Where We Go From Here

by Lucas Rocha

  “After that happened, I became completely closed off to relationships. I went for more than a year without sex, and I’d barely ever go out to meet new people. Eric, my roommate, performs in some shows downtown and would always pester me to come with him. He’d bring people over to our place to get them to talk to me so I could make new friends, but I had hit rock bottom. I had crying fits out of nowhere at weird times. If I was at work and felt one of them coming, I’d hide in the bathroom and stay there, sobbing until I managed to calm down; if I was on the bus, I’d put on my sunglasses, even at night, and close my eyes, trying to take deep breaths and think good thoughts. It was a terrible time in my life, and once in a while the feeling of despair still comes back, you know, because we get used to the medicine, but sometimes it still gets the best of you.”

  “And how did you get over all of that?”

  “I burned my copies of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in a ritual with Eric dressed in a Galadriel costume. The Hobbit had to go, too, as did the DVDs of all the movies. It was the breakup moment, you know, and ended up being funny because Eric memorized the scene from The Fellowship of the Ring where Galadriel bellows, ‘ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAAAAIR,’ ” I say, shaking my arms in the middle of the coffee shop, my eyes wide, which makes Ian let out a good-humored laugh. “After that, I decided it made much more sense to appreciate the people who’d do that kind of thing for me, instead of a douchebag who disappeared without a trace.”

  “I think that’s an excellent decision.”

  “And you know the worst part? New Zealand has restrictions for HIV immigration. I don’t know if he knew about that or not when he went there, but it only made me more pissed about the whole thing. And this kind of stuff leaves a scar. Since Carlos, I haven’t been able to trust people the same way. I only trust who I already know, you know? I’m always hesitant when I’m about to start something new, whether it’s a friendship or with a love interest, and I think that’s the worst way to go about it. But I can’t help myself.”

  “You’re talking to me, a complete stranger,” Ian points out, shrugging.

  “That’s exactly why. I can just walk out of here and never reply to any other text from you, block you on every app there is, and go on with my life as if nothing ever happened.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “You’re a cool guy. And you probably have a lot ahead of you when you start taking the medicine. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and keep the communication channels open.”

  “Hey, that’s progress, right?”

  I take a last sip of my coffee. Colder than Winterfell.

  “Maybe it is.”

  Ian gives me a satisfied smile and says, “I know I’ve barely said anything about myself, but I wanted to tell you that this … this conversation … was so helpful to me. For real. And I know that I’m just a stranger hearing about all of this from the outside, but I still want to offer a piece of advice: Be persistent with Victor. You seem to like him, and he seems to like you. Maybe things aren’t that clear, but I’m sure that, at the very least, he’ll take the time to listen to you. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t hurt to try, does it?”

  I take in his advice.

  “Maybe” is all I can muster.

  Ian gets up, ready to leave. And then, on a whim, I ask: “Do you like nightclubs?”

  “Like, with country music and people spilling cheap whiskey on the floor?”

  “Dear Lord, what kind of nightclubs have you been going to?”

  “My friends took me to one once. It was awful.”

  “My darling, I’m talking drag queens and Beyoncé the whole night. And buy-one-get-one-free beer.”

  “Is there such a place?”

  “That’s where Eric performs.” Then I try to make it clear that I’m not hitting on him. “Look, I know this post-diagnosis time is super awful, so I think you should leave the house for a bit, even if it’s just to listen to some loud music and end up smelling like cigarette smoke. Getting out of your own head is good once in a while. And Eric is preparing a Cleopatra performance for the next show. It’s this weekend. Are you in?”

  “Why not?” he answers with a smile. “Send me the address and the date, and I’ll stop by.”

  We both get up, and our smiles are strong indicators that this conversation isn’t over yet. Somehow, I know we just planted a little seed of friendship.

  He raises his hand to shake mine, but before I notice it, I’m already hugging him like we’re friends who ran into each other after a long time apart.

  “I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Henrique. It did me good.”

  I only nod in response.

  Maybe I don’t want to admit it out loud, but the conversation was good for me, too.

  I STILL DON’T KNOW HOW to feel about my conversation with Henrique. Somehow, listening to other people’s problems makes things seem less complicated, or at least helps me to rationalize them from another perspective. But in the end, they’re just words.

  When I get home, it feels like family night: My mom has taken over the living room table with her blueprints, her endless supply of coffee, and a tuna salad sandwich that she must’ve made in a hurry. Dad is in the bedroom, hunched over a small desk, grading the exams of students who wouldn’t hesitate to beg for extra decimal points in order to avoid spending another two weeks studying to retake them. And Vanessa is lying on the floor of the bedroom that we share, four different textbooks and a notebook open in front of her while her earbuds blast some boring classical music (she says it’s the only way she can concentrate in this zoo that we call our home).

  I go to the bedroom, put on some old, wrinkled clothes, and plunge into my bed, physically and mentally exhausted from this frantic marathon that I’m trying to be discreet about—of doctors, tears, and conversations with strangers. Vanessa notices I’m not making small talk or trying to disturb her, so she furrows her brow and takes out the earbuds.

  “Is everything okay, Ian?”

  Her curly hair is tied in a knot on top of her head, an attempt to find some relief from the heat of the night. The ceiling fan turns at full speed, making the curtain flutter. With Vanessa’s earbuds removed, I notice the music is too loud, but I can’t even bring myself to give one of my acerbic lectures about her going deaf before thirty.

  “Just tired,” I say, still looking up, feeling my shoulders relax against the mattress. “What are you up to?”

  “A project for biology.” That explains why she is so hard at work and why the books are so thick. “The teacher asked us to research STIs. I got HIV and AIDS. Did you know they’re two different things?”

  I grab the pillow from under my head and bury my face in it.

  The universe has got to be messing with me.

  +

  My eyes shoot open when my phone rings at ten p.m. Vanessa is still working away on her research, this time with her face glued to her laptop and a thousand tabs open with information about HIV and AIDS. Classical music is blasting from the earbuds, but I’m so distracted that I barely notice Vivaldi has now become the soundtrack of our evening.

  I check my phone and see that it’s Gabriel, my best friend. I leave the bedroom and walk to the kitchen, maybe the only place in my house that doesn’t look like a zoo.

  “Hello?”

  “You didn’t answer my texts.” The voice on the other side is accusatory, impatient, and, to some extent, amused. “I hope you have a good explanation, and that it involves a phone being stolen or something other than your complete indifference to my concern.”

  “Good evening to you, too, Gabriel.”

  “Where are you?”

  “It’s ten o’clock on a Thursday night. Where do you think I am?” I ask. “Obviously, I’m at home.”

  “Great.”

  The phone goes silent, and I’m not sure if Gabriel is so mad at me that he decided to hang up or if we just got disconnected.

  I try cal
ling him back, but then quickly realize why he’s not on the other end of the phone when I hear the doorbell, which catches everyone by surprise.

  I go to the living room and see my mother, a frown on her face thanks to an unexpected visitor at this hour as she unlocks the door and opens it. And there’s my best friend, with his five-foot-five frame, black skin, and forearms covered with tattoos. From a distance, Gabriel could pass for sixteen, but he’s about to turn twenty-one. It’s as if he drinks some kind of potion brewed by a witch who drains the youth from unsuspecting children and gathers it up in little plastic bottles.

  “Hi, Mrs. Gonçalves! I just wanted to have a word with Ian.”

  I appear behind my mother, who flashes a big smile at Gabriel and wraps her arms around him in a hug before letting him in. She lets out a “What a great surprise!” as my dad peeks out of the bedroom and waves at Gabriel, who waves back. The music is so loud in my room that I’m certain Vanessa didn’t even hear the bell ring, which is the only reason I can think of that she wouldn’t come out to say hello, too.

  Gabriel is one of the most welcomed visitors in my house. Maybe the fact that we’ve been friends for years now plays a part, but certainly not more so than the fact that he’s straight. My parents think he’s good company and usually don’t lecture me at all when I tell them I’m hanging out with him, no matter how late. As if Gabriel could somehow save me from bad influences and convert me to what they consider a “normal lifestyle.” Which doesn’t really bother me anymore. I got tired of having arguments with my parents that led nowhere, and I figured out that the only way I could maintain a relationship with them was through silence. Silence is the best form of dialogue.

  “Do you think you could make some time for your best friend?” He gives me a hug. “Or are you planning on ignoring my texts forever? I’m starving and in the mood for a burger, what do you say?”

  Maybe the surprised-yet-dispirited expression on my face is enough for Gabriel to know that something is wrong, and his smile falls into an uncertain frown. Unlike most people, he can read between the lines of all my facial expressions and knows how to differentiate my genuine smiles from the ones I use to hide problems.

  It’s weird to think that this guy, who is so different from me and all those who surround me, is one of the best people in my life, even if he hasn’t been a part of it for very long. We met casually, when his car broke down around the corner from our place. He was 100 percent lost in that overheated piece of scrap metal, and it wasn’t even five minutes before my dad realized Gabriel didn’t have car insurance and wouldn’t be able to afford a tow truck.

  Luckily, my dad knows a bit about cars. In half an hour, he popped the hood, poured some water wherever water is supposed to go (I didn’t inherit the ability to tell the difference between a motor and a battery, as you can see), and told Gabriel to give it a second and everything would be okay. We were ready to leave, but Gabriel insisted on paying us back somehow, which culminated in the three of us sitting on plastic stools, devouring hot dogs and drinking Guaraná, which was all Gabriel could afford that day.

  That could’ve been the end of it, but we ended up talking for way too long. It was a special day not only because we met him but also because he was the perfect middleman between my dad and me. When Gabriel realized soccer wasn’t a shared interest of ours and that I went quiet when he and my dad started going on about the Brazilian championship, he changed the subject. He started talking about how he wanted to go to vet school, and how he was going to take a college prep course, and what I should expect in high school.

  What drew me to him, besides the quick realization that he knew how to hold a conversation, was that he didn’t treat me as inferior just because I was younger. His words flowed with the kind of honesty you only get from close friends, and I remember thinking, Whoa, he’d make a great friend.

  Finally, after we said goodbye, I worked up the courage to ask for his number. And maybe there was some kind of ulterior motive at the time, given how fascinated I was by him. But as our conversations progressed from the odd text message here and there to something more regular, and then very frequent, I realized I didn’t want anything more than friendship with Gabriel. And also that talking to him was helpful, maybe because he was far away, or perhaps just because I had started to trust him.

  After the hellos and Gabriel’s several thanks-but-no-thanks to all the food my mom tries to offer, I take him to my room. Vanessa lowers the music volume and smiles when he comes in, and I take off my shorts and worn-out T-shirt to find something more appropriate for an outdoor walk. I remember the time when my sister had a crush on Gabriel and could barely address him without stammering. I’m not sure if it was because he’d always help her with her biology homework or because he was the most stylish and pleasant person she knew. It was more or less around that time that Vanessa started insisting she’d get a tattoo, but my mom forbade her, and the idea died little by little along with her crush on Gabriel.

  “I’m not gonna be long!” I tell my parents when I’m done changing and have left the bedroom, opening the front door and shoving my keys in my pocket.

  I feel a shiver down my spine, anticipating the conversation I’m about to have. I still don’t know if I want to tell him about my diagnosis, and the idea of just saying “Everything is okay” starts taking shape in my head. I don’t want to worry my best friend with my problems. Actually, I don’t want to lose my best friend to my problems, and the fact that I have no idea how he might react only makes me feel worse.

  Worse than the silence as we wait for the elevator.

  “So,” I begin, making conversation. “How’s Daniela? Things still good between the two of you?”

  He stares at me with a questioning expression, probably trying to determine if I’m stalling for time with irrelevant questions or if I’m actually showing interest in his life.

  “We’re doing good. She’s defending her thesis in March, and mine’s in April. Then we’ll be done with school, and we can come back to Rio.”

  “Cool. Are you thinking of moving in together?”

  He shrugs. “We haven’t talked about it yet. She’s nice, and we’re happy, but I still haven’t decided if I’m ready for that.”

  The elevator seems stuck somewhere and doesn’t come for another few seconds, so we fall silent again. It’s the kind of awkward silence that’s not supposed to happen between best friends, and I wonder if it’s the shadow of my secrets that’s making everything seem terrible, or if Gabriel and I are so out of touch due to life circumstances that we’ve become the type of friends who can barely recognize each other when they meet after some time.

  “So … something’s going on.” He doesn’t ask, just states it, breaking the ice. “Why aren’t you talking to me? Why did I have to get in my car and drive all the way to your house so you’d be forced to speak to me?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I say. Yeah, that might be the best option. The fewer people I bring into the mess that my life has become, the better. “I’m just busy with life, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you, Gabriel. You didn’t have to drive all the way here just for that.”

  I make a fist and squeeze my thumb into my palm, cracking my knuckle and feeling my eyes sting. You can’t cry right now, Ian. Please, no matter what happens, don’t cry. You’ve already cried way too much over the last few days.

  “That poker face of yours might work on your parents or sister, Ian, but I know you better. What’s the matter?”

  The elevator arrives, and luckily, Mrs. Lopes from the seventh floor is in it. The subject dies as we say good evening, and we travel down the six floors to the lobby without making a sound.

  I interrogate him as soon as we’re out of the building. “Why did you come here? I thought you had class this week.”

  Gabriel started working at a university in Seropédica when he started vet school and now splits his time between managing pig research and studying for his master�
��s. He shouldn’t be in Botafogo in the middle of the week, since Seropédica is at least an hour and a half drive from Rio and he only comes in twice a month to see his mother.

  “When your best friend stops texting you back and his sister says nothing happened, it means something happened,” he answers. “Vanessa told me everything is fine, which leads me to two possible conclusions: You’re either tired of our friendship and aren’t responding out of laziness, or there’s a reason you’re avoiding me. And since I know I’m an excellent friend, the type you don’t just dismiss for no good reason, I can only assume that the second conclusion is the correct one.”

  “You talked to Vanessa about me?”

  “I talk about you to everybody. It’s kind of a hobby when I’ve had enough of shoving my hand up pigs’ anuses.” He smiles and changes the subject. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. You abducted me when I was already in bed, so you tell me.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls out the keys to his car—a ’96 maroon Fiat Tempra, falling to pieces. We walk to the old tin can and get in.

  He doesn’t insert the keys to start the car.

  “Are we just sitting here waiting for someone to come rob us?” I ask.

  “Ian, what’s going on?” he asks again, this time more determined and in a lower voice.

  My mouth goes suddenly dry; the question is so direct. He looks right at me, and I only know this because I can feel his eyes on me. I’m looking straight ahead, chewing on the words that threaten to tumble out of my mouth but at the same time refuse to.

  “I told you nothing is … going on.” I try to act rationally but can barely utter those last words. Gabriel notices I choked on them, and my tone of voice couldn’t make it any clearer that I’m lying.