F*ck Love (13 page)

“You could be riding the Ferris wheel,” I shout. Kit laughs, and then flips on his side to face me. All of a sudden we’re separated by a pathetic three inches. I can’t really go anywhere since the Gravitron is in the middle of its most fierce spin. It’s hard to move, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe too. I’m glad it’s dark, and that Kit doesn’t have access to my expression. He has a different kind of access, and I finding myself daydreaming about a kiss. It’s sick, and I’ve never done that before. But I’ve also never been this physically close to Kit Isley. I close my eyes to fend him off. And then. And then I feel his hand on my face. Longing can come to a person at the most inopportune times. Like when you’re on a fair ride and gravity is holding you down, and your dream husband puts his warm hand on your cheek, even though it’s really hard work to do that. I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s happening in his. I’ll fucking die if he looks at me like I look at him. I keep them shut and feel a tear squeeze its way from the corner of my eye. It struggles down my cheek and rolls onto Kit’s hand. And then the ride is over. The spinning slows, and we are given back control of our arms, and legs, and head, and hands. Which is why I’m surprised when Kit’s hand doesn’t immediately leave my face. We’re thrown to our feet as the music ends, bodies still closer than they should be. The doors haven’t opened yet, so we stand like that for a minute—my forehead on his chest, his hands around my upper arms. It’s a suspended moment, both inappropriate and innocent at the same time. I cling to him, smell him, wish he was mine. And then the doors slide open, and I’m running.

I take a selfie. Call it, The Muggle Searches for Magic, and then I pack a small overnight bag and drive the five hours to my parents’ house. My mother hasn’t been speaking to me. She wanted me to forgive Neil, which was fine. There was room in my heart for forgiveness; there wasn’t room in my life for someone who constantly needed it. She wanted to plan a wedding, and I’d foiled her plans of tulle, and pearls, and cake tasting. My father is working in the yard when I pull up. He tips back his Yankees cap and comes to say hello to me.

“Didn’t know you were coming, Hellion. Your mother is going to be so happy to see you.”

“I didn’t know either. And don’t lie to me, Daddy. She’s still pissed.” He smiles like he’s caught.

“She’s at the market, so hide your car around back and get her really good.”

I nod. Nothing better than scaring your overbearing, controlling mother. My dad liked torturing her too; he’d been putting ideas in my head since I was a little girl.
Move all of the paintings in the house to different rooms. Rub butter on her reading glasses. Wrap cello wrap around the toilet seat.

My poor mother (who really deserved it). At least she only had the pranks of one child to worry about. My dad comes inside to make me a prime rib sandwich left over from their dinner the night before.

“You coming here to tell us something, Hellion?”

“Yup.” I sip spiked lemonade from the Mason jar he hands me. God bless him.

“Good or bad?” he asks. My dad can’t keep still. He’s never been good at it. I watch him move from the sink, to the fridge, to the back door.

“Why can’t you just ask me a question directly?” I ask him. “What are you here to tell us?” I imitate his deep voice. He shakes his head.

“I don’t sound like that. But, fine,” he says. “What are you here to tell us?”

“I’m moving.”

“To where?”

“It’s really none of your business, Dad.”

He comes to sit down across from me. “Is this about Neil?”

I’m shaking my head before he’s finished his sentence. “No, it’s about me. I’ve always been that girl who you can count on—steadfast, predictable, mousy brown hair. That’s why Neil liked me—well, he wanted me to dye my hair blonde—but the other parts. And you know what? I don’t even think that was me. I think it’s what everyone expected from me, so I just went along with it.”

“So, you’re telling me that on the inside you’re a wild, unpredictable blonde?”

“Maybe. I’d like the chance to find out.”

“Why can’t you find out here?”

I put my pale hand over his brown, calloused one. “Because I’m not brave enough to change with everyone watching me. I want to do it alone. I want it to be real.”

He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. I think he learned that look from watching too many Robert De Niro movies. My dad is a handsome guy, his hair is all white, but he spikes it up. He has a tattoo of a flamingo on his forearm. A dare from his college days. I always wanted to be like him, but my personality veered more toward my mother’s.

“Your mother is overbearing and controlling,” he says. “Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s the reason I fell in love with her. All five feet of her, not afraid of anything, and always telling me what to do. It’s pretty hot.”

“Eww, Dad.”

“Sorry. Anyway, it’s nature. Overbearing mothers usually give way to one of two things in their children: rebellion or passivity. In your case, the latter.” He dips his finger into the honey jar that sits in the middle of the table and rubs it across my forehead.

“Go child,” he says. “Be at peace. Let no one overbear you.”

“It’s supposed to be oil,” I say. “You’re supposed to anoint my head with oil.”

I can feel the honey dripping down my forehead toward the bridge of my nose, and then it hangs like snot from the tip of my nose. I lick it off.

“Your mother just pulled into the driveway,” he says. “Go hide in the pantry and scare her.” I hear her tires on the gravel and stand up.

Two days later, I leave my parents’ house, confident as fuck. I even have a little bounce in my step that’s normally not there because of my really bad posture. My mother was hesitant at first, but after an afternoon of sulking and moodily sipping Zinfandel, she decided that the men in Florida weren’t suited for my reserved and articulate personality. The men in Florida. That’s why I was given her blessing to leave. Family is a wonderful thing, mostly when they’re not projecting their shit on you. She called a friend, who called a friend, who had a job secured for me in less than five hours.

“Tell me,” I heard her say over the phone. “Are there handsome, single men working there?”

I had a date with Dean lined up for a week after my move. “Dean,” my mother said, clapping. “A handsome name for a handsome man.”

My dad shook his head behind her shoulder, his eyes large.

Before I left, my dad and I poured her bottle of Zin down the drain and refilled the bottle with a hot sauce concoction we’d been working on all day.

“Don’t forget to video her reaction,” I whispered in my dad’s ear when I kissed him goodbye. “She’s going to divorce both of us if we don’t stop.”

My dad guffaws. “She’d have to learn to pump her own gas,” he calls out.

“Never gonna happen!” I wave goodbye.

Two down—the most important two. Now I just had to tell Della and June. Thank God. I give eight weeks’ notice to my job. I haven’t been there long enough for anyone to really care that I’m leaving. They throw a party for me anyway, and spell my name wrong on the cake. I wait to tell Della last.

“What the hell do you mean you’re moving to Washington?” she says. “How could you just make a decision like this and never talk to me about it?” I sit there for a while, thinking about how to answer her, running the tip of my finger over the grooves that mark the edge of the table. We are at that age that balances between independence and conferring with your friends about every miniscule decision you make. I’ve never liked that part of adolescence, but tried my hardest to play along.
Should I get bangs, Della? Do I want a silver car or a gold car? The dark wash jeans, or the light?

“Well, because I’m a grownup, and I don’t need to confer with my friends about my decisions.”

We are sitting at a sidewalk cafe in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. The waiter drops off our sangria, and, sensing the tension, disappears almost immediately. She pulls out her phone to text Kit—fast thumbs, a childlike pout.

“Hey,” I say, touching her hand. “We can visit each other. Think of how fun that will be.”

There are tears in her eyes when she sets her phone down on the table. “I don’t want to be here without you.” A second later I see a text from Kit pop up. “What?!”

“Nah, you’ll be okay, Dells. You have Kit, and your new house. You guys want to get married…” My voice trails off on the last one. I take a sip of sangria. The glass is sweating.

Della sniffs. “Kit’s on his way,” she says.

“Oh, no. Dells, why? This was supposed to be just girls!”

I get panicky. Take more sips. Signal the waiter for another.

“Well, everything changed when you announced you were moving away.”

We mostly small talk. I make fun of myself because it always makes her smile. But, today Della is focused, and nothing can distract her.

“Who will save me from my family?” she asks. “Who will show up to make me snacks?”

“Kit,” I say. “That’s his job now.”

Kit arrives, and the mood of our lunch changes. He doesn’t feed into Della’s depression; instead, he lights up the whole restaurant with his wit, and his suspenders, which he’s wearing because he has to go straight to work after this. We are signing receipts, and closing our wallets when he turns to me.

“Why?”

“Not you too; just leave me alone about it,” I say. Della sniffles and leaves to go to the bathroom to cry.

“Why?” he asks again when she’s gone.

I look at him long and hard. He doesn’t look away.

“Why not? I’m young, I’m boring, I’m hurt. Seems right.”

“You’re running,” he says.

I wonder why he’s looking at me so intently, and why he’s clenching his fists, and why he looks so great in suspenders.

“You should know,” I shoot back.

His mouth tightens, but I’ve got him there.

“Where are you going?”

This is the hard part. I haven’t told anyone but my parents where I’m going. I want it to stay that way until I move.

I shake my head.

“You’re going to Washington,” he says.

My mouth twitches. Bad, bad poker face. How the hell does he know that?

“No.”

“Yes, yes you are,” he hisses.

I look over his shoulder to check for Della. She’s still drying her tears.

“No, I’m moving to Dallas.”

“You’re lying. It’s hot there, and you hate cutoffs and boots.”

How does he know that?

“Are you leaving because of me?”

Ooof, ouch,
the heat from his eyes is burning.

I try to look offended. I even roll my eyes. I’m not good at eye rolling, Neil used to say it made me look gassy.

“I told you why I’m leaving,” I tell him, standing up. He grabs my hand, and it’s like the dream. So much that I yank away from him and take a few steps back. Where’s the crayon? I see it, lying on the floor under the table.
God.
Is it blue?
You’re being stupid,
I tell myself.
This is a restaurant, there are always blue crayons lying on the floor.

“You’re not crazy,” he says. “I—”

“Kit,” I interrupt him. “Della’s coming.”

Della calls me later that night. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences lately, but you’re still my best friend, and I love you.” I let that sink in along with guilt. “We’ll make this work.”

“Sure, Dells. Of course we will.”

“I have to have someone to call to update about my life,” she says.

“Of course you do.” I smile against my phone. “That person has always been me, hasn’t it?”

When people resolve themselves to something, it becomes very difficult to feel anything but that resolve. And so, as I board my plane to Seattle, wearing a Sounders sweatshirt that June gave me as a goodbye gift, I do not cry, I do not worry, and I do not have feelings of self-doubt. This was what I had decided to do, and that was that. I pull my wine cork from my purse and hold it tightly in my fist as I take my seat and stare out the window. The Florida rain is hard and slanted. I wonder if it will be raining when I reach Seattle, which I hear has more of a gentle mist. I do not think of Kit, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Della. I do not think of Della, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Kit. I think only of my new adventure. In fact, it’s the only adventure I’ve ever taken, which makes it more exciting. A first. I want to be a magical folk, and not a muggle. I pull out my worn, dog-eared copy of
The Goblet of Fire
. It’s the same book I’ve kept on my nightstand since I first read it six years ago. My favorite of the seven. I brought it with to read on the plane, for courage. To remind myself of why I am doing this. It’s my Felix Felicis.