Chapter 17 More （and Better） Clusterfucks #2
Gus is the last to emerge. He’s still sleepy.
As he comes out, he’s scratching his leg with one hand and pushing his hair off his forehead with the other.
All he’s wearing is black boxer shorts, and he has a boner.
He couldn’t give less of a fuck about showing up on our “patio” like this, in front of everyone.
“For fuck’s sake, Gus, we can all see your cock,” Loren complains.
“I guess sleeping with you turned me into a total dog,” he jokes. “Come on, man! It happens to everyone. It doesn’t matter.”
Blanca is sitting in front of the table, with her hair in a bun and looking pale. Her face doesn’t look good. Gus climbs down and puts his hand on her hair.
“Blanqui…you look terrible.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“I still love you just the same.”
“Kick rocks.”
The exchange is much less tense than last night, but it’s clear Blanca’s not in a good place. I don’t think she’s happy he’s here. I have to do something.
Aroa comes back and smiles so stiffly it evokes more dread than kindness. She puts her toiletries in the camper and climbs back out to curl up in the only empty seat.
“Did you sleep well?” Gus asks me with his eyebrows raised, bringing me back to the reality of the table.
Shit. Did he hear something?
“I mean, so-so. Marín is longer than a day without carbs. He was everywhere.”
Everywhere. Including under my pajamas, pinching a nipple between two fingers. I glance subtly over at where Marín is sitting and he laughs. “That’s me. The chosen one: omnipresent.”
“Coco, is there any chance I left my pack of cigarettes in the top bunk?” Blanca asks. “I need a cigarette before I die from this hangover.”
“Yikes… Well, I think I did feel something at the bottom of the bunk,” Marín says. “You’ll probably have to root through everything.”
“Were you two moving around a lot in the bunk or what?” Aroa says.
I stand up and go to look for Blanca’s cigarettes, uncomfortable with the question. Marín was probably dreaming about some other woman and there I was, groping his handlebar.
I unzip my sleeping bag and shake it outside the bunk. A pack of cigarettes, some napkins crumpled into a ball, and a lighter. Man…this place is a pigsty.
I crouch to pick everything up, and when I go to throw the napkins away, I realize there’s something written on them. It doesn’t take long for me to recognize Gus’s handwriting. It’s a poem. In my sleeping bag…
Fuck my fucking life.
You talked to me about light,
and I believed in it.
We had no idea
why,
but suddenly,
we wanted the consequence.
Between your truths
and my lies
there’s a chasm of possibilities.
But I don’t know what to do with them.
I started to fall in love in words,
little one,
like fingers on a keyboard,
dancing a tango;
different names,
different places,
but the same dirty dance of my hand,
traveling upward,
under that white tablecloth.
I’ll never forget.
And everything was fun.
And everything was new,
even if it was exactly the same
for everyone else.
Identical pieces pumping out on a conveyor belt.
The names change,
for just one scene.
A kiss in the bathroom,
a whisper in the ear,
message sent.
Cut. We keep rolling.
But I kept falling in love,
without realizing,
with the “what do I know,”
with the heat of cold nights,
with your topsy-turvy laughter,
with Tuesdays in Madrid
and Sundays over text.
It stopped being what it was,
it never became what it should have.
We fill and empty ourselves
on a narcissistic voyage to who we could never be.
There was hope, there was rage.
There were questions without answers
and we didn’t care about the answers.
There were bruises,
intense nights full of silent footsteps,
expressions without a translator,
emotions about using each other and petty revenge.
There were situations, tricks, gimmicks and lies,
because I never understood how a half-truth
can be the worst kind of lie.
But now
we don’t need words anymore.
I still stumble, even now
over the A’s and the M’s,
over the “come here” and the “go away.”
Dying of pain,
I started to fall in love with
those little words.
What’s left
is nameless,
I’m left with the relief of believing
you knew me.
You know me.
From my “a” to my “z.”
You know me.
I don’t know what to do with what I just read. I’m standing there with the crinkled napkins in my hand and my mouth hanging open. Blanca bursts in, and I shove them into the waistband of my pajamas.
“Were they there?”
“What?”
“My cigarettes. Did you find them?”
“Oh, yeah. Here you go: your cigarettes and your lighter.”
“I got so shit-faced yesterday. It was so messy.”
“Well, it’s your bachelorette party…”
I go out of the camper without another word, like it’s not a big deal, feeling so dizzy that I collapse into a chair staring into the void. I make eye contact with Gus, who raises his eyebrows at me with a smile.
“Coco Puff…did you see a ghost?”
Yours, sweetheart.
But this guy…what the hell does he want from me?
* * *
Aroa is barely speaking. She’s biting her nails.
She’s beautiful in her tank top and yoga pants, but she looks like the lights are on but nobody’s home.
I’m in a huge fucking mess. I need to show her that poem.
I need to share it with someone who will understand how confused it makes me, but Loren hates trying to glean something from a poem that might not actually hold up in reality.
Aroa will understand. This is especially messy because, in spite of everything, I want my friend back, to be as close to her as I was before she started her relationship with Marín and he became the center of her universe.
But still, there’s so much stopping me: I feel like a cynic wanting to revive my friendship with someone who, in a way, I’m betraying by loving Marín.
But now that he says he wants to turn the page, I don’t know what to do.
I should tell her because even though I’m in love with him, I still want to protect my friend and I don’t want to let her keep building castles in the air…
Fuck. I touched her ex-boyfriend’s dick and I wanted to do a lot more with him.
I still want to. Finger me on top of the camping table, Marín.
“Aroa, will you come with me to the bathroom?” I suddenly blurt.
“Are you okay?”
“I kind of feel like I’m gonna barf.”
“Wait, what?” Marín looks at me with a furrowed brow.
“She’s knocked up,” Gus jokes.
“Yes, sweetie, you knocked her up yourself with the sight of your furry chest. Can you cover up?”
“Listen, Loren, am I making you a little twitchy?” Gus strokes his chest, half-joking, half-charmed by himself.
God. Get me out of here.
“Should I come?” Marín insists.
“No, no. I just want to walk a little and see if…it’s just the hangover.”
“And my testosterone. I know it’s hard to get over.”
“Shut up, Gus!” Blanca shrieks, cradling her head in her hands.
Aroa springs up and murmurs something about a nuthouse. She grabs her coffee cup and follows me over the gravelly site, dragging her feet a little. When we’re farther away, she comes closer, stops, and asks me, “What’s going on?”
I hand her the crumpled napkins without a word and give her time to read them. Fuck. It feels like an eternity. When she looks up at me, there’s a face I can’t decipher. She’s no longer the Aroa full of hope who believes love will conquer all.
“What is this?”
“I found it in my sleeping bag.”
“It’s from Gus?”
“Of course.”
She looks at the poem again, like she’s checking it over, and then her eyes flit back to my face. “This doesn’t seem weird to you?”
“Gus always seems weird to me.”
“Besides that…” She looks at me and makes a face. “I was going to ask you to tell him to trim that chest hair, that blanket he’s wearing is kinda douche-lordy, but I’d better stick with this.”
“I liked it better when he trimmed it, but it’s been a while now…”
“Is it some new trend?” Aroa furrows her brow. “Maybe he saw some Parisienne poet and now he wants to…? Bah, it doesn’t matter. The thing is… Doesn’t this poem seem weird to you?”
“I’m not really a big poetry reader, just his poems. Specifically.”
“Coco…I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Just spit it out.”
“This… I don’t know if this is for you.”
I don’t know why, but I feel like someone has pulled the rug out from under me. I’m baffled by the disappointment flooding my veins. “What?”
“This… It’s not for you. Those Tuesdays in Madrid. Those Sundays over text. This ‘it never became what it should’ doesn’t sound like your thing. This poem… It doesn’t scream Coco to me.”
“And who does it scream to you?”
“Gus. It reeks of Gus, but not you. Think about it. Maybe… Maybe you should’ve made a move. It’s possible that…he’s getting over it.”
I snatch the napkins she’s holding out and skim them again. Who is it? There’s someone. There’s someone else in his life. But…why the hell did I find this poem in my sleeping bag? “You’re the one who said his latest poems are about me and he wants to get back together with me.”
“And I did think that, but…” She takes the napkins again, like she needs to have them in her hand to drive home her message. “This is a side of Gus I don’t see when he’s with you.”
“Right…” Why the hell does this bug me so much? I should feel relieved.
“I’m really sorry, Coco, but you’re my friend. I love you… I can’t lie to you. I’m sorry I’m not saying what you want to hear.”
I look at her, biting her bottom lip, clutching the napkins and waiting for a reaction from me, maybe regretting being so blunt.
She’s doing what she should, and I’m a dirty dog because I know her hopes of getting back together with Marín aren’t going to pan out.
I should do the same as her and tell her a truth that will be painful but will also set her free as time passes.
“Aroa, I—”
“I’m sorry, Coco. I’m really sorry. But make a move if you want to get Gus back. Love doesn’t last forever.”