Chapter 11 The Call
The Call
Coco
Gema loves yapping with me. She likes lying next to me in my bed and telling me things that are nothing like the typical teenage worries.
She’s always given me old soul vibes. Marín spends a lot of time worrying about that.
He’s already told me a few times how worried he is that his sister might follow in his footsteps and end up not having an adolescence.
Gema’s dream is to travel across Spain in a van. Not like us, of course. She wants one of those snub-nosed Volkswagens, decked out inside with a mattress and a kitchenette.
“I wanna go the summer after my first year in university. I’m already saving up.”
I don’t want to tell her that she won’t be old enough by then to rent a car or that it’s very unlikely she’ll find someone to rent her a van with those specifications, but she’s dreaming and next year she’ll probably be all about, I don’t know, imagining herself surfing in Hawaii.
The important part of all this is that, thanks to her, I found a kind of forum where campers who are into this kind of travel have made a map of the places where you can wild camp with a motor home or a van, and thanks to Gema, that’s where we are now.
It’s the dead of night, and we’ve deviated from the route we were planning to follow, but we’re all set up on our patio with plastic chairs and table.
We can hear the sea and chattering from a few people who are camping about a hundred meters away.
Until we stopped here, I had no idea how beautiful it would be to do this with my friends.
I call my mother once we’ve set up camp.
She says she’s drinking a cocktail with a very exotic-sounding name and that she’s painted something beautiful.
She tells me to have fun; she asks me if I miss Marín and then says she thinks she wants to adopt a dog.
She barely gives any time to answer between one thing and the next.
My mother is…scatterbrained. She’s not your typical mother.
She worries—of course, she does—but she tends to infuse her head scratchings with a hilarious, Dalí-esque tone: If she tells me to be careful, not to talk to anyone on the street and other things mothers say, she always adds something surreal to spruce it up, like “Do you believe in reptilians, Coco? I don’t, but there’s a woman in this neighborhood who sometimes makes me wonder.
” I want to be like her when I grow up. She’s…
simply lovely. When we say goodbye, she tells me to have fun and live a little on the wild side so I can tell her interesting things when I get back. That’s who she is.
Blanca’s making a Greek salad in the kitchen of the camper with Loren’s help.
It’s very efficient, but it’s a cramped space, and they told me that just standing there in the middle, frozen like a moron, wasn’t actually a big help, so they threw me out.
Well, actually they asked me to set the table and relax with a beer. And that’s what I’m doing.
Next to me, Aroa is toying with her phone.
I don’t want to ask her if she’s WhatsApping Marín.
My phone is resting on a stack of paper napkins, stopping them from blowing away in the wind.
I messaged Gema to tell her she would love this, and after I spoke to my mother, I have no other reason to keep it in my hand.
My eyes are adjusting to the pristine darkness, and the sea is beautiful, dappled with silver shards of the moon’s reflection. Calm. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like everything was this peaceful.
“Poem.”
Aroa doesn’t add anything else. When I look at her, the light of her phone shows her mischievous expression.
“What?”
“Gus posted another poem. Don’t you wanna read it?”
No. No, I don’t want to, but I nod and reach over so she can give me her phone.
If you miss me,
say it.
Say it drips in your chest,
pools during the day
and overflows into someone else’s mouth at night.
Say that I’m part of your symphony of silence,
say that it’s not worth the pain,
but here we are.
Shit. This is the first time in more than a year that I’ve bothered wondering who the muse behind all this is.
“Fuck, Coco, that’s so beautiful.”
“I guess.” I hand back her phone and glance at mine out of the corner of my eye.
“Why don’t you write something to him?”
“What for? I’m sure this is for some other girl.”
“But what if it’s not? I don’t think it is.”
“Do you want to keep going with beer or should we open a bottle of wine?” Blanca is looking at us, her silhouette illuminated by the light from inside the camper.
“Probably better to stick with beers,” says Aroa.
“What are you two talking about?”
“Gus posted another poem.”
“Another one?” She seems surprised.
“Yes. Another one about missing someone. Wanna read it? It’s really beautiful.”
“I hope he makes you president of his fan club.” She sighs and flops into an empty chair. “Hand it over, then.”
I study her expression while she reads it, but Blanca never really liked poetry, so this outpouring of words doesn’t seem to impress her much.
“Pretty, I guess.”
“I was telling Coco she should message him.”
“Stop putting shit in her head.” She sighs. “Coco, you do you, but if you want to forget him, the best thing to do is put space between him, this stuff, and you. Think about it… It could be for anyone. Or twenty girls all at once. You know Gus…”
Yes, I know him, and that’s why I know this isn’t some poem he just randomly dashed off or wrote to try to sweet-talk the girls he’s flirting with or seeing right now. No. This is for someone specific, for someone flesh and blood, with fingers that have caressed his skin and made him feel at home.
Before I can add anything else, my phone starts vibrating quietly, muffled by the napkins it’s holding down. I swap it with the beer I’m holding, and I can’t help feeling a jolt of trepidation when I see that it’s Gus. Calling me now? What does he want?
“It’s him!” Aroa claps giddily. “OMG, love is going to win this week!”
Blanca looks tormented as I stand up and move a few steps away to answer.
“What’s up, gangster?” I try to sound like always, like before Aroa planted this seed in my head. Does Gus want to get back together?
“Coco Puff…”
His voice sounds younger than he’d like. He says it makes him lose credibility at his readings, but I always thought it was a surefire weapon for his target audience: women predestined to fall in love with him platonically through his words. People in love with love.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s up?” he answers with another question. “Did you make it?”
“A series of unfortunate catastrophes knocked us off our route. We’re missing a night at the campsite, but we’re at a beach where you can camp, and…it’s pretty cool.”
It’s pretty cool? Since when am I fifteen again?
“I’m glad. You have to go with the flow, Coco Puff.”
“Did you call to check up on our physical well-being, or do you need something?”
“I can’t call a friend just to talk?”
“That’s not usually how this goes. What are you doing?”
“I’m at home.”
“Alone?”
“No, I have five Playboy bunnies doused in cum and sweat in my bed.”
“God, you’re an idiot.” I laugh and rub my eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You sound sad.”
“I’m a poet.”
“Sorry, I forgot. Gustavo Adolfo Becquer.”
“Great, dusting off all my favorite nicknames,” he adds petulantly.
“What’s going on with you?”
“I should have come with you.”
“It was pretty spendy. Don’t worry, we get it.”
“Yeah, well, I should have saved up by buying fewer bottles of wine.”
I raise my eyebrows. Gus isn’t the type to open up, especially not so easily.
So now he’s admitting he could have done something better…
That’s weird. Very weird. He usually reserves that for fights and breakups.
He’s the king of admitting mistakes when it’s too late, but I’ve got him pegged…
He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to fix the situation.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m lonely.”
“Are you drunk?” I suddenly blurt out.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“You got drunk alone?”
“I met up with a beautiful brunette, tiny, one of those I can toss around in bed with one hand. She wanted it. I did too.”
I take a deep breath. I’m worried about my friend.
“Are you sad because you couldn’t get it up?”
“Not getting it up would imply that I dropped my pants, which I didn’t. I walked her to a subway station and then headed to Atocha alone.”
“You didn’t even make out with her?”
“I said I didn’t drop my pants, not that I’ve suddenly become a monk.”
He makes me smile.
“Does me talking about this… Does it hurt you?” he asks.
Jeez…he really is drunk. He’s being such a weirdo. “No,” I confess. “It doesn’t hurt. I like knowing that you’re human,” I say playfully.
“I mean it… I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not. We’re friends.”
There’s a strange pause. God… I should have made it clear months ago that I’m in love with Marín.
“How’s it all going out there?” he asks again. “Are you all having a good time?”
“Yeah. We’re about to eat dinner. We decided to take it easy this week. It wouldn’t be bad for Blanca to slow down her pace of life a little. She’s going to be the youngest partner at the firm but also the first one to have a heart attack in the middle of a trial.”
“You have to take care of her. She never takes care of herself. She spends two hundred bucks on a bottle of lotion, but then…”
“Good old Blanca.” I laugh.
Another silence.
“If I had the chance to go, I would,” he says out of nowhere.
“If Marín were free, we’d both come. We’d book a motel next to wherever you are.
We could all be together. This whole bachelorette trip is kind of just an excuse, right?
A chance to all hang out together, to make the most of the summer.
We’re always saying we’re going to go to all these places, but we never do. ”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Should I tell him Marín is coming on Wednesday? Before I even get the chance to bring it up, he barrels on.
“And now Blanca’s getting married, and well… Nothing’s going to be the same ever again.”
“It’ll be the same,” I assure him. Is he having some kind of identity crisis? A turning-thirty crisis? “Hey, Gus… That poem you posted a little while ago…”
“Yeah, what about it? Did you like it? Short but intense, right?”
“Yeah, yes, I really liked it. But, listen… Who’s it for?”
For a second I think he’s going to tell me and I’m scared. If he says, “Coco Puff, it’s for you,” the world will collapse in on me. If he tells me it’s for someone else…that would almost be comforting, right? But none of that happens.
“Poetry isn’t written for anyone, Coco Puff. It’s just there and you get sparked by some random phrase. It isn’t an exact science. It’s not as precise as putting a price on a painting and selling it.”
There’s no judgment in his voice, but I can tell he’s lying.
My phone vibrates on my ear. It’s a WhatsApp; when I pull the phone away from my ear, I see it’s from Marín, so I hurry to end the conversation.
“Go to bed, sleep it off, and stop being sad, Gus. Being a poet doesn’t mean you have to feel like someone who threw himself into the sea in the middle of a storm because some woman didn’t love him.”
“I’m so fucking bored,” he moans. “You all abandoned me.”
“And your dick doesn’t work.”
“It does work! Do you want me to send you a video of it working in my hand?”
“No, thaaaaannnkkkk you…” I exaggerate the sound of the consonants. “Call me tomorrow and give me an update on your state of mind. You’re kinda freaking me out.”
“Bah, don’t act like my mom. I’m more into your wild side. Have fun, but don’t go too far. I know it won’t be the same without me.”
“Obvs” is all I can say.
“Good night, Coco Puff. Take care of each other. You know.”
I hold the phone up to my ear for a few more seconds, still with surprise on my face.
He threw me off my game, and I don’t really get what’s going on with Gus, but something is happening.
I was going to tell him that we’re meeting up with Marín on Wednesday, but he left me so shook.
I’ll put it to a vote before I say anything.
Anyway, is he really gonna trek all the way across Spain just to spend one night with us?
Suddenly, I remember Marín’s message and grab my phone again.
She fell off the stage. Coco…she fell off the stage. I went around all day wishing she would break her ankle and she fell off the stage. Five stitches in her chin, a dislocated shoulder and a sprained leg. She went down like a sack of potatoes.
I just left the emergency room pushing a wheelchair with Noa sitting in it, the star I’m meant to be taking care of and polishing up, all groggy from all the painkillers.
The call from my boss was surreal. My boss’s boss was yelling, which was disconcerting because he wasn’t even yelling at me.
But anyway…this is my destiny. I don’t really know if I’ll end up like the boy in the café, but whatever.
Anyway, I suddenly have time off and a rental car. What are we doing?
I have to reread the message three times before I understand it all. When I do, the biggest and stupidest grin in the world takes over my face.
So…what are we doing?