“I like that you have hair.” His lips were a quarter of an inch from mine.
“Hmmm?”
“Down there. Hair. I like knowing that I’m with a woman, not a little girl. The whole waxing thing is overrated.”
My hand went to my face. “Oh.” I’d pondered the thought endlessly. Nicole’s opinion is to go Brazilian (no pun intended), or at least French. Johnny had no particular opinion about hair down there, so I had just kept a bikini wax and trimmed the length.
I was too embarrassed to comment on it.
I looked over at the books on his shelf. Jodi Picoult. John Green. Kristin Hannah. All dramas. “You have an interesting taste in books...for a boy.”
“I could tell you they’re research for a documentary.”
“Are they?”
“No.”
“You’re...deep, you know that?”
He kept looking at the ceiling.
“Does it make you uncomfortable when I say that?” I asked.
“No. No, it doesn’t.”
I felt closer to him, much closer. I felt so much closer that the next question escaped me without me really thinking about it. “What happened to your mother, Tiago. How did she die?”
He did the same thing as earlier. His hand had been twiddling with my shoulder, and then it stopped.
He slid his arm from under my head, started to sit. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, it’s cool. I just... I’ll tell you. I’m glad you asked. You would find out one day anyway.” He sat at the edge of the bed. “I was, uhm, thirteen. It was when we lived in Rio. We had lived in London for some years before that. Uhm...” Then, as if he just wanted to pull the bandaid off quickly: “Well, she was murdered. Some guys came in at night. My dad wasn’t home. I was there. And then...” He gathered himself. “She was...raped and...” He cleared his throat. “And...murdered. And...I...watched it happen. They...made me look and...ahem...when I didn’t, they...cut me...” He gestured to the two scars on his face. “The first one was... The top one... That was when they...mounted...her. I didn’t want to look. And...they cut me slowly and made me. And the second was...” He pointed to the lower scar. “Was when they put the gun to her head and... Y’know.” He said nothing more. “Well. That was it.”
There was an eon of silence as my mind waded blindly through abject shock.
An eon.
Total silence.
And then my mouth spoke. My mouth, not me, because I was too stunned. Too shaken. Almost losing my bladder. My mouth said, slowly, “Fuck.”
Tiago looked at me. “It’s fine. It’s fine. Really. I got a lot of help to get through it. It’s fine. And I’m...glad you asked. And I’m...glad you waited for us to...be a little more...intimate...before asking. You would have to find out some time. I’m glad you asked.”
His eyes weren’t quivering. His jaw wasn’t shaking. But he was on a tightrope. I could see it. Just balancing gently.
I thought it best not to push that tightrope. Best not to push him over. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.
“Thanks for not feeling sorry for me.”
I nodded. But I did feel sorry, for what he had to go through. Seeing the blood of a parent in front of you, their final blood, violently, is life-changing. Completely life-changing. You’re never the same again. And everything about you changes.
I know.
“Did they find the guys?” I asked.
“Yeah, they did. Someone had heard the shouting. Called the police. They rushed in there. Lots of gunshots. Big gunfight. I ran into a cupboard the moment the cops came in. I survived. Turns out my mother had had an affair with one of the assailants, several years long. Years before. He had been calling her, trying to meet up with her again. Trying to rekindle things. A ‘Crime of Passion,’ the papers called it. Destroyed my father, that knowledge. Anyway.” Pause. “Not everyone in a favela is bad, you know. And those that are, well, some of them heard about my ordeal. The cuts I got. They respected me for it. Never gave me shit when I went there to take photos. I go to Rio often, to visit my mother’s grave. And every time I’m there I take some photos. This...” He pointed to the dagger stabbing a butterfly on his right arm. “I got this for her, years later. She’s the butterfly. Still beautiful. But she couldn’t survive life, the blade.” He stared at it for a while. “I know it’s a little corny, maybe. Everyone’s tattoos have meaning to him or her. This is what mine means.”
I slid up next to him. Rubbed his hair. “You’re great, you know that?”
He looked at me blankly.
I kissed him. A comfortable kiss like a girlfriend would give to a boyfriend. “I said you’re great. You’re just... You’re great.”
He laughed, a sad laugh.
I kissed his ear, his cheek. His neck.
Tiago put his hand on my leg, rubbed it.
I kissed his nose, the corner of his eye.
His grip on my leg tightened.
I looked at his eyes. His dark, passionate eyes.
There was a film of water on them.
I kissed his cheek. His forehead.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” he said.
He got up abruptly.
And then he was gone.
-7-
We watched movies the rest of the day. Romantic comedies. I was sick of sad things.
And we made out. We made out until his roommates came home at night.
Erik and François looked tired from a day’s full shooting. “You guys have fun?” I asked them.
“Yah, very busy,” Erik said in his German accent. “You?” he asked politely.
“Yeah, we had fun. Watched lots of movies,” I said.
“Cool. Cool.”
François spoke some movie-lingo to Tiago, something about “shooting an Abby Singer” and “nailing the Tight-On just right.” I had no idea...
Our day was coming to an end, and I didn’t want it to. Erik and François went to their rooms and I told Tiago, “I better go.”
“No.”
“Yeah, I must. I’m sure your roommates wanna use their living room.”
“They’re welcome to. No one’s telling them they can’t.”
I smiled, and extracted myself from his arms, feeling the unbelievable tug of not wanting to leave. “Oh, God,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“What?”
This feels like love, I wanted to say. But even I knew that was presumptuous.
But it did feel like it. It didn’t have to be. But it felt like it.
He held my hand tightly, stopping me from leaving. “I gotta go,” I said.
He shook his head, pulled me so I almost fell over him.
Eventually he accepted, stood. Walked me to his room and helped me gather my stuff. “You’ll need something to keep you warm,” he said, throwing me the Nike hoody he’d worn at the party two weeks ago. I slipped it on and reveled in his scent.
He held out his hand to me. “Let’s go,” he said.
I gripped his palm and pulled him to me, kissed him. Kissed him forever. Not bearing the thought of leaving.
I floated on cloud nine with him all the way to the subway station. The half-mile through the city with its smells of smog and loud sounds of traffic felt like a walk through a park full of roses and butterflies.
At the subway, we kissed again. We kissed probably for another fifteen minutes, I couldn’t get enough of his wet lips on mine. The taste of his tongue. The coolness of it as it traveled my lower lip. His hands pressing against the small of my back. His shaft, pushing against me, pressing at my nub.
Finally, I left, floated further down the steps. A woman with long nails and braids looked at me, her thick blue eyeshadow glowing against the dark carob of her skin. “You in love, ain’tcha?” she said.
I was too sedated to answer.
Sedated by Tiago.
And how he’d touched me.
And I’m not talking physically.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
~ True Love ~
-1-
Sunday, May 31
Tina and I spent the morning together. I’d asked her to be my guinea pig for my first-ever studio shots. The session went well. I played with the lighting a lot, tested different things, got to know her. Turns out she’s from Nigeria, which explained the accent.
I got a few texts from Tiago during it and went red in the face. So he became the main subject of our conversation. And the smiles and laughs I got from her while mentioning it made for great photos.
We strolled the promenade afterwards, had an ice cream at Pier One.
Nicole was acting today. Tina was scheduled for the entirety of the coming week, possibly even the coming weekend, so I’d grabbed her just in time for the studio shoot.
In the afternoon, I called Johnny.
Maybe it was a mistake.
-2-
You can't stop loving someone. You just can't. No matter how hard you try, who you meet, how many new lovers you get.
You just can't.
You move on. You forget. But you never stop loving him.
Ever.
I learned that after calling Johnny.
Johnny and I had spent over a decade together. The love I’d felt for him had been the real deal, innocent, beautiful. He’d taken my virginity. And I’d taken his. He’d beaten the quarterback of the school to a pulp after he’d hurt me. He’d been there for me when my father had gone through alcohol dependency, through dad’s stints of violence.
And after dad had died.
And now Johnny was with someone else. Had been with her since September. Nine months. A long relationship. He and I had only actually dated for two years. Less if you count the time after my dad had died and I became a zombie.
And now I was also with someone. Life had intervened, and we’d moved on.
But you never stop loving someone.
I called him from the apartment. Living room. My voice was a lonely echo as I spoke.
Just before calling, I’d done a quick calculation of the time in Lisbon. Nine PM. Not late for the Portuguese. Like six PM for us.
As I hit the call button on my phone, a dull ache formed in my stomach. And I suddenly needed the bathroom.
Johnny answered immediately.
I don’t know if I should have called him. I just don’t know. Because when he answered, I was seventeen again. And I was on a bed of rose-petals, my pinky finger just slightly tender from breaking it seven weeks before. And Johnny was just inside me, and he was saying, This might hurt.
And it did. But not at the time. Not at that moment. Later.
Much later.
It hurt right now.
-3-
I played it cool. I wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t a two-timer. Sure, Tiago and I had been “together” only two weeks. But two weeks or two days or two months isn’t much of a difference to me. To me, when I’m with someone, I’m with him.
“H—hey!” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “What’s up?”
“C—Cat?”
Cat.
“Yeah, uhm, it’s me. How are you?”
Silence for a beat. “Wow. I’m... I can’t believe you called.”
“Well... You promised me we’d stay friends. And, well, I’m cashing in.” I was trembling. “I haven’t heard from you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“It’s been five months since you asked me for time.” Five months. My unlucky number.
“You’re right. It’s difficult...long distance, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. So, fill me in, what you been up to?”
“Working, mostly. Chilling at the beach. Cascais is still the most beautiful place in the world to live in.” Small-talk.
“You staying at your parents’ place?” Johnny’s parents had an apartment right on the beachfront, facing west to catch the ocean sunsets.
“Yeah, but I’ll be getting my own place soon.”
“Oh. Wow. Must be making a lot of money then.”
Pause. “It’s OK.”
“Your dad told me you were closing some big deals.”
Pause. “Yeah. Some.” Laconic answers. I was struggling to maintain my upbeat tone. Struggling to find something more to talk about without going where either of us didn’t want to go: Us.
“And you?” he said. “Busy?” The classic no-commitment question.
“Uhm, yeah. Busy. Started taking studio shots today.”
“Uh-huh. Any progress on your book?” he asked.
I told him.
And so we continued, grappling for things to talk about, subjects above water, nothing serious, everything light.
And then the silence came.
But I didn’t want him to go.
I didn’t yearn to be with him, I noticed, but I didn’t want him to go.
Finally, there was no more option. We had to go there. If it was going to be another five months before I spoke to him again, I wanted to do my best to bring us closer in this conversation.
“So...” I hinted. “Still with...that girl?” I honestly didn’t remember her name.
Silence.
I heard hard wind against the phone on his side. He might be standing on his balcony, looking out at the ocean.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just trying... I’m just trying to...fix...things, Johnny. We always used to talk about girls—”
“Yeah, we’re still together.”
“Cool. Cool.”
“And you?” he said.
“Uhm, no”—Why did I just lie to him?—“no one. No.” I felt like scum. But it is what it is.
“I see.”
Pause. Silence.
“If I weren’t seeing anyone, Cat, would it make a difference?”
“Wh—what do you mean?”
“If I wasn’t seeing anyone right now, would it make a difference? Between you and me.”
“But you are, aren’t you?”
“Uhm, yeah, I am. Susana. But if I weren’t.”
“Don’t break up with her because of me, Johnny.”
“It’s a rhetorical question, Cat. I’m just interested. If I weren’t...”
“Then?”
“I’m asking you,” he said. “What would happen?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
There was only one answer possible.
Only one.
“I’m...with...someone, Johnny.”
I was pretty sure I heard a screech, maybe a wall cracking. Definitely an explosion somewhere.
“You’re with someone,” he said, no emotion.
“Uhm...” I just couldn’t lie to Tiago. Lying to Johnny about him, would be the same as lying to Tiago’s face. “Yeah. I...am. Just...just two weeks. It’s very new but...”
My stomach hit the ground. My eyes prickled with wetness.
“It’s serious?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t... Johnny, this is not why I called you—”
“Just tell me.”
“If it’s serious? I don’t know. It’s only been two weeks. Not even.”
“Do you like him?”
The answer in my head was resoundingly clear, reverberating against the brick walls. “Yes. I do.”
The briefest of pauses. “That’s good, Cat. That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
The façade was gone now. It was me and Johnny. Talking. Talking for real. The upbeatness at the start hadn’t been real. This was real.
And this is why we’d loved each other before. Because we’d been able to tell each other anything.
Anything.
So now I told him the truth. “For the record,” I said. “I miss our talks as well. I miss you. I miss you every day. I miss you so much my stomach hurts. Just so you know.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Cat. Not for your suffering, but because I thought I was alone. And I’m...happy for you...with this guy. I am. I promise you.”
Quiet tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t und
erstand them. Didn’t.
“Cat.”
“Yeah.”
“For the record, I’ve never stopped loving you. Ever. And I always will.”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. Wiped my nose against my arm. I love you, too, I wanted to say. But I just couldn’t. Maybe someday I’d tell him. But not today.
“Does he treat you right?” Johnny asked.
“I...guess. I mean, it’s been only two weeks,” I repeated.
“Yeah. OK.”
“I understand you now,” I said to him.
“Understand what?”
“How you felt...once you’d started dating this...”
“Susana.”
“...this Susana. I understand it now.”
“I was involved.”
“Yes.”
“And so I couldn’t get out. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah.”
“Because it isn’t right,” he said.
I shook my head again. Finally: “No.”
“I love you, Cat.”
“I love you, Johnny. I always will.”
“Maybe in another life.”
Maybe.
“I’ll be in the states soon. One of these days. Gonna visit my family. Not sure when.”
“Daniela has a boyfriend.”
“I know. Can you believe it?”
And then we spoke. We spoke for an hour. We spoke until Nicole got home. Until my tears were dry. And until I didn’t miss him so much anymore.
In the end, just before we hung up the phone, Johnny said, “Cat, this guy... If he treats you wrong, I’ll hurt him. I will. I’ll hurt him so he can’t walk again.” And I could hear he meant it.
“OK.” I laughed, a little sad. “I wish I had been there for you more in the beginning, been more supportive of your own relationship.”
“You didn’t need to be.”
“But I wish I had been.”
“You regret the past too much, Cat.”
“I know. It’s who I am.”
-4-
“Who the hell was that?” Nicole sat on the couch across from me.
“Johnny.”
Her already pale face went even paler, the freckles on it almost radiant.
Losing Johnny Page 11
