Keep Cool, Stay Tough

Fernando continued to gawk at me visibly disturbed with his mouth slightly ajar as if he was on the verge of saying something, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. I was so incredibly tempted to hang my head and give a shameful nod of acknowledgement, mostly because I knew Cesc would be getting the news via text moments after and I was burning with curiosity to see what that reaction would unfold like. How’s that for a rebound, Cesc?

But I shook my head. I honestly felt too exhausted to drive anyone else mad tonight; especially since I had apparently done such a fine job with pissing off Cristiano.

“No, we’re not even the greatest of friends to be honest,” I answered, wondering if that was going to really be true in the morning.

“Yeah, it really didn’t look like you guys were having a friendly chat,” Fernando agreed.

“Oh we definitely are not,” I gave a dark chuckle.

“Are you alright though?”

“I am running on no sleep, I have hours of revising to catch up on, there’s a shit ton of paperwork just waiting for me in the clinic tomorrow morning, and I think I might still be a little hungover from Saturday,” I complained, very nearly close to tears, suddenly wishing that things weren’t beginning to get so complicated with Cristiano. Why did I get so riled up when he didn’t introduce himself to my friends? That wasn’t part of the deal so why did I get so bothered?

“Hey,” Fernando pulled me into a hug and away from panicked, inconsistent thoughts, “It’ll be fine. Everything’s going to work itself out; you’re just rundown right now. That feeling will pass.”

“He just said something so incredibly stupid, I snapped, even though I knew he was just annoyed about the match, and I don’t know, I probably made it into a bigger deal than I should have, I should probably call him,” I pulled away from Fernando to make a grab for my phone, but he stopped me.

“Just give it a little time, cool off time, for both of you,” Fernando suggested, and still the look in his eye remained skeptical. Every twitch of emotion on his face just kept silently asking the same question over and over again: what the hell are you doing with him?

I bit down on my lower lip, mulling over my options, my phone glowing temptingly in my hand as I looked up at a stony-faced Fernando.

“Can I make a quick observation here?”

I cringed inwardly, but nodded my head anyway.

“Given the fact that I obviously only got a very brief glance at your…whatever the hell you want to call that situation you have with him. The way you two were I don’t know, standing, staring, arguing, maybe I’m wrong, I hope I’m wrong, but if I didn’t know any better I would have assumed he was your boyfriend,” Fernando rushed his words out, losing eye contact with me in the process. It must have been just as weird to say it as it was for me to hear it.

I opened and closed my mouth at least three times as I tried to figure out how to actually respond to that, but silence seemed like the smartest choice as we both turned our attention to the deserted stadium beneath us.

“I’m hungry,” I eventually said, “You could at least get me fed before you throw something like that out there.”

The time on my phone read half past one in the morning when we finished eating at an empty dive bar nearby and sat back to watch a sports news program analyze Barcelona’s game against PSG tomorrow night. The number of messages from Cristiano was a resounding zero.

“So good news, you definitely don’t have a hangover,” Fernando ventured when the program went to an insurance commercial that featured Iker. He eyed my second glass of wine appreciatively.

“It definitely had not been an alcohol-induced headache I had been experiencing,” I replied as I took a generous sip of wine. Fernando mimicked the gesture with his beer.

“Listen, I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but I’m going to tell you this much anyway, because I think we’ve hit that point where it’s okay to be just a little nosy,” Fernando abruptly began.

“Alright,” I answered, and absentmindedly tore apart the paper napkin set in front of me into little, tiny pieces as the news program returned and immediately emphasized the strength of Barcelona’s three-pronged offense.

“You have to think of it as if you’re in the middle of a game, it’s half time, it’s tense, and it’s still tied, and you are not going to be satisfied until you score the goal yourself and win the game Senna; until you do “score the goal,” it’s only going to keep screwing with your head like this,” Fernando explained, “Do you get what I’m saying?”

I furrowed my eyebrows, turning the stem of my wine glass between my fingers as I mulled over his words. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was Fernando persistently avoiding eye contact with me as he spoke, but my mind could not grasp what point he was trying to make. What goal was I supposed to be scoring?

“I think so,” I conceded uncertainly. I couldn’t help wondering just how tipsy Fernando was at the moment.

“So have you thought about it?” He asked.

I genuinely had no clue what ‘it’ meant.

“Why are you so curious?” I countered, trying to grasp for clues to figure out what he was talking about.

He shrugged, “I have no idea. I probably should not be though.”

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be doing a lot of things either,” I returned with an uncertain chuckle.

He ducked his eyes once again as he muttered, “So you have been thinking about it.”

I still had no idea what he was talking about.

“It is really none of my business,” He concluded as he stretched his arms up over his head. It was almost as if he was convincing himself more than me.

I yawned, turning my attention back to the screen that was showing a highlight reel of Ibrohimovic’s best goals of the season, when a strange idea occurred to me.

“How did you know I was thinking about going to see Cesc? Has he been talking to you about me?” I asked, my voice rising and I wasn’t sure if it was excitement or surprise.

Fernando laughed, his expression growing more animated, “You thought I was talking about Cesc!?”
“You weren’t?” I tilted my head, my voice sinking back down to a strangled, disappointed whisper; I was really not accustomed to being a step behind in any conversation. It was so disconcerting.

“No, but it’s interesting that’s where your mind went,” He mused, looking at me with a vague smirk around his lips.

“It seemed like the only logical conclusion,” I muttered, “You are friends with the guy, and he has told you about his secret ex-girlfriend.”

Fernando scoffed, “Logic has nothing to do with it, Spock.”

Hands down this had to absolutely be the most bizarre night of my life. Not even two hours ago I had been having an argument with Cristiano, and now I was sitting across from Fernando, too tipsy to figure out what he was trying to get at, and somehow finding myself back at square one facing off with the decision of whether or not I should go to London.

“It’s not interesting that my mind went to Cesc, it’s sad,” I concluded.

“Why?”

I explained about the conversation that I had started with Cesc a little while ago, and how I was determined to finish it in person, in London.

“So do you think I should do it? Go to London, and finish the conversation in person once and for all.”
“Yeah, you know what, maybe that should be the goal you need to score so you can move on with your life, do it, go to London,” Fernando readily encouraged.

“Okay I need to know what the hell you were on about if it wasn’t about Cesc!”

I was practically squealing as Fernando vehemently shook his head, “No, no, this works better, so much better, trust me.”

“Wow, remind me not to hit the wine so hard next time you and I decide to catch up,” I responded, still miffed that I couldn’t figure out what Fernando had been getting at with the game analogy.

“So are you going to do it? Or are you going to allow yourself to get talked out of it?”

“I am, it needs to happen. This is not just drunk determination, it’s legit,” I assured, hoping that my words weren’t beginning to slur.

He hit his beer against my glass, “Here’s hoping.”

I nodded and sipped my wine.

“Does Sergio know?”

“About what?”

“Cristiano.”

“There’s nothing to know,” I snapped.

“Then why are you two so secretive?”

“So people don’t make stupid assumptions.”

Fernando wasn’t convinced, “Is it really worth all the sneaking around?”

“There really isn’t that much sneaking around being done and yes it is worth it,” I answered without really having to think about because from day one I had asked myself this question and every time the answer was a definitive yes.

“Is he really that much of a conversationalist then?” Fernando had his head tilted to one side, his look screaming the fact that I was being very judged at the moment, and he was seconds away from throwing the book at me. I knew for a fact that if either of us had stayed sober this conversation would not be happening right now.

“Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t say a lot, and I get to hear myself talk that helps, but when he does talk, he gives sound advice,” I sighed, “I don’t know, but he made staying away from Cesc bearable.”

“Why is that an important thing for you?”

“Because you shouldn’t be friends with your exes, and Cesc was a terrible boyfriend and I’m annoyed with him for being a terrible boyfriend. He is basically the reason why I’m in this mess in the first place,” I snarled, slightly caught off guard by my own flash of fury.

“You’re annoyed with him for being a terrible boyfriend years later? Isn’t that a little bit crazy?”
“Sometimes a little bit crazy is exactly what you need in your life, my friend.”

“Is that something Cristiano said?” Fernando asked skeptically with eyebrows raised.

I shook my head, laughing, “You’re obsessed.”

“By what?”

“By Cristiano, that’s what!”

He grinned, his eyes half-closed. Cesc had not been exaggerating about gossip and the Spanish national team.

“It’s just fascinating. You two are night and day, and somehow it just makes sense that he’s the one you would...” He trailed off, losing the words, or deciding against saying them aloud, I couldn’t really tell.

I wrinkled my nose, “What do you see in that confused head of yours?”

He smirked, “I see you going to London, and finally making amends with your ex-boyfriend.”

I rolled my eyes at the abrupt change of subject.

“Tell me what he talks about when it’s just the two of you,” Fernando asked after a few moments of silence.

“He really doesn’t say much, he asks questions, but then sometimes I think he tunes me out,” I replied honestly. I was trying to find the reason why this thing with Cristiano was working so well, at least up until tonight, but there was nothing tangible to grasp at. There was no firefly to grab and show Fernando.

“And that’s beneficial to you?”

Fernando broke me out of my thinking tank.

“For whatever reason, it’s working,” I answered without missing a beat.

“If that’s what’s working for you, then what did Cesc do to be a terrible boyfriend, listen too much?”

“You know perfectly well what he did, and anyway I don’t want to get into it with his playmate,” I argued.

“Teammate,” He corrected.

“Same difference.”

He huffed and some of the napkin pieces I had torn apart blew back to me.

Neither Cristiano nor Cesc were brought up after that even though we didn’t leave the bar until it was nearing three in the morning. Instead we finally got to talking about Fernando, and his wife, and his kids. I flipped through pictures and videos on his phone until the battery died and we took that as our cue to get going.

We arrived in front of Martha’s dark house, and I smiled when I saw the porch light was still on, and I turned back towards Fernando to say good night, but something else bubbled out instead.

“So you really aren’t going to tell me what that analogy was really about?”

“It was about you going to London,” He insisted for the umpteenth time.

I rolled my eyes, muttering, “Liar,” under my breath.

He laughed, “Good night, Senna.”

“Good night, Fernando.”

I fell into an easy sleep once I had washed up and changed into pjs, but like clockwork I was wide awake by seven and out the door for a morning run by 7:15. The throbbing in my head was less severe than on Sunday morning probably because I had drunk considerably less, and there wasn’t even a whiff of nausea thankfully. Wine was really more of my forte. Vodka was not.

Random snippets of my conversation with Fernando ran through my head as I jogged down the familiar block, nodding and smiling at the occasional friendly face that were either watering their lawns or walking their dogs.

I froze. Something clicked in my head that I hadn’t been able to see in my inebriated state last night. The realization struck me so forcefully and so out of the blue I stayed standing, allowing my thoughts to run ahead as my breathing burned my lungs. A soft breeze blew wisps of hair in my face, sticking against my lips as my mind set itself off going faster and faster in disbelief. The music continued to bang on in my ears as a new thought finally revealed itself.

Had Fernando been talking about me sleeping with Cristiano when he made that analogy? Was that why he could never quite meet my eye when he spoke? And he kept repeating that it wasn’t his business and he shouldn’t be bringing it up? He had said something about Cristiano acting like my boyfriend, hadn’t he? Did he really believe I’m harboring more than friendly feeling for Cristiano?
I shook the suggestion off and resumed my jog. But it refused to get out of my head. I ran faster, raised the volume of my music, but I couldn’t seem to run away from these strange thoughts.

Am I harboring more than friendly feelings for Cristiano?