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“If I ask you a question,” I say to Jaime, “will you answer me truthfully?”
“Try it and we’ll see what happens.”
“If Adrián wasn’t straight and he liked you, what would have happened?”
“Fuck, Pris.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Alex says. “The TV’s not loud enough.”
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I think it’s important that you do.”
“Crap. I’m a mess, Pris. Hey, St. Claire, would you feel weird if you slept with Marcos?” he asks Alex.
“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Alex replies instantly.
“You know what I mean.”
“To be honest, no, I don’t.”
“Imagine Marcos is a woman, and you sleep with her after you’ve slept with Priscila, would you feel weird because they’re siblings? Alex?” Jaime calls his name, since it’s obvious Alex isn’t paying him any attention.
“Oh, are you still talking to me?” is what my sweet husband says, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Yes. Asshole.” The last word, Jaime says very softly, but not softly enough for us not to hear it.
Alex turns his head then and addresses my friend. “And it didn’t occur to you that the problem here is Hugo doesn’t like you?”
I glare at Alex and shake my head. He looks at me, feigning innocence. Shame on him!
“That’s not helpful,” Jaime says.
“I wasn’t trying to help.”
“Jerk,” Jaime whispers.
We order another round of shots—three rounds actually—while searching for a solution to Jaime’s double blunder. And through all this Alex remains at our table, watching TV, not participating in the conversation at all, but not leaving either.
I take advantage of a pause to talk about something else that’s been on my mind. “Did you get a chance to look at the comic strips I sent you?”
“Are you talking about work, Cabana?”
“Uh-huh. We’re a bit behind schedule—”
“Fuck, Pris, work’s the last thing on my mind right now.”
“Okay. We can talk about it later. We’ll have time when we move under a bridge.”
“Oh, you’re so dramatic! I’ll send the drawings to Boston tomorrow without fail, okay?” he promises me reluctantly.
“Awesome.”
After the last round of shots, I’m so plastered Alex has to help me get up. But what else could I have done? This kind of thing is what friends are for; I wasn’t going to let Jaime drown his sorrows alone.
“Ale, Alejandro, Ale, Alejandro...” I sing on my way to my parents’, doing an impression of Lady Gaga. Or, well, trying to.
