Never Too Real (5 page)

Chapter 5

“W
hew . . .” A burly junior staffer set a box of bottles on the concrete floor of the funky, open office. “Well, they didn’t have enough cava for the order, so they threw in some prosecco,” he sighed.

“Ugh. Let me see.” Luz Tucker Lee, fussy but fair, ran her pale gelled nails along the label. “Pffft. At least it’s cold. Run three up front and the rest to the back, okay? Let’s get poppin’!” She raised her voice and twirled her hands in the air above her curly faux-hawk. The interns, her assistant, and Luz were prepping for a party starting in fifteen minutes.

“Luz! Woman, you did it.” Stella was her only colleague who was a true equal, and her only confidant in the firm—a blazing ad sales and marketing firm that, due to some blue-chip client turnarounds, had become the hottest in the country. The women hugged.

“Nah, nah,
we
did it,” Luz said to Stella, then added in a whisper, “and what a fuckin’ relief.” Warm and supportive, Luz was known as a cipher of a colleague and boss, some would say, a tough bitch. But after fifteen years of scaling the ranks with Stella, Luz trusted her enough to expose small dents in her armor, admitting relief.

The women’s embrace was a visual yin-yang. Luz’s skin glowed a golden dark in contrast to her outfit, funky white Alexander Wang jeans and asymmetrical top, while Stella, a good Southern gal gone city, accessorized her long blond blow-out and freckled skin with the urban go-to uniform of black skinnies and black top. The seemingly genetic, racial opposites shared one feature: their eyes. They both peered through lenses the color of tropical waters. “The Blues,” interns would call them out of earshot. “The Blues are stepping out.” “Do you have deck for The Blues?” “The Blues are on their way.”

“I hear ya, girl,” Stella responded to Luz’s feeling of hard-won comfort. “Damn right.”

Luz moved her hands from their embrace to sit them on top of Stella’s shoulders. “Okay, Chiquita banana. Let’s get this party started right.”

Stella gave Luz’s cheek a friendly smooch and glided off to rally the stragglers. The interns—paid, per Luz’s insistence—were efficient. Glasses were out. Napkins, chips. Bottles started to pop. Luz gently directed the buzz as she shifted focus from directing the scene to receiving accolades, the person of honor. Luz had achieved what few in the biz, let alone a black woman, had done: She’d turned around a stodgy multibillion-dollar company—once led by a sunburnt, spoiled heir who was asked to step aside—into a cool place again, turning up the heat with a rush of new clients, following a winning lead, each bigger than the last.

Luz greeted colleagues as they made their way to the tables lined with champagne glasses. Meanwhile in her head she ran a tape:
I wonder what time he’s bringing the kids. Hope Mom and Dad take a cab—his vision ain’t so good at night....
Her internal sound track of concern was cut short by someone moving into her line of sight. As the figure came into focus, her body tensed.

“So, lemme guess . . . next, a profile in
Vogue
?” A pale woman in unimaginative professional wear, ashy blond-brown hair in a ubiquitous blow-out, green eyes, and a sly smile said this in a voice that to Luz’s ears was lemon-sour.

“Hmm.” Luz smiled only with her lips. “Oh, Graciela, you’re so funny,” she replied, just as sour.

“Well, it’s just a matter of time, right? I mean, a Blatina turns around a blue chip . . . The headline writes itself.” Graciela cocked her head, still carrying a smirk.

Why did villains always do that cocked-head, flighty-hand thing? Luz wondered. Gesticulating in a “Check it, plebs—I’m so witty, and fab, and just bad . . . bad, bad.”
Nah, it just looks like you’re flinging tissues, twat.

“Yes, well, what’s important is that we rock—the company—and
that’s
the headline.” Luz underlined her words with her finger. Catfighting and corporate culture shenanigans were not Luz’s style. But damn it if Graciela wasn’t out of central casting. The depressing part was that Luz had always liked villains. But this one, not so much. Graciela was a fellow Latina, but of the pigment-free, unsullied European-descent variety. The “G,” as Luz called Graciela out of earshot, didn’t call her a “Blatina”—a black Latina—as a compliment. She’d recently stolen a huge Mexican client from under her, emphasizing that after all, Luz’s Spanish wasn’t as good as hers and please, “She’s not Latina, she’s black!” Luz was never interested in a who-is-more-authentic contest and if the client wanted to kowtow to G’s racism and ignorance, well, she wasn’t going to stop her or them. Success is the best revenge. And here, this was Luz’s success party. Without another look, Luz turned her back to Graciela, leaving her pouting, and headed toward the door.

“Oh, look who’s here!” Her arms reached out and the glow returned to her face.

“
Nena! Ay,
we are so proud of you.” Luz’s mother, Altagracia Tucker, known as Alta, was a slight woman with expressive layers of jewelry, always a splash of bright lipstick, and a tendency to over-enunciate. She shared Luz’s skin tone, her long, generously featured face topped by a shock of close-cut gray curls, and the expressive warmth of a Dominican family.

“
Ay,
Ma, this is so good. So good.” Luz held her mother tight. There was little baggage between them. Her mother had always been supportive and loving and Luz always aimed to please her. She was Luz’s biggest support in life and biggest fan.

Luz’s father was rarely far behind.

“Pops!” She went in for a hug ’n’ smooch with her handsome, slim, and dapper African-American father. “So glad you guys are here.”

“
Donde estan mi
grandchildren?”

“
Ay, Mami,
any minute. Pa, help yourself to the bar, have some bubbly.”

“Oh boy, bubbles!” Roger’s delivery was tart and dry, a legacy of boarding school and summers at Martha’s Vineyard; a lifestyle unmistakably noted by his polo shirt, khaki trousers, tortoiseshell glasses, and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. “As long as I don’t have to drink microbrews, hon. I met my annual hipster fancy beer quota at your last party.” He patted her on the back. Roger was in his late sixties, but he prided himself on always being in the know, naturally, and younger adults gravitated toward him, drawn in to his professorial air.

Luz laughed. She always laughed at her dad. He was a beacon that kept her on course, a dependable New England lighthouse that never failed her, her brother, or their mother.

“Okay. Move it along, amigos.” Luz chided her parents. “You’re holding up the line.”

Luz’s mother gave her face one last proud pat as she strolled by. A dozen more guests had streamed into the office to celebrate. Luz was pleased by all the support.

“
Mami!
” Two brown angels ran with open arms through the door, followed by a wobbling afro’d toddler in overalls.

“My babies!” Luz never hid her enthusiasm for her three Benetton-beauties, as she called them, twin seven-year-old girls and a boy. The girls, Nina, short for Cristina, and ’Fina, short for Josefina, sported afro-poufs at different spots on their heads (mostly to help teachers tell them apart). Her two-year-old son’s eyes, Benny, short for Benecio, were balsamic pools. Nina, ’Fina, and Benny. With those she loved, Luz had a compulsion to shrink everyone’s name to a length nearly as brief as her own.

“Oh,
mi amor
.” She greeted her husband, Christopher Charles Lee, with a quick, heartfelt kiss on the lips. She couldn’t love this man more. The only competition between them was who read more often to the kids before bed. “Chris, look at this madness!” Luz directed his gaze around the room while little Benny clung to her legs, shy, and her daughters stood awkwardly but excitedly by her side, staring at potentially sweet snacks, while most of the room took in the striking sight of the multi-culti, multicolored Tucker Lee family.

“So, who’s this party for again?” Like her father, Luz’s husband, Chris, loved to tease her. She’d hit the jackpot with this Chino from Cali. Owning and selling a couple of start-ups for several millions, one bigger than the next, had made settling down, helping with the kids, much easier. Besides, he cherished being the Asian-American fun-guy in this emotive black, brown, loving family.

“Seriously, though. You did it, sweetie.” He whispered conspiratorially in her ear: “Who’s
la reina
now, yo!”

The twins headed to the snack table, tugging along their brother, who was in danger of taking the whole thing down with a yank of the tablecloth. Luz made sure the interns were watching.

“Umm-hmm,” Luz murmured as she still held her husband. “Where did I get you again, hottie?”

“At the mall . . .” Chris playfully took a handful of Luz’s flesh right below her waist.

“
Not
made in China!” Luz and Chris had fun with their shared ability to culture-jest. It was one of their deepest connections, as both had spent much of their lives working and socializing with people who would mindlessly blurt slurs in their presence, followed by the excuse of “But you seem white to me!”—thinking it a compliment to be just one of the majority.

Luz turned toward the door. “Aww, check it out, there he is.” A tall, classic-looking black man in a suit entered solo, turning more heads than Luz’s. “Ma brothah, whassup?”

“Hey, sis. Congrats.” They hugged. Luz’s younger brother by five years, Tomas Franco Tucker was devoted to his big sister. They had grown up torturing each other, but when there was a Tucker Lee family gathering, he was there—this time particularly, as Luz had just helped him through a nasty divorce. “Looks good, looks good up in heya.” He assessed as he gave a good look around the faces, and bodies, in the room. “Got any cuties for me?”

Luz gave him some side-eye. She hoped he was joking.

“Seriously, I’ve got a gala coming up and need a date!” he pleaded.

“I’ll fix ya up with someone good. Meanwhile, grab a drink,
hermano
. And stay away from the interns. Or I will slay you.”

Chapter 6

T
he door to the hired car hadn’t even shut before tears began to fall down Cat’s face.

Usually one for peppy small talk, instead she hoped the driver noticed her crumpling into the tight back seat, trying to hide from the demands of the world, her feet throbbing, head spinning. Cat dabbed at her cheeks with the sides of her fingers, just under her sunglasses. She caught the driver checking in on her in the rearview mirror, but she was well past the point of being able to care, as she usually would. She couldn’t keep up with the flow as her tears carved salt paths through the thick makeup still on her cheeks. She unearthed two tissues in her purse and started dabbing gently.
Can’t let people in my building see me like this,
she told herself.
I should call my agent.
Instead, she called someone who was, if anything, more influential.

“Ma?” she croaked.

“Oh, hi, dahling. How are juuuuu?” Cat’s mother’s voice was a Spanish-accented singsong via Mexico. It was a striver’s voice, seeking to sound blue blood even when she was servicing customers at the cheap buffet and steak joint where she used to wait tables.

“Ma, I’ve been canceled.” Cat hiccupped back a sob.

“Whaaaaa? Wha’ do ju mean, canceled?”

“My show!” Cat caught the driver looking into the rearview mirror.
Calm down, girl.

“
Ay Dios mio!
Wha’ do ju mean?” Her mother’s voice turned shrill and whiney.

“Ma. The show is gone. I’m done.” Cat pulled herself inward and made herself small. Parents create buttons. And then they push.

“
Ay,
no. Wha’ happened? Did ju say som’ting bad?!” For a moment, Dolores Ana Rosa Rivera dialed her tone down a notch—not only out of concern for her daughter, but also out of a need to get a rise out of her. Cat bristled at her puppetry—too many years of it, she was all too aware. But what she needed right now was love and understanding, not a codependent dance. The desire to talk to her mother disappeared as quickly as the original urge to call had appeared.

“No, no, Ma. It was nothing.”

“Well, it canno’ be no’ting! Wha’ did ju do?”

What did I do,
Cat thought.
It’s gotta be what did I do.

She moved to playing defense. “It was ratings . . . or something. The ratings.” She blew her nose, loudly.

“Did ju call jor agent? Doesn’ he haf somet’ing to say? Maybe ju can take a pay cut.” Did this woman ever take a moment?

Cat couldn’t believe her ears. “Ma! You don’t go back to work and ask for a pay cut after you’ve been fired!” Shit. The dance began.

“Well, why no’? If it’s about money, den save dem money!”

“Ma, you have no idea how this all works. You just don’t do that!” Her mother’s insistence on giving her professional advice rankled Cat to no end.

“Listen, I’m no’ es-stupid! Jor no’ de only one who knows t’ings, ju know!”

Dolores’s education had stopped at fifteen when she came to the States from D. F., Mexico City, and went straight to work in a factory. She’d never even held a desk job, instead waiting tables for years to help put her daughter, her only child, through school. Cat had turned out to be a great investment. Her daughter was on TV. She was famous.

“Ma, I gotta go. I need to call my agent.”

There was no arguing with delusion. In classic hopeful-immigrant fashion, Dolores had poured everything into Cat. But she also had developed a toxic habit of living through her, as if the cord had never been cut, as if Cat pulled her as well along through life. It was exhausting.

“Well, we need to talk about wha’ ju’re goin’ to do! Dey jus’ canno’ do dat to ju.”

“Yes, they can, Mom. Oh, here—here’s my agent. Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

Cat hung up. Any guilt from lying about another call dissipated immediately. Dolores was probably calling her own sister right now to complain about what a horrible, selfish daughter Cat was for hanging up on her. And a mother who had sacrificed so much—she was the reason her daughter was a star, no?

 

Back home, Gabi’s bags jostled and bumped as she searched for her house keys. Her heart was already pumping in anticipation of what was behind this door number one. She couldn’t hear anything but the television through the fireproof apartment door, and the quiet made her more anxious than yelling and crying would.
Silence is the worst,
Gabi thought. She was the oldest of a gaggle of kids from Spanish Harlem, and as painful as it was to hear her mother and father screaming at each other, everyone there knew that the quiet was much more insidious.

“Hellooo?” Gabi called out tentatively as she entered a dark foyer, wanting—needing—to see her son’s face. Only the television screen illuminated the apartment, along with a sliver of light from her son’s bedroom. Gabi’s insides dropped in both disappointment and relief at the sight of her husband splayed on the couch watching a show, one arm up, one leg up, taking up as much space as physically possible. She hated this position. It reminded her of an orangutan. But comatose also meant that maybe the drama was over, or, could at least be avoided one more night. She stared at him for a beat as his eyes never left the screen.
How did we get here?

 

“Guurl, you’re finally here!” Gabi’s publicist friend, Nitika Solani, sang out to her, waving her hands above the mass of heads between them.

Gabi waved back and squinted as she concentrated on making her way through the gaggle of partiers, their drinks seemingly all too ready to spill on her. Gabi’s hair was a bit less tamed, her eyes a bit less sunken. It was six years earlier, and she had managed to get dragged away from another early night to bed after a long day in residency at a psychiatric ward for teens by her graduate school friend who took a different path of “mental” practice: publicity.

“Listen, chica, this guy all right, this chef is just beyond. Gorgeous, Jewish!—I mean, hello, amirite?—and his food is to die.”

Gabi smiled, but rolled her eyes at her friend’s attempt to get her excited for another man. The only way this one differed was that Nitika had been working with him for months as her client and they both were on very good terms. Gabi didn’t hear any diva behavior from him, either, something Nitika loved to dish—or bitch—about with Gabi.

Nitika pulled Gabi’s arm with one hand and grabbed a drink from a server’s tray with another, handing it to Gabi, all while they made their way to the chef’s station. Gabi and Nitika were equally attractive and equally brown. Though Nitika’s brown came from Mumbai, originally, via California. But Gabi in that moment was feeling subpar as the income difference between public relations and psychology became clearer. Nitika donned the latest clothes and looked slick, her blow-out and color screaming expensive. Gabi tried to tell herself that her sale items and more grungy Brooklyn look was just that, her own look, and fit perfectly into her world. She couldn’t resist, though, taking note of the gut feeling that she wanted what Nitika had: success.

“Okay, my dear, here he is, hottest chef on the planet right now, Bert Gold!” She introduced him as a publicist would, with flair. Gabi couldn’t see who Nitika was gesturing to. She only saw the back of someone, bending down, scrambling behind the massive wooden cutting table, chef coat on, a denim-like texture, very much worked in. It seemed he was doing some sort of display cooking with his sous-chefs or assistants standing around him, arranging bite-sized tastes that were going around the room with servers. The attendees were munching rapidly whatever came off the table with many
mmmms
and
wows
coming from all sides. “Um, Bert. I’ve got someone you have to meet.” Nitika, this time, stating calmly with a bit of impatience.

“Yup, yup . . .” A muffled response came still from below the table. “Ah, okay, hi. Hi.”

Well, he was handsome, Gabi would give him that. Sweaty a bit. That Mediterranean tendency toward growing hair nearly everywhere, but she liked that. He had a strong neck and Gabi strangely noticed that he had particularly small ears for his head. Funny.

“Hi. Gabi.” She reached out her hand. He put out his elbow instead to bump hers. Gabi hesitated a second, then realized that as he was still cooking and serving, there’d be no hand shaking. They bumped elbows and both smiled politely.

“Bert, Gabi here is my dear friend from graduate school who does the good work, ya know, helps people. She’s a psychologist.”

Bert’s eyes opened a bit wider, their small three-person scrum maintaining a mini-cone of stillness, if for but a moment. “Uh-oh!”

Gabi eye-rolled him. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“Well, you don’t want to start shrinking chefs because seriously, you’d be the one needing meds!”

Ha. Right. Gabi didn’t find that funny. Childish humor. Nitika caught on. Feeling Gabi’s frost, she turned professional. “Ooooh, kay. So, listen, I’ve got
New York
mag coming to you in five, you ready?” she asked Bert.

“Yup, yup, I’m good.” He shook his head like a boxer going into a match.
Chefs are so physical,
Gabi thought none-too-happily as Nitika turned both the ladies away from the increasing madness of Bert’s table performance. “Bye.” We waved.

“Okay, so?” her friend asked.

“Eh.” Gabi shrugged.

“Oh hon, we are never going to get you married! Don’t you want to have kids?!”

“Yeah, of course! More than anything. It’s just . . .” Gabi lost her mouth in her drink, some peachy-looking possible-margarita with a spicy kick.

Nitika sighed. “All right. Let’s deposit you with some good folks and I’ll head back to the super-fabulous man of the evening you want to have nothing to do with.”

Two hours later, most of the crowd had dispersed and Gabi was surprised to find that she’d had a good time. Those peachy-spicy drinks helped, but Nitika had also made good on her introductions and the conversations she had and subsequent possible future-friendships were real. They were mostly females, or boyfriends of someone, but it felt pretty good to go out for once and connect. If Gabi didn’t have her friends, she would simply work herself to the bone and hire a sperm donor. Dating was such a time suck.

“Can I get you another one of those?” She felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Oh! Oh hi,” Gabi said to Bert, now sweatier than ever but somehow also nearly tasty looking. Probably the drinks. “No, no thanks. I’m good. Probably should have stopped before this one.”

Bert smiled and put his hands on his hips, stocky but still slim. “Well, hey, I’m really sorry I couldn’t pay more attention to you ladies back there—it was kinda a madhouse.”

“Yeah, I saw that.” He was cute, but Gabi’s small-talk abilities felt burnt out for the evening.

Bert seemed to feel her lack of interest. “I bet you think I’m a total ass for that ‘shrink’ comment, right?”

Gabi raised her eyebrows in partial agreement. “Well, maybe ‘ass’ is a bit harsh.”

“Nah, nah, that’s okay, I deserve it a bit. I get a little flustered when I’m nervous.” Gabi nodded at him. “Ya know, I mean, this whole night, and stuff, but really I think you made me nervous!”

Oh geez,
Gabi thought,
here we go.
She set her drink down. “Oh, I saw you tonight; you were doing pretty good.”

“With the cooking? Oh yeah, that I just get into the groove, ya know . . .”

“No, I mean with the ladies—you were doing just fine.” Gabi noticed out of the corner of her eye during the night how many women of all ages fawned over Bert, passed him numbers and cards, took photos, and even the men were kowtowing to him like cultists of cuisine to a guru.

Bert gulped at Gabi’s straightforward swipe. “Well. Okay then. A ballbuster.” He took off his bandanna, exposing the mop of wet dark brown curls underneath. Running his fingers through his mop, he raised his head to Gabi and went in for one more try. “Go out with me.”

“Excuse me?” Gabi asked, surprised.

“Will you go out with me, maybe for coffee in the morning?”

“Can’t do mornings. Work.” Though Gabi noted his offer of a non-alcoholic meeting. Usually a sign of either someone who actually wants to get to know you, or someone who doesn’t want to spend money on you. Seeing how well Bert was doing, Gabi was going to hedge her bets on option one.

“Okay, well, I don’t go in until later on Mondays—can you do coffee at, like, five?” His eyes pleaded, and Gabi started feeling a tug coming from her insides. She noted the shape of his scruff, the lilt to his upper lip when he spoke, his strong brows. But mostly she noted his tenacity. She loved that quality in a person.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“Oh! Okay—great!” Bert visibly brightened. “I’m so looking forward to it, Gabi.” He shook her hand this time.

“Nitika can get you my contact info,” Gabi offered.

Bert nodded, winked at her, and walked away. She could have sworn she heard him humming.

After they dated for a while, Gabi asked Bert why he was interested in her in the first place, with all those women after him. He told her, “It was because you weren’t impressed by me.”

Years later, Gabi was even further from impressed.

 

“Hey” was all Gabi got out of him, her husband’s eyes not breaking contact with the screen. She dropped her bags softly so as to not wake their son and mustered a polite and plaintive “Hey . . .” in return. But the moment her bags landed with a rustle and a clink, the little boy ran out of his bedroom, grabbing and squeezing tight his mother’s legs in a save-me hug. He had been waiting up.

“Oof. Hi, baby,” Gabi said gently.

“
Mamiiiii,
” little Maximo wailed into his mother’s side.

Snapping out of his TV trance, Bert sprang forward from the couch.

“What did I tell you? Stay in your room! Get in there, right now!” he scolded.