F*ck Love (19 page)

He looks at me then, and suddenly I know that people are what you truly need to be afraid of. People with eyes that communicate. People who can hurt you so hard you’d wish you were never born.

“It all depends.”

I trip on a crack in the sidewalk, and Kit reaches out to steady me.

“On what?”

While I wait for him to answer, I notice the length and curl of his lashes, the downward tilt of full lips. I look away, try to focus on something else: a soggy half-eaten hot dog on the sidewalk, a woman’s mismatched socks peeking out from her tennis shoes. Things that don’t make me dizzy.

“On how my truth is received.”

I’m about to ask him to further expound, when he says he has to go.

“I have to meet my mom for lunch. She’s trying to get me to move back.”

“Oh,” I say. I like his mom already. “Moms usually know what’s best for you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“No,” I say. “If she’s anything like my mom, you probably shouldn’t listen to her.”

He laughs. “See you soon, Helena.”

Soon after, I hear from Della. Della, who I haven’t heard from in months. She texts to say that they broke up after a fight they had. When I don’t answer her texts right away she calls me.

“Is he there, Helena? Do you know?”

I catch sight of my own face in the mirror when I answer her; I look like a disgusted human. I don’t want to be in the middle of whatever they have going on. I don’t want to betray one for the other.

“You should call him,” I say. “Remember he’s disappeared before.”

“I have called him. Oh my God, Helena, I call every five minutes. He just said he needed some time away. Like, I don’t know how to do anything. I don’t even know how to pay my mortgage.”

I can hear the tears, the snot, the Della who sits in a robe and eats chocolate and frets. I feel guilty for not being there for her, but no, I am not everyone’s crutch. I am learning to walk on my own; they need to learn, too.

“You can figure things out until he comes back,” I say. “Your mom will help you.”

There’s a long pause before she says, “Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” I say. “Not that long ago. Walking down the street. He was going to see his mom.”

“Did he say anything? About me?”

“Not really. Just that you were on a break.”

Della starts to cry. I hold the phone away from my ear and chew vigorously on my lip. I am feeling two things: pity, which is truly a nasty, condescending thing to feel for someone, and opportunistic. I don’t want her to have him back. I don’t want her to convince him she can be different. I know she can’t.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “If he needs time to figure things out, you have to give that to him. Don’t call every five minutes either. Try to spend some time … thinking.” After we hang up, she sends a text to thank me, and also to beg me to call with anything I hear. I want to tell her I’m not her personal gossip girl. I feel sick. Sick for Della, sick for myself. A little bit sick for Kit, but not much. He deserves to suffer.

June texts to tell me she saw Neil’s baby at the grocery store, and its head looks like a squash.

Is it a boy or girl?
I ask.

J: It’s a squash!

News of Neil’s baby looking like something you can find in the produce section of the grocery store should make me happy. I feel nothing. I don’t care to revel in infant ugliness. I don’t care to think about Neil at all. What does that mean? Have I moved on from my hurt? And is squash a fruit or a vegetable?

I am just getting off work when I get a text from Kit. It’s a photo of a staircase covered in bright red leaves. I know it. I’ve passed by on occasion. I walk without really thinking about it, and when I get there, my steps falter. I find Kit Isley, sitting on the bottom stair, his head dipped toward the ground. He’s wearing a peacoat, and there’s gel in his hair. The leaves stir around him, the soft trembling of mottled red. A little tornado at his feet. I sigh. It’s okay to have an appreciation for something beautiful, so long as you know your place. I wish I could take a photo of him sitting among the crimson leaves. And why can’t I? I take out my phone and snap a picture that I can already tell will be blurry.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself.”

He stands up, hands in pocket. “You hungry?”

“Someone once told me I’m always hungry.” I smile. Kit smiles back, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I wonder if he spoke to Della. Nothing like a good dose of Della to wipe you clear of joy.
That was mean
, I think
, but also true.

We fall into step. He seems to know where he’s going so I let him lead. I’ve come to think of these streets as mine, but they are really Kit’s. I just followed his shadow here.

“You know,” he says. “I always thought you were beautiful, but this weather suits you. Wild hair and winter coats.”

“That’s a compliment only a writer could give,” I say. I can’t even look at him. I want to throw myself off the side of a building, or in front of a moving car. I’m fidgety all of a sudden, adjusting my purse, and hair, and face.

“Helena…?”

“Yeah…? What?”

He grins, knowingly. He makes me feel so transparent. It’s so vulnerable to be under his gaze, emotionally naked.

“Shut up,” I say. “You don’t know me.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone can.”

“What does that mean?” I’m ready to be offended. So ready. Ready like Freddy. Ready like—

“You’re not easy to know. That’s not a bad thing, so stop looking at me like that.”

“This is just my face,” I say. “It’s how I always look.” I’ve caught glimpses of myself in the mirror before, when I’m in emotional turmoil. All the lines in my face popping out, my eyes frightened.

He laughs hard. I like making him laugh. I really do.

“So, obviously compliments make me super uncomfortable. I’m not hard to know. I’m really simple. I don’t even know who I am yet.”

“Helena!” Kit says. “I’d be worried if you said you did know yourself. Did you know that Albert Einstein never wore socks?”

“Huh?”

“He had a complex mind. Never stopped thinking, but socks complicated his life. So he just didn’t wear them.”

I think about the homeless dude in Seattle, the one who liked the socks I wasn’t wearing. I’m not sure why I’m thinking of that. Or why Kit is talking about socks. Oh my God, focus Helena. I shake my head, hoping to jolt my brain back to working order.

“Where are we going?”

“To eat,” he says.

“Yes, I know that. But where?”

“Trust.”

Lanzo’s of the Lanzo family. These people know food. I didn’t trust him. I grumble all the way there, and then look over the menu suspiciously. It’s called being hangry. Kit smiles at me the whole time, even when I eat all of the bread. His eyes are on me as I take my first bite. His own food left untouched until he knows that I like mine.

“Oh, good, Holy Mother of—”

“Shh,” he says. “They’re Catholics.”

“Zeus,” I finish.

He still hasn’t touched his food. He sips his wine, watching me.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.

“I already ate.”

“So why are we having dinner?”

“So you can eat,” he says.

I slide his plate to my side of the table. “Kit, I know you have something to say. So go ahead and say it. Because I’m stress eating right now, and I’d really like to stop.”

I can feel the spaghetti slapping at my cheeks, but I’m not wiping shit away until he tells me why we’re here. Or why he’s here. Or…

He slides a napkin across the table. At first I think he’s telling me to wipe my face, but then I start choking. I can’t read the words because my eyes are watering. Our server comes over to ask if I’m all right. Kit nods calmly, his eyes still on me. He’s not smiling. I’m supposed to stop coughing. I cough a little more to buy myself time.

I had a dream. Don’t marry Della

“Where did you get that?” I ask. Though I know where.
Such an idiot, Helena.

“You know where,” he says.

“I was drunk.”

“You were. But I know you. You’re extra honest when you’re drunk.”

He calls the server over. “Another glass of wine for the lady,” he says.

I laugh.

“You’re so dumb.”

“At the wedding—” he says.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I interrupt. I want to stand up and leave, but the server is right there with my wine, blocking my path.

“Helena, shut up and listen.”

“Okay.” I take my wine and go to town on it.

“I shouldn’t have let you run off like that. I was a little in shock.”

“Oh my God, it’s so hot in here,” I say, ignoring him. I look around, fanning myself.

“I’m in love with you, Helena. I should have told you then, but I’m telling you now. I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry?

“You’re sorry for being in love with me?”

“I’m sorry for not telling you. Focus.”

“Did you break up with Della?”

“Della and I broke up, yes.”

“Because…”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

There’s a ringing in my ears. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with the wine. I’m allergic.”

“You’re allergic to emotion,” Kit says.

“I have to go,” I tell him, standing up. “Wait. Does she know? Did you tell her that thing you just told me?”

It’s the first time he looks away. “No.”

“So you’re secretly in love with me? And you came here to tell me. And if I don’t reciprocate, then you can go back to Della? No harm, no foul.”

“No. It’s not like that. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Are you still in love with Greer, too?”

“Oh my God. No, I’m not in love with Greer.” He jumps up and pulls me back down to my chair. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Or angry.

“Helena—”

“Stop saying my name.”

“Why?”

“It gives me butterflies, and I don’t trust you or your butterflies.”

His lips pinch together like he’s finding all of this very funny. “You’re not supposed to admit I give you butterflies.”

He takes out his phone and starts texting. I’m about to ask him who texts at a time like this, but then I see his name pop up on my screen.

We’ll try this,
he says.

Okay

K: Do you remember the day you taught me how to make eggs?

Yes…

I look up at him. His head is bent over his screen, and he’s grinning.

K: I went home and started writing. An hour with you and I felt like the inspiration I’d been waiting for my whole life hit me all at once.

Why didn’t you tell me?

K: Why would I? You were my girlfriend’s best friend. And you were with Neil. I took it for what it was. You were my muse.

I’m grinding my teeth so hard I can hear the cracking. Kit pauses texting to nudge my glass of wine toward me.

K: Helena, I love you. I’m in love with you. Say something…

Men tell lies

And then I stand up and walk out before he can stop me.

I don’t know where to go. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and breathe in the sharp, piney air. I feel compressed. I’m folding my emotions like a piece of paper—a tiny square, into a tiny square, into a tiny square. When they’re folded up enough I can leave them in a corner of my mind somewhere, to be forgotten. That’s how I deal, isn’t it? And sometimes, on a day like today, I imagine that my brain is littered with hundreds of bastard feelings I won’t claim.

I’m on the sidewalk looking left to right, ready to sprint. I forgot my coat inside the restaurant, which is unfortunate because it’s cold. I’m afraid he’s going to come after me, and I’m also afraid he’s not. I’m not sure what’s worse at this point? I have to get out of here so I can think. I duck my head and stick my phone in my back pocket as I head for the docks. It’s late for Port Townsend. I’m dizzy from the wine; my limbs feel loose like the spaghetti I was eating. Most of the shops that sit along Main have closed for the night. A few stragglers walk the sidewalk with their dogs, already bundled up for the cooler weather. I clutch my arms around myself, and try to smile as I pass them. I’m in a hurry, and they move out of the way for me.

The walk to the marina is ten minutes; the run is six. I’m not wearing the right shoes, and my feet are aching. I stop when I reach the Belle, my favorite. She’s rogue among the other boats—handcrafted and hardworking with rustic milled logs. She makes all the other boats look like they’re trying too hard.