; radio silence

[rosie de la cruz]

Languid eyes follow the tip of his glass, down the slope of his arm and up the collar of his shirt and land on his sharp features. See? She clocked the hesitation, the flick of what she swore was concern before it schooled. Her brows draw together as if she hadn't dropped news that shattered any notion of herself she'd built up for so long. As if it was as casual as the weather forecast, not a core tenet of everything she seemed to be. Rosie shifts to say more, mouth drawn open in complaint before his compliment rings honest. Softening the set of her face, eyes flicked down again in subdued recognition.“It's not as crazy as it sounds, anyway,” Rosie admits, though sometimes she wonders if he'd want it to be. Watch her throw full caution to the wind, be able to get a read on her any second he wanted. It's an unwelcome transparency, grateful when he follows her direction to let it lie for now. “Something tells me you have good luck.” The ease in him apparent, content with the way things went because it seemed often enough they went his way. Curious if she was the challenge he couldn't win, game rigged in her favor, dependent on her mood and every whim. Waiting for the exasperation to hit its limits, leaning to steal a stray water bottle from Nora as her drink finally emptied. “What's your casino vice?”

[benicio otero]

There’s a little fight bubbling up in her, hinting at a sore spot. That dance again, eyeing their footwork but letting her lead. “Not crazy but still a big deal,” he encouraged with a small smile, not that she sought his validation or approval. But he gathered that she was still trying on this string of words, practicing the news out loud on more than just herself. It was hard to miss the gears turning behind her eyes, imagining the lists she’d compared, the risks she’d calculated. Even her happiness was something to be tracked and analyzed, perhaps finally reaching a critical threshold. The context was still too vague, Benicio choosing to simply support her instead. Was it luck or relentless persistence? His wandering mind couldn’t afford much thought, swaying to the music, intent on keeping up with her curiosities. The award show was days away, while Rosie was right here. “I like roulette. I remember seeing it in movies when I was young and thinking it was so cool,” he shared, not much of a casino gambler. If only dominoes or brisca were played. “Vegas is a lot, it’s not my favorite. I can’t hang for more than three days, tops,” he amended, too much even for him. It made Miami pale in comparison, and those years had certainly taken their toll. “Are you a gambling girl?” he wondered out loud, glancing her over. “Nah, you’re too smart. You’d take the house.”

[rosie de la cruz]

Rosie shrugs, letting it drop. It's going to take time. Much like the residual hangover of her feelings for Tate, untangling herself from the obsession with her work and what it said about her would be a process she was still trying to comprehend. It's what had led her spontaneously out, content to further delay an unknown. Avoidance was her other constant, always afraid to say too much, dare too far. Thinking through everything so precisely that sometimes, when the outcome wasn't in her favor, she walked away before it got any more complicated. Case in point swaying in front of her, at ease but always capturing attention. When she shirked he expanded, taking the attention of a room while never thinking twice about it. Even with the second glances she knew her face got, it felt nice to feel it lift away sometimes. “Funny, I figured it'd be a favored playground.” Excesses for the taking, frenetic and limitless. “Always more to learn,” Rosie grins, split straw caught on her lip momentarily before her brow quirks up in amuse. “I'm good at Blackjack, actually.”

[benicio otero]

Just when Benicio couldn’t figure out why this girl possessed him so, wondering what about her reeled him in without fail, there it was: that smile. These brief, flashing moments of her joy and wit, when she finally warmed up and took up space with him. Of course her beauty always attracted others, but when the pressure of attention fell out of her peripheral Rosie would come to life. As if her authentic self was just buried a few layers down, only needing some digging. “I like to surprise you,” he returned, always curious about her assumptions of him. The man felt like he was competing with more than he might have realized: shadows of ex boyfriends, dating history tropes, stereotypes of Latinos. “I had enough of all that in Miami. I’m too old now,” he said, when years ago his answer would have been quite different. “I like this better,” he continued, gesturing broadly around them with a ringed finger, “a little more intimate with people I like.” He enjoyed their dates out as much as their nights in, getting creative with this girl's precious spare time. “Oh sí?” he said of this new information, a brow quirked. “Maybe that’s in your new future now. Who taught you?”

[rosie de la cruz]

Miami, Boston, Puerto Rico. He's as much of a mix of high and low, tough and light, reputations preceding cities with assumptions on how they shape people. Rosie guesses that's what she'd done to him, originally; curious and drunk on his difference, then wary of the attention that came so quickly. Assuming he'd done the same, thrown off by her hesitance. Too much the tripwire she balanced on, ready to trigger the second it came to life, never warning of its existence until it snared. “It's a good place to cut your teeth,” Rosie says vaguely. Also a good place to toil past midnight, recoup your losses, get your heart broken. New York captured impossibilities in a way that seemed sane, concrete sidewalks glittering in the lamplights. She steals another sip of the water bottle she remembered she had, mind foggy but sweet in its memories. Until the answer to his question came to her, laugh almost ironic as it drawls from lips that fade into a slicing smile.“An ex's sister, actually. Never met someone whose face can stay so scary straight...and I know that's probably something, coming from me.”

[benicio otero]

With Rosie, there’s more than meets the eye—and she is already quite an eyeful. From the beginning she perplexed him, the many aspects of her not seeming to match upon first glance: her job, her backstory, her personality, her exterior. It would have been easier to walk away the night they met, apologize for making his assumption and leave her alone. But like an itch to be scratched, he couldn’t seem to let it go; he wanted to indulge until sated, like working on a song until the finishing notes. The idea of someone rivaling her stony façade is beyond him, so accustomed to the stark difference between her smile and her frown. “That’s hard to believe,” he says lightly, sipping from his own water now. “I didn’t think anyone else could compete.” Her immovability is impressive, intimidating, the first of her many defenses. “Didn’t work on me though,” he noted coolly, although her many other defenses were still intact. And clearly some were successful. The mention of an ex tempts his interest but he’s still wary, not in a gambling mood despite the levity afforded by the alcohol. “What about me, do I have a very serious face?” he asked, features slackened. Inviting her opinion, he let his dark eyes narrow, bearded jaw set, lips slightly pouting.

[rosie de la cruz]

“She put me to shame,” Rosie admits easily, Aisha's expressionless face still so easy to remember. With it often came a similar uneasiness to trying to guess her hand, wondering if she approved, if she liked her that day, what she'd do or have done. The rare moments of kindness were just that, rare, gone before she even had a chance to acknowledge them. Much like their family was supposed to be now, she guessed, balance swaying from toe to toe of her patent, pointed heels. Beni's cheeky loft rallies her back to the present, eyes drifting up and around in mock annoyance. An interesting foil, one of the rare people she'd allowed to chip certain layers down. Make her laugh, invite a kiss, share the space of her sheets. Sometimes it bothers her too, how quickly she backs away sometimes. Still unsure if it's some stirring intuition or intrinsic fear that never seemed to go away, studying his features intently in mock inspection, light touch on his jaw shifting his face this way and that “Can read you like a book,” she confirms as her final assessment, grin betraying her serious attempt as the drinks settle, thoughts pulling loose. “Which is good, but sometimes bad. I know when I frustrate you.”

[benicio otero]

There’s still a massive gap in her story to resolve, understand why she shied away from conversations about exes or thoughts about the future. Benicio was biding his time at this point, waiting for her to lay her arms down, briefly, and be honest. All the work he had done in her absence to forget his feelings for her was undone the moment he caught her eyes in the entrance of the bar, cursing himself for being this way despite the rationale of his experience and his confidants. She didn’t fit the patterns of his prior relationships, but she was an addictive enigma he could not let alone. Her touch is on him and he’s briefly ignited, eyes leisurely holding hers. At her conclusion he tosses a curse in Spanish, playfully waving her off. “I don’t try to hide,” he reasoned soon after, finding himself leaning against the table edge, elbows firmly planted, angled toward her. He can’t help it—craving the intimacy of a person’s full attention, privy to their body language. When the music pulses too loud he watches her lips make words, keen on her voice, gaze flickering between her moving mouth and her widening eyes. “Why do you frustrate me so much then?”

[rosie de la cruz]

Though she was studying him in the moment, she felt like he did it all the time. Picking up on small details, what caught her off-guard, what made her tick. A minefield of her own making, compared to an expression so open and lax. Rarely did Rosie like to relinquish control. Of her own mind, let alone her actions or charted courses. But she was drunk, and her restraints were crumbling, and the way he said it, I don't try to hide, hit in an exhaustive, piercing way. “Because I do try to hide,” Rosie breathes, hands clasped nervously within themselves under the table. Water bottle cap flicking between her fingertips, music suddenly cloying and loud and yet the perfect backdrop to any honesty. The noise could drown her out if anything, an excuse she clung to as she tilts her face away, trying to find the words, eyes drifting miles through the crowded room. “Have you ever thought you had something for so long, only for you to lose it? Suddenly too, not over time. And then you go back and question if you ever really had it at all, or if you'd just...imagined something that wasn't true, or real.”

[benicio otero]

It’s pointed, it’s on purpose. A quiet accusation said out loud, an honest observation aired. He doesn’t know how much transparency is demanded of her by her friends or work life—places where she is needed rather than needing, vulnerable—but it must not be enough when honesty feels this jarring to her. A weakness, something to be hidden; he felt the opposite, compelled by his emotions and experiences, living them vibrantly and out loud (enough to document them in his music). Like watching a flower bloom, she opens suddenly with a little nurturing. He wishes she wouldn't hide, these barriers exhausting to break down again and again, so few chinks in her armor. His eyes drift away, almost allowing her privacy, listening to her speak as he searched his memory for similar experiences. He nods but bites his tongue; it wasn’t about him, a rhetorical question. “Tell me,” he invites, palm offered upright on the table in case she needed it, still finding himself trying to prove his safeness to her.

[rosie de la cruz]

Tell me. It's a plea, a demand, an armistice and an olive branch, a floodgate she realized she opened with a quick snap of her eyes back to his own. “Not much to say,” she starts immediately but there is. Maybe not to him, looking for an affection she was too hollow to give at the moment. But to Nora or her mother, even, how he'd never said it in full but she'd known. Had been foolish enough to believe, in some lofty version of her life, that they'd come back to each other. She shakes her head at the notion, starting again. “Tate was the love of my life,” Rosie states honestly, because it was something she knew. A fact, her favorite form of currency, concrete and provable. "We were together in college for a couple years, but never really cut fully off until recently. Like a few days ago, recently.” It hurts to swallow but she carries on, voice clipped and quick under the metronomic flow. "We were really different, too, came from different places and ways of life. But he always made me feel like I belonged anyway. That I didn't need to change me to be with him.” Rosie's voice trails off, flushed with the awkwardness of having to relay this to someone she knew wanted her in a similar fashion, that she'd rarely given a similar courtesy. Throat cloyed with sweet memories, the sting of expiration dates in time. “But that doesn't really matter anymore, I guess.” Rosie's eyes find the remnants of her final drink, sipping melted ice and the last vestiges of rum. “So that's...that.”

[benicio otero]

Be careful what you wish for. A wise warning as he invites in what is uncomfortable, painful, raw. It’s a risk in itself, perhaps less entertaining than a salacious question or a flirtatious comment but nonetheless liable to ripple the foundation. But the last thing he is doing is operating with ulterior motive; he recognized her wish for the night, and besides that, what more could he ask of her? He finally gets to place a name to the memory, the specter of her past, confirming a few things he already knew. Fill in the blanks: someone white, rich, of a different era in her life. And he realizes he arrived too late to this story. After Tate, the ending was already spoiled and she had to start over again, afraid to take a step forward with anyone else. Years stretched out until days ago, explaining the shift of her mood, the gaps in her life. The change in everything. He gathers his breath, rattling with a knowing nod. “Look at me. You see me,” he prefaced, trying to inspire a smile in her as she finished. He reached for her hands, his features softened in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Rosie. I am,” he murmured, hovering closer to her, a shadow cast over her shoulder. He wouldn't wish heartbreak upon anybody. "That matters a lot."

[rosie de la cruz]

It feels unfair, the domino of consequences stemming from the trip, her confrontation with Tate, this night. Rosie had tried to be vague, to play it off as an escape of an evening, a way to drink her heartache into something manageable and indulge an inevitable laugh he aimed to coax out of her. But he'd pushed, gently this time, and she'd finally given way. Only feeling anchored again when his hands find hers of their own volition, tight grip unraveling to slip into his. Breath rushing out of her lungs when she looks at him, the genuine sympathy and apology enough for a tear to slip out of her eye. Then another, breaking their grip to swipe at them eagerly before any more could fall. “Thank you, but it happens. It happens to everyone,” she rationalizes, but it feels weighty in her throat and the smile drawls hollow, proximity dwindling until she pitches forward and rests her forehead against his collarbone. Closing her eyes, arms hanging lax, breath pulled deep into her lungs for clarity. Knowing she owed him one thing more, another stab at honesty as she grappled for composure.“I'm sorry, too.”

[benicio otero]

It’s not under the happiest circumstances that she’s back in his arms, reminiscent of that last day in front of her building. But this time she isn’t fleeing, not even into herself. He doesn’t know how they got here so suddenly—tonight she wanted simple, light—but he can offer her temporary shelter from heartbreak. Rationalizations cannot stop the tears so Benicio pulls her close, kissing the top of her head in sad understanding. Everything is clearer now, the dots finally connecting into a full picture. Although he had been searching for cracks, he didn't mean to crack her. An apology sounds over the music, amplified in their proximity. His palms move to frame her face, thumb brushing over the damp slope of her cheek. “It’s ok. I know I’m a lot,” he murmured, the hint of a grin reaching his voice with this admission. Holding her eyes, a darkness that rivaled his own, forgetting about the bar around them. “I still like you. A lot,” he promised, more afraid of the regret of silence than the risk of rejection. Sometimes it felt like any encounter could be their last, trying to hold a ghost in place. His hands dropped to hers, fingers interwoven and pulsing together. “When you’re ready someday, I think I could make you really happy.”

[rosie de la cruz]

It feels so twisted, crying in someone's arms that wanted her while she was mourning someone else who had. But she rarely felt comfort, rarely let herself go enough to know it was something she could ask for from others. It was all fine until it wasn't, watching this past month flicker behind eyes squeezed tightly shut. Like the floor dropped out from under her, questioning everything that led up to her fall. The vulnerable moments that had ended in heartbreak, guilt twisting a knife into her chest because she had lost, but Beni had, too. Accepting that this wasn't the time with more grace than she could muster, the ghost of his touch over watermarks, the intensity of his honesty. Never one to mince words, for better or for worse, Rosie laughs through another sniffle at the levity he brings. Suddenly never more thankful for this night and this moment, as quick of a turn as it had been. Reeling from heartache she found herself grinning days later, when she'd thought she'd only come away with fury and the finality of something that had run its course. That could still be the ending after all this...going different ways, unsure what her heart wanted at this moment as it still cauterized. But instead of closing the door entirely she shrugs, shoulders dropping on the shudder of a breath, another hint of a smile. Maybe the most she'd afforded him in a long time. “You never know,” Rosie offers, the vice grip of anxiousness around him releasing its hold. As if all the pressure was alleviating now that she'd finally said something real. “I think for now, I need to figure out how to make myself happy first.” It's lofty but likely true, Rosie's eyes sweeping to Nora before she tilts her chin toward the bar. "I think I owe you a drink.”