Ignacio Suarez’s lined brown face appeared on the screen. “Hola, mijo.”
The words, a rushed baritone rumble, were the same greeting Ashton had heard from his father every day of his life, and they brought a smile to his face. “Hola, Pa. ¿Cómo estás?”
He listened while his father rattled off a report about Abuelito Gus and Abuelita Bibi’s health. Ashton’s mother had died ten years earlier, but Ignacio’s parents had always been a big part of Ashton’s life. They were in their eighties now, and their well-being was a major concern and a driving factor behind Ashton’s work ethic.
Another driving factor popped up on the screen, his messy hair and big brown eyes peeking out at Ashton and making his heart swell.
“¿Es mi papá?” a squeaky voice asked, and Ashton laughed.
“Sí, mijo, es tu papá,” he said.
On-screen, Ignacio backed away to make room for Yadiel, Ashton’s eight-year-old son.
Ashton listened intently as Yadiel filled him in on the last TV show he’d watched (Teen Titans Go), the video game he was currently obsessed with (Minecraft), and the comic book he was in the middle of reading (Spider-Man). Most of it went over Ashton’s head, and he wished, not for the first time, that he could be there with his son, to watch, play, and read with him.
Yadiel finished off with, “Papi, when are you coming back to Puerto Rico?”
“Not yet, Yadi.” Ashton didn’t have a better answer. Yadiel lived with Ignacio y los bisabuelos in Humacao while Ashton lived in Miami for most of the year. When Yadi had been born, he’d lived in Miami with Ashton. But after the Incident, Yadiel had gone to live with Ignacio, and Ashton had sold the house and moved into a high-rise condo instead.
When Yadiel was younger, Ashton had been able to spend more time at home with him in Puerto Rico. But as his career had taken off and Yadi started attending a private school, there’d been less time for making the two-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami to San Juan every weekend.
After Hurricane Maria wreaked havoc on the island, the federal government’s absolute failure to provide resources and aid and unwillingness to treat the people of Puerto Rico as the American citizens they were by right of birth had prompted Ashton to move his family to Miami for a time. He’d loved having them closer and being able to see Yadiel nearly every day. But the whole time, he couldn’t stop remembering what had happened when Yadiel had lived there before. Once Yadiel’s school reopened, they’d gone back.
Ashton missed his son with a depth that had no end, but growing up on the island, away from the chaos of the entertainment industry, was what was safest for the boy. Ashton would have loved to spend the summer hanging out with Yadiel in Puerto Rico, but bills had to be paid, and now that Ashton was financially responsible for four generations of his family, there were a lot of bills—especially after making repairs to the family restaurant, which now served half the customers it once did.
“Has anything funny happened on set?” Yadiel asked. He enjoyed hearing behind-the-scenes stories “from Papi’s work.”
“Well, it’s only the first day, but . . . yes, something happened.”
Yadiel’s eyes went wide as Ashton told him about spilling coffee on Jasmine. Ashton mimed the movements, added sound effects, and cast himself in the role of the bumbling idiot for his son’s amusement. Yadiel was chortling with laughter by the time he was done, and Ashton’s spirits lifted. He loved making his son laugh. Maybe someday he’d have the opportunity to do more comedy in his career.
A knock sounded on the door. “Ashton? Are you in there?”
Uh-oh. Yadiel was the reason Ashton kept his private life locked away. He wanted his son to have as normal an upbringing as possible, even if it meant spending time apart. Ashton had experienced some alarming moments with fans early in his career—he’d never forget the terror of hearing glass breaking in his son’s nursery—so he did everything in his power to keep Yadiel safe, protected, and secret.
Ashton blew a kiss into the phone and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Ciao, mi amor.”
“Bye, Papi.”
Disconnecting the call, Ashton called, “Pase,” then repeated it in English, just in case. “Come in.”
Marquita Arroyo, the showrunner and a fellow Boricua, stuck her head inside. She was tall, with fair skin, a mass of spiraling curls, and a big smile. “Hey there. We have some people who want to meet you