefully; we’ll sing it again tomorrow in the show.” I wink at the camera on my face, which exposes it on the big screen, and strum the chords of “The Problem Is That I Got Tired of Your Love.”

They obviously don’t listen to me right away, but as the melancholic melody takes over the space, their eyes shift from euphoric to curious, and silence nearly consumes the entire stadium. A low chorus still accompanies me, probably consistingof the fans that Guilherme and I carried from the days of GenZ, the teen band we used to be in years ago.

The Problem Is That I Got Tired of Your Loveis my most-streamed song on Spotify, with a total of 100,000 streams. It talks about a relationship that feels more like an ego war. The more people love each other, the more they repel each other. The most painful, yet my favorite part of this song is the ending: “The problem is that I’m tired of your love, which feels like a prison. While you want me sweet enough to be caged, I’m out looking for loves that translate into admiration.”

I can see the impact of this line in the girls’ eyes. It always does this; I sing it once more, a cappella, and they scream wildly. It’s almost impossible not to think that, while the girls down below remember those jerk guys who hurt them, I think about the one I wrote this song for, the man I’ve loved most in my life: my dad.

I thank them for their affection with the song and ask them to rehearse for tomorrow before I bury my father in my heart and sing for another twenty minutes.

***

When I wrap up what should’ve been my last song and say my goodbyes, the crowd screams my name a little louder. As the lights go out, the screams turn into “Vicious, Vicious, Vicious,” and I almost feel bad for delaying this long-awaited meeting.

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