Every Girl's Guide to Flings (Every Girls Guide)

by Marla Miniano

  But maybe him missing the point is a sign that he deserves a better ending than this, that we deserve a better ending than this. Maybe it is a sign that I should not be a giant coward about our non-relationship, that because I was the one who started this purposely, it follows that I should be the one to end this properly. Maybe doing this face-to-face is the only way to give us both closure, to end it clean and end it well.

  He rings the bell, and I open the door to let him in. My parents are at some charity event somewhere, Lexi is probably making googly eyes at Timmy, and our helpers are on their day off. It is just him and me, alone. He hands me a plain white envelope, and I open it to find two plane tickets to Ilocos.

  “What are these?” I ask.

  “Tickets,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist and leaning in to kiss me.

  I pull back. “Why are you giving them to me?” I don’t even bother to point out that, yes, I know these are tickets, which is the reaction he was probably waiting for, aside from me squealing in delight.

  “Because I want to go to Ilocos with you next weekend,” he says. “I’ve booked the hotel and everything.” He settles for a peck on the cheek and leads me toward the couch.

  “Why?” I ask. “Romantic trips out of town are for couples. We’re not a couple.” I can’t bring myself to look at him when I say this.

  “No, we’re not,” he replies, too quickly. After a pause (probably so it would seem like a casual afterthought and not a hope he has been harboring for a while now), he teases, “Not yet, at least.” He grins playfully to let me know that he may or may not be kidding, that he may or may not be saying what I think he’s saying, depending on how I choose to take it.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, not smiling back. I do not want to be the one to say it out loud. I want to hear it from him.

  And I do. He tells me, “I know we were just sort of playing around at first. But I’m sure we both realize that this has turned into so much more than what we bargained for.”

  This is not what I expected at all. I expected us to take a step back and analyze our “relationship,” then agree that things are going too fast and getting too serious. I expected us to part ways on good terms, and be open to the idea of eventually becoming friends. In my mind, there was no way we weren’t going to end it, but it seems that as far as Jaime is concerned, this is only the beginning.

  He says, “I’m tired. I don’t want to play games with you anymore.”

  “Then what do you want, Jaime?” I ask. I am aware that by asking, I am allowing him to make demands and I am giving him permission to tell me what to do. I am aware that I am not exactly making progress in ending it clean and ending it well.

  “I want you to acknowledge what a good thing we’ve got going on here,” he says. “I want you to accept that you haven’t been able to stop thinking about me. I want you to accept that you like hearing from me every day, that when you resist picking up the phone to dial my number, you actually miss me. I want you to accept that this is not something that can be calculated and controlled and categorized and compartmentalized. I want you to accept that maybe, if you take a risk, this could turn out to be so much more than what it already is.”

  He tells me, “Give me a chance.” He says it in a way that implies it is the only logical thing to do, that there is really no other option. He does not say, Can you give me a chance? or even, Please give me a chance. It is not a suggestion. It is not a request.

  You are probably scratching your head in confusion or disbelief, not understanding why I am so stubborn, why it is so difficult for me to take a shot at a relationship with a guy I genuinely like. You probably think I’m just doing this to get attention, to get people to chase me and make me feel wanted. You probably think I am doing the female species a disgrace by giving guys the impression that commitment and dedication are not that important, that there is a way to get all the “benefits” without having to work for them. You probably think I should just cut the crap and grab Jaime’s gorgeous face and kiss him. And technically, I could do that. But I don’t. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry.” I hand him back our tickets—his tickets. “You shouldn’t have given me these.”

  “Come on, Rickie,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

  Let me tell you about the very first guy I had real feelings for: I was a high school freshman, and he was a friend of a friend and already a junior. His name was Francis, and he was the type of guy who wasn’t even supposed to know I existed. He invited me to a party, and for weeks, I obsessed over what dress to buy and what shoes to wear. I obsessed over how to act in front of his friends—should I be all sweet and innocent and girly, or should I be fun and cool and daring? I obsessed over that perfect moment on the dance floor, when the lights would dim and the music would slow down, and his hands would find their way to my waist and draw me close. I obsessed over what to say when he professed his love; I practiced my reactions in front of the mirror for good measure. I obsessed over all the “signs” he gave me—separating them into which ones meant nothing, which ones meant something, and which ones meant everything. I obsessed over Francis, and on that night, found out that he only brought me there to make another girl jealous. I watched him watch her all night, wondering why I never saw it coming, why it was so easy for me to believe he felt the same way for me. At the end of the drive home, he apologized and said he couldn’t see me anymore, that it wasn’t fair to either of us (which I totally didn’t get; how is it fair that he gets to decide what is and isn’t fair for the both of us?). Like any other girl encountering rejection for the first time, I thought I had the power to make him stay. I thought maybe if I said the right thing at the right time, he’d change his mind about me, about us. I said the exact same thing Jaime just told me: Come on, don’t do this.

  “I want to be with you, Rickie. I mean, really be with you.” He takes my hand. “I love you.” He says it easily, comfortably—like he has no reason to be afraid or unsure because I am not going to reject him, or leave him hanging. Like he is certain that these words would make sense to me, and make everything else make sense. Like he is certain that I would say it right back.

  I say, “I can’t.” As if that weren’t enough, I add, “Let’s just be friends.”

  He lets go of my hand. “You know, you’re not as great as you think you are,” he says, getting up.

  I don’t want to have to look up at him, so I stand, too. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a mess, Rickie.” He looks right at me. “You think it’s so cool that you have all these flings with all these guys, that you have this reputation for being all fun with no strings attached. You think it makes you so interesting and intriguing.”

  “Stop it,” I tell him, but my voice is so low I don’t know if he hears me.

  “You think it’s so cute,” he continues. “But you know what? It just makes you cheap.”

  I stand there, stunned, until I find enough dignity to declare, “We are done, Jaime.”

  I don’t even feel the tears on my face until he asks, “Why are you crying?” Which is obviously a stupid question.

  “I’m not crying,” I say. Which is obviously a stupid answer. “We are done, Jaime,” I repeat.

  “Good,” he says. When he leaves, he slams the door behind him, and the firm finality of this sound echoes all throughout my silent, empty house.

  Rule number 5:

  Learn to take risks.

  You know how sometimes, it is so easy to take the truth and turn it around to work to your advantage? Admit it, you’ve done this at least once in your life, when it was convenient to pretend because nobody else knows the real score and the full story. When people hold very little information about what really happened, it is merely a matter of which side is aired faster—usually, the one who speaks first gets dibs on the sympathy votes; credibility is given on a first-come, first-served basis.

  It is Jaime’s word against mine, and this is my version of the truth: What we had was no diff
erent from what I had with all the other guys. It was a fling, and it meant nothing more than that. There was a deadline and an agreement. There was no exclusivity, and the decision to stop dating was a mutual one. This version will protect me, and maybe even convince me, if I believe in it hard enough, that I did the right thing. (Yes, my definition of “right” does not fit regular standards, but you get what I’m saying.)

  It is Bryan who asks first. I tell him my sorry little story, and I guess it is a good sign that he feels compelled to hug me afterwards and assure me that I will be fine. Beneath his concern for me, I can tell there is something he is dying to tell me, and I say, “You have sparkles in your eyes. Go ahead. Explain.”

  He giggles, and then stops himself. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I mean, we can both be sad and mopey today, if you want. I can tell you tomorrow.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like that’s going to help? Let’s forget about me and focus on you.”

  He is only too happy to oblige. “Tonight, I am going out on a date with, wait for it...Gabriel!”

  “Gabriel?” I shriek. Back in the days when we thought he was straight, Anna and I were both hopelessly infatuated with him. (I know, we have disturbingly similar taste in men.) We put his band Sorpresa’s songs on repeat, elbowed our way towards the stage during gigs, and practically worshipped him in all his hunky glory. But I never got the chance to meet him, while Anna went on to be an extra in one of his music videos, and eventually, an album-sleeve-acknowledgment-worthy friend. “The Gabriel? Ohmygod, you lucky bitch. What did you do?”

  He slaps my knee. “Bruha. What do you mean, what did I do? I did nothing, aside from be myself. I was charming and interesting and positively sexy. He is in love with me,” he declares.

  I laugh. “Your modesty astounds me sometimes,” I say. “Do you already know what you’re going to wear?”

  “No,” he says. “You want to help me shop? I want to look classy, not trashy. But I don’t want to look like I dressed up too much for him. Nothing’s more unattractive than an over-eager beaver. Oh no, do you think I’ll have enough time to get a manicure? I looked at his nails the other day, and they are just immaculate. I don’t want him to get turned off with mine. I should stop babbling, right? Am I annoying you now?” He finishes this sequence of sentences in less than thirty seconds.

  “Okay, before anything else, breathe,” I tell him. He takes in a huge gulp of air. “We shall go to the mall, buy your new outfit, and have your nails done. Most of all, we shall not panic. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Very clear.”

  I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  “Please, please, please, pretty please?” Bryan whines.

  “No, no, no, a million times, NO!” I shout. He has been pouting and begging and stomping around my bedroom for what feels like hours. He plops down on the floor, looks up at me, and tugs on the hem of my pajamas. I swat his hand away. His date with Gabriel was completely successful—so successful, in fact, that Gabriel has asked him to have dinner with his family tonight for his lola’s eightieth birthday. But there was a catch: Gabriel needed help finding a date for his cousin, who is apparently depressed over some girl, and Bryan, in a fit of chivalry, had volunteered me. The nerve, right? I mean, first of all, I could have had other plans; who was he to assume I had no life outside of him? Second, I hate going on blind dates AND I hate attending family gatherings, so I’d rather shave my head than get involved in this double nightmare. And third, any guy who actually needs to be set up by his cousin is bound to be a big fat loser, and I think I’d be better off spending my evening (and the rest of my life) alone, thank you very much. I am so not going to cooperate.

  “I will owe you,” Bryan says. “I will owe you big time. Like, I’ll buy you a drink every week for the next seven months. Or, you know those gladiators you saw in Schu the other day? I’ll buy you two pairs, one in black and one in white. Or, I’ll stop making snide comments about your love life, and I’ll stop referring to your boys by number. (As of last count, he has reached twenty-seven.) Please, Rickie. I promise I’ll do anything.”

  I flash him a sinister smile. “Anything?”

  He gulps, probably wondering if Gabriel is worth all this trouble. “Yeeeees,” he says, drawing the word out the way he does when it’s a forced yes, or a sarcastic yes, or not really a yes. “Anything. I swear.”

  “Good,” I say. “Help me with Anna and Chrissy, then. This silent treatment is getting really old. I miss them.” I know Bryan will complain about this, but I’m pretty sure he’ll do it anyway.

  “Eww,” he says. “I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of high school kids.” He pretends to be superior to Anna and Chrissy, even going as far as calling them babies, but he gets that they’re good for me because otherwise, who would balance me out? I put my hands on my hips. “You promised,” I remind him.

  “Okay, okay.” He rolls his eyes. “But we’ll worry about that afterwards, okay? Right now, we need to discuss how you’ll be nice to Gabriel’s cousin, regardless of how boring or baduy you think he is, regardless of your inability to consider him as date material.”

  I look at him suspiciously. “Do you already know what he looks like?”

  “No,” he admits. “Gabriel doesn’t have photos of him in his phone.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Duh,” he says. “No guy, regardless of gender preference, carries around photos of his cousin in his pocket, whether in his wallet or in his phone. Ever. It’s just not how things roll.”

  “Okay,” I sigh dramatically, like this blind date is an enormous sacrifice for me, like it would cost me years of torture and trauma instead of a few hours of proper behavior. “What’s the dude’s name? You won’t deprive me of that, will you?”

  His lips twitch. “Uh, you know what, I think it would be better if you guys are introduced on the spot. He doesn’t know your name. Gabriel didn’t even ask. He just said, ‘I trust your taste’ and that was that. And besides, if I give you his name, you’d go on stalker mode and search for his photos on Multiply or Facebook. I happen to know you Google almost every boy you meet.”

  I punch him on the shoulder and he yelps. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, rubbing his shoulder. “His name’s Jiggy.”

  I lean closer to him. “Wait, I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say his name is Jiggy.” I giggle.

  He gulps again. “It is Jiggy.”

  “As in Chiggy with a J?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in ‘Gettin’ Jiggy With It’?”

  “Uh...yes.”

  I stand up. “Ohmygod, what kind of a name is that? And what were his parents thinking? That is awful! Okay, this is where I draw the line. No way am I going on a blind date with a guy who sounds like a ‘90s rapper. Sorry, Bry, you’re on your own with this one.” I open my closet. “Now, excuse me while I start hunting for something to wear on a normal Saturday in which I will not be forced to interact with someone named Jiggy.”

  He throws himself across my closet, using his body as a shield, like my closet is a monster about to eat me up and he is risking his heroic life to save a dear friend. I have no idea why he’s doing this. I raise an eyebrow at him and tap my foot impatiently, waiting for him to realize how much of an idiot he’s being.

  “Pleeeeeeeeease, Rickie,” he says. “Come on. I like Gabriel so so sooo much, and this would really mean a lot to him. He sounds like he’s super worried about this cousin.” There are actual tears in his eyes—the product of acting workshops his mom made him take over a couple of summers when he was in grade school (I think that was roughly the time he realized he was gay). “Pleeeeeeeeease!” He draws the word out the way he does when it’s a pa-cute please, or an urgent please, or a really, really desperate please.

  “FINE,” I say. “But if he’s in a bonnet and a sando and wearing five pounds of bling, I’m gone.”

  “Yay, yay, yay! You won’t regret this, Ric.” He gets do
wn on his knees and hugs my legs gratefully. OA.

  I sigh again, even more dramatically this time. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I will.”

  Bryan and Gabriel pick me up at six PM in Gabriel’s incredibly cool car. He is still smokin’ hot, and I might still have a teensy bit of a harmless crush on him. He keeps his left hand on the steering wheel and holds Bryan’s hand with his right. Even from the backseat, I can see Bryan’s smile stretching from ear to ear. I rarely see him like this—usually, he puts on an air of calm, detached nonchalance, as if he couldn’t care less whether or not the other guy is into him. From the backseat, I feel my own smile stretching from ear to ear; I can’t help but be happy and kilig for the both of them.

  We reach Gabriel’s village clubhouse, where the party is already in full swing. We are welcomed by a banner that proclaims, in bright green letters, Happy Birthday, Lola Lucia! A very good-looking woman in her mid-forties comes up to us, wearing a deep blue satin dress and a chic string of pearls around her neck. I glance down at my basic black tube dress and the grey cardigan I hastily threw over it at the last minute, and wonder if I look wholesome and mature enough for an eightieth birthday party.

  “This is my mom,” Gabriel says. “Ma, this is Bryan.” The fact that he doesn’t follow up with either my friend or my date implies that he has already talked to his mom about Bryan and she has already given her seal of approval, and that this scene right here is just for formality’s sake.