F*ck Love (27 page)

“You’re not even as pretty as me.”

That’s the first thing she says to me.

“I’m having a really hard time believing you just said that to me,” I say. “Can you say it again, just so I can confirm to my own mind what a bitch you are?”

“You came here to steal my family.”

I shake my head. It’s sort of a slow shake because I’m trying to mentally catch up to the fact that my best friend of ten years just told me I wasn’t as pretty as her, followed by one of the most insane accusations ever.

“I came here to help you. To help you with Annie until you got better.”

“You’re a liar,” she says. “I’ve seen the way you are with him. You came here hoping something would happen to me so that you could have Kit and Annie. I’m not going to let you take my family. She’s my baby, and I don’t want you near her. Do you hear me?”

At twenty-five years old, I’d assumed I’d felt hurt before. But then Della takes Annie from me in one bitter sentence, and I am so grief-stricken I immediately sit on the couch. Annie has made my heart a delicate thing. Before, my heart cared about the things that were important to me, but it forsook me for Annie. A mute drummer, it constricts and aches in my chest until I reach a palm up to touch the place above it. There’s nothing I can do to change her mind. And do I blame her? Just this morning, Annie cried and squirmed to get out of her mother’s arms to come to me. I have no rights. I have no reason to feel angry. I am the bitch, not Della.

“I want you out of my house by tonight.” She starts to leave the room, when the monitor on the counter says that Annie is waking up. “He’s mine, Helena.” And then she’s gone.

Since I didn’t bring much, it takes only a few minutes to gather my things and throw them in my bag. There’s a flight leaving in two hours
if I hurry. I text Greer and ask if she can pick me up at the airport. It’s a long drive for her, but I don’t know who else to ask.

She texts back right away:
Thank God you’re coming back. I’ll be there.

I leave Della’s car keys on the counter, along with the spare house keys, and step outside to call a cab. Kit is leaning against his truck.

“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he says softly.

“That’s not what Della said,” I say. My throat is burning, and my eyes are burning. I am humiliated, heart tired. In the two minutes I stand outside, I have five mosquito bites.

“She doesn’t mean it. She almost died, Helena. She’s been in a wheelchair for five months.”

“You’re dumb,” I tell him. “She’s defending her own. She means it. I would mean it too. You can’t tone down what just happened. It’s fucked up.”

“You’re right,” he says. Then he looks up at me suddenly. I can see the light of determination in his eyes, and I know that what he’s going to say next is going to be hard to hear.

“Don’t go. We can make this work. Just give me some time to get her situated.”

“No. She needs you. You chose her. You have to stay. I’m okay.” All these words come tumbling out of me. Lies and excuses.

“She won’t always need me. She doesn’t need to be with someone who loves another woman. I did the wrong thing. It’s you I wanted; it’s you who I came to find. I should have told Della the truth.”

It all hurts too much. Don’t make someone burn, and then try to douse the flames with the things you should have done. Those regrets are gasoline not water. I have to make him stop. This is madness.

“Annie,” I say softly. And that name holds enough weight to slow us both down.

His lips tighten, and he shakes his head from side to side.
How dare you bring her into this.
But I have to. She’s what matters.

“She is my daughter regardless of who I give my heart to. What type of message am I giving her by not choosing to be happy?”

It’s cruel, but I say it anyway. “You made your bed, Kit. Now lie in it.”

He opens the passenger side door to his truck. “In,” he says. I make to argue, but then I decide I don’t have the energy. I climb in, hugging my bag to my chest.

“Kit,” I say. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Annie.” I try to keep my voice even, but it cracks on her name. Kit nods, then strides toward the house. I didn’t expect him to do that. I can’t imagine Della allowing it, but a minute later he emerges carrying Annie, who is covered in sweet potatoes, and I smile. He passes her to me, and I let her stand up on my thighs while holding her hands. I can feel Della seething from behind her poplin curtains. Kit will probably return to a fight, and for that I feel bad.

“I love you, Annie,” I tell her. Her knees are stiff and fat as she stands as straight as she can, wobbling left to right. The wind tickles her tuft of troll hair as she looks around the truck. I kiss her cheeks, even though they’re covered in bright orange goo, and she smiles and grabs my hair with a sticky fist. “Be good and be kind,” I tell her. “No matter how pretty you grow up to be.”

I hand her back to her father, holding the back of my hand over my mouth. Kit presses his lips together as he carries her back inside. When he returns, he has sweet potato all over the front of his shirt and along his arms.

“She left her mark on both of us,” I say, holding up my hair. He laughs, and it breaks the tightness between us.

It’s not until we are inside of the airport that he speaks to me again.

“Helena,” he says.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I say quickly. “Seriously, it’s all good.” I mess with my ticket, compulsively folding and unfolding, pretending to search in my purse for something that isn’t there.

“It’s not all good. Stop telling me what to do.”

I hold up my hands. “Go ahead then,” I tell him. “I’m all ears, Kit Isley.” He glares at me for saying his name like that, but I don’t care.

We stand near security, my duffel at my feet. Families have to part to pass us; an older couple turns around to give us a dirty look.

“You’re gonna take five minutes to get your shoes off and into a tray. Plenty of time to pay me back,” I say to them. Kit covers his mouth and turns away.

“What?” I say. “They are.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me out of the traffic.

“Don’t be rude to the middle-agers,” he says. “They didn’t even have microwaves when they were young, and that’s really, really sad.”

“Look, that’s not my fault,” I say, pointedly. “We lived without iPhone 6+. Sometimes life is hard.”

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “Stop making jokes. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Mmkay.” I rub my temples and squint up at the ceiling lights. Anything to not look at him. The hypocrite.

“Helena, I know you hate this stuff, but just bear with me for a minute. You rushed here with that small bag five months ago. You came to be with us when we needed you, and you took care of my little girl. There’s no one I’d trust her with more than you. I’ll never forget that.”

I clear my throat. “You’re welcome,” I say, shuffling my feet.

“I haven’t said thank you yet,” Kit says.

“And you don’t need to,” I rush. “I really should get going.” I grab my bag and head for the end of the line, but Kit grabs my wrist and pulls me back. I have a Ginger Rogers moment where I am suddenly full of grace and flair, and then I land against his chest with an
Ooomph.

He pulls me into such a tight hug that for a minute I lose my breath. I’m stiff at first, my face pressed against his shoulder, but he’s hugging me, and I really need to be hugged. It’s all just too much. I start sobbing. That’s not the surprising part; I’m a crier. The surprising part is that Kit is crying too. I wrap my arms around him, and we cry together as the people, who didn’t have microwaves and iPhone 6+ when they were young, walk past us. Before he lets go, he presses his lips to my ear. “Thank you, Helena. I love you.” I’m dropped from his arms, and all of a sudden I’m watching his back disappear into the crowd. It’s a good day for hurting. I get the feeling that all of that was Kit’s way of saying goodbye for good. I could let that be it. Take my goodbye and be on my way for the rest of my life. But, I’m angry. Angry at the things Della said. She gave me a value today, stuck a price tag on my forehead that said
: not as pretty as me!
I wonder how long that value tag has been there, and if perhaps all of her friends were chosen by being not as pretty as her. I don’t even remember why we were best friends. Had she been different? Had I been blind?

I board my plane, squeezing through the center aisle to get to my seat. I’ve never felt like this before. Usually I swallow my feelings, deal with them in the privacy of my own mind. I just gave up five months of my life to help someone who said I wasn’t as pretty as she was. What the fuck was that? I scoot into my seat, which is in the very back of the plane, and take a selfie. All of my selfies look shocked, sad, confused, or insanely happy. This is the very first angry selfie. It sits right next to FUCK LOVE. So, I call it FUCK BEST FRIENDS. At this rate I won’t believe in anything by the end of the year. Except maybe Greer, who is waiting for me at the airport, wearing a purple tutu and holding a unicorn balloon.

I hug her so tightly she yelps, then I take my balloon and plan out my future.

Fuck love, fuck Florida, Fuck Kit Isley and his prettier-than-me girlfriend.

Greer doesn’t like Della. She tells me this as we stand on the top deck of the ferry, drinking apple juice from paper cups and watching the sun set in shades of pinks and purples.

“How dare she,” she says. “Why is he with someone like that?” Greer sounds genuinely bitter. She’s spitting out one-liners aimed at Kit and Della, and it’s almost making me smile.

“You’ve never met her,” I point out. “She’s not all bad.”

“Oh sure,” she says. “But how many girls have we met just like her? They’re everywhere. They make reality shows about them now.”

“True,” I say. “But she was my best friend. I didn’t see her that way.”

“You don’t see a lot of shit, Helena. You have a blind soul.” I pour my apple juice into the Sound.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to keep the offense out of my voice, but Greer knows me too well. She kneads my neck like she can rub away the insult.

“Had …
had
a blind soul. It’s waking up—to art, people … men.”

“Yeah? It’s kind of painful,” I say. “Like being dropped into ice water.”

“That’s the nature of the truth, though. What’s fun about being dropped into ice water? That’s why half the world walks around wearing rose-colored glasses, watching comedies and reading romance books.”

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. I like comedies and romance.

“If you’re such a realist, why do you dress the way you do?” I ask her. “You dress like a fairy, wearing the same color every day.”

“I dress the way I want the world to look. I’m living out my fantasy visually. But I’m not sheltering myself mentally.”

I always sulk for a few minutes after she makes sense. It’s not fair that she’s so pretty and so wise. And if I were dressing the way I wanted the world to look, it would be a beige bitch world. I’m wearing a tan hoodie because I suck, and because my soul is visually impaired.

“They don’t do it on purpose, you know.”

“Who?” I ask. The wind is whipping her hair around. Strands of gray keep getting stuck to her purple lips. She reaches up to pull them away with lavender nails. I back up slowly as she speaks, trying to be inconspicuous.