Crossed Desires

FIGHT

Gabriela

It's past four in the afternoon. I'm lying in bed with my boyfriend, both of us half-asleep. I rise quietly and slip into his shirt, which falls halfway down my thighs.

I love wearing his shirts; they carry his scent, and in them I feel closer to him. I put on my underwear and lie back down by his side.

He needs to rest before his business dinner. I feel sorry for him—his lifestyle is anything but easy. He never truly rests; he's always exhausted, his routine nothing but work upon work, endlessly draining.

But he doesn't listen to me. I tell him he should speak with his partners, reduce his workload. Honestly, I'm tired of being left alone all the time. I know he has commitments he can't avoid, but he exaggerates.

He invited me to go tonight, but I refused. Those events aren't for me. My father has tried at times to include me in his own gatherings, asking me to accompany him now and then, and though I've gone a few times, I never enjoy them.

Truth is, those dinners bore me endlessly. Sitting among stiff people discussing matters that hold no interest for me—it's torture. That's why I told him no; I'd rather stay home gossiping with my friends.

To be honest, the time we spend together is very little, and I feel terribly alone most of the time. I suspect next week we won't see much of each other either, since I imagine he'll tell me he has to visit his mother—she reproached him today for neglecting her. And being the dutiful son he is, of course he'll go. I can't blame him; she's his mother.

Sometimes I think Miguel isn't meant for me. We're far too different, and he never has time for me, always trying to please everyone else. And I, as the "good girlfriend," must always understand.

Always understand that his parents don't want to meet me. Always understand his obsessive jealousy. Always understand the endless business and late hours.

But he—he gets angry about everything. I can't talk to anyone, can't go out with anyone, not even see my friends without him fuming. And yet, it's all because he loves me, and I know he does. He loves me, as I love him.

My phone rings. I grab it quickly so the sound won't wake him and hurry into the living room. An unknown number flashes on the screen. I blink twice before answering, cautious.

"Hello..." I whisper, uneasy, not knowing who it is, lowering my voice so as not to wake him. Silence. I try again. "Hello?"

"Hi..." a voice answers at last.

I blink again, puzzled. I don't recognize the voice. Perhaps it's a mistake—wrong number, that happens.

"Yes?" I reply, expectant.

"Gabriela, it's me—Iván," comes the reply.

Iván. Malú's brother. Now I remember—I'd told Brat to let him know I'd be in touch. He must be calling because of that. What a persistent guy.

"Oh, Iván—right, right," I answer.

"Yes!" he says, his laugh a little nervous.

"So, Iván, why are you calling me? I don't recall saying I'd call you... did I?" I ask, feigning ignorance, though I know exactly why he's calling.

"Yes, I know, but you told Brat we'd go out tonight," he says.

Oh, no. I never said that. What a liar—like Pinocchio. I said I'd think about it, not that I would. What a trickster. I laugh silently to myself.

"No, no—I didn't say that. I said I'd think about it, not that I would," I tell him.

"Yes, yes, Gabriela, I know... but I really liked your friend Mónica. Why don't you help me with her? We could go out, have some fun. Say yes, don't be mean..." he pleads.

Iván likes my friend Mónica? That's strange—I thought they hated each other. Well, that's new. But who am I to judge? Good for her; she deserves it. He is handsome.

"Oh, Iván, I don't know..." I reply.

And he begins to beg.

"Come on, Gabriela, please say yes..." he insists.

I hesitate—my friend on one side, my boyfriend on the other.

"Let me talk to Mónica and the girls, and I'll let you know, all right?" I tell him.

"Fine," he says, and hangs up.

When I turn around, Miguel is standing right behind me, his expression unreadable. My face drains of color, my chest tightens, I begin to hyperventilate.

What a mess. This could start World War III. Miguel stares at me as if ready to kill, and he raises his voice.

"Care to tell me who you were talking to?" His tone is sharp, too loud.

His voice frightens me—I've never seen him like this. I begin to tremble.

"Lower your voice—I'm not deaf," I say, trying to keep calm so he won't notice my nerves. "Are you spying on me, Miguel?"

He grabs me hard by the arms, shaking me. My heart races, pounding against my ribs.

"Who is Iván?" he demands.

I struggle, but his grip tightens, hurting me. Fear seeps in—what if he loses control?

"Miguel, let me go, please," I plead.

I push him away, but he seizes me again, harder. Who does he think he is, handling me like this?

He's out of his mind with jealousy. And yes, perhaps he has some reason—the call could be misinterpreted. But this? This is too much.

"Not until you tell me who Iván is," he growls, tightening his hold until my arms ache. He wants explanations, but in this state, nothing I say will reach him. His jealousy blinds him.

He begins knocking things over, breaking objects around us, consumed with rage. He crushes me in his grip, and panic overtakes me. This isn't normal anymore. This isn't him.

"Let me go—you're hurting me!" I cry.

But again he seizes me.

"Who is he?" he demands, furious.

"Oh God—it's Malú's brother, my neighbor's son," I tell him.

But Miguel is beyond reason. He grips me harder, shouting, demanding explanations. In this state, he won't understand. Best thing I can do is get away.

"Why does he have to call you? I don't give a damn if he's your friend's brother," he rages.

He won't understand—nothing will get through. If I stay, this will end in tragedy.

"Miguel, we're back to jealousy again," I say, exhausted.

I'm so tired of this—it's always the same. Living tiptoe around his moods, his rage. I can't stand it anymore.

"And how could I not be jealous?" he shouts. "A man calls you out of the blue, you run off to hide so I won't hear—what else am I supposed to think?"

Oh, God. Now he thinks I was hiding.

"No, Miguel—I wasn't hiding. I did it for you, so I wouldn't wake you," I protest.

But he never listens. Everything I do is for him, yet he sees nothing but reasons to doubt me.

"Sure—you expect me to believe that? I'm just the fool who swallows your lies," he spits.

I can't take this anymore. If he doesn't want to believe me, let him rot in his suspicions. I'm done fighting for this relationship when it's obvious I'm the only one trying.

To hell with it all. I've had enough.

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I hope you've enjoyed this chapter of Gaby.

And don't miss the upcoming chapters—they're going to be blazing hot.