Page 138 of Tell Me What You Want

My composure just crumbles when I hear this. I could have never imagined a story like that.

“Betta’s never been able to accept our breakup and is always trying to get close to me. She’s asked my forgiveness in all sorts of ways, and though it’s cost me, I’ve forgiven her; but I don’t want anything to do with her ever again. That’s why she’s always texting. That day on the beach, when I got mad and went back to the chalet—insisting that you not go back with me—I was furious because she’d left me a message saying she was right outside Andrés and Frida’s door. I didn’t want you to go back with me because I didn’t want you to experience the inevitably disagreeable scene that would have no doubt ensued. But I wasn’t honest. I was trying to avoid a problem, but the way I handled it, I only made it worse.”

“You should have told me. I ...”

He brings his finger to my mouth, so I’ll keep quiet, and then traces the shape of my face with his finger.

“You’re beautiful, Jude ... I love only you.”

I lean into him and kiss him, but he pushes me back to where I was.

“Marta is my sister.”

His sister? That surprises me. Miguel told me Eric has only one sister.

“Remember I told you my sister Hannah died in an accident?”

I nod.

“Hannah had a son whom I take care of. She was a single mom. His name is Flyn, and he’s nine years old. Since Hannah died, he’s been increasingly difficult and is always causing us great worry. In July, when I had to return to Germany and put off the visits to the regional offices, it was because of something that came up with him. My sister and my mother can’t really exert control over him—that’s why Marta texts so much. I’m the only one whom Flyn respects, and so my sister needs me to go back to Germany.”

Hearing that, I’m on high alert.

“Listen, Jude, I love you, but I also love Flyn, and I can’t abandon him. I can be with you here for a few days, but sooner or later, I have to go back to my day-to-day life in Germany. I can’t change my residency. The counselors don’t think another change would be good for Flyn, so though it’s probably nuts and too early to talk about, I’d like it if you’d come live with me in Germany.”

My eyes open scandalously wide.

“I know, sweetness, I know,” Eric says. “I know it’s madness, but I love you, you love me, and I’d like you to think about it. OK?”

I attempt to process all this new information. When I try to say something, Eric again puts a finger to my lips.

“I’m not finished, Jude. I have more to explain.”

He surprises me.

“Jude ... I have a problem, and even though I don’t want to think about it, it’s only going to get worse over time.”

“A problem?”

“Do you remember the meds you saw in my toiletry bag?”

I nod, scared.

“It’s related to something you like about me and which I’ve told you on several occasions I hate. It’s my eyes, and when I explain, I’m sure a lot of things will start to make more sense.”

“My God, Eric, what’s happening to you?”

“I have glaucoma. A condition inherited from my marvelous father, and even though I’m being treated, and I’m fine right now, it’ll get worse as time goes by. Unfortunately, it’s irreversible. Who knows, but it’s possible I could, sometime in the future, go blind.”

I blink. “What’s glaucoma?” I ask in a thin voice.

“It’s a chronic eye disease. It affects the optic nerve and sometimes produces blurry vision, pain in the eye, or a headache, nausea, or vomiting. Now that you know, I think you’ll understand a lot more about what’s going on with me.”

I’m paralyzed, except that I blink and blink. I don’t give a royal shit about Betta. The matter of his nephew and of my moving are things we’ll later have to talk out at length. But Eric’s just revealed he has a serious eye problem, and I can’t seem to react. I go back and reconstruct all the signs, over these past few months, that I didn’t know how to read. I suddenly understand many things. His hurry about everything. His fears. His trips. His mood swings. His headaches. But most of all, why he always demands I look at him when we make love. He’s observing me now. He wants me to say something, but I can’t. My breathing becomes irregular, and my hands let go of his: one goes to my heart and the other to my head.

I stand up. I pace. And when I can finally unstick my tongue, I look back at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

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