Here the Whole Time - Vitor Martins Page 0,51

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.

“You can turn off the light if you want,” he says when he sees me walk in. And I feel like now is my opportunity to redeem myself. Maybe with the lights off, we’ll talk for hours and clear the air, then everything will be fine again.

I turn off the lights.

Get into bed.

And then Caio turns on his phone flashlight and points it at his book, so he can keep reading. And I, obviously, want to die.

“Good night,” I whisper.

I turn my back to him and will myself to sleep without waiting for an answer.

And I’m