Page 9 of Just My Type of wrong guy

It’s still the same look from two years ago. A look that the girl who sang before speaking never imagined receiving.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” I climb the three steps separating the backyard from the porch and fall into his embrace.

The comfort is immediate, but the strangeness comes soon after.

“Thank you, dad.” I step back with a goofy smile. “You’re looking pretty good too.”

I wink at him.

“What do I owe the honor of your visit?” he asks, placing his arm around my shoulders and walking with me inside the house, where the smell of Sunday lunch fills the air.

Roast chicken, white rice, farofa… With every step, a new aroma hits me.

“I’m traveling and wanted to see you before I go,” I comment as we head for the kitchen, observing the living room,filled with awards, CDs, and photos from the golden years left behind.

“You’re traveling, huh? Where to? Did you go back to recording a soap opera?” he asks, curious, opening the fridge and taking out a small dish of Brazilian-style coleslaw.

“If I had gone back to TV, you’d know by now…” I pull out a chair and sit down, even though I wasn’t invited, because some habits never die.

“Is it something with music?”

He stops, watching me as if he’s mentally going through all his contacts in the world of show business, trying to figure out who disrespected his request of never giving me a chance.

“Yes. The food smells really good,” I change the subject because I don’t want to think about this.

“It’s ready. The chicken just needs to brown on top, but I’ll raise the temperature, and we’ll eat soon,” he says, heading to the oven in silence.

I left my apartment knowing that, despite his lack of tact, it would be really nice to have lunch with my dad on a Sunday. But Sitting here in silence – in a house that once thrummed with music but now resounds only with deafening quiet, surrounded by forbidden topics and half-spoken words – I realize I was never ready for the emptiness that fills this place.

“Do you mind if I go to my old room?”

“Of course not, it’s just a bit messy,” he warns, taking the lead, and I follow him down the hallway. “I kept some things from your mom here,” he says, opening the door, and my purple-walled room with GenZ posters now shares space with a coat rack full of my mom’s show outfits and boxes and more boxes of what were probably her work. “Forgive me for the mess.”

“No, it’s… perfect.” I smile softly, the kind of smile that holds a thousand emotions, barely there but full of meaning, running to one of the boxes blocking the mirror in my closet. “Allthe things I love the most in one place…” I open the box and find several photos of her, dad, and many of the biggest music icons from Rio that I’ve always called family.

The little painted wooden jewelry box from school that I gave her as a Mother’s Day gift when I was nine is here, and before I open it, I know what’s inside. The picks she used to play stringed instruments without damaging her perfect nails, which she always kept red and alive.

The longing to have had more time with Tereza invades me, but I push the tears away, take a few of the picks with her logo, and put them in my pocket. Instead of crying, I choose to take her with me on a European tour, which is much more special.

“Dad, I really wanted to tell you…” I turn, ready to tell the truth about the trip and hope that, this time, at least this time, he’ll be happy for me.

But he isn’t here anymore.

I return to the kitchen after saying goodbye to the room, and I find him setting the table. I open my mouth, full of courage, when his eyes meet mine, but he looks away, and I realize my dad knows. Somehow, he knows that I achieved something, and he won’t be happy for me.

I sit at one end of the table, and he sits at the other. We thank the food in silence – something that never happened before – and the only evidence of this is our heads bowed. Then, we serve ourselves and eat, still without exchanging a word. As delicious as the food is, it goes down, tearing my throat and tightening my chest, heavy and distressing.

I only repeat the Brazilian-style coleslaw, trying to refresh myself with something cold, but it doesn’t work very well. When I finish my second glass of soda, the sound of my dad’s fork hitting the plate breaks the silence, catching my attention.

“Few times in life I’ve seen someone singingWave[3] so beautifully,” he says, as he places the knife beside the plate, looking at me.

On one hand, I’m touched that he took the time to watch videos of the shows, but on the other hand, I scold myself for seeming like the twelve-year-old girl seeking his approval for everything.

“It was mom’s favorite song, I like singing it at my shows.”

“I know. I just didn’t understand that dress.” My dad shrinks in his chair, and we laugh; just thinking about that burka, my body itches. “But you looked beautiful, sweetie.”

“I already got another outfit for today’s show. There’s no way I’m wearing that again in Rio’s heat…” I say, and the friendly atmosphere allows me to go a little further. “The upside is that we’re going to colder places during the tour, so I’ll get to wear the long dress every now and then.”

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