Epilogue I love you
Epilogue
I love you
Tristan
My office smells like old man. I’ve been saying it ever since I moved in. My colleagues have turned it into a running joke. Every so often, someone shows up at my door with the latest remedy, because the truth is everyone agrees it smells funny. It doesn’t smell like you’d expect a law firm office to smell. At least not a good one. I’ve tried every kind of air freshener, an energy cleansing ritual with salt, candles, and leaving the windows open all night long… The only thing we achieved with the latter, by the way, was waterlogging the parquet floor.
It smells like a gentleman. Like a grumpy man who chews licorice loudly. But I like this office. In the morning, beautiful light filters in through the wooden Venetian blinds and leaves a diamond-shaped patch of sun on the desk. It’s a tiny office, crammed with mahogany furniture older than me, nothing unique; a single frame hangs on the wall. When I moved in, it contained a stale print, the kind you’d expect to find in a doctor’s office, but I didn’t think I could live with it, so I replaced it with a print of Banksy’s Flower Thrower . Yeah, I know. Unoriginal, but around here, it’s an absolute showstopper, especially since I kept the fancy, gilded frame. It’s my way of making the place my own; it reminds me that the kid from the suburbs, the little punk with two earrings and a rough voice from Teis, not only graduated against all odds but has also figured out how to succeed.
Not long ago, I finally understood that maybe that’s where all the problems started: the need to prove to myself or the world that I can do it, regardless of the brick-and-concrete block I grew up in. I will not fall into the trap of defending meritocracy and say things like: “See, I’m a neighborhood kid with my own office in a fancy law firm in Vigo. If you want to, you can.” But it makes me happy to show the twenty-year-old Tristan who felt like a nerd for being the only one in the gang who spent his weekends in January studying that it was worth it.
Anyway, despite the suit and how I’ve softened the tone of my naturally gravelly voice, I’ll always be the boy from Teis here. I don’t mind, for the record. But I do mind not being able to get the smell of rancid old man out of my office.
Some knuckles rap against the door, and the firm’s receptionist immediately pokes her head in. She’s a lovely girl who spoils us all. I wish I loved my job as much as she does. I wish she wasn’t already married to her wife, because otherwise I’d propose.
“Good morning, Tristan. Here’s your cortado with one sugar.”
“Thank you, Paz.” I smile at her. “Good morning.”
“And your schedule.”
She puts a highlighted sheet on my desk, and I can’t help but laugh. I’ve been here more than a year, and there’s no way of dissuading her.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I know you do it all on your digital calendar, but I’m used to printing it out for the partners, so…and it’s no trouble. It probably helps point things out to you. What do I know? Sorry. It’s habit.”
“No worries. I do always end up noticing things, but it’s mostly out of ecological responsibility.”
“I think you’re the only person in the office who knows what those two words mean.”
“Together or separately?”
“Don’t get me started. Listen…the Madrid office called for you a few minutes ago.”
“Okay…” I give her a quizzical look. “Why didn’t you put me through?”
“Coffee first, Tristan. What are we, animals?”
I burst out laughing and thank her.
“Did they tell you what it was about?”
I’m guessing they want to check in with me about some client I brought in when I was there; sometimes they do that, and I like being able to flip through my notes before I return the call, because I don’t have everything memorized.
“Well, it’s weird because they wanted to transfer a call for you.”
“From Madrid?” I furrow my brow.
She nods and shrugs.
“I’ll put you through to them in ten minutes. You drink your coffee and check your emails in peace. You have a busy day ahead.”
Ten minutes later, the phone in my office rings, and I pick it up without looking. I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear, still typing the response to an urgent email.
“Hello?”
“I’m transferring the call from Madrid.”
“Perfect. Who is it?”
“It’s the receptionist from Ortega. She’s new. The one you knew retired.”
“Can we send him flowers? He helped us with that disaster with Lopez,” I suggest.
“Great. I’ll take care of it. This one is called Monica.”
I hear a click and then nothing.
“Hi, Monica, this is Tristan Castro. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Tristan, sorry to bother you so early. We got a call from an old client of yours who urgently needed to check with you about something. To tell the truth, the client is still represented by the Madrid firm but insisted that you helped with a very similar task in your time and that it seems wrong to bypass you, even though you are no longer in Madrid, out of professional respect and personal affection. I would have insisted on handling it from here, but…”
I look up from my computer screen and my hands on my keyboard.
“No worries, that’s fine. Yes. Um…is she on hold?”
“How do you know it’s a she?” she asks.
I smile.
“Put her through. Thanks so much.”
The silent seconds feel eternal, like they could hold two entire lifetimes. Two completely different possibilities are born in the static reaching my left ear and shoot off in opposite directions, leaving rainbow-hued trails.
“Good morning, Tristan,” I hear a cordial, affectionate, and slightly shy voice. “How are you?”
“Very good. Well, just good, without the very.” I laugh idiotically. “You?”
“Meh…you know. Sorry for calling so early and especially about something like this. I could have done it with the new ‘Tristan’ in the Madrid office, but between you and me…”
“You’re not that into him?”
“I’m not that into him.” She laughs. “He calls us ‘sweetheart.’ They’ve already chewed him out for it once, and we don’t want to be responsible for him getting fired.”
“That would be his own fault.”
“Yeah, true.”
“Don’t go on a date with him, even if he insists,” I joke. “Not even if you bump into him a hundred times in one weekend.”
Her laugh travels into my ear.
“He doesn’t have your rizz. Hey…” The filler word hides a long sigh. “Can I tell you something to see what you think, or does that seem totally inappropriate to you?”
“Of course not. Tell me…”
I turn to a clean page in my planner and grab a pen. For the next three or four minutes, I jot down some information, and when she finishes, I analyze my notes in silence before I say anything. I scratch my chin.
“It’s the same as that other time,” I inform her. “If you want, we can prepare one of our classic texts that covers your ass and throws them off. Ask your assistant to send us.”
“Tristan…” She laughs. “I don’t have an assistant.”
“The one from the magazine, silly.”
I hear her cackle.
“Don’t be a clown,” I say and smile, noticing how I’m blushing.
“I’m stupid, but it made me laugh. Yes, we’ll make copies of all the emails and the signed contracts, and I’ll send them to you. Do you still have the same email?”
“Um…yes. And the same phone number,” I throw out there spontaneously. “You could have found that out today, by the way.”
“Yeah…but it was a work thing, and I didn’t want to abuse the trust imbued in me by the ex-girlfriend title. And that way, you had the option to redirect my call to Madrid if that’s what you wanted.”
“Very considerate.”
“You asked me not to call you, not to text you, and you said that we couldn’t see each other, and I accepted that. I was scared to break my word, but it just seemed ugly not to call you about this.”
“You were incredibly elegant.” I nod to myself. “And I don’t think you’re breaking your word looking me up for this. It’s been more than a year.”
“A year and five months, you gem.”
“Are you keeping track?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Like you’re not.”
One year, five months, and eleven days.
“How’s everything going with you?” I change the subject.
“Not much new around here, Tristan.” She sighs. “Well…Marisol is threatening to retire, and I’ll have a stroke if she does. I still need her to run everything. I’m too young to take on the whole magazine by myself.”
“You’re not by yourself. All those girls you love so much are there.”
“And they blow me away. They do. But the brands and the ads, the investors… I can’t handle all that. You know I’m better at galvanizing the masses and writing articles about period underwear.”
“Don’t make light of your work. I think you inspire a lot of people to make the world a better place.”
“Thank you, Mr. Castro. You see me with rose-tinted glasses.”
“At your service.”
“How are you?”
“Me… I have my own office. Can you believe it?”
“Barely,” she teases. “Are you a partner?”
“No, not yet. In a few years. If I can put up with a few years…”
“You still haven’t discovered what makes you tick?”
I bite my lip and close my eyes, running my fingers through my hair.
“There are a lot of religions in the world ready to give you an answer to that question, apparently,” I decide to answer her.
“Yeah. But I don’t really see you as very devout. Are you having fun?”
“Yes. I sold my apartment, I paid off the mortgage, and now I’m renting a decent studio and saving for a house with a garden for when I pull my finger out and figure out what I want to do with my life. I think that pretty much sums it up.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Is this that kind of call?”
We both crack up.
“I just wanted to know if you’re on the brink of a midlife crisis and your next move is gonna be buying a stupid motorcycle or a convertible.”
“I’m wearing a navy suit with a light-blue shirt. My tie’s in the drawer. It’s navy blue too.”
“You’ve always been very put together.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I dated the deputy editor of a fashion magazine for five years. Either you learn or you learn .”
She lets out a kind laugh. I wonder who’s listening to these laughs now.
“Are you still living at your apartment?” I put my hand on my forehead and swallow.
“No. You’re not gonna believe it. I’m a homeowner. Well…the bank is a homeowner, and I swore that if I pay them every month for thirty years, I’ll be the owner of a two-bedroom apartment in Plaza de las Comendadoras.”
“Living it up, yes, sir.”
“It has original hardwood floors. Are you fucking kidding me? I had to buy it.”
“It was an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“Exactly.”
We fall silent.
“And you live alone?”
Another silence.
“Yes,” she answers. “And I’m going to be really honest, Tristan. It was really hard for me to move on, but now that I’ve done it, living alone is great. Really great.”
“I’m really happy to hear that.” I sit up straight and take a deep breath. “I know you didn’t ask, but I’ve also found a kind of peace in being alone too.”
“I hope you’re not always.”
“No. I have the gang and my family, but…you know? Throwing myself into getting to know someone would have been like trying to get a red wine stain out with white wine. That old Spanish saying is very wise, but I think it would be a mistake here.”
“You already got the stain out?”
“Well…yes and no.”
I hope that answer is enough, but of course, it doesn’t hold water.
“You’re going to have to say more, darling.”
“Come on…” I groan.
“I didn’t catch that.”
“Oooff,” I snort. “Well, fine, here goes: I still think about you, but every time, I feel less pain about what could have been and more happiness about what was.”
“That’s very beautiful. Thanks for sharing it. I’m going through something similar.”
“Yeah?” That makes me feel better. I felt vulnerable and ridiculous saying it.
“Yes. I’m sorry about it, and I’m grateful too, because we could have kept trying so hard to make it work, and that would have been incredibly painful. I was ready to risk it, and I’m grateful that you loved me enough to leave that part intact.”
“That’s very beautiful too.”
We fall silent again, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s almost happy. Almost.
“We did it right,” I confirm.
“Yes. It hurt like hell, but we did it right. I’m sorry if…if it took me a little while to accept it. I’m sorry if I isolated myself for the next few months in that process that was so dark and so…I don’t know, so opaque. But I needed to revisit it to understand it.”
“Grief is fickle. Everyone goes through it in their own way.”
“You’re right.”
A bitter laugh gurgles up out of my lips, and she’s surprised.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No, no, not at all. I’m laughing at how absurd it sounds now that I think about trying to drag you out of the city on my back.”
“And me trying to take the north and the sea out of you. But what could we do? We were in love.”
I want to tell her that sometimes I still am, but I think my therapist would tear her hair out if she heard me, because it’s probably just an outburst of nostalgia and a tantrum from the wound that’s still there. We love each other, but we’re not in love anymore. Or we’re almost not in love anymore. I listen to her and still feel an army of springs growing in my stomach. But I have to remember that with her in them, those springs would never blossom in a green garden in Galicia, filled with children.
“You still don’t want to live a peaceful life in a manor house with a man raising your children, right?”
“Right.” She laughs.
“Sorry. I had to ask.”
“And I’m glad you did, honestly. You still don’t want the hustle and bustle of life in Madrid?”
“I’m sorry.” I smile sadly, because I’ve asked myself that question many times, as many as nights that I’ve missed her, but I can’t go back.
“Look…let’s make a deal. If I ever feel the irrepressible desire to retire from the madding crowd to live surrounded by the incredible Galician greenery with a wonderful man who can fuck my brains out, not just for hedonistic reasons but for reproductive ones, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Go to hell.” I laugh.
“I’m happy to hear your voice, Tristan.”
“Me too…”
“You can say my name. I don’t think I’ve heard you say it once the whole call.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” she insists between fits of laughter.
“If I get over my aversion to the capital and the city rat race, can I call you too?”
“Yes, but I won’t be holding my breath, just like I trust and know you won’t either. So…”
“You’re so wise.”
Some voices bubble up in the background and snap our telephonic thread in half, and she answers evasively in monosyllables.
“I have to go. But…it was good to hear your voice, you know? I needed this, and I didn’t know it. And this’ll probably seem totally out of line to you, but I feel like I should tell you that I’m not sad, that I’m a happy woman, and I never stopped believing in love, because if you and I were capable of loving each other like this, how can it not be real? So…thank you, okay? For these minutes. I’m not going to thank you for the professional part, because your firm is charging by the minute. I know you people. But you? I want to thank you for everything, Tristan. I was lucky to fall in love with someone so good, and that kind of luck stays with you forever, whether it lasts or not. And now…do me a favor. Don’t say anything, okay? I have to go. Big kiss. Take care of yourself.”
I take a deep breath. She’s gone.
“You too. Be happy, Miranda. I love you.”