F*ck Love (14 page)

“
Harry Potter
,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?”

A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face?
Don’t stereotype, Helena!
I do my best to smile politely.

“Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly.

“But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?”

She’s enraged.

“You would love this book,” I say, shoving
The Goblet of Fire
at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.”

“You, young lady, are part of a depraved and lost generation.”

She gets up, and I see her march to the front of the plane where the flight attendant meets her. I point my straw at her back and whisper, “Avada Kedavra.”

She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.

“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.

There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief.
Liars! Where is the rain?
There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.

“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.

“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”

He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”

I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.

He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Of course it’s not.”

He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy.
Magic, I tell you.

Kit texts me:
What are you doing?

Having a birthday smoke with a friend,
I send back.

K: Guy or girl?

I make a face, and then type:
Guy

He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.

I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not,
he sends.

I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.

K: What were you typing?

I laugh out loud.
Nothing. Go away.

He sends a sad face.

And then…

K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?

Should I?

I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.

K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.

That scares me,
I send back.

K: Precisely the reason you should do it.

He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.

I’ll think about it.

Kit sends a thumbs up.

K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.

I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond:
In a Range Rover on the ferry.

It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.

K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.

I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.

I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water.
It scares me
. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.

I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.

There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.

K: #Fuckfear

We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.

In my dream, Port Townsend was emerald-glossy—a place where nature is given reign to be free and loud. It is so in real life, too, but I didn’t imagine all of the water. Water with the Cascades etched in a jagged shadow behind it. Cold, blue water, where if you watched long enough, you’d see a seal break the surface and then dip back down, its body a glossy black. All so crisp, like a postcard. I arrive on a day when someone is blowing giant bubbles down Main Street. “This isn’t real. Is this real?” I say to myself. It’s okay to talk to yourself here; I saw someone else doing it.

The store windows are decorated for fall. They’re perfectly curated—plump pumpkins piled next to rosy-cheeked scarecrows. The air already smells like nutmeg and crushed leaves. A shop owner is hanging scarves on a rack on the sidewalk. She smiles at me, her long gray hair catching in the breeze. “You look new,” she says.

“I’m visiting,” I tell her. “I love it here.”

“Here loves you,” she tells me. “Mutual love is a magical thing.”

I buy a scarf from her because she’s an excellent salesperson, and for five minutes I wasn’t thinking
fuck love.
I find out that her name is Phyllis, and she’s a lesbian. I know this because as she bags my scarf, she says, “My partner loves this scarf. She says it looks like wet pavement.”

“Your business partner?” I look around for the partner.

“My life partner.” She points to a picture behind the register of a woman with spirally red hair.

“What’s her name?” I ask. Phyllis laughs.

“Ginger,” she says. She hands me my bag, and I feel like I’ve made a friend. Two friends: Phyllis and Ginger. But, that’s the way of Port Townsend. I step out of the store and find a bench where I can watch.

The people are painted in expression and art. Tattoos, hippies with long hair, punks with no hair, the elderly, and the young, children who say hello to you as you walk by. No one is guarded, or jaded, or tired. It’s all witchcraft. I’ve found it, the place of non-Muggles. Kit’s openness is not so strange when you meet people like Phyllis. I feel light as I walk down the street, marveling, hoping my car doesn’t get towed away from where I parked near an old clam cannery that sits on the water. How could he leave this place for muggy, flat Florida? Greer must have long reach. That scares me. I feel like I understand Kit less after coming here. Perhaps I underestimate Greer. Now, all I want to do is find her. My mental image of her is of a girl with straight brown hair, tied back in a low ponytail. She wears camp T-shirts from her counselor days, and has bright blue eyes. That’s what Kit loved the most about her—her eyes. They were full of open honesty. I imagine that’s why he gravitated to Della, because she is Greer’s polar opposite. This is a hippie town, so she probably wears Birkenstocks and carries a woven backpack. When she’s older she will look like Phyllis and braid flowers into her pubic hair. I wonder if she’s moved on since Kit. Bought a house with someone … had a baby.
I need to know, I need to know, I need to know.

I eat lunch at a little place that only serves soup. I listen to the clanking of spoons on porcelain and think it sounds more musical than it would anywhere else. I pay my bill, and I’m looked in the eye when I’m told to have the best day. I
am
having the best day, thank you very much. I take a long walk along the water, take some photos of a beautiful old boat called The Belle, and upload them to Instagram. Kit likes them right away.

He texts me and says:
I know the lady who owns that boat!

There are two hotels in town, and both are said to be haunted. I check into the Palace Hotel and suddenly feel incredibly lonely. It’s all fun and games until you realize you don’t have a home anymore, and Phyllis probably isn’t your real friend. This has to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I fall face down on the bed and pretend cry into the comforter. I don’t have real tears; I’m in survival mode. The comforter smells strangely of peanut butter, and that creeps me out. What am I really doing here? Am I here for Kit? Sort of. I may really be here for Greer. I’ve seen one of the girls Kit chose to be with; I know her so well I can read her mind. There is nothing so terribly deep or fascinating about her gray matter. So, now I need to see the other woman. The one who started it all. I need to make a comparison and know why he chose Della. And all for what? To understand why the man in my dream was so different from the man in real life? Why Dream Kit would choose me over Della and this Greer person?

Wait. Do I have an obsessive personality? I obsess over this for a little while, before changing into something warmer and heading out for dinner. I take pictures because I want to remember this place and all the things it made me feel.
What does it feel like?
I ask myself.
Like cold air in your lungs after too much warm air.
Maybe this is how you feel when you find your place in the world.