F*ck Love (20 page)

My wine cork is in my hand. I spin it around my thumb over and over as I look at the water. I don’t even know how it got there. It always finds its way into my hands when I’m distressed. It’s so stupid, holding onto a little piece of cork like it’s a security blanket. I lift my fist above my head, with only a moment’s hesitation before I throw it into the water. And then I start to cry because I really love my wine cork. Fuck that. I pull off my shoes and straighten my topknot. There’s no point to straightening it, but it feels like I should, like a boxer cracking his neck before he dances into the ring. I’m about to dive in when someone grabs me from behind.

“Helena! Don’t be crazy.” Kit drags me back from the edge of the dock. I struggle to get away from him.

“I want my wine cork,” I say. I realize how crazy that sounds. I do. But I can barely see it anymore, just a tiny smudge on the surface of all that ink. Kit doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. He ducks his head and narrows his eyes, pointing to the wine cork, which is drifting farther and farther away.

“That?”

“Yes,” I say.

He pulls off his jacket and shoes, never taking his eyes from the spot in the water.

“Oh my God! Kit, no! It’s just a wine cork.” I wait until he’s already lowering himself into the water to say it, though. I don’t want him to change his mind. When he pulls himself back onto the dock, water is running into his eyes, and he’s shivering. If he gets pneumonia and dies, it’s going to be my fault. And then I’ll hate my wine cork. But I’ll still have it.

“We need to get you dry,” I tell him. I look back toward the cannery. Greer will be home. I’m thinking of Greer. Seeing her. Her seeing him. Him seeing her. Us all together. So bizarre. Also, I don’t want to share Kit.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Come on.” He helps me pull on my coat. I stick my cork in my pocket, but it just feels like a thing now. The action overpowered the thing. What Kit did…

We walk the few blocks to his condo. I’m surprised when he stops in front of one of my favorite buildings and takes out a key. It’s the sky blue building with ornate cream trim. So close to the cannery I’m surprised Greer’s never mentioned it. We take an elevator that smells like fresh paint. Kit is dripping all over the floor, leaving puddles. I glance at him sympathetically, and he laughs.

“I’m fine. I’d do it again just to show you I’d do it.”

Mother of all holy fucks.

I get the hazy eye lightheadedness that comes with a really good kiss.

I follow him out of the elevator to his unit and wait anxiously as he opens the door. I’m fretting. I care about what Greer will think, and Della too. And my mother. And Kit’s mother. I’m about to make an excuse not to follow him in when he turns around and grins at me. I don’t even remember what I was thinking a second ago. Kit’s condo is bare, except for a leather sofa and some boxes stacked in a corner, the tape still sealing their mouths shut. Everything is new and freshly painted; the wood floors gleam, newly polished. There is heavy wainscoting on the walls—squares within squares. Kit disappears into the bedroom to change his clothes, and I wander over to the window to look down at Port Townsend. The rain is really coming now. I like the way it makes everything shine. I’d been on a vacation with my parents to Arizona once—the typical family pilgrimage to the Grand Canyon. The towns on the drive through all looked the same to me, dusty and matted. I wanted to raise a giant bowl of water over the whole state and rinse it off.

“What do you think?” Kit asks. I jump, turning around. He’s wearing a gray pullover and jeans.

“Nice,” I say. “Actually, pretty dreamy.” I turn away so he can’t see my smile.

“Me or the condo?”

My smile turns to a frown. It’s not fair that he always catches me.

“Both,” I sigh. When I turn around he’s staring at me. He looks sleepy and sexy.

He nods. “My uncle loved it. He restored the whole place. He owned the building and left each of his nephews a unit when he died.

“How did he die?”

“Pancreatic cancer. He was forty-five.”

I sit on the couch, and he goes to the kitchen to make coffee. While it brews he builds a fire, and without asking me to move first, he pushes the sofa across the floor until it’s in front of the fire. I like how he just does things. Without my permission. He just knows himself. I deeply envy that.

“How’d you know to go to the docks?” I ask.

“You post pictures there all the time. It’s your go-to place.”

“Am I that transparent? God, don’t answer that.”

He sits down next to me. “Some people pay attention.”

Then he puts his hand palm up on his leg and looks at me like he expects me to hold it. I do. God, he’s so bossy. I’m mortified at myself, truly.

“Listen,” he says. “You can pretend that never happened at the restaurant. I’m sorry if me telling you that hurt you. That wasn’t my intent.”

“How’d you know about my dream?”

He squeezes my hand, his eyebrows drawing together.

“You just said you had one, and I imagined what mine would look like.”

“That’s impossible. The things you wrote were things I actually dreamt about.”

Kit shrugs. “Can’t we share the same dream?”

I swallow hard and look away. “I don’t know.”

He squeezes my knee knowingly. “I’ll get the coffee while you deal with your overload of emotions.”

“Two sugars,” I call after him.

It’s funny, but also not. How does he know that stuff?

And that’s how we end the night. Sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, drinking coffee and listening to the sound of each other’s voices. Afterward, Kit walks me back to the cannery and gives me a hug goodbye. Della has been blowing up my phone: twelve texts and four missed calls. I feel guilt creep into my belly.
They’re not together
, I tell myself. But that’s lousy reasoning. A slippery slope. I’ve known her since we were kids. My loyalty is supposed to be with Della; chicks before dicks. Is that even realistic? Humans seek connection above all else, and we are willing to destroy things to attain it. I decide not to answer Della. Not until I’ve had time to process what Kit said. I put my phone on silent and crawl into bed a guilty woman.

I’m locking up the gallery the following night, struggling not to drop my purse or the bags of trash I’m holding, when I get a text from Kit. His text tone is set to a train whistle. Every time I hear the whistle I look around in alarm for its source. It makes me laugh, though I’m always mildly embarrassed at myself. Kit has sent a picture. I let everything drop to the sidewalk, suddenly unconcerned. The picture is of his building, the creams and blues outlined in front of a malevolent gray sky. Did he just take this? It feels like a booty call, even though I’ve never given him booty. What does it make me if I go?

I take my time walking down Main Street, stopping to glance in store windows while carefully examining the quality of my heart. My heart is in deep conflict with my mind. I feel weak and foolish. Selfish. Disloyal. I feel like the kind of girl other girls talk about. I stop at the corner, a choice to make. I can continue on to the cannery, or I can cross the street and visit with Kit Isley.

He is waiting downstairs to let me into the building. We exchange only a look as I step inside. I can smell him right away—gasoline and pine. He’s wearing a dark blue athletic shirt with yellow trim around the collar.

“How did you know I’d come?”

“I didn’t. I was hoping.”

Hoping
. I spend most days fighting my feelings for him, making up my mind to never see him again. By evening, I fold like wet paper. My will is soggy, and my morals smudged.

Upstairs, he has a fire going, and I can smell something delicious.

“You cooked!” I exclaim.

“Something I caught with my own hands.”

“Mmmhmmm. I’ve heard that before.” I stand outside the kitchen to check out his setup, but he grabs the tops of my arms and steers me away.

“Give me a minute,” he says. “It’s almost ready.”

“How do you know I’m even hungry?” I ask, because it seems like the thing to ask now.

“You’re always hungry.”

He’s right.

A few minutes later he carries out two plates and sets them on TV trays that still have price tags hanging on them. He goes back to the kitchen for the wine.

“You have skills,” I tell him. He grins as he pours my wine and hands it to me.

“That’s from Marrowstone Vineyards,” I say. “Demise of your relationship. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way. She almost had a mental breakdown when we went.”

Kit shrugs. “You can remember the bad things about a place, or you can remember the good. Sometimes they’re tied together. That makes it even more interesting.”

“Word,” I say, as we clink glasses.

He won’t let me clean up the mess. He stacks the plates in the kitchen and comes to stand at the window with me. Port Townsend is covered in fog. It’s rolling down the streets, eating up the visibility. I can feel him next to me. It’s corny to think you can feel a person, especially if it’s clear across the country like we were before. But I felt him. And now that he’s next to me, I am overpowered by how intense it is to be next to him.

“This feels wrong,” I say quietly.

“Why?”

“You know why.” I turn to look at him.

“It doesn’t feel wrong to me,” he says. “It feels right.” He mimics my action and turns to me, so we’re facing each other.

“What does it feel like?”

Kit Isley is a full foot taller than me, so when I look at him, and we’re this close, I have to tilt my head back.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks.

Yeah, I sort of do. Don’t I? A couple months back, before they became serious. I remember waiting outside of Della’s apartment. They were late. Everyone was supposed to meet at her place for pizza and the game. She was introducing us to her new boyfriend. He came up the stairs before her, carrying the pizza boxes, wearing a Seahawks cap. He immediately made my hair feel frizzy. Just by existing. Because he was beautiful.

He’d said my name right away, like he knew me.

How’d you know?

You’re just like Della described you.

How had I forgotten that? All these months of obsession, and I’d forgotten that he knew me right away.

“Yeah, I remember,” I say, softly. “The night we watched the Seahawks play … at her apartment.”

Kit’s eyes are soft and sleepy as he looks at me. “No,” he says. “No, that wasn’t it. Think again.”

My head jerks back. “No, that was it. I remember.”

The corners of his lips turn up slowly. “We’d already met. You just don’t remember.”

“Before that night?”

He nods. I search my mind, flipping through memories. My eyes are fixated on the dip in his throat that sits above his clavicle. Had I run into them somewhere before I officially met him as her boyfriend? On a date perhaps? I come up with nothing. I lift my eyes back to his face and shake my head.

“It was at a bar,” he said. “You were drunk.”

“When?” Being in a bar as a college student was pretty common. It was also common to be drunk and not remember half the events of the night.

“Six months before we were officially introduced.”

“And you remembered me?”

He nods, and I want to stretch up on my tiptoes and taste his mouth.

“What bar?”

“Mandarin Hide.”

Mandarin Hide. Did I remember going there? The bartenders wore suspenders and waistcoats, like what Kit wore at—

“Your suspenders,” I say.

He nods. “I had them from Mandarin. I just carried them over to the new place.”

I’d ordered Tito’s Blind Pig because I liked the name. Della drank sidecars next to me. But she wasn’t
talking
to me. No, she was talking to some guy who approached her, which wasn’t unusual at all. Whenever we went out together, I expected to spend half the night amusing myself while Della amused herself with boys. On that night, a fresh-faced man in a suit approached her. She’d turned her back on me to flirt with him, and all of a sudden I was alone at a bar. I remember ordering another drink. The bartender was nice. He made me another Pig and then brought me a Redbull and set it down in front of me.

What’s that for?
I’d asked.

He’d smiled and pointed at Della’s back.
It’s going to be a long night.
I drank it, grateful and felt a weird connection with him.

“That was you. The bartender who gave me the Redbull.”

“You remembered?”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” I tell him. “And you were nice. But you had a—”

“Beard,” he finishes.

“Yeah. Holy shit.” I turn away from him and look out the window. I swore to myself that I’d never forget that night. In my alcohol haze, I’d seen Della so clearly, how willing she was to turn her back on me for a stranger. How a stranger who gave me a Redbull saw it too and showed compassion. I’d felt seen.

What’s your name?
he’d asked me. And then he’d repeated it.
Helena, that’s beautiful.

“So, that’s the bar where you met Della?”

He looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “She came back a few times after that. We started talking.”