Here the Whole Time(19)

I get distracted enough that I’m surprised when Caio walks into the room quietly. I think he just got out of the shower, because the room is suddenly filled with the smell of his soap. That’s right, he brought his own soap, and now I’m used to his smell in the bathroom. But here, in my room, it dominates every nook and cranny. It makes me want to pounce on his neck.

“Hey,” I say in a low voice when he closes the door.

He jumps but recovers quickly.

“Oh, hey! I thought you were asleep,” Caio says, lying on the mattress next to my bed.

“I was just tired but not sleepy. It was a long day,” I try to say in an exhausted voice, but I’m a terrible actor.

“Where did you go all day?” Caio asks, more out of politeness than out of curiosity.

“Therapy.”

And then I was killing time by wandering around town because I didn’t want to come back and face you while the lights were still on, I think.

“For real?” Caio seems much more interested now. “At the beginning of the year, I told my mom that I wanted to go to therapy. But she didn’t think it was a good idea. She said it’s for crazy people and that I’m totally normal.”

I’m glad it’s dark and Caio can’t see my eye roll. Because, seriously, what is wrong with his mother?

“But therapy isn’t for crazy people! In fact, there are lots of people who develop mental health issues because they’re not in therapy,” I quote my mom, indignant, as if Caio’s mom could hear me.

“Did therapy help you with being, you know … gay?” Caio asks in a whisper.

I think about it for a moment and realize that, in the last few months, my being gay has rarely ever come up in my sessions with Olivia. I never have issues talking about it. I’ve always known I am gay, that I can’t change, and I don’t want to. My mom accepts me, I accept myself, and that’s the end of it. In our sessions, I mostly talk about my shyness, my weight, and how people see me. Being gay is always a smaller detail compared to my truckload of crises.

“It helped me a little with being gay at the beginning. But now it helps me with a bunch of other stuff. Shyness. Anxiety. That kind of stuff,” I answer quickly, opening up to Caio more than I’d like to.

He just ponders for a few seconds. He seems to be deciding what to do with the information that I go to therapy to help with my shyness.

“It’s funny because we used to be friends, remember? When we were kids,” he finally says. “Then you disappeared, never came down to play at the pool anymore, and I remember being really upset. As we got older, you’d always just kind of stick to your corner, and I had a lot of doubts. I wasn’t sure if you were shy or just a jerk. Then as soon as I got here on that first day, you yelled at me. And in that moment, I had no more doubts. I thought, He really is just a jerk.”

I swallow hard and Caio hears it, because he continues talking hurriedly.

“Wait, let me finish! Then we started talking, and I don’t think you’re a jerk anymore, I swear! You’re just shy, that’s all. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

I take a relieved breath.

“How can you tell the difference?” I ask. “Between being shy and being a jerk, I mean.”

“It’s not easy,” Caio answers in a funny voice, as if he were an expert on the subject. “It’s all in the details. The day I got here, for instance. Early that morning, when I was on my way to school, you came into the elevator and said good morning. Jerks don’t say good morning.”

“So you’re saying you’re a jerk, because if I recall correctly, you didn’t answer me!” I say, laughing.

Caio laughs, too, and in the dim light filtering through the windows I can see him raise his hands over his head, as if he were surrendering after being caught red-handed.

“Fine, fine. I was a jerk in the elevator. I had just argued with my mom about spending the next fifteen days here. It was my last attempt at convincing her that I could stay home by myself. Obviously, she said no. I was so mad when I left …” Caio tries to justify. “I’m sorry. I swear I am the kind of person who responds to people on the elevator.”

“I would like to accept your apology, but I need proof.”

“Well, I’ll show you proof!” Caio says, getting up from his bed.

For a second, I think he’ll jump on me and kiss me intensely, and then our love will be official. But obviously that’s not what he does. He reaches for his phone and sends a voice message to someone I don’t know.

“Becky, emergency! I need your help to prove that I’m not a jerk. So as soon as you can, I need you to send me a testimonial about how wonderful it is to be my friend. But please try hard; it needs to be convincing! I need to show my neighbor that I’m an amazing human being. Thanks, see you soon, bye!” he says into his phone.

I am a little upset that I’m just the “neighbor” instead of something else.

A few seconds later, Caio gets a response. He hits play and I hear a girl say, “Hey, Caio’s neighbor, don’t believe this kid. His face might be cute, but his soul is cruel. He complains about everything, always shows up late, and wears Crocs and thinks they’re cool. Bye—” The recording stops before she finishes her farewell. I’m laughing as I imagine Caio in Crocs. Caio is laughing, too, because his plan backfired.