I ask him, “So, are we on for the party tonight?”
“Of course,” he says. His enthusiasm is so sincere that I almost feel bad for him, but this only makes me want to fast-forward to the part where Jaime and I get together. I figure the less time I spend with Diego, the less attached he’ll be when he has to let me go. I don’t want to hurt him on purpose, I just wish he’d get out of the way sooner. “I’m not sure who’s coming,” he says. And then, before I can stop him, “Hey, good news though, I think Jaime will be there.”
I shoot a panicked look at Anna. She is glaring at me like she has laser vision and wants to drill a hole into my skull. Miguel looks tense, and Chrissy and Nathan simply look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. I force an uncharacteristically high-pitched laugh. “That’s so weird, I totally forgot to mention that Diego is friends with Jaime! I mean, small world, right?” I seriously don’t know who I’m kidding.
Anna continues glaring at me and asks pointedly, “Why is it good news that Jaime will be there? Do you actually hang out with him? Are you friends?” She says this in a voice laced with venom, and spits out the last word like it is another F word. I don’t know why she is always so quick to accuse me of these things: I’m too selfish, too scheming, too insensitive. I think she has always resented the fact that the Anna-Chrissy duo became a trio when I came along, that their friendship has expanded to include me. They’ve been best friends forever, and I only met them in sophomore year, when I transferred from an exclusive school to our co-ed one. I think she has always resented the fact that it was mostly Chrissy who wanted to reach out to me, that it was never really her idea to be friends with me. If she honestly had it her way, the duo would remain a duo. Most of the time, she can disguise everything with her wit and sarcasm, cracking jokes at my expense, calling me shallow and superficial in a manner that can still be considered playful banter between buddies. But there are moments, like this one, when her concealed resentment towards me and my presence in her life finds its way to the surface.
I open my mouth to speak, but she interrupts, “I know you, Rickie. You’ve never been platonic friends with a boy. Ever. And no, Bryan doesn’t count. You always have some sort of hidden agenda. You throw yourself at all these guys, and you gloat as they fall all over themselves trying to catch you.” Has she always thought of me this way, or did she just realize this now?
My anxiety to cover up my intentions turns to anger at being put on the spot. “Maybe we are platonic friends,” I retort. “And maybe it’s none of your business. Why is this such a big deal to you? It’s over between you two.” I say this in a way that implies that, between me and Jaime, things are just getting started.
Miguel clears his throat and gently takes Anna’s arm. “We should go,” he says. I almost expect her to push him away and tell him to stay out of this, but she either decides that this is all very unfair to Miguel, or that I am just not worth her energy, because she says, “You’re right. We should.” She gathers her stuff and glares at me one more time before they both walk out.
Chrissy looks uneasy, but also determined to say what she has to say. I tell her, “Come on, I’m ready. Lay your whole self-righteous speech on me.” She shakes her head. “Rickie, what were you thinking? You know she hates Jaime. You know he broke her heart. Why are you hanging out with him?”
I am aware that she is only trying to help, that she is taking Anna’s side only because she hasn’t heard mine yet. I am aware that she is just trying to protect me, that she is sincerely concerned about my emotional safety. I am aware that she chose to ignore the fact that I just called her self-righteous, even though it may have hurt coming from someone who’s supposed to be a friend. If I want to, I can understand that she means no harm. But I am not in the mood to understand right now. I say, “I don’t know, maybe I wanted to grow a spine and get a mind of my own.”
She looks at me for a long time, like she is trying to remember why we became friends in the first place, then decides to give up. Sensing the discussion is done, Nathan stands and pulls Chrissy to her feet. Before she turns to leave, she says, “You saw how badly he treated Anna. What makes you think he’ll treat you any differently?”
She doesn’t wait for a response.
Diego and I do not speak of that scene in the coffee shop. He picks me up for the party at eight PM sharp, and he drives quietly, breaking the silence only to hum along to random songs on the radio. He looks great tonight, but not in a way that seems over thought or trying-too-hard. I pretend to be pretending that everything is okay; it seems wrong to be fine after this afternoon. All I really want to do is see Jaime.
We reach the party venue and step out of the car. He offers his hand and I take it. His palm is cold and sweaty, and I want to tell him to relax and take it easy, because this really has nothing to do with him. I want to tell him not to take things too personally, not to take ME too seriously. I pull my hand away when Jaime spots us from across the room and comes over to say hello. He slaps Diego on the back and presses his cheek to mine. “Anna’s really mad at me,” he says. “What did you do?” Diego excuses himself, mumbling something about forgetting his wallet in the car, and leaves us alone. I catch Jaime’s eyes twinkling, and he seems to find this more amusing than alarming.
“She told you?” I ask stupidly. I’ve never been the kind of girl who asked unnecessary questions in an attempt to be all cute and coy. When a guy confesses he likes me, I would never say, “Why didn’t I know about this?” Duh. Of course you didn’t know because he didn’t tell you. Or if you did know, you shouldn’t admit it because you don’t want to come across as too assuming. But here I am, asking a question I pretty much know the answer to already.
“No, she sent me hate waves through mental telepathy.” He laughs. “She called me a while ago and told me—no, threatened me, actually—to stay away from you.” He takes a step closer to me. “But then I realized, why should I?”
“I don’t know, why should you?” I ask, even more stupidly. My heart does those crazy somersaults again. I don’t usually let guys get close enough to have this effect on me, close enough to tip the power scale in their favor.
“Listen,” Jaime says. “You want to get out of here?”
“Yes,” I say. There is no trace of hesitation in my voice. “Let me just tell Diego.” I am so tempted to just take off without a word, but I don’t want to be rude. Diego deserves, at the very least, a proper goodbye. This is my “rule” for most of the guys I date: Even when it ends abruptly, end it clean and end it well. There’s nothing sadder than someone who doesn’t know it’s over. Be gentle and kind, or be brutally honest—either way, be clear about what you want. And right now, what I want is to get out of here. With Jaime.
I find Diego standing outside, smoking a cigarette. He is startled when I touch his shoulder. “I didn’t even know you smoked,” I tell him. He gives me a wry smile. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Rickie,” he says, taking a long drag. Smoke billows around us, wrapping us in a cloud of uncomfortable disappointment and unspoken apologies. “I only do this in case of emergencies.” He coughs, and I feel something close to pity pinch my insides.
“What’s the emergency?” I ask. I am on a roll. Ugh, what is this, Stupid Question Night? He just looks at me, as if to say, I’m not even going to answer that.
“I’m leaving with Jaime now,” I tell him. He takes one last puff on his stick, crushes it with his foot, and nods. His arms are folded across his chest, and he refuses to meet my eyes.
“Okay then,” I say, sounding overly, inappropriately cheerful. “Bye, Diego. See you around.” I start walking away, but perhaps in a last-minute fit of courage, he puts a hand on my arm and says, “Wait.” I turn to face him, and this time, his gaze stays locked into mine.
“I know this is all very new, whatever this is,” he says. “And I know it has always been about Jaime, I knew from the very beginning that it was never really about me.”
; “Sorry,” I mutter. What else is there to say?
“But,” he continues. There’s a but. Of course there is. “I think I’ve come to know you these past few days, and I really like you. I’m not sure why I do—I’ve been trying to explain this all away so maybe I can walk away, too—but it’s there, and it’s true.” He takes a deep breath. “Give me a shot, Rickie. Give us a shot.”
“Why?” I say, probably asking my first valid question of the night.
“Because,” he replies, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Call me conceited, but I am used to hearing this from guys. Let me elaborate with a few examples:
1. Let’s call him Seth. He was a classmate in a summer street dance workshop I was forced to take. We were partners for an exercise, and at first he seemed only mildly interested in me, but I might have danced a little too close to him than necessary, and this might have encouraged him to ask for my number. We started talking on the phone every night, and he started wanting to hang out after class, and it was all going great until we went to see a movie and about ten minutes after the opening credits, his hand was running up and down my bare arm and he was whispering in my ear, “You smell like strawberries,” and I said, “Yeah, thanks, it’s my shampoo.” And then he was stroking my hair and we were kissing and he was like, “I love you,” and I was like, “Oh. That’s nice,” because really, what else was he expecting to hear from me? I mean, it was one kiss. Come ON.
2. Let’s call him Mike. He’s scrawny and pimply and boring, but he was the first guy who ever asked me to be his prom date, so I had to say yes out of flattery and curiosity. I don’t remember too much about that evening, but I do remember this: On the dance floor, as we swayed to The Fray’s “Look After You,” he pulled me close, buried his face in my shoulder, and said, “I love you, Rickie.” And I knew he meant it with all his heart, because, well, he was scrawny and pimply and boring, and he had a date who probably held the record for being checked out the most number of times that night. I said playfully, “Are you sure?” because I wanted him to lighten up and not act like he was asking me to be the mother of his children, but he took it the wrong way and snapped, “You know, I only asked you to be my date because you’re pretty,” and vowed to never speak to me for the rest of his life.
3. Let’s call him Anjo. I met him on yet another beach trip, and he was a surfer and an absolute hottie. I snuck out to see him three nights in a row, and on the last night before I was supposed to head back to Manila, he told me he had a surprise for me. He picked me up outside my hotel and put an arm around my waist as he led me to a spot on the sand where he had set up a blanket and some candles. There was a bottle of vanilla-flavored vodka, and we sat close to each other, passing it back and forth and taking turns drinking. And then a gust of wind blew out the candles, and he laughed and leaned in, his hand finding its way to the back of my neck. I could taste vodka on both our lips, and I laughed too. Then his face turned serious and he pushed me down gently until I was lying on my back and looking up at him. Before he bent over to kiss me again, he said, “I love you,” and I automatically said, “I love you too,” because I figured he was probably the hottest guy I would ever get to make out with; who was I to let this opportunity go to waste? We said goodnight and goodbye at four AM. I never saw him again.
So yes, I am used to hearing this from guys. What I’m not used to, however, is not being in control enough to be flattered by their affection, or thrilled with their attention. What I’m not used to is feeling ashamed knowing I intentionally made a guy feel this way, knowing I expertly executed all my tricks in order to bring him to this point. I don’t want commitment. I don’t want a meaningful relationship, I don’t want patience and compromise and a constant effort to make things work. I want a mindless fling, a whirlwind romance devoid of responsibilities and obligations. I want to start something with someone, but I want to make sure I don’t stay in it long enough to ruin it. I want someone who plans to enjoy it, but has no plans of making it last, either. I want someone who wants the same things I do, someone who gets it.
Besides, he’s known me for what, two weeks? He is probably just doing this to distract me from Jaime—typical boy behavior, wanting a girl only because she wants someone else. So I end it clean, and I end it well. I shake my head at him and say firmly, “No, Diego, you’re not.”
Rule number 4:
Mistakes do not make up
for other mistakes.
Jaime is perfect. He knows the right things to say (and not to say) when I’m upset, and always knows how to make me laugh. He holds my hand for no reason at all, and when he kisses me (yes, of course there has been kissing—a lot of it, actually), he doesn’t seem nervous or scared, unlike most guys. He knows how to make a girl feel special, always insisting to pay for dinner and dessert and coffee, and showing up at my house with random gifts he thinks I’d like. He never forgets to text me goodnight, and he calls when he says he will. He is charming and witty, and I love the fact that when we’re out on a date, heads swivel towards our direction, envious eyes taking in the fact that we look like we’re really into each other. I love how, during the first week we were dating, he gave me the impression that he takes things as they are, and I never have to worry about him springing the “Ano ba talaga tayo?” talk on me out of nowhere. He told me he knows we don’t need fancy labels, or complex definitions—we are both way beyond those.
I have been whining to him non-stop about Anna and Chrissy, who both refuse to speak to me like I am a normal person. The Monday after the coffee shop incident, I sat down with them for lunch at school, as usual. I figured I had already given them enough time and space to let off steam; I figured all was forgiven and we could go back to being friends again. But Chrissy kept clearing her throat and shooting nervous glances alternately at me and Anna, as if she were terrified we would spontaneously combust. Anna, who was probably itching to claw out my eyeballs, opted for the more aggressive route: “So I hear you and Jaime are actually dating? That’s lovely, you both have major issues! You can totally help each other sort them out.” I hate how she always knows how to get to me, how she always finds a way to rain on my parade. Couldn’t she just be happy for me? It wasn’t like The Friend going out with The Ex was an entirely unimaginable concept, and it wasn’t like her bitterness could cancel out all the hurt Jaime had caused her. Bottom line is, if they were truly my friends, they’d understand.
I have also been whining non-stop about my parents, who came back from their vacation and decided they had been too lenient on me for the past sixteen years of my existence. Lexi’s nagging conscience had probably kept her up all night, making her toss and turn, unable to live with herself for allowing her sister to get away with breaking curfew on her watch. And so she had probably given in to her natural tendencies and tattled to Mom and Dad, deriving pleasure from seeming so obedient and responsible in comparison to me. My parents have decided to move my curfew up by one hour: ten PM on weekdays and midnight on weekends. Bryan wasn’t too happy about this new set-up, complaining about how one hour less makes all the difference and how I was already too sheltered in the first place.
I have been whining non-stop about my life in general, and Jaime has been so patient and comforting, listening to my endless rundown of the things that are going wrong and trying to cheer me up. He is an expert at diverting my attention from whatever’s bothering me, and I don’t know how he does it but I feel like nobody else will ever understand me the way he does. The crazy somersaults have refused to subside, and I often catch myself thinking about him when I shouldn’t be. I wonder what he’s doing, when I’ll get to see him again, whether or not he misses me. Sometimes, I even catch myself making plans involving him: wondering what present he wants for Christmas, and further down the line, wondering if we’ll go to the same college, and even if he’ll agree to be my escort at my eighteenth birthday party.
Jaime is perfect. Which is why I must end things now, before I am in too
deep. It’s been more than a month, a relatively long time for me to be dating someone. I cannot afford to see him every day, talk to him every time I’m upset, let him make me feel better every time something goes wrong. I cannot afford to make him a significant part of my life, because that was never how this was supposed to work.
Jaime is perfect. But this perfection comes with a price—a price I am not willing to pay. It is only a matter of time before he starts needing me, then wanting me to need him, too. It is only a matter of time before he decides that the deal’s off, that he wants this to be more than a fling. It is only a matter of time before he realizes that we are not on the same page after all, that the best thing to do is to walk away. I might as well do the honors.
I text him, hey, where r u? can i call u?
He replies, on my way 2 ur house. have a surprise 4 u. :-)
Okay. When somebody comes over to your house with a surprise, it is probably not a good idea to tell him you don’t want to see him anymore. But it’s now or never; I have to do this while my mind is still made up. I have to do this while I still can. Wait, I text. We have 2 talk.
I’m 5 mins away, he texts back, totally missing the point. I don’t want to do this face-to-face—I don’t have the guts or the determination to. I want to take the cowardly way out: do this over the phone, or even through text. Quite a few guys have done this to me, stammering their way through an explanation that things just aren’t working out anymore before hanging up, and I can’t really blame them for not wanting to look straight into my eyes as they tell me they want nothing more to do with me. I know how much courage it takes to let someone down in person, to endure the dumper-dumpee awkwardness in the flesh. I also know that courage would have been easier to summon if I were fighting for a meaningful relationship, because courage is often fueled by the need to do the right, noble thing. Jaime should know this, too—he did break up with Anna over the phone, after all. Plus, after his most recent split with Olivia, I’ve seen him flit from one fling to the next and heard rumors of him discarding the girls by texting them a simple, straightforward “it’s over.” He should know how it works.
Every Girl's Guide to Flings (Every Girls Guide) Page 3