6 I think it’s a privilege to know beforehand
6
I think it’s a privilege to know beforehand
Ivan is watching me scarf sushi with a slightly horrified look on his face. The truth is I am doing it kind of anxiously. It’s not pretty to watch. I’m eating my feelings, and even the people who sold me two hundred sushi rolls know it.
“Are you okay?”
“ Yeth, ” I say through a mouthful.
“Well, you’re eating like a nutjob. Did you even hear a word I said?”
“Yes. They have to raise the skylight on your terrace because they think that’s where the water’s leaking into your downstairs neighbor’s house when it rains.”
“Oh, I mean, yeah,” he says, surprised. “But I said some other stuff too.”
“Well, I guess the last thing didn’t register.”
I wipe my mouth with a paper towel, staring off into the distance.
“Seriously, Miri, what’s going on?”
I pout. I can’t avoid the internal battle, the hundreds of conflicting feelings that are fighting to the death in my stomach, in my chest and my head. I’m oscillating between relief and sadness, anger, confusion. Am I really going to forget him tomorrow? Is that the solution? Am I in a coma? In a digital simulation of my life? Am I in the Matrix?
“If I say the name Tristan…does that mean anything to you?”
“An opera?” He takes advantage of me talking to stuff a roll in his mouth. The truth is I haven’t given him much of a chance to eat. “Who or what is Tristan?”
“No one.” I shrug. “Nothing.”
That’s what I wanted, right? For him to stop being anyone, to stop meaning anything, for the letters that spell his name to stop being glued to years of my life. So why do I have this feeling then? Why do I feel like I’ve thrown away an opportunity?
Ivan is eating absentmindedly, and I keep staring at his eyelashes. Holy shit. I’d never noticed. They’re so long. But…like Drag Race long.
“Ivan, do you have eyelash extensions on?”
“Do you have cunt-hair extensions on? Of course not!”
I burst out laughing.
“Dude…but they’re so long.”
He touches them, weirded out.
“Well, they’re like always, dumbass. You’re such a dumbass.”
“No. I swear. You look like a Mariquita Pérez doll.”
“Nice. Really subtle way to insult your queer friend.”
I roll my eyes.
“Come on, man! I’m serious. Your eyelashes are fucking giant. They look like fans. You have to be careful with them. They’re a weapon of mass destruction! Seriously…lemme see? Wait, they’re hitting your eyebrows! How did I never notice this before?”
“Oy! You know what we should do? Get all dolled up and go out and get a drink,” he proposes, all hyped up.
“Where?”
“I mean, I dunno. El Corazon. Is that what that place you love so much is called?”
Jesus…El Corazon. I haven’t been there in centuries. Well, in the present, I haven’t been there in centuries. Five years ago, I knew the names of the bartenders. I loved the little blondie who looked like a surfer.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, because you’re even weirder than usual,” he insists, “but there’s nothing a few gins for the price of eighteen-carat gold can’t solve.”
I waver. Maybe that is what I need.
“I dunno. And the whole getting dolled up thing…do we have to go to your house so you can change?”
“Me? No way, lady. I’d be hot in a hospital gown.”
It’s barely even 8:30, but El Corazon is packed with regulars. On Saturdays, hell must be empty, because all the devils are here. And the devil knows more because he’s been around forever than because he’s the devil. Which makes me think of myself, because inside, I’m five years older than what I see in the mirror. And it’s not like it’s a generational leap that makes some huge difference, but it makes me look at things differently. Is it possible I’ve matured? At twenty-eight, everything seemed so much easier than now. My father always says the years strip away our blindfolds and show us life is much simpler than we first thought. But I think it’s a roller coaster. Sometimes, everything is too hard, and sometimes, life is child’s play.
Next to the window on the left, right as you come in, at his usual table is the pastry chef we’ve all been half in love with at some point. He comes in a lot. He used to come in with a blond; now he’s here with a brunette. The way things are going, you’d guess that next he’ll be in there with a redhead or a strawberry blond, but no. One day, he stopped coming, and later I ran into him on the street with the same girl, pushing a stroller. I watch them laugh and clink their glasses together, with those sparkly eyes people have in new relationships, and in a way, I feel powerful. They don’t know that they’re going to be parents soon. But I do.
“Ivan, do you think what gets us jazzed about love stories is not knowing whether they’ll work out?”
“Well.” He takes a sip of his gin and shrugs. “If you think about it, that makes sense. Anything too secure ends up being a little boring. It’s like, if we don’t fight for it, whatever we win is worth less.”
“Yes, that’s true. Human beings are shit.”
“Human beings are shit, darling.” He smiles at me. “But the good ones are the strange exceptions. Come on…drink up. We have to spend our whole paychecks here, and we’re falling behind.”
The music they play in El Corazon is what a slightly nostalgic and unjudgmental millennial would play. That means that even though one of Nirvana’s most famous songs is playing, Backstreet Boys could be next. And it’s all good. In a few years, noughties-themed bars will start popping up everywhere, but these people don’t know that yet. They’re going to get sick of dancing to Sonia and Selena or the Spice Girls.
I don’t know if it’s the gin or the freedom of knowing (or more like guessing) that there will be no consequences tomorrow, that I won’t remember, that my history with Tristan won’t exist… Ever since I got here, I’ve been feeling better. It hurts less. And I wonder if this might be some kind of cosmic salvation to live these years differently. What if tomorrow is still five years ago, but Tristan isn’t there? What if tomorrow’s the present, but my heart is still beating?
Ivan and I have been cheering each other up. We set up camp at the end of the bar, next to the bathroom, where there’s more space to move around freely. Behind us, there’s a group of preppy boys who look boring but are still making kind of a racket. We, on the other hand, are dancing and singing. It’s not even ten, and it’d probably be a good idea to put something solid in our bodies to soak up the drinks, but it’s the last thing on our minds. Ivan is belting out, in his baritone, the biggest hit from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, which is playing right now, but in an English that sounds more like he’s invoking Satan.
“Stop!” I scream. “You don’t know the words!”
“Aaaa jeend de taaiiimm of mai laif, is a nana nana llu bifor, ant ent…”
“Some god of the night is going to hear your prayers, and then what’re we gonna do?”
“Well, enjoy it, because I’m asking the lord of the night to get you laid, to wipe that dried-fruit look off your face.”
“Dried fruit?”
“You’re like that slimy green piece they put on top of a fruit cake. Disgusting!”
Why is giving our friends shit so much fun?
I was caught with my guard down. That’s it. The hypnotic movement of Ivan’s recently discovered incredible eyelashes. Or the music. Or the dark, windowless environment. Or the gin. Or I just wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know, but the fact is before I can answer Ivan with some absurd insult, like “cockgoblin,” someone touches my arm.
“Miranda?”
I get a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye and recognize him before my brain registers it. Maybe I’m actually getting the hang of this as I live it. I know it’s him before I even turn around.
And of course. It is. It’s him.
But…what the hell? I thought I dodged this today. I already did what I had to do so our thing wouldn’t follow its course. Why is it so fucking difficult to avoid it? Why…why is he so totally goddamn gorgeous, the big whore?
“Hello!”
“Hey…” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, and just straight running away would be really weird.
I look over at my best friend to see if he recognizes him. What do I know? Maybe this is like the enchantments in fairy tales, and suddenly, Ivan’s look will break the farce and everything will be revealed. How can that be possible? But seriously, what do I know? I never thought I would wake up five years ago either.
But of course, there’s no recognition in his expression. Not even a trace. Ivan is smiling at me, giving me a subtle thumbs-up and taking a few steps back toward the bar, thinking I’m flirting with some cute guy I’m charmed by. I beg him not to with my eyes, not to leave us alone, but the besties communication line doesn’t seem to be working. Normally all I have to do is blink, but he turns around before he can intuit the panic in my eyes.
Panic because duh. Because Tristan, the dude next to me right now gripping a bottle of beer, is cute, he doesn’t look like someone who buries bodies in his garden, and he said hello like we already knew each other.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
“How’s it going?” His slightly raspy voice with that touch of suburban boy I’ve always found so charming caresses me. “Small world, huh?”
“I mean…yes. What are you doing here?”
He tilts his head behind him to gesture to the group of boring prepsters who are still bro-ing out.
“I just got here. It’s my colleague’s birthday, and since I didn’t have any better plans…”
“I wouldn’t mention the ‘no better plans’ thing to the birthday boy.”
“I won’t. I’ll make like the ocean and…just wave.”
I stare at him. The dad joke doesn’t seem like his style…and Tristan can be really weird. I remember how, at the beginning of our relationship, when we were chatting on WhatsApp a lot, I thought he was a kiss-ass bore. Later in real life, I was surprised when he made jokes and played pranks. But I wasn’t expecting this. It’s a joke my father might have dusted off in his ancient antiques shop.
“Just wave, eh?” I hit him where it hurts.
“Bad. Really bad. I admit it. I’m just surprised to see you.”
“I’m surprised to see you too.” I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s not normal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, normally, I’m lucky enough that if a girl rejects me as much as you have, I don’t end up seeing her everywhere.”
“It’s Murphy’s Law. That’s how Madrid works.” I hesitate.
“Ah, so you don’t deny that you straight up rejected me twice.”
“I have my reasons.” I smile.
“Are you always so serious?”
“Not at all.”
“So then is it me? Do I make you serious?”
“You make me sad.” But I say it with a smile.
He nods, twisting his mouth into a kind of contained smile.
“Before we keep talking…is that your guy?”
Ivan is chatting to the bartender like he’s known him his whole life. If it turns out I’ve been making eyes at the surfer bartender and he actually wanted to flirt with Ivan this whole time…
“He’s my best friend.”
“You left your boyfriend after dinner and…”
I don’t let him finish.
“You just assumed I have a boyfriend. I never said that. I guess it’s an ego reflex so that my rejection hurts less. You’d rather believe I rejected you because I have a boyfriend, not because I want nothing to do with you. It’s the most plausible explanation, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. My answer surprised him. Oh, oh, I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be acting dopey as hell, doing something I know will bug him or irritate him or horrify him. I should be making him leave. But I’m not.
“Ah…you’re accusing me of being egotistical.” He smiles.
“Nah, I’m not even paying that much attention to you.”
I know it’s the kind of comment that will spark his curiosity even more, that will make me seem more interesting, and yet I’m still doing it. I can’t help it. It’s his scent. It’s the checked shirt from El Ganso. It’s how thick his black hair is.
“Tell me then,” he says resolutely.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“The real reason you rejected me.”
“You’re going to hurt me,” I admit easily.
The good thing about time travel is that you stop being scared about what you should say. Completely. What’s the worst that can happen?
“No, I’m not.” He looks at my mouth as he answers. “I’m going to take you to dinner. I eat a lot.”
“Now you’re clairvoyant too?”
“I don’t know. If you can play around at guessing the future, why can’t I do the same?”
“Okay, surprise me. What does the future hold for us?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m gonna go back here”—he gestures at the group of preppy guys in sweaty button-ups—“and finish my beer. Then I’m going to make an excuse about needing air, and I’ll leave and never come back. You’ll be waiting for me on the corner, and we’ll go to my house. I bought some stuff when we ran into each other this morning, but when I got home, I couldn’t be bothered. It felt depressing to cook for myself, and I just heated up some leftovers. So I have everything to make a steak tartare, a little foie, and a good wine. We’ll eat, chat, I’ll put on some music, and when you get tired, I’ll walk you home.”
“You’re going to walk me home?”
“Yeah. I like the cold. It wakes up my brain.”
I nod slowly, unable to stop looking at his mouth. Tristan. My Tristan. Not even brazenly rejecting him seems to destroy the possibility of what we have ahead. Maybe this is the moment to start believing in destiny and throwing myself into a little leap of faith or, maybe, considering the possibility of taking a stab at it.
“It’s not because you want to find out where I live?”
“That too.” He laughs. His smile allows a flash of his white teeth. He has big teeth, but they’re not jarring in his smile. They make it more beautiful.
“What about sex?” I ask.
“Listen, young lady…you can’t reject me so brazenly and then demand that I perform in bed. No, ma’am. I’m not that direct.”
“You don’t have one-night stands?”
I know perfectly well that the answer is yes, but he resists giving it to me. I think he’s worried about what I’ll think of him, and this version of the first Tristan, the Tristan from the prehistory of our story, confuses me. I don’t remember him being like this. And it makes me…uneasy. I don’t know what he’s capable of.
“I do. Of course I do. But”—he shakes his head, a little more serious, like he’s weighing his options—“maybe it’s the time to admit that I’m not as direct as you.”
“Maybe what’s happening here is you like being the direct one…”
“Could be. Maybe it makes me nervous that you’re taking the initiative so blatantly.”
“I didn’t offer you sex,” I clarify. “I asked you to find out if you’re avoiding it because you don’t want to scare me off or because that’s really not what you’re looking for.”
He looks at me with an amused expression. He laughs. Laughing Tristan is my favorite Tristan. It’s when he’s cutest. I’ve always known that. Of the dozens of men hidden inside him, that one is the apple of my eye.
“Let’s try something.” He holds out his pinky, waiting for me to link mine around it, like when we made promises when we were little, but I don’t. “I promise not to try anything if you come have dinner with me.”
“And leave my friend all alone?”
“You spent the whole day with him. Lie to him. Tell him you’re tired.”
“That wouldn’t make me a very good friend.”
“Then tell him the truth.” He shrugs. “I’m going back to my colleagues. I’ll wait for you”—he takes his phone out of his jeans pocket and checks the time—“in half an hour. At ten thirty.”
“Where?”
“On the corner. When you go out, turn left…the one next to the plaza.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if you’re convincing me.”
“I’ll wait for you until ten forty. You decide.”
He says goodbye with an eyebrow lift. I’m so into his eyebrows.
As I head back to where Ivan is propping up the bar, now staring at his phone, I weigh the possibilities. A fan is opening and closing as I make decisions. Maybe it’s always like that. Maybe every tiny decision I’ve ever made in my life closes one path, but I’ve never had the opportunity to discover it so empirically.
Now though…
If I reject Tristan again, will he be put in my path again? Who’s going to put him in my path? I don’t want to mention destiny. I’d rather think about a kind of gravitational force that is swaying my timeline. Whoever invented this DeLorean I’m traveling in now.
“Hey…” I say to Ivan.
“He was cute, right? I mean…not obviously cute, but your type. Like, with the nose of a strapping lad from the north, with good hair and a mouth you want to eat.”
“Shut up,” I beg, cracking up.
“Who is he? You know him?”
“From another life.” I turn to look at Tristan fleetingly.
He’s fully immersed in the birthday group, but he doesn’t seem like part of the gang. He’s not saying much. He doesn’t interact much beyond the occasional smile and nod. So distantly attractive. So attractively distant. I’ve always liked that about Tristan. How he handles silences. I think that was one of the things that made me fall for him.
“From another life? Whatever. You’re nuts.”
“What were you doing?” I tap the now-blank screen of his iPhone.
“Nothing.” He smiles.
“Tinder?”
“A little scroll,” he confesses.
“And?”
“Nothing new. Or I’m not into any of the new stuff…I dunno.”
“Are you still talking to that boy?” I pretend like I’m trying to remember.
“I’m still talking to that boy, yes, but…I dunno.”
“What don’t you know?”
I do know. I shouldn’t intervene…right?
“Well, I don’t know if it makes sense to keep talking and talking and talking. He told me a while ago that he’s going to grab a drink with some friends. They want to go home soon, but he wants to get a bite to eat somewhere and…”
“And he asked if you want to go get dinner?”
“Yes.” He nods. “But I don’t know if I feel like it.”
I think about it for a second. Only a second. And a second is all I need for my curiosity to take the wheel.
“If you go get dinner with him…I’ll go get dinner with this guy.” I point behind me.
“There’s no fucking way you’re gonna do that.”
“Wanna bet?”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“No. I’m not fucking with you. What did you think we were talking about? The weather?”
“If you go to dinner with him, I’ll be so freaked out.” He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know him at all. What if he roofies your drink and you wake up tomorrow without a kidney in Canillejas?”
“Why Canillejas?”
“Why not?”
In any other situation, I would never do what I’m about to do, but I think in these circumstances, it’s allowed. I’m about to lie to my best friend.
“I’m going to take him to grab a bite around here. In Malasana. So the only thing you’ll have to worry about is the highway robbery of what they’ll charge me for a burger and that it’ll probably be vegan.”
He smiles and glances at his phone out of the corner of his eye.
“Come on, tell him you’ll see him in half an hour. We’ll get one last drink and then leave.”
I’m not going to tell Ivan because I’m not even sure what I want to tell him, but I know that he went on tons of dates and had dinner with people he wasn’t into…but it helped him realize how over his previous breakup he was. And made him feel strong. And free.
The guy from that night isn’t going to be a great love, but they’ll be great friends. And I think that’s beautiful, incredible, and a privilege to know beforehand.