F*ck Love Page 4

  “Don’t like it?” he asks.

  I eye his ripped blue jeans, and shake my head. Filth. Chef scum.

  “It’s delicious,” I say. “It’s the work of a talented chef. Someone who’s had a lot of practice in the kitchen.”

  He smirks and sets down the tray. “Eh, it’s not that hard. Like scrambling eggs.”

  I choke on my wine.

  “What’s wrong with you tonight?” Neil says, handing me a napkin.

  “Just doing everything too fast,” I say. “Choking and whatnot.”

  “You have cheese in your hair,” Kit says. “Right there.” He motions to the spot. I don’t pull it out. Let the cheese have my hair.

  Della claps her hands and takes a bacon-wrapped scallop off Kit’s tray. “Now I’ll never have to learn how to cook!” she says gleefully. “Kit can take care of it!”

  I wonder when she ever had plans to learn how to cook. Especially since I’d been her official snack-maker since tenth grade.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask, sinking into the couch.

  “Fish,” Kit says. “That I caught myself.”

  I balk.

  “Lovely,” I say. Then, “Neil, can you pour me more wine? That’s right. Fill it all the way to the top…”

  It turns out that I can eat a lot more than I think, especially if it’s delicious as fuck. By the time we are finished with dinner, I can’t even stand up straight. Neil has fallen asleep with his head on the table, and Della is singing karaoke by herself in the bedroom. Kit leads me to the living room, suspiciously sober, and helps me onto the love seat.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” he says, moving toward the kitchen.

  “Did you lie about the coffee too?” I hiss. I cling to the cushions so I don’t roll off the couch.

  He’s holding four wine glasses between his fingers. He stops to consider what I’ve said, and all I can think about is how he’s able to hold all four wine glasses without them slipping out of his hands.

  “No. That was true. It’s probably why I started writing that book. I got addicted to coffee and stayed up all night. Thanks for that.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Hey, I got you something.”

  I make a face. “You got me something?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Hold on.”

  He disappears into Della’s bedroom and comes out carrying a brown paper bag.

  I take it from him, gingerly.

  “What the what?” I say.

  I reach into the bag and pull out a book.

  “Drawing for beginners,” I read. My brain is a wine slushy, but the situation is still eerie enough to give me goose bumps.

  “It’s a start,” he tells me. “If you’re going to doodle, you might as well learn how to do it really well.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Why did you choose this particular book?” I ask, looking up at him.

  “There were lots of kinds,” he says. “But I thought you’d like the castles and unicorns.”

  My heart does this racing thing. For the first time in days, I don’t think I’m crazy. I think everything is crazy. I’m trapped in a dream. The dream has invaded my world. What the hell?

  I read the book Kit got me, then I text him to thank him. He plays it off like it was nothing. Typical. He has no idea how not nothing it was.

  When are you going to let me read the book you’re writing?

  His text comes back almost immediately.

  K: Wow! You’d want to?

  I roll onto my back, excited. Maybe reading his book would give me some kind of insight into who he is.

  Of course! I love to read.

  K: Okay, I’ll send it over. But I have to warn you, there aren’t any throbbing penises or heaving breasts in my book.

  I drop the phone on my face before I can respond. I may have a black eye tomorrow, but also Kit’s unfinished manuscript.

  What in the world would give you the impression I read that sort of thing?

  K: I don’t know. It was a stupid thing to say. You’re way too uptight to appreciate a good fucking.

  I frown. I don’t know if we are still kidding around, or if he really thinks that about me. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I’m a tiger in bed. Right out of one of my smutty novels with the embracing couples on the cover. That’s a lie, but only to myself.

  After texting him my e-mail address, I pull out my sketchbook. It dawns on me that since my dream I’ve become obsessive about making it come true. At least portions of it. Why else would I sign up for art classes when I’ve never drawn a serious thing in my life? And what happens if I never get better at it? Does it mean my dream failed? Or I failed?

  I don’t do anything that day but wait for Kit to send his manuscript. I should be looking for a job—a nice, cushy accounting job to rest my fat numbers brain on. I was top of my class at UM. There are already e-mails gathering in my account, so-and-so’s uncle who is looking for an accountant. My mom’s gynecologist who knows someone who is looking for an accountant. Even my uncle Chester is looking for an accountant for his snow cone business. All the free shaved ice I can eat.

  I draw instead. Neptune looked at a tree I did last week and made a weird sound in the back of his throat. I’m no grunting expert, but it sounded like impressed approval to me. I’ve imitated that sound twice since then—once at a restaurant with Neil who asked me if I had something lodged in my throat, and once on the phone with my mother who wanted to bring me soup for the cold I was coming down with. Some people aren’t good with expressive communication. It’s not their fault. Finally, Kit sends me his novel. It appears in my inbox with the title: Doers Don’t Do. I have no idea what that means. But when I transfer it to my iPad, it’s only six chapters long. I’m disappointed. I was expecting War and Peace after all of the time he took off from Della. I settle down in my bed with a bag of cashews and my dream husband’s book. Not the husband of my dreams, just the one from my dream, I remind myself.

  Kit’s story is about two boys who love the same girl. One of the boys is rash and impulsive; he enlists in the army and almost gets his arm blown off. The other is a librarian—deep thinking, kind of stalkerish. He stays in town to moon over the girl, Stephanie Brown. Who the hell names their character Stephanie Brown? Kit is who. Stephanie is lackluster. She has all the pretty things pretty girls have, but I can’t figure for the life of me why George or Denver would want her so badly. It will come, I think. Slowly, Kit will unfold the story, and the obsession, and in the end I would be madly in love with Stephanie Brown, too. I close out the document after chapter six and pull up my e-mail.

  I want more.

  I hit SEND. It doesn’t take him long to respond. I am in the middle of tossing cashews into the air and catching them in my mouth when I hear my e-mail ping. His response is enthusiastic and just one word.

  Really!?

  I like his use of an exclamation point and a question mark. It hits the spot.

  Yes, I send back. Have you written past chapter six?

  Almost immediately, there is a new file in my e-mail. Six more chapters! But they’ll have to wait. I have art class. I dress in all black to channel my inner artist and put my hair up in a bun. When I walk into class, Neptune nods at me. Everyone is taking me more seriously lately. I wonder if he nodded like that at Joan Mitchell when he was a young man. We are given reign of our own art today.

  “Draw anything you like!” Neptune announces, punching the air. I feel inspired today. I draw George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown. All holding hands, standing by the fishing boat they restored together. Except they don’t look like regular people. Instead of arms, I give George guns, and Denver has a giant computer as a head. Stephanie Brown, I draw drab, with soppy, weak shoulders. Neptune gets really excited when he stops by my work area. He claps his hands.

  “All this time you draw trees and submarines, and here is your real talent,” he says. “Pop art impressionism.”

  I beam. I take my work home that
night with the intent of showing Kit. But, when I get home, Neil is waiting on my doorstep. He looks so angry I almost turn around and go back to my car.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, as I pull out my key. Neil has a key, right on his key chain. I’m not sure why he’s waiting out here.

  “You forgot the dinner,” he snaps. And when I just look at him, he repeats it, only with more emphasis. “The dinner.”

  The dinner, the dinner, the dinner…?

  The whoosh of failure hits me hard. I feel pitiful, and sorry, and sick to my stomach. Neil’s dinner. That his boss threw for him. To welcome him to the firm. It was important and exciting. We bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, and I planned out my outfit—not too sexy, not too serious. How could I forget Neil’s dinner? I don’t know how to verbally express my sorrow with words. This results in my mouth opening and closing in a speak failure. Neil is waiting for me to say something, his hair sticking up and his tie pulled loose.

  “Neil,” I say. “Why didn’t you text me? I—”

  “I did. All night.”

  I reach for my phone. It’s dead. How long has it been dead? I forgot to charge my phone.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I manage.

  “Where were you?”

  I guess now would be the right time. I open the door, looking over my shoulder at him. He’s hesitant to follow me inside, and I wonder if he came here with the intention of breaking up with me.

  “I’ll explain.” I say. “Just come in. You can break up with me after.”

  He sloths inside and sits on the couch. His head is all droopy, and his shoulders are sad. I feel the knot inside my stomach coil tighter. I am such a selfish cunt.

  “I have been secretly taking art classes,” I blurt. “For six weeks. And I lie about looking for a job. I don’t want a job—I mean, I do—not a boring accounting job. And that’s where I was tonight. I forgot about your dinner because I’m selfish and stupid, and I was screwing around with charcoal and paper.”

  He’s quiet for a long time. Just looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

  “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.