Isaac
Lisbon– September
Normally the sound of waves crashing onto the beach was enough to get me running toward the cool waters of the Atlantic with my surfboard.
My brother Alex always said in a previous life I must have been a fish because whenever I wasn’t at work or with him, they could always find me at one of the many beaches on the Estoril Coast a few miles north of Lisbon.
I wasn’t so sure about that since I felt equally at ease in the city among the tall buildings and the people that always rushed like they needed to get to their destination yesterday.
Today, however, I found myself on the beach, but after getting there, I wasn’t feeling it. I’d got up early enough to catch the sun rising, grabbed my wetsuit and surfboard, and driven to one of my favorite beaches.
I’d had every intention of spending the best part of the morning on the water and then maybe stopping by Alex’s and catching my weekly fix of my niece Sofia’s cuddles.
In reality, as soon as I looked at the ocean, I didn’t feel like going in even though the waves were particularlyinviting today.
I’d learned from experience to rely on my instincts, so instead, I sat on the sand, staring at the glittering reflection of the rising sun on the water.
Maybe I’d go for a swim later. It wasn’t as hot now as it had been early in the summer when this had been the best time to surf before it got too warm. Now, the mid-September breeze was expected and welcome.
The only problem with sitting on the sand was that my brain, as usual, refused to be quiet.
It was hard to not work all the time when running an LGBTQ youth center. After all, how could I sit back and relax when I knew there were too many young LGBTQ guys and girls that were suffering at the hands of others or were homeless?
Alex liked to remind me I wasn’t a superhero and couldn’t save everybody. What I did was important, but I was also a human being and needed to look after myself. But work was my refuge.
Fundação Arco-Iris was my entire world. I’d built it from the ground up with the help of my friend Tiago I’d met at university.
I’d been the gay kid kicked out of home by his homophobic parents, and had had something to prove to myself and to the world. Today, as the sun was warm on my face, despite the slight breeze, there was only one thing on my mind. Well, someone. Max.
I’d been hopeful about us keeping in touch after the time we’d spent together last Christmas in New York, even though I’d had no clue how a transatlantic relationship would work out.
Relationships weren’t really something I did well. Every time I met someone, it always ended with them breaking things off because I was always busy. There had been no one yet that understood my commitment to the center and the young people I worked so hard to help.
Something had told me Max was different from the other guys, which made not hearing from him much harder.
I wondered if I’d imagined the time we’d spent walking the streets of Manhattan, ice skating, going up the Empire State Building, and especially the time we’d spent in my hotel room.
A drunken night out with my best friend David on Valentine’s Day and a failed hookup with a stranger before I’d changed my mind and called it off before meeting up had been enough to make me swallow my pride and use the email address Max had given me. Just because he hadn’t made contact didn’t mean I couldn’t, right?
Once I’d sobered up and realized what I’d done, I was too embarrassed to even look at my email inbox.
A week later, I was spared the embarrassment when I’d checked my emails and realized the email I’d sent Max had bounced back. Email address not recognized.
I’d wondered if in my drunken state I’d misspelled the address. It wasn’t the case. Since Max had spelled it out so I could type it on my phone, this could only mean he gave me a fake address.
Some part of me, maybe the part that couldn’t forget the look in his eyes when we’d lain in bed together, didn’t want to believe he could do such a thing.
A fake email address didn’t seem like something he’d do, but then again, I still had the evidence sitting in my inbox. I hadn’t had the guts to delete it. Maybe I’d needed the reminder of his rejection so I could move on and stop thinking about him.
Except I hadn’t moved on, and then I ran into him earlier in the summer, in Lisbon of all places.
When I first saw him that night, I’d thought my eyes were playing a trick on me. Then he’d hugged me, and it had felt so right my brain had struggled to function.
His smell had been intoxicating and his arms so strong, so solid around me. It had felt like my heart had spent the last six months fragmenting and all it had taken was one hug from Max for the pieces to drift toward each other again.
That was until he’d opened his mouth.
The feeling of rejection had come back with a vengeance, along with hurt and anger. I must have been a sucker for punishment because when Max had asked to talk, I’d let him.
