Page 141 of Wishing for La Luna
When I come out, my mom is sitting on my bed. Sel’s hovering at the door. Mami is looking at me with those Dominican mom eyes—the ones that miss absolutely nothing.
“How far along are you?”
“Six weeks,” I say. “Rio’s baby.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shocker. Well, what are we going to do,Mariposita?”
I know what she’s asking, as so many moments cross my mind like they did during my pitiful listening party of one earlier. His smile the first time we met. His relief the night before the concert when I told him I was with him. His haunted eyes in thecasita. Our kiss underwater.
You had my soul in your hands
All of me was there.
He doesn’t know it, but he took my heart with him along with all the love he felt.
But he left me a part of him, and I can’t help but place my hand over my belly.
Mami bursts into tears.
“We’re having a baby,” says Sel and then starts to cry too.
I don’t cry. After the last few hours, I don’t have any more tears left.
“You’re moving in with us.” My mom sniffles.
I shake my head. “No. It’s time for me to grow in life and business. I’m going to have a kid who needs me.”
“When are you going to tell Rio?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That mixtape happened, and he doesn’t even know about the baby. Can you imagine when he finds out?” Sel shakes her head. “He’s going to go nuclear.”
I can practically hear his angry voice and accusations, and what if he doesn’t believe it’s his baby? I’ll die if he makes me have to prove it.
The nausea is back, and I rush to the bathroom like a bomb detonated in my belly. I sit on the floor later, mouth sour and exhausted, when Sel brings me my phone.
“He’s texting you.”
My heart takes off, pounding away as I look at my phone. Three texts.
Rio
You won’t get this, but I need to say it. This wasn’t to hurt you.
I just needed to tell our story. Because it’s real.
Now that I did, you’re free of me. I won’t bug you again. Goodbye, Luna.
* * *
Rio
“When we do the song in France, we should kick it up a notch. I’m thinking a Moulin Rouge-style set with a bed. When the intro kicks in, the lights can dim, and I can dance and climb on the bed with you, on top of you,” Katya says the minute we sit on the jet en-route to Amsterdam. Her jet-black hair brushes back and forth across her shoulders as she explains. The excitement is clear in her delicate oval features.
It sounds sexy and exciting, and I think the crowd would enjoy it. She’s been pitching ideas for the last hour since she got to the private lounge to wait for our flight.
“Yeah, we can talk to the set designers and see what they come up with.”
