9 Go to hell
9
Go to hell
In February four years ago, and to be more specific, on the twentieth, Tristan and I had an argument. A misunderstanding. As a result, we went a few months without seeing each other or calling or texting. That’s not why I want to stop what happened. It’s because I came away from that episode covered in scars. The truth is I don’t really understand why. Maybe, just maybe, preventing it will solve a few things at once. Or maybe I just need to shut him up before he says “We need to talk” again, because right now, I don’t think I can handle it.
Was what happened that day that deep? No. It was so boring it’s almost embarrassing that it turned into a hiccup in our history. I guess we all think we’re special. And actually, we’re all the main character in our own stories, which means they can’t be relevant to everyone.
Tristan got overwhelmed. It’s as simple and banal as that. Tristan must have thought that I was in a rush to, I don’t know, marry him, and he made a graceful exit when he gleaned that I was expecting things from him that he didn’t want to give me. He started to think about how he was just in Madrid temporarily, how he wasn’t looking for a relationship, how he was burned out at work, and how, besides all that, he wasn’t even that into me. So he slammed the door, metaphorically.
Ay, I’m doing a shitty job of explaining this.
That day, we woke up in my bed, just like this morning. And like this morning, I was very affectionate. We had been sleeping with each other for almost three months, and back then, we slept over at each other’s houses at least one night a week. We weren’t official, and I hadn’t even talked about him to practically anybody: just to Ivan and Rita at the magazine. I was trying not to take this thing with Tristan seriously because it made me scared and anxious. I didn’t want what everyone assumes you should want: to fall in love, be happy by his side, build something together.
Even the idea of all that made me cringe. All I wanted back then was to fall in love with myself, to be happy alone, and to achieve a life that was my own. I couldn’t conceive of sharing something that still didn’t feel like my own. So even though I thought about him way more often than I would’ve liked to admit, I had him categorized as a “fuck buddy.”
But that day, when I woke up, I was affectionate because I’ve never understood why attachment and affection have to go hand in hand with commitment. Because I think that we can be very affectionate with someone temporary. Affection, respect, and caresses aren’t linked, and they don’t mean you think someone is the love of your life just because you’re clinking glasses with them. That’s how I see it. Apparently it wasn’t Tristan’s. He was coming off a tense week already. And he started thinking our ties were becoming tight enough that it wouldn’t be out of place for one of us to start wondering “What are we?” We had been seeing each other since November (in the real past), we were falling into a kind of routine, and we were building trust. And he wasn’t into that because he didn’t feel ready, because he had just arrived in the city, because we didn’t know each other that well, because he felt like he was in a different place in his life, and because…he always believed that his lifestyle wouldn’t fit with mine. Or more like my rhythm of life had nothing to do with him. Apparently, he was brimming with reasons.
So he left my house a little tense, but when he got back to his, after a shower, putting on clean, comfortable clothes, and a boring work call, he thought maybe he was being an idiot and gave our Saturday “another chance.”
If I’m not mistaken, I’ll get a message in a few minutes: a photo of him lying on his couch, with a short text: “Let’s do something this afternoon?” Four years ago, I said sure, why don’t we take a walk? He had found an apartment a month before, and he was still looking for a few things to spruce it up a little, so he suggested going to a “tiny little antique store” that he thought looked interesting. It was my dad’s store, of course, but I didn’t tell him that. I threw it out there when we were already there. And giving me no time to explain that my dad didn’t give two fucks about formal introductions even if I had been dating my “boyfriend” for two weeks, he immediately assumed I was pressuring him. But nothing could have been further from reality.
Remember the wheel and the champagne? I was still very much a wheel back then. Tristan kept saying he wanted a shelf to store his records, and I remembered my dad had one at a pretty good price. That was it.
We were both idiots.
When I said, “This is my dad’s store,” he grabbed my elbow, trying to stop me from going in the door, and with the same face you would make when you were giving your condolences to someone at a funeral, he threw out that we needed to talk.
And I’m just realizing now that I’m not ready to face that conversation again. I’m too sensitive to hear him say again: “We need to talk.” It’s too recent. Way too recent. I don’t know if I can handle it without tearing his hair out. Or ripping my own out.
I have to stop it. Maybe something changed and tomorrow will go back to being the year it’s supposed to be. Maybe over the next few months, I won’t fall into the trap of seeing our relationship as a delicate dance between discretion and fear. Being discreet can be a form of capitulation and have nothing to do with loving. With falling in love. With living. With sex. With kisses. With love stories, even if they are just for one night, born of desire, respect, and affection. I only understand discretion when it comes to things I’m not putting my heart into.
It might seem very easy, but it’s not.
“So don’t take him to your dad’s store, darling,” Ivan says to me.
“I got that far, moron. Are you listening to what I’m saying? I tried to prevent it twice already, and life keeps throwing him in my path. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m getting the feeling that I can’t change things too much. Or I can change the way things happen but not the result. Does that make any sense?”
He nods, intrigued.
My phone buzzes. Ivan still has it in his lap, and the lit-up screen shows the preview of a message from Tristan: a photo of him lying on his couch with the brief text: “Let’s do something this afternoon?”
Ivan looks at me, bewildered.
“If all this turns out to be true, I’m really gonna flip out.”
“You better not wake up tomorrow and forget all this.”
“Of course, because what if you go back to being aware of the time jumps…I mean…maybe the Miranda I see tomorrow isn’t jumping through time and has no idea any of this is happening, right?”
“Jeez…that’s trippy,” I say, overwhelmed.
“Are there two Mirandas out there?”
“I guess so, but they’re never in the same space-time.”
“Girl, this is a crazy trip. Like seeing Thalia and her asking me to fasten who knows what, I’ll shit myself.”
I give him a serious look that means “I told you it sucked,” and then I wave at my phone.
“Tell him you’ll take him to the IKEA in Alcorcón,” Ivan demands.
I can’t help cracking a smile.
“Ivan…please.”
“Come on. If it gets messy because he thinks you want to ‘introduce him to society,’ I would consider heading in the opposite direction.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, something super intimate.”
“Given that he got overwhelmed with my shows of affection this morning.”
“Men are trash.”
“As far as I know, you identify as a man.”
“And sometimes I’m trash. So…”
“It’s better if I just tell him I can’t,” I decide. “I can’t meet up, and… I stay far away from his neighborhood, mine, and any streets with a lot of stores on them. I tell him I have plans with my friends and that maybe we’ll see each other another day.”
“One of the girls did message the group chat asking if we’re hanging out.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“So tell him that. It makes sense. If you don’t see each other, there’s no danger. And then we can go get a beer with them and tell them this crazy shit…”
“No, no,” I stop him. “Please.”
“What?”
“You can’t tell anyone, Ivan. You’re my best friend, and even you didn’t believe me. Just imagine how everyone else would react.”
“I’m still worried about your mental health, to be honest.”
“And I’m still worried about your Pantene hair.”
I grab my phone and concentrate on answering:
Miranda:
Hey Tristan. I have plans with my friends.
We can hang out another time if you want.
Tomorrow? Kisses.
I send it and lock my phone.
“Come on. Take a shower. I’m going to call the girls and see if they want to meet up.”
Ivan stands up and heads toward the bathroom.
“After all that, the solution was pretty basic for all the drama you kicked up, huh?” he mutters. “See, you didn’t even need me to come up with this Machiavellian plan.”
“I’m time traveling,” I remind him. “Don’t mess with me, hunty.”
Carabanchel is an up-and-coming neighborhood that is going to become super cool in the next few years. Soon it’ll be jam-packed with bars that will draw people from all over Madrid, like Patanel, where they serve their own craft beer and tapas, or La Cortá Ultramarinos, where you can have coffee and pastries or a few beers with a good tapa and buy some cheese to take home.
The thing is none of these places are open yet, and we haven’t reached the age where we want everything to be a little luxurious. At twenty-eight, even in this time-traveling farce, drinking a beer on any patio in the plaza next to the Oporto metro stop seemed luxurious enough.
It didn’t chill me out much, to be honest, but it’s better than sitting at home, going around and around this carousel of dates and Tristans. I wish I could say something else, like that I’m deeply relaxed, enjoying the conversation, or even that the beer is hitting me hard enough to think that none of this is that deep, but no. There’s a lot of noise in my head, and anyway, I’m scared I’ll say something that didn’t happen the first time, and tomorrow, instead of having hair like one of the Azúcar Moreno girls in the early nineties, Ivan will be a whole different person. Or he’ll turn into a lizard. I don’t know what I have against lizards today, but I’m still scared.
Our friends are kiki-ing about how one of them met someone at the door of a club or how another is sick of having two jobs, barely any money, and no time. They’re the kinds of old friends who are so close it doesn’t matter where or how we met, who introduced whom to whom, or the details or our day-to-day lives or our pace of life. And that’s amazing. And I’d like to participate, tell them that maybe in a few years, it’ll all be better, but I don’t want to fuck everything up with the butterfly effect, so I’m staying pretty quiet. At least until they ask me…like they’re asking right now:
“What about you? You’ve been pretty quiet.”
Ivan laughs to himself while he studies his split ends. I just can’t get used to it, but none of them have even mentioned the long hair, so I assume that in this new micro reality, Ivan has always had long hair.
“Why is this one laughing?” one of our friends asks.
“Because he’s an idiot,” I reply. “I just don’t have much to tell.”
“No hookups and no gossip from the magazine?”
I bite my lip.
“Nope.” I shake my head with a guilty little smirk.
I feel bad lying to them, but the thing is, telling them all this doesn’t make any sense. My phone buzzes on the table, next to my beer, and I glimpse his name on the screen. Saved by the bell.
“Sorry, sluts, no news and no gossip important enough to repeat. Pass.”
I grab my phone and wink.
Tristan:
Hey.
What are you up to?
Miranda:
Having a drink with my friends on a patio.
Tristan:
Isn’t it too cold to be outside?
Miranda:
In Madrid we sit outside until it snows.
Tristan:
Right.
Listen…can you talk?
Miranda:
Of course. Is something up?
Tristan:
No.
Well. A little.
It’s just that… I don’t know how to say it.
I look away from my phone. NO FUCKING WAY. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
Tristan:
I’ve been thinking and…
I think we need to talk.
I side-eye Ivan, and when he sees my expression, he instinctively cranes his neck to see the conversation on my phone.
Miranda:
Go ahead.
“Tell him he should at least call you to do this,” he hisses.
“I’m not going to say that.”
“Why?”
“Because if he didn’t think of that himself, why would I ask him to?”
Tristan:
I’m not really sure I want to get into where we’re going with this.
Miranda:
Be more specific.
Tristan:
I think we should stop seeing each other.
I look at Ivan, who’s making a shocked Pikachu face.
Miranda:
If that’s what you want, what are we gonna do?
Tristan:
I just think we’ve taken it a little too far. I mean…it’s fun. All the time I’ve spent with you has been, honestly. But I’m not looking for anything like this right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.
Miranda:
Well, you could have thought about that before you slept at my house last night. Now I feel like a dumbass.
“Delete that,” Ivan prods me.
I listen to my friend. I erase it and draft a new message.
Miranda:
I’ve had fun with you too.
If it’s over, it’s over.
It’s all been working for me.
Tristan:
I understand.
I stay silent, staring at the screen, not knowing what to add. Ivan seems like he’s holding his breath when the app shows that Tristan is typing again.
Tristan:
I feel really bad, but the truth is I don’t want to lead you on and end up with you thinking I’m playing you.
I’m not playing you.
It’s too intense and too soon for me. I just moved here and I have a lot going on. Being in a relationship was never part of my plans or my priorities.
“Can’t I tell him that nobody asked him for a relationship?” I ask Ivan in a small voice.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because, according to you,” he whispers, “you’re going to have one.”
“But the thing is I don’t think I want one anymore.”
Ivan is surprised to see my eyes well up with tears.
“Hey, babe!” all the other girls chorus when they realize.
“What’s going on?”
“What happened?”
“Miri! Are you okay?”
I open my bag as I nod and give various excuses. I take out some money and thrust it at Ivan, who refuses to take it. I leave it on the table, stand up, and struggle to say goodbye.
“I think I just wanna go home, girls.”
“Wait, don’t go like this! How are you gonna leave this upset?”
They’re all babbling over one another. Ivan is silent.
“No, no, I’m just not in the right mood.” I flash a fake smile. “I’ll be fine, I swear. It’s just that…something unexpected came up.”
“Let her go. She’ll feel better on her own.” At least Ivan is helping me out.
I don’t even look back. Who cares? Tomorrow we’ll probably all be giant talking potatoes. Who knows what the collateral effect of all these changes I’m making will be? Ivan has hair down to his armpits. Anything could happen.
I hail a cab, and when I’m inside, rage pours out through my eyes. Fuck. I’m an idiot. How can I be going through two breakups from the same guy in three days? But with four years between one and the other.
I should never have gotten back together with him. Maybe this was the sign of how things were going to be in the future. I don’t know why I didn’t learn. I don’t know why I tried so hard.
I read through the conversation again, digging my nails into my thigh. I feel like an idiot, just like the first time.
I want to write him something like erase my number, I’m dead to you, never even think about contacting me again, I’m done, I don’t want anything you’ll ever give me, but what I do instead is open the window.
“Are you hot?” asks the taxi driver, who has been glancing at me in the rearview mirror every once in a while, a little alarmed by my tears.
“No, no worries.”
As soon as we get out of the tunnel, I grab my phone and hurl it angrily onto the shoulder, where it explodes and shatters. The cab driver clears his throat.
“Any objections?” I ask him.
“Senorita…turning it off would’ve done the job.”
And he’s right. I don’t understand what the point of reliving all this again could possibly be. What’s the purpose? Because I can’t change the outcome no matter what I do…but I’m going to figure it out. And if this still hasn’t gotten him off my back, if it’s still going to happen again, if I wake up next to him tomorrow, even if we’re on that beautiful trip to Lille we took one fall, even if I wake up the Christmas when he gave me that ring, even if whatever it may be…that dude can go to hell.