Her expression is the gravest I’ve ever seen. Of course, my mom and I have had fights before, but she’s never used this tone with me. As if the subject is of the utmost importance. I want to apologize, to explain that it was just a couple of beers, that it honestly doesn’t even taste that good, but I don’t say any of that.
“You’re about to turn eighteen. You’ll make your own decisions, go on with your life, and I think I’ve taught you everything I needed to at this point. But yesterday, for the first time ever, I felt unsure about you. I spent the night tossing and turning, wondering if I’m a good mother or—”
“Of course you are!” I interrupt, because I can’t sit here and listen to my mother say something this absurd.
“Pssst, quiet. I’m speaking,” she says, bringing a finger to her lips. “Like I said, this is not a lecture about drinking. I feel like I can trust you to be responsible. Even if you couldn’t cover your tracks from last night!”
“I couldn’t?” I ask, genuinely confused, trying to remember if there’s a chance I threw up in the bathroom.
My mom has only to point at me, and I get it. I don’t need a mirror to know that I look a mess.
“What I am afraid of,” my mom goes on, “are the things you are able to hide. The things you don’t tell me.”
“You can rest assured, Mom. Those are things I tell to the therapist.”
She lets out a soft chuckle and holds my hand.
“I wish I could know everything that goes on in your head,” she says. And after a moment she continues, “Well, almost everything. I wish I could help you get through all the crises of this time in your life so you won’t get hurt. I know sometimes we feel like we can take on the world after we’ve had two cans of beer.”
Or five, I think.
“But you will always be my boy. And I will always be your mom. So you can count on me, always. Don’t hide things from me, son. You can tell me about what’s happening in your life. Because I love you and nothing will ever change that.”
I don’t understand what she’s expecting from me in this moment. I don’t understand if she wants me to apologize, if she wants me to tell her everything that happened last night, or if she wants to know everything that happened in the rest of my life.
Regardless of her expectations, my head still hurts and I’m in no condition to come up with anything smart to say.
“I need your help, then,” I say, and there’s a spark in her eyes at the possibility of me opening up to her. “How do I make this headache go away?”
She laughs halfheartedly, unable to hide her frustration.
“It’s called a hangover, Felipe,” she says, getting up and slapping the back of my neck (which definitely does not help). “The aspirin will kick in soon. But just in case, I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee for you.”
I frown because I hate coffee, but when she places a mug of the fuming black liquid in front of me, I change my mind. Just the smell of it makes me feel better.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say after the first sip.
“I love you, son,” she answers, drinking her coffee, too.
“You know this was the feeblest parental lecture on drinking in history, right?”
“I know.”
“And that you’ll probably have to resign from the Mothers’ Association after this?”
“Shut up, Felipe!” she says, laughing, almost choking on her coffee.
And I smile because the hangover is starting to go away after all.
The whole conversation with my mom made me forget momentarily that I spent the entire night snuggling with Caio. So when he makes an appearance in the kitchen and takes a seat at the table for breakfast, it catches me off guard.
Caio has already showered and is handsome, smells great, and has a smile on his face. It’s nearly insulting, considering I’m still wearing yesterday’s sweaty outfit. I try to shove my nose under my armpit discreetly to gauge the situation. In case you are wondering, the situation is acceptable. Could be much worse.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to pretend I wasn’t just casually smelling my armpit. An armpit that, by the way, served as Caio’s pillow the entire night.
Caio answers with a smile and pours himself a glass of milk. Unlike myself, he seems healthy and displays no signs of a hangover. None. Maybe he’s pretending so he won’t have to explain himself to my mom. Or maybe he’s an expert in the hangover department, and three (or five) cans of beer have no effect on him.
I can feel the cold sweat coming down my forehead. My mom is focused on a crossword puzzle, so she’s barely paying any attention to the two of us. Caio’s arm bumps against mine when he reaches for the cream cheese. I look at him, he looks at me, and a never-ending look exchange takes place.
I wonder if he remembers. He probably does.
He knows he slept in my bed because he woke up still there. But does he remember the part where he hugged me and said, “Stay here with me”?
“Unforgettable,” Caio says, loud and clear.
“Huh?” I say, confused, almost dropping my second cup of coffee.
“Memorable, thirteen letters,” he says, pointing at my mom’s crossword puzzle. “U-N-F-O-R-G-E-T-T-A-B-L-E,” Caio spells, counting the letters on his fingers.
“Oh, thanks, dear!” my mom says, filling the blanks where Caio pointed.
I get up, frustrated, and start doing the dishes. Caio probably doesn’t remember. He would probably never sleep by my side, in my bed, if he wasn’t drunk. And if he does remember, I wonder if it’s a story he would tell his friends when “embarrassing moments I’ve had with my clueless neighbor” comes up at a party.
Felipe, in ten letters: D-E-L-U-S-I-O-N-A-L.
After breakfast I decided to take a long shower. Maybe the water would make me feel better. But so far, it’s brought me nothing but self-sabotage. I can’t stop thinking about what Caio might be thinking, which is exhausting.
I could simply say to him, “So what did you think about last night, when we slept in the same bed for no real reason, in a super-uncomfortable position that still managed to be a pretty good experience, eh, Caio?”
But my greatest fear is to find out his answer. When you’re afraid of the answer, you just don’t ask the question. And that’s what I do throughout the day—avoid asking the question.
Caio tries to strike up a conversation a couple of times. I give him awkward responses, looking for signs in every word he says. Most of the time, there are no signs.
I realize that I’ve officially ruined our friendship when Caio gives up on trying to talk to me and continues reading The Two Towers. This series has been an imaginary obstacle from the very beginning, and when he reads it, I go quiet, because I know he has nothing left to say.
I try to distract myself with the TV, but honestly, have you tried watching TV on a Sunday? It’s torture.
So Sunday drags by. I pace around the house. Help my mom make dinner. We have ice cream for dessert. I suggest a round of Uno, but no one wants to play, and before I know it, the day is over.
I get ready for bed (shorts and an old shirt, because I decide to give my Batman pajamas a rest, but I still don’t know if it’s already time to wash them or not), and when I get to the bedroom, Caio is already in bed. Not my bed, unfortunately.