. Benicio

[benicio otero]

[benicio otero]

[benicio otero]

Once the intercom static fizzled to silence, Benicio found himself inside Rosie’s luxury apartment building, cellphone falling away from his attention into his pocket. The lobby was large and ornate, the last traces of the holidays erased from sight of the high arched ceilings, marble floors, glossy gold accents. The elevators hummed in their ventures up and down the sprawling layers of floors, new eyes at the front desk curious about his presence. After stretching a courteous handshake toward the doorman, Benicio made easy conversation as he waited for Rosie’s arrival. Many of the staff knew her by sight only, catching glimpses as she left to or returned from work—both at equally harrowing hours, often two shifts changing in-between—or collected her mail. The woman was described with the same reverence as a mythical creature, and when she’s revealed from between the elevator doors he’s reminded of why. He caught her hand and spun her around slowly in admiration, whistling from the side of his mouth; there weren’t enough compliments in the world. “It’s not fair how beautiful you are,” he remarked, gingerly kissing the ridge of her knuckle. The makings of a smile played on her lips in thanks, following his lead to the door held open for them. Benicio bid farewell, the doorman’s cap tipped their way. “Do you make new friends everywhere you go?” Rosie asked cheekily, offering a small wave herself, maybe more interaction than any of them were accustomed to. “I guess I do,” he nodded at this observation, realizing it to be true. Only two years in New York and the roots of his connections flourished. “I asked him if you’re nice to the staff, that’s very telling of a person,” he added, catching her inquiring glance. Out in the winter air he looped an arm around her, guiding her to the waiting car. “Well?” she challenged from the next seat over, impatient in the silence he prolonged. He absorbed a playful nudge to the arm, blocks of Chelsea blurring past the cabin windows. “They said you’re a heartbreaker.” A week prior he’d sent her the calendar invitation, designated for a time that would hopefully get her out of work on time for once, long after most others had already returned home to settle in for the night. It was her language, she’d relented enough to share; Benicio would have to adjust to her strictly scheduled life, accounting for the few hours she spared outside of work. Nothing was divulged except for the instruction to dress for a date, handling the arrangements to ease her mind and, if all went well, surprise her. He’d called the restaurant ahead of time to secure reservations, requesting a more intimate setting and squaring away the payment beforehand. When they arrived at the restaurant—an upscale tapas place on the Lower East Side—they were ushered in from the street to a quiet corner of their own, Benicio speaking to the attending staff in English and asking they do the same as a courtesy to his date. Small plates crowded their small table, knees touching underneath as they lost themselves in conversation, sipping glasses of sangria that blotched their fast-moving lips. They talked about their holidays, recounting seasons past; long ago snowstorms in Boston and Ithaca, their first celebrations in the city, the traditions of their families. That segued into tales from her childhood: the quiet suburbs of Raleigh, excelling in school early on, weekend trips along the coast and summer treks to the Smokies. She credited her mother as her role model, described her siblings with love, hinted at the shadow left by an absent father in her life. He buzzed with interest, absorbing the knowledge, encouraging more, testing the fit of their hands as they nibbled on wedges of wine-soaked fruit. In turn, Benicio tried to capture the varying personalities of his siblings, showing the necklace commissioned from his sister. He chronicled moving homes as a young boy, the strict piety of his grandparents, summers spent just outside of San Juan. They marveled at the similar arrangements of their families but vastly different upbringings, then laughed trying to remember what the original question was in the first place, how they had strayed so far without feeling the pull of several passing hours. An open palm invited her to dance, persistent despite the roll of her eyes. “Just one song,” warned Rosie playfully, ringing of their first night weeks ago. A moment later she was on her feet, the two of them gravitating together, her hands on his shoulders and his to her sides. “OK but it’s two hours long,” he said, a smirk giving away his exaggeration. “This isn’t your work, is it?” she poked fun, yelping as he spun her and pulled her back with haste. “This is the music my grandparents listened to,” he tutted, rotating and rocking with her, a lazy imitation of salsa. This was the musical tapestry of his childhood, what he’d studied, memorized, and later incorporated into his own music, rich with echoes of the greats. “I’ll bet you know the lyrics too, psychic,” she accused halfheartedly, narrowing her smoky eyes at him. Benicio shook his head then started to hum the melody, catching on, searching through his memory before the foreign words could fall from his lips. He mumbled between the gaps he couldn’t remember, rewarded with the sweet chime of her laugh. “Don’t forget to translate,” she reminded of his offer, smirking up at him, wrists resting on his collar. “I’ll speak English in this ear,” he husked, tucking her hair behind its curve and then leaning toward the other with a whisper. “Y español en esta.” But in pulling away to regard her, both languages suddenly deserted him altogether; he was hopelessly dizzied by the stain of sangria on her lips and the sweet taste of it on a kiss finally dared. The kitchen had closed and soon the doors would be, too. Other patrons were wandering out onto the avenue, tabletops being reset, their own plates and glasses disappearing. “Mami I think we have to go soon,” he whispered between kisses, hesitant to break their moment. Her one-song limit was long surpassed, the closing hour upon them as the streets forged on outside the door, ready to absorb them into the fray. “I don’t want to go anywhere else,” she admitted with a sigh, muffled into the front of his shirt. The idea of a bar or club at this hour had soured after the spoils of their privacy here, especially on a Friday. That p u l l beckoned and pleaded, not ready for the night to end, the edges already smudged and their hearts baring. “But I do have wine at my apartment…” she murmured, dark eyes climbing to his, moving to gather her things from their scant table. A moment later they were out the door and into the night, steady away from the crowds. A kiss in the elevator, her keys in the door, the pop of a cork. Rosie stepped out of her heels and traded her dress for something more comfortable—leggings and a sweater—while he thumbed curiously through her music app. A wine glass whispered empty in his free hand, the other scrolling through her songs. “Don't judge my playlists,” she pouted, reaching futilely for his grasp on her phone. Benicio stood between her knees where she sat on the countertop, his brows crinkled at the screen in concentration. “I’m just trying to figure out what you like,” he reasoned, silencing her protest with a kiss. He promised to make her a playlist, calling it a modern-day mixtape. She studied the blotch of color on the rim of her glass, watching their reflections flare out over the bulbed surface. “Or you’re looking for your own songs,” she hummed in suspicion, sucking on a candy cane leftover from the holiday. He selected at random, shuffling from her favorites, listening to a new sound fill the apartment: something low and crooning, moody, learning more about her through her taste as he tasted peppermint from her tongue. Another hour later, the brunette is fast asleep when he looks over mid-sentence. They had migrated to the couch after her complaint of being cold, legs in his lap while she nestled on the end, the city scenes fading outside from the living room windowpane. Quieting his laugh of realization, he moved out deftly from beneath her, making quick work of their empty glasses and the bottle finished in their wake. He dared not check the time, himself lulled enough by the dimmed lights and faded music, carefully scooping her up to deliver her to her bed. The sheets sank with her body weight, her eyes fluttering half open during the move. “…stay…” he thought he discerned somewhere in her mumble, unsure if it was a request or a question, the bliss of a dream settling her features again before he could attempt to ask. Tucking in beside her, Benicio too gave in to sleep. The morning light flickered in little by little, bathing her bedroom in a gauzy winter haze. A disciplined early riser, her body refused to sleep in, stirring long enough to fetch water and regard the guest in her bed. An early bird meets a night owl. When he awoke to the white stare of the ceiling his muscles tensed with an easy stretch, their surroundings illuminated in the daylight of an unknown hour. The sheets next to him were warm, Rosie nursing a paper cup with her laptop perched on her knees. He sat up on his elbow, morning greeting hoarse in his throat. “Coffee?” she proffered, attention shifting at his noise and movement. Benicio nodded and accepted the second cup, a pleasing warmth traveling from his palms to his stomach mostly unscathed by their hours of wine. “Sorry I fell asleep,” she mentioned offhand, “I’m not up that late very often, even for work.” Sitting up against the headboard, he waved off the notion; no need to explain. As far as he was concerned, it was a good ending to a good night. “That’s OK, I figured it was another princess thing. There’s a sleepy one, isn’t there?” he asked, a lazy grin overshadowed by the curve of the lid. “Do you mean Sleeping Beauty?” she guessed, rolling her eyes with a laugh, realizing the list of fairy tale protagonists beginning to roll out before them. “That’s the one.” In the daylight he was allowed to better study his surroundings: meticulous artwork, purposeful splashes of color, pictures of friends and family, a bursting closet. Sparse evidence that she did live here, but not often. “Are you sure you live here?” he wondered out loud in the kitchen, searching a cabinet for hot sauce for the breakfast she’d ordered while he was asleep. Rosie cleared her throat and wiggled the bottle in the air for him to see, having already procured it for herself—a girl after his heart. “Only part-time,” she quipped, a private joke if she really thought about it. At her table they finished coffee and sandwiches, conversation flowing about her apartment, sites nearby, their favorite places in the city. “Come to Harlem with me, I wanna show you around,” he proposed suddenly, rinsing his hands at her sink. He felt her eyes shoot toward him, still hiding behind her laptop, withdrawing little by little so that he felt himself losing her. “Today?” she startled, brows betraying her alarm—or approaching her terminal limit. “I already missed pilates and…” Of course she was accustomed to male attention—she could set her watch to the number of eyes she pulled, the compliments she received, the propositions she shot down. But not quite like this; Benicio pressed without pushing, curious rather than demanding. Not checking off the boxes to get her into bed nor secretly obsessed with the conquer. She was used to being chased by powerful men who tried to assess her price tag, flaunting dizzying net worth and enviable portfolios, concealing their wedding rings, hissing the same deceptions as her colleagues. But his persistence in getting to know her, asking about her, listening to her—without conditions or pretense? To a girl jaded by this city it was a disconcerting, almost unintelligible mode of operation; she wasn’t sure she was ready to take it at face value, suspicious of anything being so simple. “I don’t want our date to end,” he confessed, simple enough to him. “You barely know me,” she retorted, a standoff across her table. He could point out lips loosened by alcohol, him sleeping in her bed. “I like what you let me know so far. And I want to keep learning.” He wondered if he’d still be here if they’d had sex—if she’d prefer not. “I don’t think you understand my life,” she asserted. “What are you more afraid of: Harlem, or liking me?” Maybe she was an ice princess instead, that frosty exterior a defense against vulnerability.

[benicio otero]

Blood swirls around the kitchen sink. Air rushes through the fresh gaps in his mouth. Clamor in the background, shaky gasps stifled in his aching palm. Every summer since the Batista family relocated to Boston, the four children were sent to Puerto Rico to stay with their paternal grandparents. This relieved the parents as well as reinforced their proud roots, never growing too far from home. Like clockwork, the children begged to go during the brutal northeastern winters—desperate to escape the snow—but happily fled once school let out instead. Situated just outside bustling San Juan, the children reveled in the same community in which their father had grown up. After obligations to the church and home, they were allowed to venture out to the beaches and city, the oldest driving them around the tiny, beautiful island. Monica twisted the phone cord around her finger, features falling at the news she must relay to her younger siblings. The children paused in their playing, gathering when they felt the mood of the house shift suddenly. “We have to go home… Abuelita died,” she said quietly, hand cupped over the receiver to muffle the sobs of their stateside mother. The next day, not yet halfway through summer vacation, they were on a plane pointed back to Boston, saying tearful goodbyes to their other grandparents, the Oteros. A week later, the family was huddled together in a church pew at their grandmother’s funeral, her portrait smiling up at them from the mass card. He comes to, lying on a cold recliner. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” Monica murmured, holding her brother’s free hand as a tattoo gun took to his right forearm. “I can’t believe you had that dream about her,” he replied in kind, still reeling from the story. It was the reason they were at this tattoo studio, her drawing of their grandmother’s urn the basis of his current work. She had sketched it from memory in the middle of the night, compelled by a dream in which a ghostly voice communicated love, sorrow, regret. It was identical to the urn that remained in their parents’ house now, but in his tattoo, edges of the ceramic were cracked, signifying the imperfections of the woman who died and the strained relationships she left behind. None of the children dared speak it, but in many ways, her death had freed them. She was a severe woman, demanding and strict in her piety, unchallenged in her authority over the family. She was harsh and hasty, seeming to zero in on each family member differently. Toward Monica she was particularly cold, never acknowledging her as a grandchild because she was born of a different woman—she would never see Monica become a mother herself. To Diego she was fanatically cruel, eager to smother his feminine leanings—she would never see him proudly living his life. To their father she had never been accepting, disapproving of his work and quick to point out his shortcomings during financial strains—she would never see the day their mortgage was paid off. Benicio had just moved to New York, still reeling in recovery from his formative years in Miami now that the city was one thousand miles behind him. A new backdrop and proximity to his family had reinvigorated him, reminding him of time lost to selfishness and ego. Monica was due with her second child, a boy, and he would be able to watch him grow up with his young niece, whose art was also featured in his tattoo. Reaching out from the urn—her talented mother’s drawing—was the smooth, looping flowers of his niece’s childish hand: four flowers for the four siblings. Life persisting beyond death, still remembering what had preceded it. Some days after the funeral, a young Benicio zipped his bulging suitcase closed. His father’s frame wavered in the doorway, whistling to catch the boy’s attention. “You’re not going back,” he said simply, dark brows creased with frustration that had left permanent lines etched in his skin. Benicio paused his packing, tossing the bag onto his bed. “Why not?” he asked, confused; it was summer, this was tradition! His father raked an impatient hand over his face, a notoriously short fuse to be sparked with little room to explode. “Because I said so, Benicio. Your mother needs you here,” he remarked on a huff, moving to leave from the door frame with that deciding blow. If there was anything Benicio despised, it was being told what to do without good reason. He enjoyed intellectualizing a problem and working through it from as many different angles as he could see, leaning into a natural curiosity toward the world. Something that stuck with him was the memory of his mother telling him not to touch the stove because it was hot and would hurt him; she let him make the choice to test it anyway, but the small child pulled back before the heat could catch him. His father, however, would simply forbid him from it and walk away; curious, Benicio would do it anyway and then have to hide the inevitable burn. “But papá. We were working on something really big,” he started, his mind full of vibrant images of the last few weeks. With his two closest friends in Puerto Rico, they formed a young, ambitious trio: Yariel the beatmaker, Javier the songwriter, and Benicio the singer. The boys were all the same age but only Benicio lived outside of the island, their efforts ramped up during their summers together to make up for the lost time. They dreamed of fame and fortune, inspired by the many big names emerging from their little slice of the world, the distinctive sounds of the Caribbean. None of that mattered to his father, however. “Talk back to me again,” the man snapped. “I said no.” He comes to, sitting across from an interviewer. “Your friends went on that same summer to release a hit single,” she read from a card, looking up at him. “How did it feel to miss out on that?” Across from her, Benicio tilted his head to the side, gaze searching the air for an answer. “At that age, it was heartbreaking. It felt like my only shot was gone,” he started, a specter of remembrance working over his features. “It would be a long time before I could separate myself from what happened and be happy for them.” The former friends wouldn’t reconnect for several years, only in-passing sometime later in Miami by chance, awkward and bittersweet. “I was upset to miss out on the experience, I was jealous of the record deal they were offered...” he trailed off, the conflict that no longer bound him. Yari and Javi had suffered over the years and, having since fizzled out, regretted jumping at that first opportunity. “But that all motivated me to perfect my craft. The truth is, I was replaceable in that trio,” he said, laughing at the obvious. When he didn’t return for the summer, they absorbed his role and moved on without him. “After that became clear to me, I wasn’t satisfied with doing only one thing. So I studied music production to make my own songs. I started writing lyrics, and I used my own voice to get good at working with vocals,” he trailed off, reflecting on those early years. The very reason he had ended up in Miami: wounded by the betrayal of friends such that only a new city could guarantee him a fresh start at it all. “I like to be able to do it all now, from beginning to end. I learned a valuable lesson and ultimately, I’m happy with where I ended up.” But Benicio could not accept this. For years he received inconsistent messaging between his parents—his mother led with sympathy, encouraging her children to learn in places her own experience could not guide them; his father, of few words but quick opinions, preferred a heavier hand. Emboldened by youthful defiance and blinded by dreams of making it big, Benicio would go against his father’s word for the first time. A week later, his bag not only bulged but had multiplied into several more, most of his belongings cleared out from his bedroom. The house was stuffy with grief and unsaved from the humid northeastern July outside. Rumblings of Benicio’s plans made their way around the family members until his father returned home from work. When he appeared in his doorway, fury-clipped Spanish pouring from his lips, Benicio clung to the details of his lofty plan. To a teenager they felt bulletproof, certain he would convince his father of his ideas. “I have my own money saved,” he preempted proudly, ready to field any doubts or criticisms. An impressive fund had materialized over the last few years, made of seasons alternating between shoveling snow and mowing lawns, running neighborly errands, finishing other kids’ ESL homework; any tasks that avoided the South End drug dealers. If his sister or parents would buy him a one-way ticket, he would resolve to go live with the Oteros in Puerto Rico, finish out high school, and work closer with his friends. He dutifully promised to graduate with good grades and pay his own way and come visit during the holidays, but it fell on deaf ears…and the more he revealed, the more he would be punished. If anything, the work Benicio had put into this teenaged dream—after being explicitly denied—enraged his father most of all. The boy had made the mistake of thinking his father would hear him out, that this was a matter of solution and logic rather than a power struggle over ego and respect. “You think you’re a big shot now with that smart mouth?” he said the first time he ever backhanded his son. “Try singing again!” he said the first time that hand closed into a fist. He comes to, lying in bed with a girl. “These are the fake ones,” he was telling her, running a fingertip across the teeth in question, a sliver of gum permanently darkened by the trauma. The memory of the pain was long gone, but the sensations were still vivid if he tried to remember: blood running in his mouth, tonguing at the wet pulp, spitting out bony fragments. “All that money I saved up? I had to spend it on teeth,” he said, a little laugh spared at the absurdity of it. For weeks he was swollen and in pain, but for years he would become self-conscious about his smile. Indoors for the rest of the summer, only his high school girlfriend knew about his recovery before the beginning of senior year. “Does he support your career?” she asked with a grimace, curious. Benicio shrugged, subdued. “He asks about my work but leaves it at that,” he tried to clarify, a nebulous answer when he heard the words himself. “I think he would rather I do something with my hands. He got all these artistic kids instead,” he chuckled, no longer reached by the disappointment. It’s why he chose to be known professionally by his mother’s patronym. “The first big money I made, I bought their house in Puerto Rico. He never said thank-you; said he never asked me to do it in the first place.” He wanted his mother to be able to retire from the hair salon, all the years taking a toll on her body. His father, stubborn, refused to acknowledge any of Benicio’s money. “I’m lucky, though,” he continued, sweet smoke curling out from his nostrils. “I didn’t inherit his temper. I’ll never do what he did.” There’s a saying in Spanish: De tal palo, tal astilla. The same stick, the same splinter. But once Benicio saw the fury in his father’s eyes, he vowed to lead himself differently to make sure their only similarity was their face and last name. “When I won my first award a few years ago… Guess where it’s displayed?” he smirked, remembering the glass case in the family room of the house in San Juan. A piece of him where his heart belonged; a simultaneous source of his mother’s pride and omnipresent object of his father’s chagrin. If his father was a short fuse made for bright explosions, then he was a long wick meant for a slow, delicious burn. “If you leave this house, you won’t be invited back,” he warned, shaking the blood off his knuckles. So, Benicio waited. When classes rang back into session, he secretly completed his GED and quietly used the remainder of the school year to work back the money he had lost. After the fight, even after he was healed, he stopped going to church and no longer sang in the choir. Of course his father demanded evermore obedience from his elder son; but in a lesson of his own temperament and discipline, Benicio bit his tongue, bade his time, and let on nothing. He poured himself into his plans and dreams, telling no one except his older sister away at college. By walking the stage with his peers he delivered on his promise that he would graduate, smiling a new smile to the camera. Still in his cap and gown, posing for a picture with his father—their hands firmly together, diploma clutched over his head in celebration—he leaned in closely and whispered: “I’m moving to Miami tomorrow and there's nothing you can do to stop me.” And could hold the moment forever when the shutter clicked and Herman Batista’s face fell.

[benicio otero]

sister therapy “So. How was last night?” she asked over the sound of the kitchen behind her, hissing and sizzling. “It was nice,” he replied, distracted. “We picked up dinner from down her block and hung out at her place.” “Oh yeah? Where’s she live?” she wondered, hovering at the living room threshold. “Chelsea,” he answered easily. “I’ve been there a couple times.” “Sleep over?” she prodded next, a sharp brow raised. He didn’t answer, smirking instead as he dumped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Ay cochino,” she chided in double meaning, snapping a dishtowel at him. “You’ll spoil your appetite.” “Wow, nena, you’re doing a good job,” he crooned to his niece who was currently painting his fingernails a muted lilac color. The three-year-old nephew bounced on his sister’s hip, thrilled by the lively chatter stirring around him. “I thought she worked a lot?” she said out loud, trying to remember the details. “I see her after work or on the weekends,” he explained, a schedule that was beginning to loosen. “Don’t be a bad influence on her,” she tutted, waving a spatula at him. “It’s the first time a girl has been busier than me,” he playfully groaned in complaint. “Oh no, she’s not going to follow you around and fangirl over you,” she razzed, rolling her eyes. “I can’t even namedrop to her,” he teased, pretending to pout at this oddity. “She doesn’t listen to reggaetón.” “Or speak Spanish! That’s a first,” she remarked in amazement. “Eh, she’ll learn along the way,” he laughed, shrugging. “Let me see her profile again,” she said, an opened palm waiting for his phone. “Here comes nosy Monica,” he said from the side of his mouth, tossing it to her. “Guapaaa, wow,” she said of the girl’s pictures, scrolling through her feed. “So. Is it because she’s beautiful or because she doesn’t have time for you?” “What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. “Beno, c’mon. You’re sprung!” she exclaimed, a revelation before he even knew. “Nahh,” he defended, clicking his tongue and waving her off. “When do you see her again?” she asked keenly. “Tomorrow,” he grinned to her point. “Exacto,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “You canceled on me to see her. You jump as soon as she’s around.. You’re like a lovesick puppy, look at you.” “Your mom is a gossip and a bully,” he whispered to Gabriela, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Three months of knowing this girl, santos dios.. You have to let things marinate, you know? Give her time to miss you,” she remarked, her advice usually worth its weight in gold. “Nobody asked you,” he deflected coolly, blowing on his fingers to dry the paint. “Last time you told me you weren’t even sure if she liked you,” she reminded vaguely, lips pursed in concentration over a hot pan. He considered this: it was true, he was often perplexed by the disparity between her actions and words. One had to work hard for her affections and compliments, as she often kept her cards hidden. Any moment he doubted her interest in him, she would agree to a date or be kissing him, confusing him all over again. “I think she’s been hurt before,” he mentioned offhand in reasoning, his brow dipping. “Ah?” she perked, made curious. If he could count on his sister for anything, it was being lovingly intrusive. “Sometimes it feels like I get past one wall, but then run right into another,” he explained, two steps forward hindered by one sent backward. “She’ll let up a little and then lock down when she realizes it.” All these secrets coveted by the ice princess. “Well, a brokenhearted girl needs time to heal,” Monica guessed, tending to the stove. “I can’t know what she won’t tell me,” he reflected, pausing in thought. “I’m not trying to change her or rush her. I just like being with her,” he continued, smiling to himself. The dates, the conversations, the sex—all the appeal was there in an unexpected package, the girl that he had mistaken in the beginning for someone different. “If you ask me, I think you like the chase more than the capture,” she started, the sounds of plates and flatware clattering. If there was anything in his family, it was brutal (unsolicited) honesty with the humor to soften it. When he didn’t say anything back, Monica eyed him warily. “What does being in love mean to you?” she prompted, tasting something from a spoon. “I love you Tio!” Gabriela interjected, throwing her arms around his neck. “See, Gabriela sets my bar for love,” he remarked with a toothy grin, snuggling the little girl. “I know you, Beno. When you can’t get enough, you see nothing and nobody else. You want to do and be everything—it’s intense, don’t scare her,” she tried instead. “It’s not that deep, Moni,” he quipped, uncanny in her ability to get under his skin. “But it might be to her,” she pointed out, tapping a finger to her temple in a gesture for him to think. “What’s the problem? I like this girl, leave it alone,” he complained as only a younger brother could. “Let me ask you a question. How’s the music been lately?” she switched gears, motioning for them to get up and fix their plates. “Great,” he answered, shadowing Gabriela as she helped herself like a grownup. “I’m working on a few things. I’ve been working on my own songs actually.” “Ah. I think she’s exciting and different for you, but that’s not going to inspire you forever. It’s hard for you to look ahead. When you get bored, Beno…” she trailed off, sucking her teeth. When the novelty fades and the fireworks die down, so too went the inspiration—unless, of course, it was fueled by an even more exciting, devastating heartbreak. “That’s the part you don’t know how to deal with. And I don’t want to hear about that crazy Cubana either, that was toxic and you better not repeat that s-h-i-t again,” she hissed, plopping down at the table. Benicio gasped at her covert swearing, covering Gabriela’s innocent ears. “You’re so stupid,” Monica laughed, rolling her eyes. “Hey!” Gabriela squeaked to his defense, tiny chin jutted out in protest. “Tranquila, tranquila,” Benicio shushed at his little champion, a chuckle muffled into the top of her head that he kissed in passing. “She’s just like you, Moni,” he shot at his temperamental sister, sitting between his favorite girls. “But a lot less nosy.” “Oh please, you want me in your business,” she quipped, the hallmark of their close relationship. “Ok ok. May I enjoy my food and mis amores?” he sighed, grabbing both girls’ hands atop the table, his fingertips matching Gabriela’s. “Go on then, bless us,” she murmured, eyes closed expectantly with a bow of her head.

[benicio otero]

Once the car came to a stop at the address, the Puerto Rican stepped onto the curb, glancing at his phone screen before it flashed into the depth of his pocket. Rosie had last texted that she was making her way to the front, dark eyes searching for the brunette in question. Benicio is under the doorway when the entirety of the bar comes into focus, loud and packed with nondescript clusters of animated suits. He perks up when he catches sight of her, but her brows are already tucked in annoyance, hurriedly pulling at his arm before he could get out a greeting. “I said I would meet you outside,” she clipped over the noise, hand warm and insistent at his elbow, his own falling instinctively at her side. “I was a little early,” he reasoned cheerfully as they transitioned back outside, a stream of people flowing in and out becoming friction against them. She moved away from his touch, defiant even as she wavered in place. “What’s the matter?” he asked in her direction, concerned by her body language, abrupt and startling enough to set off a warning bell he was not prepared for. “You’re not my boyfriend,” she said sharply, a hiccup reminiscent of her last drink. With her arms crossed over her chest, she stole a glance back at the bar. “If that’s the message you were trying to send to my coworkers.” His hands drew up in innocence, trying to assess how much of this was alcohol-induced. “I had to make sure you got out alright,” he explained, keeping his cool against her hot start. Drunk girls on busy nights in crowded bars; it wasn’t his first time on an extraction mission. “You want me to pull up and honk for you like a jerk?” he countered playfully, leading Rosie toward the waiting car. But she was like dragging an anchor, her stubbornness as perplexing as it was surprising. “I don’t like being made a display of,” she bit back, but he couldn’t help but wonder what had triggered this reaction. He knew these things weren’t so much about fun as they were subliminal chess matches with the same people she spent sixty hours a week around, being chipped away at by men who flirted with her in the same breath they discounted her. “It wasn’t about showing my face, Rosie. I just wanted to see yours.” With what little he did know about her colleagues, they would probably assume him to be her driver anyway. “Let me get you home,” he defused, palms still offered up in truce; since she had asked for him, Benicio would see that objective through regardless of her mercurial state. She finally took an upturned hand and leaned into his lead toward the car, cautiously accepting his defense. “I picked up some of those drunk noodles you like,” he tried to lighten the mood, opening the door for her. A half-smile wilted on her lips in his direction, remorse setting in, ducking into the warmth of the car to greet the familiar face behind the wheel. To the driver he said something in Spanish, then for Rosie next to him: “To the princess’s castle.” Benicio moved to put his arm around her, the reflex granted permission as she moved into the arc of his shoulder. “I have caught on to certain words, you know,” she laughed, rolling her eyes at his persistent translations. She realized how much more she was able to recognize of their shorthand tongue, often understanding enough from context. He ruffled the end of her hair puckishly, feeling her relax against him, the familiar returning as the blocks outside dragged across the windows. “You learn so fast. You’re gonna speak Spanish like a Boricua,” he teased, accepting the forkful of noodles before she finally greeted him with a kiss. He regarded her under the darkness: city shadows thrown across her features, shimmering eyelids at permanent half-mast indifference. “Thank you,” the brunette murmured between furtive bites, at least in reference to the food and maybe to his requested company. Or, perhaps, for him staying even keeled despite her tumult; a test he had not anticipated. “Sorry I’m currently drunk, stressed-out princess,” she added remorsefully, still struck by the intensity of her reaction, nearly as potent as the alcohol at the bottom of one too many glasses. “She might be the worst one,” she acknowledged, lacquered pout turning into a flimsy smile. Their familiarity was beginning to take root, shifting the old dirt of her foundation, upheaving buried memories with razor edges. “She needed to come out,” Benicio demurred with a shrug, hoping to assuage her worries and smooth the kink in her brow. “You don’t have to be so tough all the time,” he said, tilting her chin up at him, thumbing at a smudge of lipstick at the seam of her mouth. Although she didn’t need rescue, it felt a secret privilege to be the one she called this time. The favorite doorman was on shift when they arrived, greeting Benicio like an old friend with an eager handshake and lively chatter. While waiting for the elevator, Rosie looked up at him expectantly for a summary. “If I don’t translate then we’re talking about you,” he shrugged coolly, watching her from the corner of his eye before breaking into a grin, absorbing a playful nudge from her. Steadying her to her door, helping the locks give way, her shoes were the first thing to be shed across the threshold. He was becoming fond of this apartment, memorizing where things were and how she liked things kept, coaxing her to occupy more space. On the weekends he could convince her to his place in East Harlem, but on weeknights—especially the impromptu ones—they would land here in Chelsea. Although they held very different jobs and hours, Benicio tried to be respectful of the time she did allot, indulging as much as she would. Sometimes it was as simple as ordering in and working on their own projects from across the couch, separate in the way she needed but together in the way he wanted. She sheds her dress and changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt, arguably as beautiful pared down as she is done up. He sits her down and locates her makeup wipes, brushing her hair while she cleaned her face of the vestiges of the night—and the last mask for her to hide behind. She leaned into his workings of her hair, scalp tingling from his ministrations with a happy hum low in her throat. “You’ll still stay?” she asked, glancing at him in the mirror as she worked on some stubborn mascara. He nodded, working her hair into a crude braid he had learned on his niece, tugging on it gently when it was done, urging her to look up at him. In her hazy grasp on reality his face was upside down and gently spinning over her, until their lips brushed together in a sweet kiss. “You wanted me here, so I’m here,” he promised, a small smile curving his mouth. Sometimes it was that simple and she had the power to summon him like this—at the cost of breaking her routine, reinforcing one of his own. “Until you tell me otherwise.” On the couch nursing a glass of water, she traced exaggerated shapes on the forearm draped over her, childlike imitations of the tattoos staining his skin. “What I said earlier..” she prompted, uneasy but determined. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry.” He scratched his beard with a nod, not used to her apologies but grateful for the sentiment nonetheless. To clarify that she meant it, aside from the execution. He accepted with a simple thank-you, intrigued by this new side of her. The truth was, he wanted to know these parts of her, too; there had to be balance to the other facets he did know. Between tears and frowns and arguments come smiles, laughter, revelations. He wanted to fight with her as much as he wanted to fight for her, strife yielding to understanding. Discoveries about her needn’t be shiny or beautiful. However, in reading into his actions and making assumptions, there was something for Benicio to make clear. “But I’m not like that, you know. I’m not a jealous or possessive person,” he explained, although it had been a long road to get to this place in his life to be able to say as much. Had they met each other years ago, her in college and him in his Miami mindset, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. “I would want you to come back to me because you want to. Not if I have to make you,” he reflected out loud, a difficult lesson to have learned in the past. To possess another is to anticipate their impending loss, confronting a lack of deserving in the first place; staking claim over something irretrievable. “Besides, I’m already busy fighting with you for yourself,” he pointed out, tangling her fingers in his, kissing a knuckle. “I’m not sure who’s winning that one,” she confessed sullenly, pitying a laugh if she analyzed how much work it was to resist against the changes he had introduced. How tempting it was to give in and try something new, but ripped backwards as soon as it gained traction, like tonight. Like seeing a ghost in his features, despite Benicio being so different from the one who still haunted her. When she studied him—his dark eyes, his neat curls, his inked skin—she was intrigued by the contrast to what she had once known. “I keep waiting for something to happen…” she whispered vulnerably, chewing her quivering slip. “There’s always a catch.” In her experience it was usually about sex, money, power. Often the chase and the capture: to prove a point, to use, to possess. He knew there had to be reason for her cynicism, whether it was just one incident or a continued history. But he wouldn’t be here if those were the pretenses underlying his actions, still finding more to pursue. “That’s someone else. Not me,” he said quickly, commandeering her gaze. He was falling into a shadow he could not even name, still missing those critical pieces of her past—by necessity to cope, or by design to vanish. “Look, Rosie.. I can tell you’ve been hurt before,” he risked revealing, fingers flexing in hers to anchor her here with him, reminding of his presence. It was uncomfortable and painful, he knew; in the past he had been both the hurt one and the one to hurt. “You don’t have to tell me now. But I’d like to understand,” he offered cautiously. He looked over this girl in front of him, still shielding her cards from him, afraid to reveal her hand. Just when he thought he made some headway with her, he would run into yet another wall while he was still trying to understand where she had sourced the bricks. If she was protecting herself from reliving the pain or holding back to avoid risking it again, it was effective until now, until someone dared to push against the barriers and wonder what was being kept safe behind them. “I can’t.. I’m not ready,” she quivered, turning away; he was losing her again. If he was always asking for too much or this was the extent of what she could handle, it was a constant battle trying to gauge. “To say more or be more…” she struggled, a tear sloping down her cheek. “It’s ok. I know,” he shushed, understanding the tenderness of a wound never left alone long enough to heal quite right. Without her permission he couldn’t know the extent of her pains, how deep the scars ran, which parts had atrophied. “Let’s get you to bed,” he suggested instead, not wanting to push her over an edge she had barely come back from, one he didn’t yet have the feel of under his feet. Led not to a cliff but a steady, almost imperceptible decline, less noticeable but far more insidious when the ground eventually gave way and this all was gone.

[benicio otero]

sister therapy ii First, it’s a stuffed animal aimed at his head. “Are you stupid on purpose or what?” she laughed incredulously in defiance of her brother’s slackened features. After reading through the text conversation, her sympathy for him altogether vanished. “My god, you have the head of a pig,” she fumed, still flicking her fingertip across the warm phone screen. “Damn, can’t you be a little nice?” he returned on a groan, wounded but unmoved by her reaction. If anything, he was a glutton for his sister’s judgment, although her advice often came at the price of her (mostly) good-natured ribbing. “To you? No,” she answered quickly with the click of her tongue, narrowing her eyes. “I gave you advice, you ignored it. I was right, now you suffer. It’s the rules,” she shrugged, throwing up her hands in surrender to the natural order of the universe. Neither of them learned: he would always go against her words, she would always have more ready to give. “What’s wrong with tío?” asked Gabriela, concerned to see her uncle slumped in a living room armchair. The girl materialized at the rise of her mother’s voice, the volume of which tended to increase the more she cared about a subject or person. “Nothing, mi amor,” Monica shushed with a sly smile, ruffling the girl’s wavy hair as she passed. “Your tío just has a bruised ego,” she explained, arching a brow at him. The verdict was still out on what was broken more: his heart or his pride. Considering his habits, the former; his stubbornness, the latter. “What’s a ego?” Gabriela wondered innocently, hugging Benicio. He kissed her cheek with a grateful smile, waving off her concern before it could blossom into something more serious. “It’s one of two things a man can think with,” Monica mumbled privately, rolling her eyes. Luckily this went over her daughter’s head, kept quietly between the adults who still felt the ripples of their adolescent dynamic. “I’m OK, nena. I’ll come play with you in a minute,” he deflected, patting her back in permission to leave. She skipped across the carpet, sticking her tongue out at her mother before she could be caught under her bedroom door frame. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” Benicio groaned once his niece was gone, raking a hand over his tired face. But his sister was his closest friend and the one who knew him best, her insight incident whether or not he liked (or followed) it. She was both a blessing and a curse. “But I love saying I-told-you-so, little brother,” she sang wickedly, kicking her feet excitedly from where she sat across from him. Her humor quickly ebbed from entertained to irritated. “Why do you like to rile her up, ah?” she demanded, tossing the phone back at him with a vengeance once she had seen enough of their last interaction. “I didn’t think she would answer,” he defended, shrugging in helpless defeat. He turned over the night and the conversation in his mind, still jarred by the resounding silence, frozen with the image of her alone on a gray beach in Nantucket. “It just happened; I wasn’t prepared.” “You don’t think,” she corrected quickly, fuming, with a finger poised to her temple. She was back on her feet again, pacing circles over the carpet in impatience. “I won’t run your little errands, either. Dragging me and Gabi into this? Ay bendito,” she tutted, furious to have been made an accessory to his efforts. “Just tell me, be honest. Is that it? You think it’s done for?” he asked, palms joined for his chin to perch on, regarding her seriously. His sister huffed a deep breath, coolly examining her nails to look away from the dark, stormy eyes she knew so well. “She sounds like a girl on the edge, Beno. I don’t know if you just got her to step back or if you pushed her over, but either way.. Let her be,” she started, standing in front of him to grab his hands. Her beautiful, vibrant brother—too ardent for his own good, bound to fall into traps of his own heart’s making. “I love you, but you do too much. Love doesn’t have to be so crazy and complicated, you know. She isn’t Isabel,” she reminded, desperate to break that thinking. Her head tilted to the side, weighing the timing of a joke. “And she has probably only dated white boys so you’re level 99 too much,” she smirked in emphasis, playfully tapping his cheek where familiar stubble of their family gathered. “I’m not sorry for having a big heart,” he suggested in defeat, folding backward into the seat. His thick brows screwed up in thought, struggling to make sense of what he understood. “Why does she make me feel like I’m crazy for liking her and wanting to be with her?” he wondered, as enriched as he was frustrated with the sparking of an invaluable muse. “The less she gives you, the hungrier you are,” his sister illuminated, pleased with her philosophy. She saw what he was blind to, identifying patterns in his relationships that connected to cycles present in their family. “It’s a shame,” she opined, sucking her teeth for show. “Such a pretty girl, but so boring.” “She’s not,” he reacted instantly, defensive of the girl he had known for a handful of months. “Our dates, our talks, our…” he trailed off, trying to find the tame word in front of his sister, “chemistry. I get those little bits and I know how she feels, that she can—” “Maybe she can but she doesn’t, Beno. Or she won’t,” she interrupts, unapologetic in her candor. It’s almost a compulsion, wanting to fix his frame of reference. Which reality is worse: that Rosie is unable to or she simply refuses. “Listen to what she yells at you.. Not what you think she whispers,” she pleads, the context filling in the gaps. The switch flips in him, finally connecting. Monica reaches out as it happens, the darkening of his eyes. “I’m sorry, 'mano,” she whispered, palm wrapping around his as she knelt before him on the couch. “Don't wait for a broken girl. You can’t fix her.”

[benicio otero]

sister therapy iii When her brother showed up at her door with a colorful bouquet, she narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do?” she hesitated to ask, ushering him inside the apartment. “I have news,” he answered ominously, making himself at home as he always did. She let out a sigh, tugging on her lip in thought. “Me too. Maybe I should split these with you,” she said as she arranged the flowers in a vase, nevertheless grateful. She offered him a single stem, the irony of a white rose not lost on her. “You first. Vale.” When he finished telling her about his night, she wavered at the kitchen threshold. She was pinching the bridge of her nose, eyelids squeezed tight in exasperation, schooling her breath. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, snatching the stem out of his hand. “This is how you are right now:” (plucking the petals from the flower, voice made into a girlish shrill) “‘she loves me, she loves me not.’ Ay bendito!” Making a gagging sound, she tossed the disheveled flower back at him. “Go talk to your other sister. I’m tired of you,” she said as she plopped into the chair opposite him, her foot bouncing impatiently. But the more she thought about it, the more opinions she couldn’t resist sharing. A barrage of Spanish exclamations and insults, pacing again as Benicio dodged random objects. “What’s her secret, ah? I want someone this crazy about me,” she smarmed, feigning interest. “Like your husband?” he suggested pointedly, to which Monica waved off. “This girl has you wrapped around her little finger,” she snorted laughing. “You’re a sucker.” “Why do I come here?” he wondered out loud, a hand ruffling the curls under his hat. She shrugged, moving around the living room now watering her plants. “Beats me.” “Don’t worry, it’s the last time you have to hear about her. I’m good now,” he claimed, as if he had been suddenly cured of his aching heart. She eyed him skeptically, brows high in disbelief and mouth flat in knowing. “It’s done, I promise. It’s quiet in here,” he said, tapping his temple with a finger as if his thoughts about the girl had finally cleared. Apparently his signature gesture, his palms briefly floated up in innocence—or maybe this time, in resignation. “I said my peace, that’s all I can do.” And if he was still foolishly hopeful, wait. Monica appraised him from across the room, still struggling to understand him: his intentions, his needs, his motives. But the sooner he got over this, the sooner she got her normal brother back. “Mira, she texted you,” she prompted coolly, pointing toward his lit phone screen. When he gave a brief flicker of reaction, a raucous laugh escaped her at his expense. “That’s what I thought. Sucker,” she snickered, tugging on his ear as she passed. He clicked his tongue at her, swatting her away. “You play too much,” he grumbled, a rich accusation coming from him. But they were blood and this is what they shared. “Venga, what’s your news? Are you giving me another niece or nephew?” he wondered with a grin. “Diablo, no,” she tutted, chucking a rubber toy at him. “It’s about Gabi…” “What is it? Did something happen?” he demanded, shooting up from his seat. “Benicio, I need you to act normal for a second,” she pressed, hands square on his shoulders guiding him to sit back down. “Monica…” he started to worry. “No dramatics, porfa’. She’s going to be home from school any second,” she warned. “Monica,” he repeated gravely. “Look, I’m sorry Beno,” she started, wringing her hands. “I don’t know how to say this, but…you’re old news. She has her first crush.” “Stop it. You’re lying,” he drawled in disbelief, gaze stuck on her. After a beat, his features sank; rejected a second time by a second girl in his life! He clutched his chest over his heart. “Here we go,” she huffed as the sympathy left her, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me while I’m already down,” he groaned, Spanish curses flowing. “She’s a third grader, get over it,” she snapped, sounds coming from the front door. Monica hurried over, shooting a glare at her brother over her shoulder. “If you freak her out and give her a complex, I will kill you,” she hissed, a practiced smile pulling her face as she opened the door. As Monica chatted with the drop-off mom, Benicio waved his niece toward him, posture straightening and jaw tensing as her little friend followed. “Gabriela, hola. Mi amorcita,” he sang sweetly, enveloping the girl in a hug. She was more demure than usual, much less excited to see him. “Quién es?” he asked, gesturing begrudgingly toward the boy. “This is Grayson,” she said giddily at her friend, smile teetering once back toward Benicio. “Grayson this is my uncle…” she mumbled with the faint roll of her eyes—already starting young. “Can we go play now?” she asked to her mom, tugging Grayson away to where she kept her toys. “Sure, get lost. I have limber in the freezer for you later.” “Grayson?” he practiced as if the name were sour on his tongue, syllables clunky in his mouth with awkward, forced vowels. “My heart, it breaks more,” he murmured, sinking into the couch. “Looks like she likes gringitos too,” she snickered quietly, watching the pair skip off. Perhaps too much heartache for one weekend, Monica offered her downtrodden brother a pat on the shoulder. “Oh my sweet, stupid Beno,” she cooed, trying to keep her amusement in check. “There’s a million other women who want your attention. Pick one, any one.”

[benicio otero]