Page 95 of Just My Type of wrong guy

I’m scared, I had a nightmare

I’ll only come back after three.

Pais e Filhos - Legião Urbana

The funniest thing about these notes is how no one has the slightest clue about what’s really going on or what happened during our make-out session in Guilherme’s basement, or even how we’re working to make everything go back to normal.

It’s not hard.

The good thing about sharing life with someone as easygoing as A.J. is that there’s never a bad time and that made me feel secure enough to be honest and say how I was feeling.

Even though there was that fear that things might change, deep down I always knew we’d get through it. The fact that A.J. didn’t kiss anyone at the shows this weekend worried me for a while, but he kept treating me like a friend, with no second intentions in his gaze, and that’s enough for me.

However, I didn’t leave A.J. dead tired on the living room couch and came to my room to check out some fan pages. So, I go back to the messaging app just to make sure I read it right.

Dad: I don’t have much of an understanding of these things, you know.

Dad: But if you’re happy, I’m happy.

That was the response I got four hours after getting home with A.J.

We were sprawled on the couch, resting from the craziness of the last few days, scrolling through fan comments, laughing at some, liking others, when the notification popped up.

My heart sank instantly.

I said I needed to handle some stuff and locked myself in the room. It wasn’t about reading the message away from A.J.; it was about needing silence to absorb the weight of those words. I stared at the notification, hesitant, as if opening that conversation was like crossing an invisible line. That’s when I went to Instagram, drowned in mentions and tags, before finally facing the end of the silence that had lasted longer than I thought I could handle.

Now, rereading the messages, I start to wonder if I misinterpreted them. Maybe I sent something as superficial as this response. And my breath quickens, my chest tightens, and I finally hit play on the audio sent before I left — just to make sure.

My voice fills the room, laden with expectation and emotion:

“Hi, Dad. How are you? I know things have been weird between us, and when I left Brazil, you weren’t too happy with my choices, but I wanted to tell you it’s all working out. The tour through Europe was amazing, I saw magical places, places you and mom would have loved to see; I had lunch at the top of the Eiffel Tower; I traveled by bus between countries… Now we’ve done the first shows in the U.S. Can you imagine that? I’m good, safe, and really happy. Thank you for everything you taught me about music; I wouldn’t have made it here without you. I miss you. Love you.”

I read his messages again. There’s nothing wrong with them. Still, they’re not what I expected. I don’t even know what I expected, but definitely not two generic sentences after a month of silence.

Especially when I was the one who gave in, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I leave the room, my face burning with anger, and the house is empty, which I’m thankful for. I walk to the kitchen, looking for something to keep me busy, and open YouTube, searching for a very specific recipe, because the only thing that can ease my tension right now is kneading some bread.

But we don’t have yeast or wheat flour. I huff, running my hands through my hair, and wonder how this man can hate me so much. Or how he can be so sure I’m wrong that he can’t answer a message like a normal human being. My chin trembles, and I rub my mouth, controlling my breathing.

“Alexa, volume three,” I order. A.J.’s home, and I don’t want to disturb his rest, it was an intense weekend. “Alexa, play ‘Velocidade da Luz,’ ‘Revelação.’”

I ask for my favorite song about suicide, feeling weird for having a favorite song about suicide. I open the cabinets and gather the ingredients to make a pre-mixed cake, pulling each one out and placing them on the counter in an attempt to force the anger out of my chest.

I sing the song softly, almost certain that when Xande de Pilares wrote it, he wasn’t thinking about his own dad when he wrote: ‘I’m leaving now! I’ll go to another planet, at the speed of light or maybe a comet. I’m going alone and firm, where death will warm me, maybe then, once and for all, I’ll forget you.’

“Alexa, turn off.” A.J.’s voice startles me. “Are you trying to break the house?” he asks, making me drop the wooden spoon and the bowl where I was going to mix the cake on the counter.

I turn to face him, ready to say he scared me, but I only have time to see him widen his eyes before crossing the kitchen and hugging me.

“What are you doing?”

“Did something happen?” The huge, desperate man in front of me dries my face, and only then do I realize I’ve been crying. “What happened? Do you want to talk?”

“No, A.J., I just…” I swallow the tears, breathing deeply, feeling even smaller for crying.

“If you don’t want to talk and just need to break some things, that’s fine. I just got scared because we got home in peace, everything was calm. Then suddenly, I started hearing doors and drawers slamming…” He shrugs, wary.

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