Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

I stop just staring at the text and my fingers fly over the keypad. I message back: Yeah, no problem. What are we talking about?

Seconds later, like Oscar is poaching my confidence, he replies.

The show. – Oscar

My stomach flops, almost in disappointment. I realize I kinda wish he replied with us. My phone pings with another text.

And Jack. Bring my sweatshirt, bandana, belt, button-down, and slacks with you. Thanks. – Oscar

Shit.

I rub my lips. I didn’t forget that I had his sweatshirt—something he lent me in Scotland when we were snowed-in. I didn’t forget about his bandana that I took when the wind picked up in the Scottish Highlands. I definitely haven’t forgotten about the belt he let me borrow in Anacapri before Maximoff and Farrow walked down the aisle.

Or more recently, the button-down and slacks from Paris.

I never picked a date to return them. It kind of feels like once those items are gone, Oscar will be gone from my life too. I realize with Charlie’s show, we do have more than a few articles of clothing keeping our worlds tethered together, but it’s different. The show is professional. Work.

The clothes were personal. Friendship. I almost laugh. Yeah, my daydreams definitely don’t put Oscar Oliveira in friendship territory.

I’m not straight.

I’ve known that for the past two weeks. Since the flight to Paris.

And I’m starting to realize my future map can have multiple destinations that I can drive down. Husband. Wife. Spouse. It feels better to take the question marks off those possible futures. Less like staring down the street into dense fog. More like staring at forks in a path. But fuck does it make me nervous.

My stomach cramps the longer I read the text. Every second I wait to reply feels like a depletion of my confidence. I fight that feeling by typing quickly. Yeah, okay. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Let me know a time.

I hit send.

13

OSCAR OLIVEIRA

I block out laughter, splashing, and loud chatter on the rooftop terrace of the Philly penthouse. Like the adult that I am, I just went ahead and texted Jack. Told him to meet me tomorrow. My legs are submerged in the private pool, and with my phone cupped in my hand, I stare and stare and stare at his reply.

Yeah, okay. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Let me know a time. – Highland

This is it then. The end. I’m still waiting for that weight to lift off my chest. For the big ah-ha moment where I flex my biceps and realize I’m strong. Look at me, setting boundaries. Healthy ones. I should be motherfucking happy that I’m a day away from not being jerked around anymore.

But I feel a longing to see Jack again and sadness that it won’t be the same after tomorrow.

I let out a long, cantankerous groan, “Estou morrendo de saudade.” I’m dying of saudade.

Alright, I know I’m being dramatic.

A beer bottle taps my shoulder.

I look up and meet a pair of pierced brows that rise in asshole-ish fashion at me. Wouldn’t want it any other way, especially as Farrow tells me, “You didn’t just say what I heard you say.” Handing me the beer, he takes a seat beside me on the edge and dips his inked legs in the pool where mine have been.

Like me, he’s bare-chested and just in swim trunks. Unlike me, his body is covered in pirate and skull tattoos. I’ve known Farrow since before the neck tats.

“I said it,” I say into a hearty swig, and more clearly, I repeat in Portuguese, “Estou morrendo de saudade.”

Farrow rolls his eyes halfway around Center City.

“I think your eye-roll passed Fishtown.” I push my curls back, feeling my rolled bandana around my forehead. “Better be careful, Redford, the hipsters there are gonna think you’re too cool for them.”

He cracks a smile that levels-out in concern. After a swig of his own beer, he tells me, “I haven’t heard you say that since Darrien.”

My college boyfriend. By far the Mount Vesuvius of break-ups that I’ve ever experienced. I thought he was the one at first, but it erupted after an argument over microwavable pizza bites.

I haven’t eaten a pizza bite since.

Deep down, it wasn’t about the food. After our fight, he dumped me in the fucking Yale library while I was cramming for mid-terms. I failed three of my exams that semester, and I didn’t consider the dumping a rejection because I thought about dumping him too.

But the more alone I was afterward, the more I missed him. The more Farrow would take me to bars so I’d stop embarrassing my ass by texting him.

And I’d groan out, Estou morrendo de saudade.

There is no direct translation of “saudade” into English. To me, it’s always been a nostalgic longing for a love that’s missed and gone. When I left for college and missed my brother and sister, sometimes I’d call them and groan out, Quero que você mate minha saudade.