F*ck Love (6 page)

“Art?”

I nod.

“That’s why you’ve been drawing on everything lately?”

I nod again.

“This is weird.”

I face palm. “I know. For me, too. I guess I’m trying to find myself and doing a shitty job if it.”

Neil looks perplexed. “I’ve known you for years, Helena. One of the things I’ve always loved about you is the fact that you have always been the girl who knows herself. While all the other girls fumbled around with life, you were the one who did your own thing.”

“People change, Neil. You can’t expect me to be one thing my whole life. Shit, I’ve only been alive for twenty-three years, and you’re already making a big deal about me changing something.”

Neil holds up his hands to ward off my anger. “I’m not saying that. I’m just surprised is all. People rely on you. You can’t just go down a different path and not warn anyone. Even Della—”

“Even Della, what?” I yell. “And how long have you and Della been talking behind my back?”

“It’s not like that, and you know it. We are worried about you. Your parents, too. No one has heard from you in weeks.”

He is right. My parents had gone into debt, taken out a second mortgage on their home to pay my way through college. All so that I could have a good life. I was a numbers girl, accounting seemed like a given. All through my kid years I had never shown any kind of artistic talent. Even when I had taken piano lessons, my fingers had seemed fat and clumsy. I took them for two years and could barely play “Chopsticks.” I sink down onto my couch and cover my face with my hands. God, what would my mother say? This is a nightmare.
No!
This
was
a dream!

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I feel so stupid.”

He’s next to me in an instant, rubbing my back, reassuring me. I lean into him and feel so tired. What have I been doing?

“I’ll get it together,” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”

We don’t talk about the dinner I missed anymore, or art class, which I stop going to. I find a job; I go back to being me. I don’t remember my dreams anymore.

I have an unhealthy addiction to Kit Kats and Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s not something I talk about. I don’t burden people with the ugly things about me. Sometimes my hair will smell like grease and perfectly crispy chicken breast, and sometimes you’ll find a log of chocolate on my bedroom floor. Let’s not talk about those things. I keep them in the shade.

I have different, less realistic dreams about Kit, but horrifying nonetheless. As a consequence, my tongue is stained red from the wine, and my thighs fill with lard. I start my new job with new pants from Express that I had to buy, because … KFC. Luckily everyone sort of started their new jobs at the same time, and social gatherings take a backseat to job acclamation. Kit did not go to college with Neil, Della, and me. He went to community college and graduated a year earlier than us. According to Della, he’s studying for his master’s, while working nights. So when I get a flat one morning on the way to work, and I have to call Triple A, I am surprised when Kit pulls over in his white pickup. He has on silver Ray Bans, and he’s chewing on a toothpick.

“Yo,” he says, walking toward me. “I came to rescue you.”

“Nice flannels. And Triple A is already on their way. Thanks for the chivalry though.”

He grins as he crouches next to my car, inspecting the tire. “Nail,” he says. Traffic whizzes by his back, blowing his shirt up and revealing his tanned skin. I want to tell him to be careful, but it’s such an obvious statement. So I stand off to the side, my arms crossed over my chest, and gripe. When Kit finally stands up and walks around to where I am waiting, I wipe my palms on my plump thighs and try not to make eye contact.

“It’s hot,” I say. “I hate Florida.”

“Florida hates you. You should move somewhere cooler.”

“Like where?” I ask. I chew on the inside of my mouth while I wait for his response, but I already know what he’s going to say.
Wa-Wa-

“Washington. It’s perfect there.”

“Oh yeah? Have you been?”

“I’m from Washington,” he says, wiping his hands on a blue bandana he produces from his back pocket. “Port Townsend.”

I throw my head back and look at the sky. I want to stress eat all the friend chicken. All the Kit Kats.

“I think you’ve mentioned that,” I say. Though he hasn’t. Not that I can remember anyway. But, if it was lying in my subconscious somewhere that would explain…

“I haven’t. I don’t like to tell people where I’m from unless they ask.”

I look at him. “Why not?”

“Because then they think they know you, and I don’t want to be known.”

“That’s stupid. Everyone wants to be known.” I crane my head to look for the Triple A rescue truck.
Please hurry, please hurry.

“Except those who don’t.”

“Why did you tell me then?”

He looks up at the sky, and I can see the clouds reflected in his sunglasses.

“I don’t know,” he says.

My eyebrows dance around for bit. I’m glad he’s not looking.

“How did you know I was here, anyway?” I ask.

“I have eyes.”

I pull my lips tight when I look at him, so he can really see my displeasure.

“I was driving by, Helena. You’re hard to miss.”

Hard to miss? Hard to miss?
Was it because of my thighs? It doesn’t matter because the rescue truck bounces up like an overeager golden retriever.

Everything in my life is bad timing.

Kit waits with me while a guy who looks like Ben Stiller changes my tire.

“How’s my Blue Steel?” he whispers to me, making a face.

“Of all the movies to remember him in,” I sigh. “What is this? A school for ants?”

Ben Stiller’s lookalike dusts his hands and is off to save someone else.

“Thanks for pulling over,” I say. “And keeping me company.”

“No problem; you’re kind of a lonely heart.”

A lonely heart.
Am I? I look away.

“I’m not lonely,” I say.

Kit grins. “Really?”

I look back at him, dumbfounded. He looks so smug. All that smirking.

“See ya, Helena.”

It’s the way he says my name and smiles at the same time. No one else smiles like that when they say my name. Do they? It’s never been good enough for me to notice. Certainly not Neil, who hardly smiles at all. Della mostly whines my name, and my parents call me Lena in purring, adoring voices (only child).

By the time I’ve got his name out of my mouth and say goodbye, he’s already in his truck, pulling away. It isn’t true—any of this. My fascination with Kit, my sudden inclination to art. I am having a quarter-life crisis. I read about them online after Googling:
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The website was a dot-org so I know it is legit. Anyway, it said that sometimes when a person experiences a huge life change, they lose all grip of reality and try to create something new that they’re more comfortable with. That’s what is happening. I think about commenting on the article, validating the author with my story. I picture him checking the article every day waiting for someone like me to share my personal breakdown with the dot-org community. In the end I am too ashamed to admit to any of this.

The South Florida heat has sucked me dry, or rather made me the opposite of dry. I lift my arms and air out my pits.
Fuck it.
I am calling in to work. Car troubles. I drive in the same direction Kit went. He lives in Wilton Manners. I’ve seen his apartment complex in the recess of his Facebook pictures. That’s what Florida is—not an apartment building—but a whole sprawling apartment village, painted various shades of orangey-pink, with a gym and a pool. I can find that. What if he is at work? Where does he work? He is getting his masters—Della told me that once. And he bartends nights at some place downtown. Facebook tells me where he works. Perfect.

I blast the AC and set off to find Kit Isley. A staged run-in, maybe a little private conversation to turn me off. After all, Della and I have completely opposite taste in men. I can get this shit out of my system once and for all. I’ll be back to normal by Monday, coasting down the highway of my smooth, well planned out life. Neil in the driver’s seat. Neil. Neil.

Neil

Neil

Neil

Kit works at Tavern on Hyde. I walk in at
six o’ clock
and park myself at the bar. It’s trendy, and not what I was expecting as his place of employment. Maybe something more dive-ish. I know, I know, I’m a judgmental asshole. I order a glass of wine from a female bartender with facial piercings who tells me her shift is over, and Kit will be taking care of me.

“He’s not here yet,” she says. “Should be any minute.”

“Do you have any Butterbeer?” I ask as she’s walking away. She doesn’t hear me, and that’s a good thing.

I send Neil’s call to voicemail, and sit up straighter when I see him walk into the bar. He’s wearing a white button down, black pants, and suspenders. He’s not my type, but the getup is pretty sexy. Like, put your brother in suspenders and he might become hot too. Okay, that was too far, and I need to stop watching
Game of Thrones
. Kit goes straight to the computer and clocks in. Before he can turn around and see me, I spill wine on my shirt. Leaks right out of the corner of my mouth, per usual. I really need to see a doctor about my gappy lips. I’m scrubbing at my top when he says my name.

“Helena?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s me.”

He leans on the bar in front of me, watching. I’m wiping incessantly at my boob. I stop.

“You’re so awkward.”

“Maybe because you say really awkward things,” I point out.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” he says, handing me a cup of seltzer and a rag.

I’m getting really weirded out by all of his “we” comments.

“It was on sale,” I say. “Twelve dollars at Gap.”

“See,” he says, walking over to another customer. “That was awkward.”

I shrug. I have bigger problems, like my gappy lips.

The bar gets busy after that, and Kit comes around a couple times to give me new drinks. He doesn’t ask what I want; he just brings me things. First, a martini that has a slimy white thing floating in it.

“It’s a lychee nut,” he says. “You’ll like it.”

I do. He switches back to wine at some point, white this time. Food that I didn’t order arrives: scallops on mango quinoa. I’ve never eaten scallops, but he tells me they’re his favorite. They have the texture of a tongue, and I briefly consider that he’s sending me a message. By the time I’m onto dessert, the bar stools are mostly empty, and Nina Gordon is playing over the speakers. I’m way buzzed. I’m thinking how fun it would be to dance to this song in the empty restaurant. Since I am not a good dancer, I know this is an unreliable boozy thought.

Kit comes to sit on the barstool next to me. What I really like about him is that he has never once asked why I’m here. Like his girlfriend’s best friend showing up at his job, and getting wasted alone, is completely normal.

“We close in an hour. May I drive you home?”

“I can Uber,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just afraid for you,” he says. “If the Uber driver sees how dirty your clothes are, he may think you’re not good for the fare.”

“That’s true,” I say. There are several glasses of flat seltzer on the bar in front of me. He stacks up the plates left over from my dinner. I pull out my wallet, but he waves me away.

“I fed you tonight.”

I’m too lightheaded to argue.

“We can leave in about an hour-thirty. That okay?”

I nod. When he leaves, I summon the Uber, and scribble a quick note on my napkin. I slide it under my empty glass, along with a twenty.

I should never have come. I should never have stayed. I should never have written the note. I almost go back, but I’m uncertain on my feet, and the driver is looking at me like he’s thinking about leaving.

I wake up on my couch. My couch smells like patchouli. I fucking hate patchouli. I cover my nose and roll onto my back. I didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Which is cool, because I also threw up on one of my throw pillows, and no one likes vomit in their bed. I stumble over to the trashcan and stuff the throw pillow inside. Then I take a shower. I’m halfway through soaping my hair when I remember the note I left for Kit at the bar. I groan. I jump out of the shower, not bothering to grab a towel, and run for my phone. God. A gazillion missed calls from Neil, and my parents, and Della, and my job.
Blah blah.
Soap is running down the back of my legs. I scroll through the texts until I see Kit’s name.