Page 16 of Just My Type of wrong guy

“I’m the fourth generation of musicians on my father’s side. And my mom was also a musician. It seemed only natural that I would sing too. But life happened, and my father changed his mind.”

“Your mom…”

Ah, he heard about that. Of course, he did.

“She supported me,” I shorten the story and stand up, looking away.

Parental love is unconditional, sweetheart.Tereza would say if she were here.Take care of your dad, he can’texist without you. She’d respond when I’d say he was being inconvenient.

I think she was wrong on both counts. First, Dad’s been living quite well without me, even though the pain in his eyes and the way his body is hunched under a weight greater than it seems to bear show otherwise. His life went on. And second, if I had been the good daughter, singing at samba circles and continuing to act in soap operas just an hour from home, where he’d drive me, maybe he would still love me. But since I chose to follow my own dreams and not the path he wanted, our relationship broke. So no, parental love isn’t always unconditional.

“Are we leaving?” A.J. grabs my attention by standing up, confused, alternating his gaze between me and the table still holding half a sandwich, a few cheese breads, and half a pie.

I shake my head, forcing a smile, but I decide it’s not yet time to go home.

“From here, yes, now we’re going there.” I point to the Christ, and he nods seconds after smiling.

“You’re not going up there, no way!” Hammer steps forward, narrowing his eyes at us as if we were two kids.

“But you’re with us, what could happen?” A.J. gives me a playful, conspiratorial look before turning to Hammer.

“Chaos. Brazil is too intense. We can’t risk anything.”

“It’s Monday, if there’s a day we can walk anywhere, it’s today.” I cross my arms, my eyes on A.J., who nods.

“I think I’ve got an idea…” He grins, eyes on Hammer.

“It doesn’t matter, A.J., there’s no chance you’re going up to Christ the Redeemer today.”

***

We reached Christ the Redeemer an hour and a half later.

However, we made a few stops along the way, and I’m wearing dark boyfriend jeans and aFlamengoshirt. A.J. stuffed his long hair into a hat much too big for his head, and the security guys... Well, they're dressed in colorful tacky shorts and shirts that only a group of tourists could wear.

Because A.J.'s brilliant idea was to use disguises. But the cool breeze and the not-so-crowded monument make it hard for me to complain.

“The beach is one of my favorite things about Rio, you know?” A.J. comments, gazing atGuanabara Bay, and I hold back a laugh.

“Humans are never satisfied, the average Brazilian's dream is to see snow...”

“"Snow is nice too, but only when it piles up a lot. Then it gets really cold, and it’s unbearable to go out without layers and layers of clothes.”

“Why? Isn’t it nice when it snows a little?”

“Sometimes the snow melts fast and turns into mud. It's disgusting. But the beaches are... stable.”

Beaches are not stable, far from it, in fact, but I let the guy think so. I smack the brim of his hat and pull him to walk a little further.

“See that golden strip?” I point to the sunlit sand, and A.J. nods.

“There’s no strip like that over there, right?”

He turns his neck to where we were, then shakes his head.

“Because that's not a beach, A.J.!” I whisper, making him laugh so hard that his hat falls off, revealing his hair, and when he bends down to grab it, his glasses fall on the ground.

“Are you stupid?” I shove the glasses back on his face, almost poking one of the arms into his eyes.

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