Camilla

Most of this actually happened, you know. But that’s one thing about relationships. All of it could have happened to you, while only some could have happened to her.

And your girlfriend, Camilla can get… angry. Like slit-her-throat-when-you’re-spending too-much-time-on-your-phone-next-to-her angry. The first time she said she loved you she followed it with a slap! You hesitated. She has this Chilean father (with whom she shares everything unfortunately) and a white, Catholic mother. The blanquita just doesn’t understand me, she would tell you; she’s not a minority like my father and me. And she would stress minority because she knew it made you feel guilty for not learning more Spanish. Camilla's first language is English (she was born here), but she has the slightest tinge of a Chilean accent, like she’s still trying to decide who she is. But it lowers your blood pressure every time you hear her voice pulling on your name. You couldn't stay away! Even when your boys warned you that latin horse girl would be trouble. She lights up your world like you never imagined, and every emotion she ignites in you feels like its on steroids. She is, as you text your brother late one night, batshit sexy.

She’s shorter than you, so much so that she can wear her tallest heels and still be on her toes to kiss you. But her eyes are darker than yours and her hair draws comparisons to Penelope Cruz in Volver (your favorite). Every time she puts on that red lipstick, you remember that line you once read that God made scarlet exclusively for Latinas. In the late summer, after you’ve been working in the sun many months and your skin starts to deepen, people say the two of you rather look alike. And when you’re both wearing black, people confuse you for brother and sister. And because you both have the same sick sense of humor, every so often you play along by getting a little handsy just to make the latest jackass feel uncomfortable.

She knows you like none of your boys do, and she’s not afraid to call you on your shit. One night when she’s telling you about her co-worker at the library who puts his hand on the small of her back and texts her at odd hours, you advise that she tell her manager. It’s a lazy response though. You know because she asks why you never get jealous and she tells you that sometimes you’re too blando, that at least a Latino would challenge her. So you call her a fake Chilena and tell her without that ass of hers, nobody would believe she even had it in her blood. And when she interrupts you to call you a cocksucker, you tell her to say it in Spanish, and she laughs because you both know she can’t. So she puts her hand back under your shirt and continues to talk about the gilipollas who keeps asking her for cheesecake pictures over snapchat. It blows every drop of blood out of your heart when she tells you she loves you, and one night as she’s falling asleep she whispers, goodnight, mi alma. And, because you’re as white as they come and have never bothered to learn the language of your girlfriend and half your country, you look at her crooked.

What's that mean?

Then she tells you, “When my brother passed, we still had the horses. And I would feel terrible because his horse wasn’t being ridden. I used to stay up nights stressing that my parents would sell him because he was so out of shape. We lived just down the street from the barn owner, and one night I grabbed the saddle from the garage and snuck out to ride him. I remember sneaking back in at 4am shaking I was so nervous. But it worked. I went to sleep the next day and did it again. And again. One night I noticed he wasn’t losing any weight. So I rode him hard, for hours. When we stopped for both of us to catch our breath, someone grabbed me by the arm. It was my dad. He pulled me off the horse, and walked me home. I was sobbing, and he kept telling me, “It’s ok, m’alma. It’s ok.”

You're looking at her like she's the only person in the world, but it's complicated by the fact that she didn't answer your question. She knows this too. Goddamn this girl knows you. After a pat on your chest she whispers, it means soul.

Simply put, Camilla is lovely, a dream manifested, and in the beginning you thought you’d met your match: someone with nothing to lose. She wanted stability, you wanted her on all fours. She wanted children, you - adulation. At the end of it all, you both underachieved, but we’ll get to that later. Because right now Camilla is angry.

All because you made friends with a gorgeous freshman named Madison, who took you up on the offer to shoot rum out of the snorkel in your room. It turns out that some friend of Camilla’s was Madison’s roommate! And Madison has this annoying penchant for telling her friends about her nights, about that dark haired boy who talked a lot and couldn’t shoot Captain to save his god-forsaken life. That’s the last time you ever cheat! Definitely not worth it, you tell yourself a thousand times. She fucking called me, Camilla hisses. Then she asks you for your phone. All we did was kiss, you tell her. You’re usually a good liar, but that one was just lazy. She’s yelled at you before, like when you puked in her bed, or when you told her that the pale green dress she bought made her look like the swamp monster from Scooby Doo (what the hell was that, by the way?), but now she is screaming like it’s the goddamn apocalypse. Despite it, you do not budge. You both know if she finds the phone, you might as well swallow a hot coal (you had to make sure Madison was cool and all!). In between her fulgurous bursts of anger you managed to stuff the phone beneath the part of the rug that extended under the couch. But now she’s digging through your bedsheets, through your clothes, through your pockets, through your sock drawer, in your desk, under your bed. She’s throwing your clothes everywhere, throwing your chair at you, throwing words at you that you can never forget, and too many of them are in Spanish. But you know that she will not find it because you, Mr. Classy, hid it (among other things) all too well. You’re watching her heart break

- in front of you

- on your floor

- on your bed

- in your bathroom

You stop the madness and you say, Camilla. Baby. Stop being so crazy. She looks at you like you’ve just murdered her dog.

You agreed you’d go a week without talking to think about things, which doesn't last because you are you and Camilla is Camilla. But she was the one who called first, you tell your roommates. She is in your room crying, banging a fist against your chest, telling you that you screwed everything up. You tell her you will be a good ex-boyfriend, that you love her, that you care, and that it’s possible for good things to have to end. And then she gives you what feels like hope. She says, I haven’t decided to break up with you yet. And at that point you put your hands on her hips and kiss her like it’s the last time you ever will. Your hands are sliding up and down her sides. Her clothes feel softer, sweeter, and more and more unnecessary on her body. She grabs your hands and tells you that it cannot happen. It shouldn’t happen. But she keeps kissing you, and your head is absolutely buzzing. You pulled it off.

Hours later, you wake up to her fumbling in the dark for her clothes with her phone’s flashlight. She finds what she’s looking for and puts on her underwear, and you can feel the guilt in the air, thick enough to choke on, as she gets dressed. But you can't watch. It feels like you're violating her. And that's how you know.

You don’t bother to ask her where she’s going. I can’t sleep in your bed, she whispers. You stammer, and she looks at you stern, her hair is covering her right eye. You don't say a word. You’re left listening to her tiny footsteps out your door, through the light of the hallway, and finally out of your front door.

And this is what you’ll think about years from now, lying on your side, letting the hum of a distant train soothe you as you drift. You’ll whisper to her in your broken sleep: I am sorry, mi alma. I am sorry. It’s in the stars thereafter that you hear the response: silence. And in the deep of it, the ringing in your ears turns to laughter.