Know Not Why: A Novel (27 page)

“Arthur,” Emily says out of nowhere.

Oh, God, she’s got magic neo-Druidic powers of
mind-reading.

“
What
?” I say. Maybe I snap it. “How the
hell is he relevant to anything?”

“He’s not, necessarily,” Emily replies. “It’s
just that he’s right there.” She points out the window.

Sure enough, there’s Arthur across the street.
He’s scarved and peacoated, stepping out of a substantially fancier
restaurant. And it’s not like it’s some sprawling metropolis we’ve
got here, but it’s still weird that he’d be in the restaurant right
across the street from the restaurant that I’m in at the exact same
time. That’s a thing, right? Like a sign or something.

“I wonder who that is with him,” Emily adds
mildly.

Because – I realize in one horrible,
guts-lurching instant – there is somebody with him.

The other guy is tall and dark haired, with
glasses that make him look GQ instead of nerdy. He’s got a nice
coat and a scarf too. Don’t they just make a delightful fuckin’
pair. I look at him, and for some reason, I just know. I know with
a sick, deep knowing.

“Douchey Patrick,” I mutter.

“Huh?” says Dennis.

“You know the guy?” asks Amber. And then she
gasps. “Hey – is he gay? Arthur?”

“It looks dately,” Dennis determines.

Dately. Dately. It looks
dately
.

Amber, predictably, freaks. “Oh my God!!! Howie,
holy crap, is Arthur gay and you didn’t tell me?? Some best buddy
you are, you have deprived me of like a straight month of joy,
asshole.” She throws a breadstick at me. I don’t even feel it. And
not because it’s just a breadstick, and therefore doesn’t hurt so
bad. No, it’s because I’m numb. Numb to all feeling.

Instead of moving along, Arthur and Douchey
Patrick are just standing there, talking.
TALKING.
I hope
that maybe it will somehow turn into a fistfight, but no such luck.
Instead, Arthur laughs.

Laughs.

“Is he gay?” Amber asks again.

“I dunno,” I force myself to answer. “How would
I know that?”

“They’re walking mighty close,” Dennis
determines.

“This is so badass,” Amber rhapsodizes.

There’s a screechy, jerking sound, chair legs
against floor. I don’t realize until I’m looking down at everybody
that it’s because I stood up.

“Uh,” Amber says, “okay.”

“I’m gonna go say hi,” I tell them. My voice
sounds weird. Loud and kind of shaky.

Amber says, “What?”

Dennis says, “Don’t go out, man, it’s
freezing.”

Amber says, “Howie, so help me God, if you bust
up his adorable gay date—”

“I think,” Emily says, “it would be nice of you
to say hello.”

“Thanks, Emily,” I reply, oddly touched. “That’s
just what I’m gonna do.”

And so, hands clenched into fists, I head
outside.

“Seriously,” I can hear Dennis saying back at
the table, “he gets that it’s cold, right? And wait – doesn’t he
hate that guy?”

“It’s complicated, I think,” Emily says
sagely.

Chapter Nineteen

Turns out, Dennis is right. It’s fucking cold
out here.

I half-jog across the street, feeling like a
grade-A moron all the while, and come to a stop right next to
Arthur and his douchetastic dinner companion. They both stare at
me, bewildered. Arthur’s bewildered face is an expression that I’m
good buddies with by this point, but when Douchey Patrick does it,
it’s just offensive. They look so friggin’ well-matched.

“Um,” I say, “yo.”

“Howie,” Arthur says slowly, “what are you doing
here?”

“Dinner with the bro and some hos back there. No
big deal.”
WHO AM I.
“You?”

“The same,” Arthur replies. “Minus the hos.”

“You sure about that?” Oh, shit. It just slips
out.

Douchey Patrick stares at me.

“Ahaha,” I throw in, real cool. “Just kidding,
man.” I slug his shoulder. Hard.

“Great to meet you, Howie,” Douchey Patrick
says, rubbing his shoulder.

“You too, D—Patrick.”

Douchey Patrick looks over at Arthur. “He knows
my name?”

Uh,
he’
s right here. Douche.

“I’m a good guesser,” I reply, all
suck-on-
that
, before Arthur has a chance to answer. “When in
doubt pick C.”

“I’m C,” Douchey Patrick says wryly.

“Well, you sure ain’t A.” From whence comes this
drivel? “Ahahaha. Seriously, bro. Just jokes.”

Douchey Patrick turns to Arthur. Guess he can’t
handle this. Yeah, that’s right,
ya douche
. “You told him
about me?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Arthur says,
frowning.

Oh. Right. I’m not even supposed to know about
Douchey Patrick in the first place. Friggin’ life of secrecy.
“Kristy said some stuff,” I explain, a little lamely. Whatever. I’m
two shakes from hypothermia. I got an excuse.

“Ahhh,” Douchey Patrick says, “Kristy.”

He makes a face. The sort of face I imagine
Emily might make when forced to eat asparagus.

You do not
asparagus
Kristy Quincy.

“Oh, that’s right,” Douchey Patrick says.
“You’re the new employee. I knew ‘Howie’ sounded familiar.”

“You told him about me?” I ask Arthur, trying
not to sound too smug. Failing a little.

“Once or twice, maybe,” Arthur replies
absently.

Underwhelming.

“And he wound up hiring you after all,” Douchey
Patrick marvels with a laugh that makes me want to punch him right
in the sexy glasses. “How about that.”

“Howie’s been a perfectly decent employee,”
Arthur says.

A perfectly decent employee.

A perfectly decent employee?

That’s it?

“You must be freezing,” Arthur says to me,
finally wrenching his eyes from Douchey Patrick.

“Ehh,” I say, attempting an unaffected shrug.
It’s not easy when your shoulders have frozen into place. I
persevere. “Y’know. Whatever.”

“Howie, go back inside,” Arthur instructs, his
voice softening. It’s a relief to hear it do that. It’s like – like
he still remembers who I am, or something. Perfectly decent
employee my ass.

But the fact remains that he’s out consorting
with Douchey Patrick, and he’s telling me to go away.

Play it cool, Jenkins. Play it so cool. “’kay,
sure, whatevs. I’ll just leave you fellows to your late night man
strolling. Whatever it is you’re up to. The two of you.” Should
anybody
stand that close together? It just seems fuckin’
invasive. “I’ll see you …”

“Tomorrow at work, I imagine,” Arthur finishes
smoothly.

“Righto,” I agree, feeling a little slapped.
“’Cause that’s where you see me.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. He gives me this look, this
‘duh, ya weirdo, where else would I see you?’ look, and I realize –
like,
realize-
realize – that he doesn’t want Douchey Patrick
to know about me. Not in the storage closet sense.

My stomach lurches. I try to blame the pizza.
The cold. Something.

“It was riveting chatting with you, Howie,”
Douchey Patrick says, all douchey and Patricklike.

“Yeah, you too, motherfucker,” I shoot back.
“Ahahaha. Just messin’.”

This is the worst. The freezing, awkward,
I-am-a-dumbass worst.

“Bye, Howie,” Arthur says. He reaches over and
touches my arm briefly.

“Bye, Arthur,” I reply. Then I glance at Douchey
Patrick, who’s still looking quietly amused and like the worst
human that’s ever lived. Something about that look, it gets to me.
And so I reach over, and I touch Arthur’s arm back.

My hands are so cold I can barely bend my
fingers, and the fabric of his coat is cold, but there’s the
tiniest hint of warmth underneath. Damn it, I just want him to warm
me up. I like him. I so just fuckin’ like this guy. I fucked it up.
I know I fucked it up.

“Bye,” I say again.

“Bye,” Arthur says.

“Bye,” Douchey Patrick throws in. Ahaha, isn’t
he
hilarious
.

I take my hand away and let them go.

When I get back inside, Amber and Dennis are
both gaping at me. Emily is considerate enough to stare with great
interest at the napkin dispenser.

“What the hell was the point of that?” Amber
asks.

“I just don’t like that guy,” I reply, settling
back into my chair.

Dennis joins in. “So you went out in the
freezing cold to see him because …”

“He’s my sworn enemy,” I say. “Gotta pester him
at every turn. Crash his date. You know.”

“So it was a date,” Amber says excitedly. “You
got confirmation.”

“Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “Actually, they were just
telling me about all the sex they’re on their way home to
have.”

It’s a joke. It must be a special joke, though,
because most jokes don’t make me nauseous.

“Really?” She’s gonna start scribbling
fanfiction on a napkin any second.

“I think he’s joking, Amber,” Emily says. All of
a sudden, I’m glad she’s around.

“Yeah, thanks, Em,” Amber drawls.

“You know what?” I decide. “I gotta go.”

“What?” Amber asks.

Okay. Maybe that was a little abrupt. Not to
mention that now she’s giving me a Don’t You Dare Leave Me look of
the highest order. And I
know
. I get it. The rules of best
budhood so decree that you don’t leave said best bud with her
longtime love and his girlfriend. But there’s Arthur, and there’s
Douchey Patrick, and if we’re being realistic, odds are they’re
probably ArthurandDoucheyPatrick, and it’s … I gotta know. I gotta
know or I’ll fucking puke my own heart out.

And so I look from Amber to Dennis, and I say,
“Yeah, Kristy just texted me. She, uh, needs me to stop by.”

“Kristy? Kristy from work?” Amber says. Hey,
grave. It’s just great digging you.

“Yeah,” I lie. “She and her boyfriend got into
this huge-ass fight, and her roommate’s out of town, and she’s
freaking out and I guess she really just needs someone to talk
to—”

“
You
? You’re seriously her best
option?”

“I dunno, Amber,” I say, silently vowing to
sprint out of here if this doesn’t end in the next ten seconds.
“She seemed really upset.”

“What, no exclamation points in the text
message?”

“It’s cool,” Dennis interrupts. “Amber, you
should come over, we’ll watch a movie.”

“Dennis tells me I have to see Monty Python and
the Holy Grail,” Emily says.

Amber looks a little hesitant. Which is a feat,
considering I’m pretty sure she feels like her brain’s gonna
explode from dread and fury. “I—”

“Amber,” Dennis says gravely, “Monty Python.
Come on. Howie’s okay and everything, but
Monty Python
.”

Finally: “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

“Great.” I stand up. “See, you guys won’t even
miss me.”

I don’t look at Amber. I’m the worst person
alive. I can’t bring myself to care.

+

Kristy opens the door. She’s wearing her pajamas
already. I can hear something peppy blaring from the TV.

“Howie?”

“Um,” I say, “is Arthur here?”

“He just got back.” I can tell that warning
bells are going off in her head – or the Kristy equivalent, which
are probably, like, sparkly fairy noises.

“Is he alone?” I sound desperate. Crazy. I’d
cringe, except the capacity for shame has been frozen out of
me.

Kristy looks like she wants to give me a hug,
and the only thing that’s stopping her is the fear that I might
snap at any moment. “Of course he is.”

This is where the relief should sink in. Maybe
it does, and I’m just too totally wrecked to feel it. All my
visions of Arthur and Douchey Patrick partaking in some elaborate
mating ritual that involves, like, the sexy removal of scarves and
Banana Republic clothing – gone! It doesn’t help. I still feel
terrible.

“Oh. Uh. Okay. Well, that’s …”

Kristy’s eyes get very bright. “Actually, Nikki
and I were just leaving.”

I look at her. Pajamas. Her hair’s pulled up in
a clip, all sloppy. She’s not wearing makeup anymore.

“Uh,” I say.

“Yep, we’re going out!” She is the worst liar in
the world. “We’ve got plans! Fun plans! Nik!” she calls. “Come on,
time to go!”

Nikki shuffles into the entryway. She’s walking
weird, and I realize that it’s because her toenails are newly
painted. She’s got those little white divider thingies between her
toes.

“Going where?” she grunts.

“Just out!” Kristy chirps. She’s pulling both
their coats out of the closet. She throws Nikki’s at her. It falls
on the floor. Nikki stares at it. “You know what, let’s bring the
movie over to Reddy’s, he hasn’t seen this one.”

“Would he want to?” Nikki asks blankly.

“What are you talking about? He
loves
Hugh Grant!” Kristy shoots a hasty glance my way, like she’s
checking to see whether I’m falling for her elaborate scheme.

“But didn’t he just say he didn’t want to come
over to watch it—”

“Arthur, we’re taking your car!” Kristy yells.
“We’re taking his car,” she adds in explanation to me. “Ooh! Better
go get his keys! I bet they’re on the kitchen counter!”

Kristy darts out of the entryway. Nikki and I
stare at each other.

“What?” I hear Arthur call. The sound of his
voice sends a jolt through me.

Kristy breezes back in, jangling the keys
triumphantly. “They werrreeee! They were on the counter! He won’t
mind if we take the car! He doesn’t need to go anywhere! And hey,
if he really does, I bet you could drive him, Howie! I’m not the
best driver but I think we’ll be fine. It’s just over to Reddy’s
house! How much that’s bad can really happen, right? Right! Nikki,
put your coat on, oh my
gosh
! Take forever much?”

“But my toenails—”

“Oh! Your toenails!” Kristy frowns, forehead
scrunching thoughtfully. “You know what, it’s not a problem! We’ll
be outside for like two seconds, your feet won’t get too cold!
Howie, you can carry her downstairs to the car, right?”