novia. ?Cómo estás?” Most
tourists would know how
to ask how someone’s doing
so I don’t feel especially
smug about remembering
that much. And now I switch
to the language I’m fluent in.
“Dad says he’ll bring me
to town when he’s ‘damn
good and ready.’ At least
he’s willing to get dressed and drive. I’ll text you when we’re about to go, okay?”
I expect her usual cheerful
banter, and a positive sign-off, but her reply takes me by surprise. Let me know a little ahead of time. And can you bring that boy?
“Boy? You mean Gabe?”
The last thing I want to do
is introduce those two.
What’s up her sleeve? “Why?”
I can almost hear her shrug.
I want to meet him is all.
You’ve been spending lots of time with him. Sometimes I’m kind of jealous, and I want to make sure I’ve got nothing to worry about. Maybe we could hang out together once in a while.
Usually I find her honesty
refreshing. Today it’s unsettling, but I don’t see how I can say no unless I go ahead and lie to her.
Which I refuse to do. Anyway, upon further consideration,
maybe it would be good to put the pair of them in the same place, if only for comparison’s sake. And maybe a wider buffer zone between Gabe’s kiss yesterday and the one I wanted to coax from Monica today would be
an okay thing. “I’ll give him a call and see if he’s free, then I’ll go give Dad a nudge. See you soon.”
She Makes Me Promise
I’ll follow through, which is weird for Monica, but whatever.
When I call Gabe
it’s almost like he’s been waiting for
the phone to ring.
And apparently he was.
I was hoping you’d call.
You’ve been on my mind since I left yesterday.
There’s something
new in his voice—
a hint of affection that puts me slightly on edge. Pretty sure this is where I’m
supposed to get
all flirty. “Yeah? And what exactly have
you been thinking?”
That I wish I would’ve chanced the shotgun and stayed longer.
I’m craving more of you.
Straightforward
Five simple words.
Five direct words.
I’m craving more of you.
I’ve been honest with him, I’ve shared secrets.
I’ve confessed misgivings.
He might not understand that’s what they were.
He might pretend to consent.
And now he’s waiting for me to respond, hoping I’ll say what he wants to hear.
The crazy thing is, at the sound of his voice, my heart stutters, my pulse quickens, and minute electric jolts prickle my skin, make me shiver.
The reaction is almost as intense as interlacing my fingers with Monica’s.
It Comes Close
But as Dad always says, close
only counts in horseshoes and
hand grenades. I rein it in. Rein him in, too. “You want to meet me at the hospital in a little while?
I’m going to try to get in and see Hillary, or at least find out how she’s doing.” I take a deep breath.
“Oh, and Monica wants to meet you.”
Who’s Monica?
“My friend.”
Your best friend?
“That’s the one.”
Who’s a lesbian?
“That is correct.”
She wants to meet me?
“That’s what she said.”
I don’t get it. Why?
“She said so she can stop
being jealous of you.”
Did you tell her I kissed you?
“I did not tell her that, no.”
So why is she jealous of me?
“Because she knows I like you.”
She doesn’t own a shotgun, does she?
I have to laugh at that. “No way, and don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.” I glance at the clock.
“Okay, it’s quarter to ten now.
I’ll light a fire under my dad and try to be there by eleven
thirty. Does that work for you?”
I didn’t say I was coming.
“No. But you and I both know
you want to meet Monica, too,
if only to satisfy your curiosity.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
Are you going to satisfy your curiosity?
I’m quiet for a longer moment.
“Probably. But not today. And not in front of you. We’re good to go?”
He Agrees We Are
And that is an unspoken vow between us to leave intact this odd web of friendships.
His and mine.
Mine and hers.
Hers and his,
soon to come.
The logical side of me says I’m playing with dynamite, that sooner or later: He’ll get hurt.
She’ll get hurt.
I’ll get hurt, and
the fault will be mine.
The emotional half tries to insist there’s no such thing as too much connection.
One plus one.
Plus one plus one.
Totals four, and
that’s better than three.
But when Gabe leaves, is that four minus one, or two?
Math was never my best subject.
I Make an Executive Decision
Call Monica and tell her we’ll meet (the “we” including Gabe) in front
of the hospital in an hour and a half, so now I have to nag Dad into the shower.
“The game starts at one,” I remind him.
“You have to drop me off first,” I underline.
“Zelda never has enough beer,” I push, “so you have to stop at the store.”
Stop bitching at me, he insists.