Page 69 of Boy Friends
The same is true for Luca. Though when he told me on the train that he loved me, I blocked my ears and ran. But I already have a headache and don’t want to dehydrate my body any further. Which means back to the books, and back to Lorca, so I don’t have to think about anything else.
I’ve reached a section that rings differently to the rest of his work.Sonetos del amor oscuro– Sonnets of a Dark Love – draw on the same distressing images of weeping moons and pooling blood that I’ve encountered before. At first, I can’t put my finger on why it’s these poems that speak to me, with their disorienting pull between violence and tenderness. It dawns on me slowly, as I comb over the lines and collect pieces of evidence. The poet – Lorca – addresses his lover and pleads to be loved in return. But this lover isn’t just anyone; the lover is a man.
A quick search on my laptop confirms what I already know. Lorca was gay. The country’s favourite poet and playwright was a man who wrote poems to other men because he loved them.
I guess Tío Andrés was right. Federico García Lorca and I speak the same language, just not in the way I expected.
Tú nunca entenderás lo que te quiero
porque duermes en mí y estás dormido.
I find myself in the simplicity of these lines, and that’s not all. Though I want to escape him, Luca is there too. He’s the breath on my cheek when he sleeps next to me and the beat of my heart when he dreams on my chest. Lorca was meant to distract me from Luca, but all he does is pull me back to him. He forces me to remember the moments when I was at peace; endless days reading and studying on the sofa, the hundreds of nights with my arms wrapped around his chest. That was real, wasn’t it?
I hate myself for missing him. I miss his casual touch and the muffins he bakes because he knows how much I like them. His confession was a shock, but now that that’s wearing off, the longing is returning.
I throw Lorca off the bed, feeling like he’s complicit in the betrayal. The books, too, aren’t serving their purpose; the escapism is turning into life lessons. Though it’s late, I steal down the stairs. Huddled in a winter coat, I leave the house. If even poetry fails me, maybe darkness will swallow me up.
CHAPTER 25 – LUCA
I’ve been drowning myself in chai lattes. It means I’ve been buzzing from the sugar intake, rushing through the cafe, serving and collecting dishes at double my usual speed. It also means that every time someone starts asking about the charity ball, I’m off again before they can finish the question. Our display bar is bursting with cakes and muffins, because I stay up till late and bake until I’m exhausted. The beetroot cake is back, and this time I’m forcing it on customers whether they want it or not. People don’t know what’s good for them. I’ve also been spending more time with Mum, not even talking, just kind of hanging out on the phone. She takes me with her on hikes, occasionally points out insects or landmarks, and lends me company while I bake.
‘You’re making me redundant,’ Dad said on the second day, ‘and not just me, all the other staff too.’
I kind of had to tell him what happened when he picked me up from the train station, with Simo running off in one direction and me being a whole snotty mess.
‘Have to admit, I’m kind of proud of you,’ he said, once I’d collected myself enough to tell the whole story.
‘Huh?’ I said.
‘I mean, first of all, I applaud anyone who pisses off my parents. It is my life’s mission to inconvenience the Brandenburgs, and I stand in solidarity with all those who join the cause. So, well done, son.’ I only stared at him, my sense of humour absent after single-handedly laying waste to mine and Simo’s friendship. ‘But to get back to the point, you took a risk. Because you love someone. Do I think the method was flawed? Duh. Do I understand what it’s like to act on impulses when personal feelings are involved and subsequently bury your head in the sand rather than owning up to the mess you made? I am the master of burying one’s head in the sand. Did it explode in your face when you pulled your head back out? Sure. Did it pay off in the end? Who can say?’
‘Who can say? I can say!’ I sniffed.
‘Don’t count your eggs before they’re laid.’
‘Yeah, that’s not how the saying goes. And the eggs are laid and smashed, thanks.’
I’ve not heard from my grandparents since. Not that I can blame them for what happened after the ball, but that doesn’t excuse their behaviour towards Simo.
‘Oh, babes, they did that with my friends all the time,’ Dad said when I told him about the ball. ‘They think he’s not good enough for you. It’s kind of sweet, in an extremely twisted way.’
If anyone’s not good enough, it’s me. I don’t deserve Simo. Mostly, I followed his warning not to contact him. I sent a text when he didn’t show up at school on Monday, but the message didn’t go through. Either I’m blocked orhis phone is off. I really hope his phone is off.
‘I still remember the day my first boyfriend ended things with me,’ Miss M tells me, when I take a piece of beetroot cake up to her flat. Mind you, I’ve not asked for her opinion, but as usual she decides to share it anyway. Must be the misery written all over my face. ‘Striking resemblance to Freddie Mercury, that one. I knew how to pick them! But I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Do you know what I did? Found myself another man. A strapping lad, with hair like a young Björn Ulvaeus!’
‘Who?’
‘ABBA! He’s the first “B”. Or the second one. Doesn’t matter. What matters is, Freddie came running back with his tail between his legs, begging at my door!’
‘Freddie Mercury?’
She tuts. ‘You’re not listening.’
‘Sorry, Miss M. But Simo . . . he’s not my boyfriend. I know it’s what everyone wants. And I guess I did too,’ I admit, my voice almost giving out. ‘Pretty sure that I’ve ruined our friendship too.’
I can feel her watching me, but I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. Seconds pass, then a hand brushes my cheek, the metal of her rings cool against my skin.
‘Darling, of course you haven’t,’ she says, and I don’t know where she gets the confidence from. She drops her hand and slides the cake towards me. ‘Now be a good boy and take this back where it came from, yes? I’m not eating that.’
