Every Girl's Guide to Heartache

by Marla Miniano

  Enzo looks at Nico, and Nico nods. He lets go of my hand and tells me, “We’ll be back.”

  Enzo grins. “Don’t run off anywhere.”

  I laugh again. “Go, seriously. Don’t let me cramp your style. Go mingle and be single.” I sound like a cheerleader, only instead of cheering them on to run faster and score better and make the perfect shot, I’m cheering them on to, well, go mingle and be single. Way to go, Chrissy. That’s very generous of you.

  Nico doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t say, I don’t want to be single, or Technically, I’m not single. He stands up, ready to jumpstart their Friday night. They head off to the bar to take advantage of the free-flowing drinks, and I sit back to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: people-watching.

  If the designer’s goal was primarily to bring in “young people,” then she can consider this event a smashing success. The guests are mostly in their teens and early twenties (or at least they look like it), are dressed to kill, and are all having a fantastic time. A runway is set up at the center of the tent, and the air is buzzing with anticipation. A perky host in a gold cocktail dress welcomes everyone, makes pa-cute for a few minutes, and finally chirps, “Let’s get this party started!” Electronic music begins blaring from the speakers, and models appear one by one to work the catwalk. The outfits are a tad too high-fashion for me (think bold prints and over-the-top patterns), but they are brimming with novelty and creative energy, and the entire collection is art in its less accessible form—you can appreciate it, but you don’t pretend to understand all of it. Then, the finale: the lights dim, a silhouette flashes against a white backdrop, and a very stunning Queenie Cooper comes out to strut her stuff on the ramp. The dress is cut so low I can almost see her belly button, her legs go on for miles, and she is skinny and curvy in all the right places. The crowd applauds approvingly, the designer takes her bow, and the show ends on a high note.

  Enzo comes to check up on me, and I assure him I’m fine. I do not ask him what Nico is doing, but I do ask him to send food my way. “I’m starving,” I explain, and he replies, “I’m on it.” I smile gratefully at him. A server approaches me with a large tray full of hors d’oeuvres, and I transfer about one-fourth of it onto my plate. He offers me some red and white wine, and I think, Why not? and he asks, “Which one, Ma’am?” and I say, “Both, please.” I accept the two glasses he sets down in front of me, he tells me to enjoy, and I proceed to polish everything off in five minutes flat. When he returns to take away my empty plate and glasses, he does not ask if I want anything else. But I scan the room for any sign of Enzo or Nico, and from the corner of my eye, catch a glimpse of Queenie Cooper schmoozing up a storm in her fancy-schmancy gown. Right now, it is no longer a question of whether or not I want anything, but of whether or not I need anything. I wanted to come here with Nico and Enzo. I wanted to dress up and dance and party like a pro and be grown-up and glamorous. I wanted to act like I belong, but now I need to forget about the fact that I just don’t. I put on my most charming voice when I ask Mr. Server, “Would it be possible for you to bring me a whole bottle of red wine? It’ll spare you the hassle of all those refill trips,” as if we were talking about bottomless iced tea instead of liquor. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and I hastily add, “Oh, it’s not just for me. Siyempre hindi, ‘di ba? I have, uh, friends who... just went to the bathroom. They’ll be back here in a jiff.” He does not seem thoroughly convinced, so I resort to regression: “Come on. Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar and sprinkles on top?” He gives in and says, “Yes, Ma’am. Right away.” Thank you, Kindergarten strategy, for still being effective in the adult world.

  Here’s the thing—I have never, ever had more than two glasses of wine in one sitting. The first and only time I tried tequila, I practically had to pour a pitcher of water down my throat afterwards to get rid of the taste in my mouth. Once, I got tipsy after a single mug of beer and started talking to a tree (Rickie and Anna caught the whole thing on video). And if tolerance really does increase with practice, then I am dead meat because the last time I had anything alcoholic was last year, during Noche Buena. I have just consumed three-quarters of the bottle of wine in less than an hour, and I can feel my throat burning and my head pounding. I might as well have hooked myself up to a booze IV and let it all seep right into my system.

  I stand up. Whoa, huge mistake. The room is spinning, and I just need to find either Nico or Enzo so one of them can bring me home. I should not be out in public like this. The good news is that the alcohol has rendered me numb to the pain in my toe. The bad news is that I wobble with every step I take, and I am obviously, embarrassingly drunk. Wait, I can call them. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I fish my phone out of my purse and dial Nico’s number. It rings and rings but he doesn’t pick up, probably unable to hear it over the booming music and the steadily rising noise level of the guests’ chatter. I try Enzo, praying he had enough common sense to maybe put his phone on vibrate mode. No answer, either. I have to sit again, and I plop down on the nearest chair, earning dirty looks from the guy and girl beside me who look like they were about to start making out. Well, excuse me for interrupting. Don’t mind me. Carry on, then.

  My eyelids feel exceptionally heavy, and I think, Maybe if I just doze off for a while, things will be better when I wake up. My head slumps forward, and for a moment there, I don’t even know where I am. And then I feel a strong, warm grip on my arm, and I allow myself to be pulled up. “Chrissy, open your eyes,” the voice says. I obey. And find myself staring at Nathan’s very concerned, very worried face.

  “Hi, Nathan,” I say, giggling. “Why are you here? Wait, nope, don’t tell me.” I actually cover his mouth with my hand. “You’re here with Queenie Cooper aren’t you? Awesome finale, by the way, she is a very sexy lady, and you are a very lucky bay-behhh!” He pries my fingers off and tells me, “Let’s get out of here,” and I giggle again and say, “Alrighty-o, Nathan, you’re the boss!” I even stand up straight to salute him. True story.

  Out in the parking lot, I tell him, “Hey, guess what’s up? My left toe is bleeding, and I cannot feel a thing! Isn’t that just wicked?” I laugh so hard I have to lean against him for balance, and he says, “Take off your shoe, Chris.”

  “WHAT?! No way!” I yell. He looks at me exasperatedly, crouches down, puts my hands on his shoulders, and removes my left shoe for me. My big toe is red and raw and still bleeding, the Band-Aid is peeling off, and poor Nathan looks like he’s about to throw up. Before I realize what’s happening, I am hanging on to his neck and he is carrying me to his car. In my wasted state, it occurs to me that this is The Most Romantic Thing Anyone Has Ever Done for Me, and I wonder if this can be categorized as cheating. I mean, technically, I’m single and can do whatever I please. And technically, Nathan is so not the villain here—is it still considered cheating if you leave behind the neglectful, MIA guy to drive off into the midnight with the good guy who rescues you? He gently props me up on the front seat, opens the glove compartment, and hands me a bottle of water. “Drink up,” he orders. The last thing I recall is me wanting so badly to kiss him. And then I pass out.

  I wake up to an insistent tapping on my shoulder and a sharp, throbbing pain in my left foot. The sun shines brightly through my window, and I want to reach out and grab it by its collar and turn it off. I also want to scratch my eyeballs out and cut my head open to extract the weight concentrated right in the middle of it. I hear someone clear his throat. A male someone.

  I sit up so fast the weight in my head feels like it has doubled. The sun shines directly into my eyes, and I squint. Justin is poking my shoulder repeatedly, like I am a defective toy that refuses to work. “Finally someone wakes up,” he grumbles. “Kuya Nico’s here.” He stomps out, leaving the door open, and Nico sits beside me.

  What is going on here? Why is Nico in my room, and why do I have a feeling something is very, very wrong? And then it hits me. Last night. The party. The drinking. The bloo
dy toe. The drive home. With Nathan.

  Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.

  Nico puts a hand on my back. “Hurry up and get dressed, okay? We’re going.”

  Excuse me? Do you not realize the gravity of the situation here? “Going here?”

  “Zambales. I told you the other day, remember? Enzo wants to surf. We’ll be back by tomorrow.”

  “I know you told me, but I didn’t know we were going today. When did you decide this?”

  “Enzo woke up today and wanted to hit the beach,” he shrugs. “It’s a weekend. You don’t have plans, do you?”

  “No,” I retort. “But I woke up today feeling like I am about to be guillotined, so I guess the beach and the weekend totally slipped my mind.”

  He laughs. “Oh come on, Chris, stop being so melodramatic.” Nobody has ever called me melodramatic before. Ever. That’s because I’m totally not. Like it’s some groundbreaking revelation, he says, “It’s called a hangover. Just drink some medicine and plenty of water and you’ll be fine.”

  No, I will not be fine, I want to tell him. Because you abandoned me last night, and now you show up at my house expecting everything to go back to normal. Because I have no idea what happened with Nathan, and I do not want to be the girl who relies on technicalities to wash her hands of the guilt of liking two boys at the same time. Because I can’t believe you don’t even care about the fact that some other guy brought me home, as long as I can get up to go on a stupid road trip with you the morning after. Instead, I say, “I was dead-drunk last night. My parents would kill me before they let me set foot outside this house.”

  He tells me, “When I realized you had disappeared from the party, I tried calling you. It was around midnight, I think. Nathan picked up. He said he was with you, and I asked to speak with you but he told me you had just collapsed onto your bed.”

  I gulp. It’s slowly coming back to me now: I vaguely remember hurling my guts out into the toilet with Nathan holding my hair up, pushing him out of the bathroom and locking the door behind me, then changing out of my minidress and into my PJs before collapsing onto my bed. So at least I’m pretty certain I didn’t strip down to my underwear in front of Nathan. “I can explain, I...”

  “No explanation necessary,” Nico says. “What’s important is that you got home safe and on time. And that your parents didn’t find out you were wasted.”

  “But when they find out I’m going on an overnight trip with just you and Enzo, they’re going to freak.”

  “You underestimate me,” he says smugly. “I’ve got everything covered. I already spoke to them before coming up here. I told them the basketball team is having a weekend sports clinic for public school kids in Zambales—technically, you will be in Zambales—but majority of the volunteers backed out at the last minute and we’re borrowing the Student Council members as replacements.” He looks quite pleased with his clever little tale. “Besides, it’s not just me and Enzo, our driver will be with us, too. So technically, there will be adult supervision.”

  “Oh, well, now that just makes me feel so much better,” I reply. “‘Cause the fact that your chauffeur will be joining us completely makes up for the fact that HELLO, YOU JUST LIED TO MY PARENTS!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he hisses. “Look at it this way, Chrissy: Fortunately, you’ve always been a good girl. You’re thoughtful, obedient, trustworthy, the works. You’re lying just this once, and technically, it’s not even your own lie, you’re just backing up whatever I said. And I doubt you’ll ever do anything like this again. Technically, this doesn’t make you an evil, reckless, heartless daughter at all. So just pack your bags, get dressed, and meet me downstairs so we can make the most out of the weekend. Okay?”

  I chew on this for a minute. And once more, I become living, breathing proof that in order to seriously screw everything up for the second time around, it only takes one word: “Okay.”

  Rule number 9:

  Know your boundaries.

  For every episode of The Greatest Show of Our Time (AKA Gossip Girl, duh), the editors over at Daily Intel come up with a reality index in which points are added, subtracted, and tallied to show how close the plot comes to real life. I shall now be employing the same method, except instead of determining how authentic an episode of a TV show is, I shall be calculating the degree to which this road trip is a disaster.

  The drive to Zambales took five freaking hours. Enzo and I sat beside each other in the backseat, and when he fell asleep, he leaned his head on my shoulder. (Plus five.) It would have been kilig if he didn’t end up drooling all over my tank top. (Minus ten.)

  Like true-blue thugs, Enzo and Nico played gangsta hip-hop all throughout the ride. Enzo was wearing a basketball jersey three times too big for him, and silver bling around his neck. Note to boys: Never wear an oversized basketball jersey or silver bling, whether together or separately. It’s just not remotely appealing. I felt like we were about to orchestrate a drive-by shooting. (Minus twenty.)

  Because the road trip took five freaking hours, my foot no longer hurt by the time we got to the beach. (Plus fifteen.) Or maybe it still did, but the spotlight shone on the numbness in my butt instead.

  When we got to the resort, I realized we had brought way too much stuff for an overnight trip, or at least way too much stuff for four people to carry. There were five big bags of junk food, a cooler of drinks, a boom box, several board games, plus our individual bags of clothes and toiletries. (Grown-ups call these “personal effects.” Why are they called “effects?” Just curious.) We trudge up to our villas lugging what feels like half of our lifetime belongings, and because I am the only weak girl in the presence of three strong men, I start whining. Enzo and Mang Julio the driver pretend not to hear me. Nico just looks at me and says, “Delayed gratification, grasshopper.” I roll my eyes, “Oh alright, smartass, what gratification exactly am I delaying here? I am not looking forward to anything today. And what do you mean ‘grasshopper?’ See, I don’t get all these ninja references. Why can’t I be something prettier, like a butterfly or even a ladybug? This is so unfair,” I call out to their backs. (Minus thirty.)

  Nico and Enzo have been surfing for years, and can spend hours in the water. I cannot even swim. You do the math. (Minus twenty five.)

  Mang Julio says he thinks Nico really likes me. Well, at least I’m guessing that’s what he meant when he said, “Ma’am, sa tingin ko lang ha, mukhang type ka talaga niyang si Sir.” Oh, yay. (Plus forty five.)

  If Nico really likes me, why has he not tried to kiss me today? That’s weird. Yikes, do I have barf breath leftover from last night? I brushed my teeth naman this morning. Maybe he just isn’t into PDA. (Plus twenty.) Or maybe he just isn’t into PDA with me. (Minus forty.)

  I feel fat and bloated and ugly. I don’t want to wear a bikini. I say this to Nico, and he tells me calmly, “You’re not fat.” Hello, everyone knows that’s not convincing enough. (Minus thirty.)

  I have been worried about my parents the whole day. I shouldn’t have lied to them. I shouldn’t have let Nico lie to them for me. But it is too late to undo all that lying now. It’s not like I’m going to call them to confess. (Minus fifty.)

  I stay in my room and sleep through the afternoon, and when I wake up just in time to catch the sunset, my headache is gone and I feel much more cheerful. I go outside to see Nico and Enzo sitting on the sand, chilling out to some Arctic Monkeys (the hip-hop phase seems to be over) and a couple of beers. Aww, how cute. This can be the start of a beautiful bromance. They are talking and laughing, and this makes me smile. (Plus twenty five.) When I come up to them, Nico takes my hand and gently pulls me down beside him, then puts an arm around me. The three of us watch the sunset in silence, the stereo blaring, “All these little promises they don’t mean much, when there’s memories to be made...” If our lives were a movie, this heartwarming scene would make the perfect ending. (Plus fifty.)

  Enzo says he needs to take a shower, and asks us to text him when
we’re ready to have dinner. He glances around at the dark, nearly-deserted beach. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he jokes. Nico laughs. (Minus twenty.) But it is an embarrassed laugh, not a manyak laugh, so I try not to be offended. (Plus ten.)

  Nico says, “I hope you’re not sorry you came with us,” and I reply, “Of course I’m not. I’m happy I’m here with you.” We are quiet for a few minutes, and I think, Maybe nobody’s perfect. Maybe I am just being too critical about the fact that he is not as sensitive and soulful as I want him to be. Maybe I am being too cynical, thinking he’s just leading me on and making me believe we have a shot at a real relationship when all he wants is a meaningless fling. Maybe I should stop having these nitpicky monologues in my head and start trusting him—we ARE best friends, after all. And best friends don’t hurt each other. He turns my face toward him and leans in. The kiss we share is sweet and tender, and I feel my defenses melting away. (Plus eighty.) We pull apart. We smile. And then he tells me (and I swear I am not kidding—these are his exact words), “I’m really glad we’re friends, Chrissy.” (Minus one thousand five hundred seventy two. At this point, I obviously stop counting. What’s that? You want a final tally? Go compute for it yourself, you point-obsessed geek. Okay, sorry. I got carried away. Not mad at you. Mad at Nico. Let’s focus on Nico.)

  Times like these, you can only rely on two words to fully articulate exactly how you feel: “Fuck you, Nico.” Fine, three words. You add the name of the person for emphasis: Yes, you. If you know me well enough, you’d say this isn’t like me at all. Because I am rarely mad, and even when I am, it is a profanity-free kind of mad. If you know me well enough, you’d think perhaps you didn’t hear me right. Which is probably why a dumbfounded Nico gapes at me and goes, “Huh?”

  If you know me well enough, you’d say I wouldn’t dare repeat myself. You’d say I’d most likely pretend I had said something else, then spend the rest of the night trying to forget about it. If you know me well enough, you’d say I can be “responsible” and “mature” and “level-headed” in dealing with this. You’d say I can focus on the “I’m really glad” part instead of the “we’re friends” part. You’d say I’d rise above this. Because I can.