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“Forget my name and just keep on exchanging messages with those women. I’m sure they know much more about you than I do.”
“Goddamn it, woman, would you please lower your voice?” he exclaims.
“No. I’m going to keep on shouting because I want to, because you deserve it, and because I need it. Dickhead! In the end, I’m going to have to tell Fernando he was right.”
He wasn’t expecting this. “He was right about what?”
“That you would use me and then toss me aside.”
“Is that what that idiot told you?”
“Yes, and I just now realized he was right.”
He’s desperate and moves away from me as he continues to rant.
Suddenly, Andrés and Frida are at the door. Our yelling must have alarmed them. Frida tries to calm me down while Andrés tries to do the same with his friend. But Eric doesn’t want to talk; he just keeps cursing in German. His shouting can be heard, I’m sure, all the way to China. Surprised by all this, Frida tugs on me and takes me down to the kitchen. She gives me a glass of water and takes my backpack from my hands.
“Don’t worry. Andrés will calm him down.”
“Frida, I don’t want Andrés to calm him down. I want it to be me who does that, and above all, I want to know why he’s so secretive about his life. I can’t ask anything. He won’t respond to a single question. And worst of all, when he gets angry, he runs away or he pushes me away, like he did just now.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. We were joking around, talking, and I asked him about some medicines I saw in his toiletry bag and all the texts and calls he’s constantly getting from Betta and Marta.”
I break down, sobbing. Frida hugs me and sits me next to her in the kitchen.
“Jude ... calm down. I’m sure this is just a lovers’ quarrel, and that’s all.”
“Didn’t you hear a word I said?”
“Yes, I heard you. And even though Eric may not say it, I’ll tell you again what I told you a few hours ago at the beach: he’s crazy about you. You just have to see how he looks at you, how he treats you, how protective he is of you. I’ve known him for more than twenty years. Believe me when I tell you, I know he feels something very deep for you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know, Judith. Trust me. And as far as those women are concerned, don’t worry about them.”
At that moment, Andrés comes to the kitchen door.
“Judith ...,” he whispers, clearly uncomfortable, “Eric wants you to go up to the room.”
“No, no way. He can come down.”
My answer unsettles him. They look at each other.
“Please,” Andrés insists, “go up. He wants to talk to you.”
“No,” I say. “I mean, who does he think he is—some kind of marquess?—that I should go after him like some idiot? No. I won’t go up. If he wants to, he can come down.”
“Judith ...,” Frida pleads.
“Please,” I plead right back, wanting to get out of there, “I need you to call me a cab. Please ...”
Frida and Andrés are aghast.
“Judith, Eric said that—”
“I could give three shits what Eric says,” I say, outraged, my veins throbbing, “just as he could give three shits about me. Please, call me a cab. It’s the only thing I ask of you.”