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“I don’t want to think. C’mon, let’s dance,” I propose.
Fernando grins back, takes me by the hand, and leads me to the center of the dance floor. The party continues, and I run into Sergio and Elena, the owners of the busiest pub in Jerez. Other years, I’ve worked for them as a server, and they offer me my old job. I accept, pleased. The income is welcome.
When I get home at dawn, I’m tired and a little drunk, but content.
On the morning of December 20, my phone rings for the eighteenth time. I’m dead. Working in the pub is fun but exhausting. When I see it’s Frida, however, I answer. Though I met her as part of Eric’s world, she’s become one of my best friends.
“Hello, Jude! Merry Christmas. How are you?”
“Merry Christmas. I’m fine, and you?”
“Good, pretty good.”
Her voice is tense.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is something wrong? Is Eric OK?”
After an uncomfortable silence, Frida speaks.
“Is it true, what I heard about Betta?”
“No,” I reply, and I huff when I’m forced to remember the lies she told about me. “She set me up.”
“I knew it,” Frida murmurs.
“But it doesn’t matter, Frida,” I say.
“How can it not matter? Tell me your version right now.”
Without hesitation, I tell her what happened, including all the gory details about our public fight.
“I never liked that Marisa. She’s a bitch, and Eric is naive. He knows Marisa is Betta’s friend; Marisa introduced Eric and Betta.”
“She introduced them?”
“Yes, Betta is from Huelva, like Marisa. When her relationship with Eric began, she went to Germany to live with him, until what happened happened and I lost track of her. And that Marisa deserves a lesson for being so horrible.”
“Don’t worry. I paid her a visit and made it very clear I don’t play games.”
“Tell me!”
“Just what I said. I warned her that I also know how to play dirty.”
Frida laughs, and I do too.
“How is Eric?” I ask, unable to avoid it.
“Not good,” she says, and sighs. “Last night, I had dinner with him in Germany, and that’s when I found out what happened between you two. I got angry and gave him a piece of my mind.”
Listening to her talk like that makes me laugh, but I ask insistently, “Is he OK?”
“No, he’s not, Judith, and I’m not referring to his illness, but to him as a person. That’s why I called you as soon as I got back. You have to fix this. You have to pick up the phone. Eric really misses you.”
“He pushed me away; now he has to accept the consequences.”
“I know. He’s a stubborn dickhead but a stubborn dickhead who loves you; don’t doubt it.”
Hearing such things causes a flutter of, not butterflies, but something like ostriches, in my stomach. I’m the queen of the masochists. I like knowing Eric still loves me and misses me, even though I know I can’t go back to him. His refusal to even listen to my side of things and throw me away like that is too much to forgive.