Where We Go From Here

by Lucas Rocha

  I pick up my phone and stare at all the apologetic messages I sent. All read (or at least seen), but none replied to. I scan the list of recent calls and see that his name fills the entire screen, with different time tags. Mechanically, I press the phone icon and try calling one more time, bringing the phone up to my ear. It rings once, twice, ten times, then goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message.

  This might be a sign that I shouldn’t try to contact him anymore. I think he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk to me, and I don’t know if I can blame him. Our relationship was set up to fail from the start.

  So that’s that. Onward. Take a deep breath, Victor. Other guys will come into your life; more opportunities will come. All you need to do is give it time, and hope things will get better.

  I put my phone on the nightstand and notice the Pet Sematary Blu-ray case he gave me on our second date, the one with the Transformers disc inside. I grab the blue box, open it, and see the note he scribbled.

  The greatest horror movie of all time.

  I smile at the memories of when things were easier. Of when I’d stare at my phone, hoping to hear from him, wondering how someone could come into my life and, in such little time, become so important. Of when the text would finally come—a simple “What you up to tonight?”—and I was certain he had been thinking about me, too, perhaps waiting for the right moment to reach out. And when we’d go out and walk hand in hand, unafraid of anyone or anything, everything seemed right in the world. It was the first time I had felt such a strong connection with someone, and there was no use in trying to find an explanation for what I’d been feeling, because there was none. All I knew was that I was with someone who made me happy simply by existing, and I wanted to feel like that as often as possible. The silly clichés suddenly made sense when we were together, and every single one applied to the two of us.

  But that’s over now.

  I take a deep breath and try to relax, repeating to myself that I shouldn’t think about Henrique or what I said to him. I shouldn’t think about the things that happened between us or the expression in his dark eyes or those lips that used to smile so widely but that in my last memory alternated between anger and disappointment.

  I can’t think about him. I have to think of myself. It’s for the best, isn’t it? Our relationship was never going to work out.

  I should think of myself.

  I should think of myself.

  So why can’t I stop thinking about him?

  +

  “Any idea what you’re going to do, Victor?”

  We’re in our video production class, and Sandra pokes me with her pen, scratching her head with the other hand as she stares at the piece of paper on the table in front of her.

  The professor left to get coffee, and everyone is chatting, but I didn’t pay attention to the directions, so I have no idea what all the commotion is about.

  “What?” I ask, staring at the piece of paper. I still haven’t read the instructions.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “No.”

  She rolls her eyes and sighs. “The professor is assigning us a new project.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I scan the instructions quickly. We have to come up with a script for a short film, no longer than five minutes, on a theme of our choosing. “Cool.”

  Sandra gives me a dubious look, as though wondering if I did any drugs before coming to this class.

  “Is everything okay, Victor?”

  “Yeah,” I answer unconvincingly.

  “It’s Henrique, isn’t it? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him, Sandra.”

  “So it didn’t work out, or you just haven’t discussed it with him yet?”

  “We haven’t spoken. And I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeat.

  “But I do. Let’s go outside and grab coffee.”

  Without waiting for my answer, she gets up and leaves the room. I follow her.

  We sit down in front of Miss Irene’s yellow trailer, and Sandra makes a hand gesture, asking her for two coffees. Our professor is there talking to another professor and smoking a cigarette. If she notices us, she doesn’t bother asking us to get back to class when she says goodbye to the man and heads back to the classroom.

  Sandra lights a cigarette when the coffees arrive. She pours half the sugar container into her cup, then hands me the jar, and I pour just a little bit to cut the bitterness.

  “I think I don’t want anything to do with him anymore,” I say, breaking the silence when I notice Sandra only stares at me, waiting until I say something. “Shouldn’t relationships be about one’s happiness and feeling good? I think all these hiccups are the universe telling us we need some distance between us.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “That Henrique and I need some space?” I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “No. In the signs-from-the-universe crap. About you thinking there’s something bigger out there defining all the things that might happen in your life and basing your decisions on that. It’s not very smart.”

  “I know.”

  “You regret having said those things to him, don’t you?”

  It’s not quite a question. The look on my face is more than enough to show that if I could go back in time, I would. And Sandra knows that.

  “I was a jerk.”

  “You were. But I’ve also been thinking over the last couple of days that this can’t be easy for you, either.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Sandra is always the first to say things would get easier if I let them, and that all the complications between Henrique and me can be traced back to my fear, my prejudice, my lack of information.

  “We’re kind of a construction of everyone else’s fears, you know,” she continues, swirling the coffee cup, cigarette held firmly between her index and middle fingers. “We hear so much about HIV, and there are so many negative preconceptions associated with it that it’s a little hard to think about how things today are vastly different from how they were thirty years ago. Even though I only have a supporting role in this story, I sometimes catch myself thinking about it, too, and I try to put myself in your or Henrique’s shoes. But the truth is, I can only try to do that, because when it comes down to it and I see myself in a situation like yours, there’s no advice in the world that can make the things we’re taught to think disappear overnight. Your fears are just yours, just as his are his alone.”

  “I didn’t want things to end this way between us. I feel bad that I said what I did. All I want is for everything to turn out okay, even if Henrique and I never get to kiss each other again. I feel like a piece of shit.”

  “Have you tried talking to him?”

  “I’ve sent a million texts and called a dozen times, but he’s not responding.”

  “Okay, but I mean … have you tried talking to him?” she asks again, changing the emphasis.

  “Like, face-to-face?”

  “Yeah.”

  “People still do that, don’t they?” I ask with a smile, trying to be funny. But Sandra doesn’t laugh, so I shrug. “He didn’t get back to me. I doubt he wants to see me.”

  “You can try.”

  We finish our coffee and go back into the classroom.

  Sandra is right. I can try.

  +

  This might be the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m staring at the entrance to Henrique’s building. I’m under one of the few remaining trees on the street, which is otherwise suffocated by concrete and cars parked on the curb. I look like a stalker from a TV show, checking out his ex-boyfriend’s home and analyzing his routines, planning to do something awful to him.

  I brush away these thoughts and cross the street without looking, only to almost get hit by a cyclist who swerves out of the way, cursing me. My heart was already out of control before, and now it sounds like the drumline of a samba sch
ool. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and take a deep breath, counting to three before I press 204 on the intercom.

  I wait, but no one answers it. I press again, this time for longer, wondering if Henrique looked out the window and saw me down here or if there’s simply no one at home.

  Still no answer.

  Frustrated, I start walking back to where I came from, when suddenly I hear Eric’s voice on the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  His voice sounds impatient and grumpy, as if he’s just gotten out of bed and dragged himself to answer it.

  “Eric?” I ask.

  “The one and sleepy only. Who is this?” he asks again.

  “It’s Victor. I was wondering if I could … come upstairs and talk to Henrique?”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  The intercom goes silent for a few seconds.

  “Did you call him and set up a time?” Eric asks in a serious voice, and I wonder if he’s joking.

  “N-no … He hasn’t been answering any of my calls.”

  “And you don’t think that means something?”

  “Maybe it means that we need to talk in person so I can apologize,” I answer.

  This makes Eric go silent for a few more seconds.

  “Hello? Eric?” I don’t get a response and am about to press the intercom again, but I hear the click of the door unlocking.

  I grin and climb the two flights of stairs to the apartment. As soon as I turn into the hallway, I see Eric standing in the open doorway, his slender, elegant arms crossed over a pink Hello Kitty shirt, his eyes those of someone who most likely just woke up.

  “I’ll leave the two of you alone,” he says, and I wonder if he doesn’t mind going out into the street in those pajamas (before I reach the conclusion that of course he doesn’t). “If you do anything to hurt my friend even more, I will turn your life into a living hell.”

  It’s not an empty threat but a real warning. My shoulders tense because I never thought Eric could be so serious, but I nod.

  “Byesies!” he says with a smile, then puts on the sunglasses that were hanging from his collar before shooting down the stairs.

  I step into the apartment and dodge the piles of clothes everywhere, looking for Henrique. He’s not in the living room, but the apartment isn’t that big, and I can see him on his bed with a book in front of him.

  I take three more steps toward the doorframe, and Henrique looks up.

  “May I come in?” I ask.

  He closes the book and puts it on the nightstand, then hoists himself up to the middle of the bed, crossing his legs.

  I take another step into the bedroom.

  “Why didn’t you reply to any of my texts?” I ask, putting my hands in my pockets. The desk chair is free, but I don’t feel comfortable enough to sit, so I stay standing up, looking at Henrique’s brown eyes and short hair, not knowing exactly what to say next.

  “Because I don’t want to deal with it. Not again. I thought I made that clear enough.”

  “You did.”

  “And yet, here you are, after saying the things you said.”

  “I feel like an idiot, Henrique. I need you to listen to me, because I … I feel like garbage. I have to apologize. What I said was not fair.”

  Henrique gives me a weary smile. “We say a lot of stuff when we’re not thinking, but maybe that’s exactly what we really want to say. I’m not harboring any resentments, Victor.”

  That’s what his mouth says, but his inflection seems to contradict his words. His tone of voice is calm, sober, and almost flat, and all I want is to shake him. I want him to yell at me, to call me an idiot, to tell me I was a jerk. I want him to go through full catharsis and, in the end, say he forgives me. That he wants to forget the whole story and move on. I want him to kiss me and tell me everything’s all right, or that, even if it isn’t, things will get better.

  But that’s not what he says, not what he does. Instead, he remains in the same defensive pose, as if he were a freaking Buddhist monk, calm and collected, rational and cold. And that’s worse than any yelling or finger-pointing.

  “No, Henrique. I didn’t mean any of that. I was just … angry. At everything. Frustrated because of what happened, so I ended up lashing out at you. The things you said to me in that voice message … they really hurt, too.” He remains silent, maybe thinking about his own mistakes. “But I don’t mean to say that one mistake minimizes the other. What I said was unforgivable and cruel, and for a few days I tried to convince myself that it would be best to try and forget you and move on with my life, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you and how good you make me feel.”

  “I thought a lot about you over the last week, too, Victor. About how every relationship is a new learning opportunity, no matter how old we are, and how everything is a big, new surprise. Maybe we are disappointed because we expect other people to say what we want to hear, but everyone has a right to say what they think, cruel as it might be.”

  I take another step toward Henrique, sit down on his bed, and look him in the eyes.

  He smiles.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of person, Henrique,” I say. “I’m sorry, and I want to learn from you. I don’t want a stupid virus to stand in the way of our relationship, because we can’t give it that kind of power.”

  “I don’t,” Henrique replies. “But people seem to insist on giving power to insignificant things.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I have nothing to forgive, Victor. Forgive what, your thoughts? I can’t do that. But I don’t want you to think I’m angry, because I’m not. That’s the best I can do.”

  His words sound sober and sensible, but he still seems defensive, as if he’s studied from a script with politically correct sentences to be said out loud. He seems numb, almost on autopilot.

  And that scares me.

  “Are we okay?” I ask.

  “We are,” he answers, but the words aren’t soothing to me. “You’ll find someone special, Victor. Someone with whom it’s not this complicated.”

  That’s when I realize this is not a reconciliation.

  “I already have someone special in my life. That’s you,” I manage to say.

  “It’s not me, Victor. I’m complicated. Our relationship is complicated.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not here because I want a weight off my shoulders, Henrique. I want you. I want to make new mistakes and learn from them; I want to be by your side and to show you that I’m not perfect, but I can still be special, because you are special to me. I love you.”

  That lights up something inside him, but not the way I wanted. There’s no switch I can flip to change the course of this conversation, but I notice my words seem to move him somehow.

  He reaches for my hands. “You’re a special guy, Victor. But I can’t give you the happiness you want so badly.”

  I want him to say he loves me, too. I want him to pull me into a hug and kiss me and tell me that nothing will keep us apart. I can’t accept that these words are what he really wants.

  “Of course you can! We can be happy, Henrique. We have to try, no matter the cost! What do you want from me? I want to prove to you that I am capable of changing—of growing—but I need you to trust me. Please, Henrique, I don’t want to … not be with you.”

  He lets out a weary sigh and releases my hands. “We weren’t meant to be, Victor.”

  “Stop saying that like you know what’s best for me! I want to be with you; is that not enough?”

  “No, it’s not. Because I don’t know if I want to be with you.”

  “Of course you do!”

  “Now you’re the one talking as if you knew what’s best for me.”

  His coldness annoys me. I swallow hard.

  “So this is it, then?” I ask, getting off the bed. “This is how things end between us?”

  “Things never started, to be honest. We’re better off
apart.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I say, trying to hold back tears. All of a sudden, the bedroom seems too small, and the walls seem to compress and suffocate me, little by little. This isn’t how I imagined things going. It isn’t how I believed this conversation would end. “I know I’m much better with you around.”

  “Goodbye, Victor.” He reaches for the book and picks up where he left off.

  He seems serene, as if the whole conversation was meaningless, as if the two of us were nothing but a casual affair that came to an end, the type of weak summer rain that leaves no trace behind.

  Now I’m the one who wants to scream at him. Who wants to say that he’s the one making any kind of closeness between us impossible, that he’s the big jerk in this story, with or without HIV.

  I’m capable of making him happy. I know I am. But right now, in this moment, when I turn my back to his apartment door and go down the stairs, not wanting to look at anything or anyone, I also don’t know if I am capable of being happy without him.

  WHEN VICTOR LEAVES, I HEAVE a deep sigh of relief. It’s impossible to focus on the book I’m reading or to think about anything other than him.

  I can’t stop thinking about you and how good you make me feel.

  I know I was a jerk, but it was for the best. He needed to get away from me. That was the conclusion I reached while we weren’t speaking. No matter how much he says he wants to be with me. I don’t want him to be a part of the constant maelstrom of feelings I’ve become. I’m tired of trying to make everything work out, and I know that sooner or later during a fight or when things aren’t going well, the cruelty will rear its ugly head again and rub those words in my face.

  You wanted these things to happen.

  This was your choice.

  If only you’d been more careful.

  If you hadn’t had sex with every guy you saw in front of you.

  Pervert.

  Dirty.

  I already have someone special in my life. That’s you.