F*ck Love (3 page)

I wake up in my car. Light stabs sharply through the windshield, and I squint my eyes. There are greasy fingerprints on the driver’s side window. Hands that pressed and slid. They’ve been there for a while … something about being drunk and eating fried chicken, then not being able to find my keys. I keep meaning to clean them off, but I’m so … busy. I look for Kit. Where is he? No, I’m not supposed to be looking for Kit. It’s Neil I’m with. Neil I love. My mind is still caught in my … dream? I raise my seat and rub at my heart. It’s hurting. Like for real. This could be a heart attack; I feel like I have high cholesterol. No, no—it’s something else. I feel so sad. How could a dream have so much detail? I’ve never experienced anything like that. The screen on my phone lights up. It’s Neil. They’re in the restaurant looking for me. Neil, Della, and Kit.
Kit.
I remember now. I arrived an hour early and wanted to close my eyes for a few minutes before everyone got to the restaurant. All the late nights studying are catching up to me.

I get out of the car slowly and look around. I haven’t been sleeping well with finals in a week. And then I graduate. And then I’m grown up. Not quite like the grownup I was in the dream, with children and a house, and a Kit. I can still feel his lips on my neck. I reach up to touch my sweet spot, right below my ear. I laugh as I walk to the door of the restaurant. So stupid. I’ve never even thought of the guy in that way. The dream will dissipate soon, but as I walk through the doors, and toward my boyfriend, it’s still there, sticky and thick. I do not feel like Helena of now, but rather the Helena of my dream. I look for Kit. He’s sitting next to Della, listening intently to something she’s whispering in his ear. I wait for him to look up and see me. I don’t know what I expect to see in his eyes, familiarity maybe. It’s so stupid. No such thing happens. When Kit sees me walk up to the table, he smiles politely, his eyes flitting, non-committal. How they should be since we hardly know each other. Della’s greeting is much more enthusiastic. I smile blandly as she jumps up to embrace me, commenting on my shirt. Kit is looking at the menu. I want to snatch it from him.

Don’t you see me? We had a baby together!

I blush at my own thoughts as Neil pulls out my chair, kissing me on the cheek. I close my eyes and try to be pulled in by him. But he smells off, and his fingers are too long and pokey as he kneads my neck.

Oh my God. It’s like I’m on drugs.

“What’s wrong?” Neil asks.

I take a sip of my water, spilling it on myself. “Nothing,” I say. “I’m just really hungry.” He flags down the server, and as he does, I wonder if he would really cheat on me. Neil, who likes things to be simple and easy. Cheating takes work. A complicated smorgasbord of emotions that he isn’t wired for.

When the waiter comes, I order wine. Neil raises his eyebrows. I don’t blame him, I suppose. I’ve been a beer drinker until this very moment. “I thought you didn’t like wine.”

“I didn’t,” I say, shooting Kit a look. “I guess I do now. It’s, like, super hot in here.”

Kit orders wine too. Della and Neil make fun of us. Old people, they say. I would have said that too … last week, this morning, an hour ago. Can a dream really influence your palate? I don’t think so.

They talk about all kinds of things, but I barely hear them. They are not things I care about anymore. I pull out a pen from my purse and start to draw on the paper placemat. I am trying to draw the things I saw in the coloring book, but I’m terrible.

“What are you doing?” Della asks me. “You’re totally zoned out.” She’s leaning into him, her hand rubbing his thigh. She picks up the placemat and examines it. “Is this … a treehouse?”

“Yes!” I say excitedly. She giggles, and I feel sad.

“Don’t quit your day job, Helena,” she says. “You’re the math girl.” I take back the placemat and put it face down on the table. Kit looks at me for the first time—like really zones in.

“Do you like to draw?” he asks. I like to compare people’s eyes to sweets. Kit’s eyes are chocolaty—melty and warm. I’m not a big chocolate person, but Neil has cough drop eyes, and right now I just really need something sweet.

“No,” Neil answers for me. “I’ve known her for years, and I’ve never seen her so much as doodle in a notebook.”

I look back at Kit, hoping for something. I think about saying that thing about wanting to illustrate a coloring book, but it’s not true, and I’d feel silly saying it. Maybe I’m scared.

“I don’t know,” I say to Kit. “I’m not very good at it.”

I wait for him to encourage me, but the server comes with our food, and all is forgotten. They spend the rest of dinner talking about a trip we are all planning to take over the summer. I spend it thinking about the dream. A life I never knew I wanted. I want to go back. I want to fall asleep again to see if I can visit Helena and Kit’s Pottery Barn house in Port Townsend, Washington. When Kit says something, I listen. He’s kind of the same person I knew in the dream, maybe not as self-aware. But, for the first time, I notice how attentive he is to my best friend. How touchy-feely, and not in a smothering way. He just likes to touch her, and I feel jealous. When he speaks, it’s never without purpose. He says things that make Neil nod thoughtfully, and make Della look up at him with a dreamy look on her face. This is crazy. I stand up.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Why?” Neil protests. “We are supposed to go to a movie.”

“I don’t feel well,” I say. I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. There is no stubble to graze my lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye guys.” I wave at Della and Kit and walk quickly to my car. I look over my shoulder, expecting one of them to be following me, and I feel a pang of sadness that they’re all talking at the table like I was never there.

I drive home and let myself into my apartment, still unable to shake the weird feeling I’ve had since waking up from the dream. Instead of taking out my textbooks to study, I find an empty notebook and begin writing down the details of the dream.
So stupid. Such a waste of time.
I tell myself this, but I don’t stop doing it, until there are ten pages of scrawling, blue ink. When I’m done, I’m exhausted. From the emotion of it, yes. But more so, because I feel changed. Shifted. Redirected. I drink three glasses of water, take a shower. When nothing can distract me from the strangeness I feel, I open my laptop and find Kit’s Facebook profile. We became friends recently, after the first time Della introduced us. It always seems like the thing to do when you meet someone new—add them to your life on social media.
We are now friends!
Now you can see what I eat for lunch, posted in my very favorite filter, and see pictures of my running shoes as I take an above shot to let you know I work out. And read my sentimental posts about how I date the best guy in the universe (posted on his birthday or our anniversary). Every pretentious, made up moment of my life will be yours. Welcome, follower!

After we tapped our way into each other’s media lives, I never took the time to go back and look at Kit’s profiles. Though I apparently follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, Kit doesn’t post very much. I find a picture of Della sitting on his lap and study them both intently—her white, perfect teeth, his tight-lipped grin. Where did they even meet? I try to remember. He was a musician, I think. She went on and on about that. I look for clues on his Instagram, but he only posts sunsets and beach shots void of humans. Really good ones actually. He played his camera phone pretty well. I slam my laptop shut, ignore a call from Della, and crawl into bed. Maybe I’ll get lucky and go back to Port Townsend in my sleep. Maybe the dream will turn into a nightmare, and then I’ll
want
to forget it. Tomorrow, my head will be clear. Tomorrow, Kit will just be Della’s boyfriend, and I will be in love with Neil, and I’ll have my whole life ahead of me.

I wake up and stalk all of his profiles again. Nothing has changed since last night, but it’s the first thing I think to do. I have seven missed calls from Della and Neil. I call Neil first while lying on my stomach, studying a picture Kit took of a seagull perched on a piece of driftwood.

“The movie was great,” he tells me. “I don’t know if either of them saw any of it; they were all over each other.”

I report Kit’s picture as inappropriate out of spite.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “He’s not really that touchy-feely.”

“I think they really like each other. They were making jokes about eloping last night.”

“What? No!” I stuff a pillow over my mouth and roll onto my back. Luckily, Neil thinks I was upset about Della.

“Relax. You know how boy crazy Della is. She’s not actually going to marry him.”

I make the sign of the cross as I stare up at the ceiling.

“They asked us to go with them to Barclays tonight, but I told them I didn’t know if you could since you have to study.”

“I’ll go,” I say quickly. I roll out of bed, trying to land on my feet, but instead I get caught in the sheets and roll onto the floor. Neil doesn’t hear the thump, or my cry of pain.

“Pick you up at seven,” he says before hanging up. He doesn’t wait for my goodbye. I stay tangled in my sheets and pretend I’m Frodo when Shelob the spider spins him into his web. I almost fall asleep again, but my phone rings. Della this time.

“Neil says you’re coming tonight,” she says. “I’m so freaking excited. Listen, I know this is going to freak you out, but I really think Kit is going to ask me to marry him.”

My
What?
is muffled by the blankets.

“I know, I know,” she says. “But when you know, you know. That’s what everyone says.”

I fight my way out of the blankets and jump to my feet. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and flinch. Topknot gone wrong, crooked and spilling out, lion mane hairs around my face sticking up in every direction. I’m wearing my Lion King pajamas from my middle school days. I can’t bear to toss them, because Simba and Nala had a beautiful love. There’s a knock on my door. I’m already opening it when Della says, “Oh yeah, Kit should be there in a few minutes. I sent him over to get my laptop bag.” It’s too late to slam the door shut. With his girlfriend yakking in my ear, I open the door to my dream husband. Not the husband of my dreams, just my dream husband. Except I’m not even sure we were married, just having babies out of wedlock and living in Port Townsend like a bunch of hippies. Kit raises his eyebrows when he sees me.

“I have to go,” I say to Della. I hang up without waiting for her response.

“Hakuna Matata.”

“So predictable. Running errands for the queen?”

I think about reaching up to smooth down my mane, but if I opened the door like this, I might as well own it.

“She left her bag here?”

“Yes.” I step aside so he can come in. When he breezes past me, I get a whiff of his cologne. Not the same as the dream, but good. Neil doesn’t wear cologne. I watch him look around the room for Della’s bag. I know where it is, but I want to watch him. I also want to be mean to him because he’s ruining my life. “It’s there by the barstool,” I finally say. Kit bends down to pick it up. We never have much to say to each other, and it’s always a little awkward. But, now I feel like I know him. I head past him into the kitchen and take out the bacon.

He hesitates, not sure if he’s supposed to leave or make small talk.

I don’t really want to share my bacon with him—it’s the expensive, peppercorn kind—but I’m curious about who is he. Or who he is. Or whatever.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Is that the kind with the pepper on it? From the deli?”

I nod.

He sits on one of my two barstools and folds his hands on the counter. “I don’t know how to cook. It’s a severe handicap.”

I shrug. “There are videos on the internet, cooking shows, and lessons you can buy for fifty bucks an hour. You just need some drive and you can be rehabilitated.”

He laughs. His smile isn’t centered on his face; it’s all up on his left cheek like it’s drunk. You wouldn’t really know that since he rarely smiles. He looks younger, mischievous.

“Maybe I should do that,” he says. “Become a self-made sous chef.”

“I predict you’ll love to cook in ten years,” I say, turning the bacon. “Then you’ll have to make me something great, since I started your love of cooking.”

“All right,” he says, looking at me. “What would you like?”

“Fish,” I say quickly. “That you caught yourself.”

“And after that, I’ll chop down a tree for you.”

I feel myself tingle, so I look down at my bacon. That happened so easily. The banter. The first time we’ve ever had a discussion alone, and we’re simpatico. I get the eggs and cheese out, too, because I need to stress eat.

“So you just—”

He makes the whipping motion I’m using to scramble the eggs.

“Yes,” I say. “Want to try?”

He does it to humor me; I know he does. Who wants to whip slimy eggs around in a bowl? He splashes them all over my counter, but it’s cute that he’s trying. I make him pour them into the pan, then, when I see he’s a willing helper, hand him the spatula. He watches as I finish the bacon and sprinkle cheese on the eggs. I wish I felt self-conscious about my hair, but truth be told, I look hella cute with psycho hair.