Chapter 21
Barcelona
Brady
I remember every detail from last night.
The beads of perspiration above Hayes’ eyebrows.
The first moment he flicked his tongue over the head of my dick.
The way it felt to have him hold my face in his hands and feel connected again.
But today at Park Güell, he’s barely said two words to me.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking behind his green tinted aviator sunglasses.
This morning Hayes woke me up with a kiss on the forehead.
My eyes fluttered open and through my blurry vision I made out his hairy thighs already in shorts and running shoes.
He said something about espresso for me with extra cream and extra sugar.
I smiled and fell back to sleep. I assumed we would pick up where we left off the night before when he returned.
I was wrong.
He placed the drinks on the table by the window and went to shower to get ready for the day without a single word or simple touch. I thought maybe he had left the bathroom door open as an invitation to join him but I rolled over in bed only to find the door tightly shut.
Fine. A reasonable and hygienic response to the reality of being covered in a potent variety of spilled wine, tapas and Brady.
But when he came out, I couldn’t get him to really look at me.
We sat on the terrace overlooking the sea, silently eating our breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice, bright orange-yellow scrambled eggs and pan con tomate, a toasted piece of bread with crushed tomatoes and olive oil.
Hayes wasn’t unpleasant or rude but whenever I asked him anything, he only gave me one-word answers.
At first, I thought maybe I imagined everything that happened last night.
Maybe it was all in my head – but then I can still feel his mouth on me.
His thick fingers laced between my slender ones.
I know it happened. And I know he wanted it as much as I did.
We only got a few hours of sleep and we did polish off more than a bottle of wine so maybe he’s hungover or just exhausted. Still, something had changed.
Or maybe nothing has changed. At Clarkson, whenever Hayes encountered a feeling that did not logically compute he would suddenly cease all communication.
The warmth would drain from his eyes and I’d be staring at a mannequin wearing my boyfriend’s sweatshirt.
I loved that he was steadfast but feeling like I was being shut out nearly killed me.
The guy I was with last night was a totally different version of Hayes compared to the one silently staring out at the view letting his eggs get cold.
Last night his hands and mouth were racing to connect with me, searching my body for places to nuzzle, lick or slap.
Last night he pounded the dance floor and let the music drive his passion.
Where was that side of him this morning?
I ran my knife across the surface of my toast allowing the warm butter to embrace the crevices and then piled on so much orange marmalade that some fell of the edge. All the while I was trying to figure out if last night was some temporary glitch and this morning is reality or the other way around.
By afternoon communication doesn’t improve so I focus on our beautiful surroundings and try to block out everything else.
Park Güell sits high atop Barcelona with sweeping views of the city.
Soaring geometric skyscrapers built over the last decade tower over knotted streets from centuries before and the glimmering sea beyond the city.
But the real reason to make the trek up here is for the fantastical architecture of boldly colored broken tile mosaics that twist and turn in unexpected ways, making the park a playful circus of unexpected delights.
Technically it’s our day off, but yesterday we decided we would grab some bonus content since he was so into getting the extra payment. But all the enthusiasm for the bonus and for me seems to have drained out of him. Maybe it’s the heat. It’s already a million degrees and it’s barely noon.
“What about on the serpentine bench? It has views of the city,” I say.
“There?” he says, pointing to the undulating tiled mosaic bench. Great. We’re back to one word at a time. I see a section of the bench covered in fragmented blue tile and walk over to sit down.
I hold the camera in front of me. Hayes is standing a few feet away looking down. “Do you need a minute?”
“I don’t,” he says. I’m not sure if I should count the contraction as one word or two, but either way we are still at a maximum of three words. He sits next to me, faces the camera and says, “Go ahead.”
I lower the camera. “I’m not sure this is what Aisha wants. She wants something more…”
“Right, of course. I mean it’s just all to keep them happy,” Hayes says. I wish he had kept everything below two words now.
I move closer to him and he mechanically puts his arm over me, resting his hand on my shoulder but barely making contact.
I try to maneuver under him so I can feel his forearm on the back of my neck but when I do, he fidgets again and moves his hand down to my waist so there is no skin-to-skin contact. Fine. If that’s what he wants.
I take a few pictures but when I hold the phone in my lap to review the shots I can tell something is wrong. We look like two mannequins stuck in a trash bin.
I turn to Hayes. “Okay. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’ve been acting strange all morning. Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. No. Not at all. No way.” He’s emphatic in his response but I can’t tell if it’s sincere.
I don’t know what I was hoping for. That one night of incredible hot sex would erase everything that happened between us?
That feeling that undeniable connection would be enough to make us forget all the reasons we haven’t been together over the last year?
But I thought it was maybe, sort of, perhaps a start.
I look out over Barcelona. In the distance I see the edges of dark blue clouds with almost black centers.
Even though the sea is off in the distance below I can still smell the briny, raw aroma.
I inhale and take in the view. This doesn’t have to be a big thing.
We aren’t college kids using our feelings to figure out who we are or what we want.
We are adults starting our lives and a mature sensible conversation is in order.
“Do you want to talk about last night?” I ask. A gentle and non-threatening invitation, I hope.
“It was nice. I liked it.” He sounds like a fourth grader delivering a report on a book he didn’t read.
I reapproach. “Are you sure we shouldn’t talk?” I ask.
Silence.
“Hayes, don’t ice me out. I hate that. You know I hate that.
” I’m trying to remain calm but it’s not working.
I’m remembering all the old feelings of anxiety around not knowing what he wants and I don’t like it.
I don’t like who they make me. I don’t want to be some emotional mess begging Hayes to communicate.
Begging him to be in this thing with me.
Either he’s in or he’s out. What could have happened to make him change his mind about me so quickly?
“Brady, I’m just a little tired from last night, and we had too much wine. That’s all. It was great. I had a great time with you. I did. I really did. There is nothing we need to talk about right now.”
“Okay,” I say, scrutinizing his face. Hayes is not a good liar, mostly because he rarely ever does it. The thing about lying is that you need to practice it so often it doesn’t even feel like lying. I scan his eyes. Something is not making sense.
We walk around the park and capture a few more photos but really, we’re just running through the motions.
The interior of the park is less colorful, more organic and raw.
The Hypostyle Room, a vaulted open-air market hall near the back contains a dozen or so columns made of rough stone intentionally positioned close together.
In Gaudí’s work there are always two elements battling for dominance.
There are the playful colorful mosaics of the benches outside, and then there is the darker, more primal feeling of the room of columns.
Right now, I’m only able to connect to this darker side.
We begin the walk back to town, down the hill in silence.
I decide to pretend like nothing has happened.
We are co-workers who had a tumble in bed.
Maybe that’s all it was. Nothing more. I wanted it to be more, but I wanted it to be something new also.
I don’t want incredible highs followed by periods of not knowing what he’s thinking and feeling shitty.
I try to make conversation with him to fill the awkward silence. “Do you think we should try some tapas? There’s a place not far from here.”
“Sure,” he says.
“Or should we visit the Picasso Museum, or do something more gay?”
His response: “Whichever.”
It’s almost the middle of the afternoon, when the city rests for siesta. It’s a chance to get out of the intense sun, so we head back to the hotel, although the last place I want to be is in the room alone with him.
We walk into the lobby and the glazed botanical-themed tiles that decorate the former station glow in the afternoon sun.
A man from the front desk calls me over to tell me I have a message.
I tell Hayes to go up. I’m sure it’s Aisha checking up on us.
I figure a little time away from each other will help him sort through whatever is going on his head.
“You said there was a message for me? Was it from Aisha?” I ask the concierge wearily. It’s exhausting having her micromanage everything we’re doing. I’m sure she has a million changes to the itinerary and notes on how we can look more authentic.
“No, chico.” He flips through some papers and then hands me a note. “It is from a person named Otto. He lost his phone and has a new number, he says. Here it is.” He hands me a slip of paper with the hotel’s logo across the top in elegant green and gold script and a number scrawled across it.
“Gracias,” I say and walk to a plush chair in the corner in the corner of the lobby by the refreshment bar so I can process everything.
Of course, Otto found out I’m heading to Berlin.
I knew he would be there. I even worried about running into him, which is silly because it’s such a big city.
I hold my phone in my hand, staring at it.
If I had gotten this message last night, I would have thrown it away and not given it a second thought, but after the day I had with Hayes, with him being so distant and cold, I’m considering my options.
I open my phone and enter the number. It must be the fifth one I’ve had for Otto.
He’s always cancelling his phone, giving up on the materialistic nature of constant communication and then changing his mind.
I knew from mutuals that he was back in Berlin working with some artists’ collective that does radical agriculture and avant-garde theater.
If I were traveling by myself or with someone else, anyone else, I would have tried to find him so we could hang out.
Why not? He’s an old college friend. I never did anything wrong with him.
Hayes and I were on a break when I went to see a production of Mother Courage in some classroom Otto had turned into a performance space.
I was upset with Hayes for the exact thing he’s doing now, icing me out, treating me like a specimen, and I told him we should call it off for a while.
He told me if that’s what I wanted, he wouldn’t stand in my way.
At the cast party afterwards, Otto made a beeline for me. “Hello, you are Brady Gibson. I’ve seen you on campus. You are very attractive. I would like us to have sex.”
I almost spit out the beer I was drinking. It was shocking but also refreshing to be in the presence of a guy who was so direct in what he was feeling. The exact opposite of Hayes, who held his emotions inside a steel fortune cookie that was almost impossible to crack open.
“Okay. I would like that too,” I said, in the spirit of openness. Otto was skinny, with black hair dyed even blacker with violet undertones. He had an elegant, angular face and wore smokey eyeliner. He was known for staging impromptu pieces of performance art in the dining hall.
On the way to his apartment, I remember telling him I liked the play and his performance.
He stopped me. “I am not interested in what is called “small talk” and I do not perform for attention like so many other people. Your comments in that matter do not interest me. Have you ever used a double-ended dildo? That is a question that interests me right now.”
I thought he was joking but knew enough not to laugh. The last thing in the world anyone would call me is a prude, but even I was shocked by his question. And intrigued.
We slept together one time when Hayes and I were officially not together.
Even before my tryst, Hayes was not an Otto fan.
Hayes thought he was a poser. Sure, anyone who wears a beret to a Macro Econ class has crossed the line, but Otto was a nice guy and unlike so many of the people I usually hung out with.
We remained friends long after that night which resulted in an incredible, memorable experience but, alas, did not include the double-ended dildo.
Hayes and I were back together two weeks later and stronger than ever. Or so I thought.
Otto picks up immediately. “Halo,” he says with his German accent. I have to remind myself he went to high school in Baltimore.
“Otto, the hotel said you called and gave me your number. How did you know I was here?”
“Wunderbar. Und not only did I know you were in Barcelona. I know your next stop is Berlin. I have a proposition for you.”
I should hang up right now. Hayes will go through the roof if he finds out I’m talking to Otto, but I think about how difficult Hayes has been today.
The coldness in his eyes. The way his body repelled from my touch.
Otto is just a friend, and I don’t have any interest in changing that at the moment.
Why shouldn’t I see an old friend when I’m in his city?
I should at the very least hear what Otto has to say.
“Go ahead, Otto. I’m listening.”