by Ana Simons
“I just think it’s time for you to stop being mad at life. You should put it all behind you and move on. Just because some dirty slapper turned your life upside down, it doesn’t mean it will happen again. You can’t let it affect you forever.” She waves her hands in the air to emphasise her words. “And besides, Olivia cares for you, always has—even if you decided to stop talking to each other a long time ago. All these years and she’s never stopped asking about you. Besides, she’s also going through a rough patch, I’m certain she’d appreciate hearing back from a friend.”
I process her words for a little while. “Okay, maybe I’ll call her tomorrow.”
She shakes her head and breathes out a loaded with confidence ‘no’.
I frown, taken aback. “I don’t get women, seriously. But you just told me to–”
“No, you’re not calling her tomorrow. You’re moving your fine ass and you go meet her.”
I chuckle at the insane idea. “You’re completely off your head. That’d be stupid, not to mention I can’t leave right now. I’m swamped with work.”
“Yeah, you’re right, that nasty boss of yours may fire you if you can’t make it on Monday. Damn that man!” She mocks, with a silly grin plastered on her face. “You’d better get yourself the flu or something and call in sick. I’ll bring you chicken soup.”
“She’s probably at work.”
“We’ve talked this afternoon...” Sue gives me a mischievous wink and elbows me playfully. “She’s getting the next couple of days off.”
“That’s your epic brilliant plan? I just show up, unannounced?”
“Yes!” She raises her eyebrows as if the answer was too obvious.
“But that makes me a bit of a stalker, doesn’t it?”
“No, but that question sure makes you a bit of a barmpot. You’re not a stranger, why would she think that?”
I run my fingers through my hair and clasp my hands behind my head, feeling confused and overwhelmed. I was thinking of a subtler approach; this just feels too crazy, too risky.
Sue rests her hand on my leg and looks me in the eyes. “Look, women love when men do whacky things for them. So be bold, surprise her.” With that, she stands and leaves me alone with my thoughts again.
I check the time.
8:30. It’s not too late, I could actually call her right now…
I could, but I won’t.
I’m calling her tomorrow.
When I’m on her doorstep.
18 The truth
So, it’s official: I’ve gone mental.
I got on a plane and headed south to put myself out there and meet a woman who probably doesn’t give a damn about me. I’m really going for it. I’ve never been the guy who sits back and waits, so screw it if life kicks me in the balls again. I do believe sometimes you just need to make the moment happen before something great is lost for good, and that’s it. There won’t be any strategic exits out of this.
Sure, there’s a good chance this could all go badly wrong, but I’m a man, I can hardly deal with one problem at a time. I’ll work through the inevitable complications later.
I’m already on the Airport Express bus, on my way to the city centre, and the truth is that it feels like I’m a glorious train wreck going 190 miles an hour heading down the wrong path. Or that I’m about to enter a stage-five epic mess, already knowing I’ll be crushed and it will so be pathetic.
Who on earth would possibly want to go through another heartbreak and make themselves miserable?
Simple. Idiots like me, here’s the answer.
Finally, I arrive at the crowded and hectic Catalonia Square and head down to Las Ramblas, the long pedestrian walkway that runs through the heart of the city centre and stretches up until the marina, offering you a fabulous view over the Mediterranean.
The image I retain in my memory from ten years ago has remained pretty much unchanged. This is definitely the place where you’ll get the pulse of Barcelona. It’s always so full of life and rhythm, permeated with a special energy that’s incredibly vibrant and dazzling at the same time.
I mingle with the huge mass of locals and visitors that promenade up and down the boulevard, and immerse myself in it, my eyes on the multitude of tapas cafés, flower stalls, bird sellers, ice-cream stands, street artists and living statues, which almost distract me from the outstanding architectural details of the buildings above.
But why did I come here anyway?
The excuse I’ve given myself is that this is the only place I know where I can get her flowers. The truth, however, is that I still need some time to hit pause and think it over again, before it’s too late, before I find myself standing in front of her like a fool, unable to say anything coherent up to the point of absolute stupidity.
I could really use some liquid courage right now.
No, that’s not the brightest idea, at least not yet. Maybe later on, if she blows me off again.
Instead, I wander into the historical Boquería food market to grab a bite to eat and sit for a while. I need to think of a line or two to write on the flowers card.
As soon as I pass through the old iron gate, I’m again struck by its charm and vibe, and can’t help glancing around amazed, as if it were my first time here. So picturesque, the grand highlight of the street for many, this market is certainly a world apart.
The colourful fruit stands, the intense smells of fresh bread, spices and smoked ham, the loud voices of the animated stall holders mingled with the indistinct chatter and laughter of bustling tourists almost make me numb. I’m so dazed I nearly bump into a guy who’s carrying a pig carcass right underneath my nose. Surreal, really. Like a Dalí painting.
Surreal is also what I’m about to do: try to win over a woman I believed I had long buried in the deepest layers of my memory. But I guess life is like that, fully unpredictable.
Eventually, I sit, laying the arrangement of red tulips I’ve just bought on the table and grab a pen. And for a while I just keep staring at the blank card, oblivious to the chaos and cacophony around me. I’m clueless. I’ve absolutely no idea of what to write.
Lovingly yours?
You take my breath away?
I’m head over heels for you?
When I see you, I think ‘Good job, God’?
Idiot.
Timeout.
Take a sip and gather your wits.
The thrill of anticipation mixed with the fear of disappointment and frustration is coursing through me in such a wild frenzy, I can barely hold myself together. I take a long, deep breath and look around again, trying to gain some control over the situation before it takes me over completely and I give up.
I turn my head, my eyes resting on a young couple seated not far from me. They’re holding hands across the table, smiling and gazing into each other’s eyes, as if they were the only two people in the world, totally unaffected by the bustle around them. In a soft and tender gesture, he tucks a stray strand behind her ear and runs a finger along her cheek before he whispers something that makes her blush. Their moment is only interrupted by some funny remark of an employee who’s sweeping the walkway behind them. The girl giggles nervously.
And I find myself smiling inwardly too, though I have no idea of what’s going on there. The only thing I know is that, whether we choose to admit it or not, the truth is every man wants to be that guy, to be able to hold someone’s hand and feel emotionally safe with someone who rocks our world...
‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly. I love you because I know no other way’, pops into my mind as I shift my eyes back to the card.
I could actually borrow Pablo Neruda’s line and write it down. In fact, it was Olivia who once wrote it to me, maybe I could return the thought today. Or?
I quickly reconsider. That’d be probably too much, it would freak her out before I even had the chance to open my mouth and say something.
I keep staring at the empty piece of
paper, my pen tapping erratically against the table, my thoughts racing in a hundred different directions, my chest fluttering with nervous excitement. I’m equal parts thrilled to see where this goes and scared stiff of her reaction.
I take a large gulp from the bottle of sparkling water and run an impatient hand through my hair. Okay. Let’s be objective: I’m a guy, and in the end, guys always think in a straight line, they always go from point A to point B, no circling around. It’s a pretty basic paradigm, ‘I’m thirsty, I go and get some beer,’ simple.
That said, and for everyone’s sake, especially mine, I might as well assume I can’t stop thinking about her, I don’t want to either, and that this whole thing is messing me up like no one would believe. So I’d better paradigm-shift my arse into this as well and immediately take some action—even if I know beforehand that the oh-crap-what-are-you-doing-here look I fear to see on her face, or even worse, if she tells me she’s back with Whatever-His-Fucking-Name-Is, it will all hit me like an iron fist straight to my face.
Almost midday, I check on my mobile. I might as well write her the truth:
‘I miss you.
More than any words could say.
More than I thought I would, ever again.
Love, Brian’
19 Reason
If there’s a place where you can see and feel the long history of Barcelona, it’s the Gothic Quarter. Dotted with Roman architecture and medieval buildings, it’s a labyrinth of winding narrow streets that converge into the Cathedral Square, a sort of neuralgic point where you always end up when you can’t find your way in this mess of intricate alleys and dead ends.
And that’s where I am right now.
Again.
Damn it, what should have been a no more than fifteen-minute walk is about to turn into a nightmare. I keep getting turned around and always come back to this place, unable to leave the crowds of tourists and pilgrims behind and finally find the way to her place.
Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe I should find my way back to the airport and forget this insane idea—I keep telling myself as I, this time, acknowledge my apparently broken sense of direction and look for some map app to rescue me from the absurd situation.
*
A few narrow streets intersected by a dozen even narrower streets later, I find it at last.
Looking up at the third floor of the old stone building, I pray the adrenaline kicks in quickly. I’m so nervous, scared by the realisation that she might not be here or if she is, that she’ll laugh in my face.
No, she won’t, I hold on to my sister’s words: I’ve misread the information between the lines and Olivia has been waiting for me. God, has she?
I’m terrified at the thought of messing it all up. I’m so anxious to see her, not to mention impatient, I have the feeling my heart is about to go out of control, beating right through my chest.
The woman who’s been ruining my sleep, keeping me awake for hours, making me choke and drown in a whirling vortex of feelings I hadn’t felt in years is only a call away, and I can’t wait to let her know how much I want to lose myself in her and–
Brian Anderson, slow down your racing mind and just make that call!
Gulping back fear, I manage to calm myself down. Eventually, I fish the mobile out of my pocket and dial her number.
No answer.
My throat tightens up as I try again.
No answer.
My fingers begin to sweat, my heart thumps so loudly I can barely hear myself think. A painful tingling sensation trickles down my spine and through my body. Persist or retreat are the only two words racing around and colliding in my head; a horrible headache is about to creep in, I know already.
She surely knows it’s me and doesn’t want to pick up the phone, so I’d better accept the inevitable and give up...
But before what’s left of my pride sets in and my courage abandons me for good, I give it another try.
“Yes. Who’s speaking?”
“Liv?”
A long pause follows. “Brian?” My name comes out in a single breath.
“Do you have a minute? Can we talk?”
A maddening silence falls over the line again.
“Olivia?”
“Can I call you later?” Her tone is low and controlled.
My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. “Sure, but I just wanted to–”
“I can’t talk with you right now,” she interrupts in the same hushed tone.
With my heart slamming even harder than it was before, I look up to the third floor, to the open window where a flimsy white curtain flows out against a colourful pot. “It’s really important and it won’t take–”
“I’m sorry, but I have to go now.” And she hangs up. Just like that.
Damn it, I curse myself for having listened to my sister and embarked on such crazy idea. Because the opportunity to leave with some dignity has just presented itself, I ponder what to do. Her dismissal is probably my cue to forget about all this.
Or?
It is. Leaving is the only reasonable thing to do.
Except I’m a man who doesn’t give up on anything that easily, much less when I want it so badly, so I don’t care anymore if I fuck it up completely. Fuck being reasonable!
With some luck, I might not even have to come up with a very elaborate plan to make her listen to me.
There’s an old lady leaving the building, struggling to get through the front door. I hurry to hold the door open.
“Venga, le ayudo, Señora. Olivia me ha invitado e iba a subir ahora mismo,” that I would help her, because I was already on my way up to meet Olivia who had invited me, I tell her with my rusty Spanish.
She looks up, squinting against the light, assessing me first, then fixing on the flower bouquet I’m holding. Eventually, her face breaks into a warm, kind smile, and she reaches over to pat my arm gently. “Gracias, chico.”
After helping her bring the wheeled shopping trolley out to the pavement, I rush to the lift and punch the call button. It seems it will take an eternity and another three days to have it come down so I give up and take the stairs.
I’m already heading up the third flight when, in the distance, I hear a resonant ‘no’ and a door slam. My senses leap in suspicion something isn’t right.
The tension propels me forward and I rush to the third-floor hall, which I pace with quick steps towards the door number I recheck on the post-it note my sister gave me. 3B.
Voices come right from the other side of the door and I creep closer to eavesdrop on them.
“Escúchame, déjame hablar a mí–”
“Es que estás sordo o qué? Vete, no te quiero ver más. Esto se acabó y hablo en serio. Desaparece y déjame en paz.”
Damn it, she’s with that tosser! This is a bloody nightmare, the only positive thing about this mess is that they’re having an argument. He wants to tell her something, probably that he finally understands how much he misses her, that he’d been the ultimate moron but after some epiphany-like moment he realised he can’t live without her. Again, the same old song. Fuckwit.
I guess my only consolation, for now, is that she’s telling him to leave, ironically asking if he’s deaf or what because it’s over and all she wants is to be left in peace.
Good girl!
Running a nervous hand along my jaw, I take in a sharp intake of air. Shit, I didn’t come prepared with a plan B, let alone with a plan C for this awkward situation. But as much as I hate to admit it, I should go now and wait for her call. I can’t get between her and the blithering idiot here.
The doorknob turns again, but someone keeps the door from opening.
“Mírame! Olivia, escúchame bien–” That she should look at him and listen, he growls in a low menacing tone.
“Suéltame…” That he... should let go of her? Her voice is trembling and I do not like the direction this is taking. She says something else then, something indistinct and muffled I can’t comprehend.
My hands ball into fists, I can hardly control the growing fury boiling inside. I feel like storming inside and breaking his fucking neck.
“¡Filipe, suelta mi brazo que me estás haciendo daño! Si no te alejas, voy a gritar.”
What? She’s begging him to let her go because... he’s hurting her? And if he doesn’t go, she’ll cry out for help?
She doesn’t have to. The same second my brain decodes the sentence, I pound on the door.
No one answers, though. There’s only what seems a long dead silence, one that is almost unbearable, that is only to be broken by another heavy knock and a ring on the bell.
But then, finally, I hear the doorknob and Olivia gets out, her face pale, her eyes glistening, threatening to spill over.
“You?” She looks up in surprise and swallows hard, apparently unable to make the words leave her mouth.
No further words are exchanged. I just keep looking down at her, our eyes locked on each other as I hold her with my gaze, letting her know that I’ve heard it, that I’m here for her.
Reaching out for her hand, I mouth, “You okay?”
“Yes,” she responds with a shy nod and in a faint, almost inaudible whisper.
From the inside comes an impatient ‘who’s there?’. She lowers her eyes and shakes my fingers off, an expression of sadness on her face that makes my jaw muscles clench and my stomach tighten.
“Please, go now. I’ll call you later.”
On the spur of the moment, I push the door open and enter the apartment with confident steps, as if I’d done that a lot of times before. I’m not leaving her alone with this arsehole.
“Sweetheart, how come you’re not ready yet? We have to go!” I give her the flowers. “Here, for you. Maybe you want to put them in water?”