Cutback

viii

Brussels, April 2015

The whole month of April was unusually sunny, or at least that's what everyone said. It hardly seemed to do more than drizzle and the skies would always clear up in a matter of hours, beaming down a weak, hazy spray of sunshine.

In the evenings I got in the habit of taking the metro to Namur and strolling along the cobblestone streets of the Place du Grand Sablon, which looks more like fairy tale Europe than most places in Brussels. Or I'd walk down the trendy, bohemian streets of Saint-Gilles with my friend Samantha, another American, who I met at one of those international pub crawls I had to drag myself to in order to spend any time with Errol.

It was actually nice to have a second friend—two is really the optimal number in my opinion—and she understood my relationship with Errol, because she had eyes.

"His rear-end is legitimately insane," she told me once in a text because I literally couldn't stop talking about him. "It's so hot it breaks fire codes." Later, she joked that she wished she could jet around Europe with a gorgeous hunk all summer.

It was at a place in Saint-Gilles called Le Bar, where Sam and I often went to drink wine and complain about people, that we found ourselves caught in the worst downpour in weeks, the rain slanting down in gusty sheets, and I could sense that something bad was in store. It was just that premonitory.

"Oh my god, I didn't bring an umbrella and my hair is going to frizz," Sam moaned, seeming to forget she had naturally curly hair in any weather. Sam was from California and went to UCLA so she never got used to the rain. The only time she really got on my nerves was when it was raining and she'd break apart at the seams like a tired two-year-old.

We tried to wait it out but it started getting dark, and dealing with night rain Sam was not something I was looking forward to. Back then I was still trying to avoid downloading Uber, so we settled up and walked ten blocks to the metro almost in silence to avoid bickering, my wine buzz turning into a throbbing headache by the time I got home and walked through the door soaking wet.

Errol was playing whiny synth pop from the bathroom, where he was slicking back his hair with the door open. I walked over and stood in the doorway. "That bad out, huh," he asked and tossed me a towel to dry my hair and we talked about the rain for a minute while he combed out his sideburns, which looks as ridiculous as it sounds. Just seeing him melted half my bad mood away. He had lined up all his hair products in a row—gel, mouse, combs, brushes—and was wearing a splash of Ralph Lauren cologne along with a black Calvin Klein sweater that I loved seeing him in and I guessed he was heading out to see Jess.

After he finished, Errol walked through the rooms collecting his jacket, wallet, keys, umbrella and phone before turning on his heels and facing me in the kitchen, where I had gone to get a glass of water and stand by the window to eventually watch him walk down the dark street. As much as I liked running into him, I was looking forward to having the place to myself after that debacle with Sam.

"Hey, we have to talk later," he said, a phrase that instantly tensed me up.

"About what?" I asked, and he said it was a whole thing. Unsurprisingly, that didn't quite satisfy me. "Errol, tell me," I pleaded.

"Can't now—I'm meeting Jess," he said. "I'm already late."

"C'mon, dude, bros before hos," I said in a poor attempt at levity. I used to roleplay this character, a lacrosse player I called Tommy Boy, who sounded like what I imagined one of Errol's typical bro friends would be like, and had about three catchphrases ("Do you even lift, Broseph?"). Sometimes he thought it was funny but not today.

Errol sighed heavily, as if he really would rather not get into this right now, and said the summer was off. My heart plunged like a yo-yo and my mouth turned papery. We couldn't travel together because he and Jess were going to London after all and to maybe see a bit of England.

They had just decided it, he said, and there was even an acting workshop he could take, which I immediately thought was just an excuse Jess had found to assuage his guilt. I was sure that he had no intention of actually following through on it, since he had told me point blank that he was in Europe because he needed some time off from acting. I saw stars dance across my vision and I got angry. And then I said what I was thinking about his fake little workshop out loud.

Well, that did it.

"You're selfish," he said, taking a step back from me like my presence had suddenly become unbearable. "And really unsupportive."

"You know, for someone who just spent a lot of time in the bathroom you aren't very good at looking in the mirror," I spat. "What's selfish is springing this on me without a lot of notice."

"What are you talking about?" Errol said, raising his voice. "Nothing was formally arranged or anything."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. By this point, we'd been having detailed conversations for weeks. "Are you kidding or just being intentionally dumb?" I yelled back. "I have a folder full of stuff on my computer. Do you not believe me?"

"I don't really care," he said, rolling his brown eyes to the ceiling.

"This whole thing was your idea," I told him, only vaguely aware in the moment of the irony that it was, in fact, my idea that I had taken pains to make him believe was his. Errol disagreed, loudly. And then I disagreed back, even more loudly.

"You know what, just forget it," he said, lacing his words with salty swears. "It was too expensive anyway."

That felt like a slap in the face and I told him so. "You had more money for this trip than I did and I'm making it work," I said. In truth, Errol was better at getting money out of his parents than I was, and that's saying something given that I'd turned it into an Olympic discipline.

"Well, now you don't have to," he spat and turned to leave breathing heavily through his nose while I just stood there. He strode through the living room and out the front door in a huff.

But on his way out he pulled the front door gently behind him until it closed with a soft click. Because above all, Errol is a considerate guy and unlike me he would never make the neighbors suffer for his anger.

I watched the door for a moment and then stepped over to the window where I saw him walk down the street, no hood, umbrella dangling from his wrist, while rain lashed his face and I wondered if all that time combing his hair had been for nothing.