F*ck Love (21 page)

“That’s why you remembered my name. That day outside of Della’s apartment.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I suddenly wish I had a Tito’s Blind Pig to wash out my nerves.

“Do you have any alcohol?” I ask. “Like something hard. To shoot.”

“I have a bottle of tequila,” he says.

“Perfect. Bring the whole thing.”

He leaves for the kitchen, and I contemplate slipping out the front door. How long would it take for the elevator? Would he come after me? Of course he would. And I’d get all wet for nothing while trying to run away. I decide to stay dry.

Kit carries out a bowl of limes with the bottle, and a little shaker of salt. We sit in front of the fireplace and do three shots apiece, the bottle of tequila and bowl of limes between us. Passing the salt back and forth, there is more eye contact than I’d normally be comfortable with. I have the urge to look away, change the subject, laugh hysterically. But the tequila gives me courage, and I don’t break eye contact with him. We sit in the light of the fire since the kitchen light cannot reach us, and Kit has yet to buy lamps. Outside, the rain and wind have picked up, a soft susurration of the Pacific Northwest. It’s a night of fire and water, metaphorically and physically. The
shush-ah shush-ah
of tires cutting through puddles in the street below. The fire flicking light across Kit’s forehead and lips, warming his skin. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking. I’m in emotional purgatory, the up and the down, the right and the wrong. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying not to…

touch

him

Kit touches me. He reaches out with a tanned finger and runs it along my cheekbone. I shiver involuntarily.

“When the light hits you right here, you look…”

“What?” I ask. I’m all coiled up on the inside. Waiting for him to give me permission to spring.

He sighs and looks away.

“Do you really want me to say it? When I try to tell you things you get upset.”

“Because I’m not sure what you’re doing or what you want,” I tell him.

“We’re hanging out and getting to know each other.”

“Like pals?” I ask.

“Absolutely.”

“Really? No funny business.”

“I don’t know what funny business is. I can ask my grandma; she says that sometimes.”

I sniff. Kit shakes his head. “I’m okay with just being near you for now.”

How can words like that not exercise your heart? I breathe through my nose. All the things I’m feeling are so wrong, but I don’t know how to stop them. Maybe I shouldn’t be beige.

“Because you’re such a disciplined person?” I ask quickly. “And you can keep things strictly buddy-buddy?”

Kit cocks his head and looks at me through narrowed eyes.

“Yes, yes I can.”

“Would you like to put that to the test?” My throat is dry, but I say it anyway.

Kit’s light eyes are watching me carefully. The beauty of them gives me courage—the desire to own those eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks.

“Go sit on the couch and close your eyes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Kit,” I say, pointing to my face. “This is my serious face. Now, do you want to do this or not?”

He does what I ask, walking over to the couch, and then closing his eyes. Now that he’s not looking at me I can freak out a little. I fill my cheeks with air, bulge my eyes out, and mouth the word
fuck,
before I take a step forward.

Hey, hey Helena, gotta finish what you started.

I climb onto his lap until I’m straddling him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but they stretch in surprise behind his eyelids.

“Don’t open,” I say. “Or you lose.”

His hands immediately come up to my waist. “I’m not sure if there’s a way to lose when there’s a woman straddling you,” he says.

“Shh,” I tell him. My cheeks are so hot you could probably fry an egg on them.

I look at his hair, then his eyes, then his lips. His hands are holding my hips; this is probably the most physical contact I’ve ever had with him. If he were to open his eyes and see my face, this would all fall apart. Correction: I would fall apart. I’m barely able to concentrate.
God, what is he? A human oven? I clear my throat and lean toward his ear.

“Whatever you do, Kit Isley,” I say softly, “do not kiss me.”

I want to laugh at the way his Adam’s apple suddenly bobs in his throat. This is crazy.

You’re such a fucking badass, Helena
,
I tell myself.
You could fucking house small rodents in your topknot. Besides the point.

I focus and lean toward his face. The luxury is that I don’t have to close my eyes, and I can look at him all I want. I can touch him if I want, to; these are my rules. Bringing my hand up, I trace the line from his ear to the slight cleft in his chin. He gets goosebumps; they scatter across his tanned forearms. Encouraged, I lean forward more and kiss the corner of his mouth. Very softly. Very slowly. I breathe him in as I do it, and his body stiffens. “Be disciplined, Kit,” I whisper. “You
cannot
kiss me.” My eyes flutter when I pull away slightly to move to the other side of his mouth. This is harder than I thought. It’s making me dizzy. I kiss him again, and I can feel him swallow. I move to his lower lip next, taking it between my lips and tugging a little. Then I pull back and look at him. The crease between his eyebrows is deep. A slash of concentration. He’s working hard. I wrap my hands around the back of his head and tilt his head up as I come up on my knees. His hands are on the back of my thighs--
hot, hot, hot.
Then I lower my mouth to his, brushing my open mouth against his, pulling away, brushing, nip, pull back. I use my tongue to taunt him, licking just along the inside of his lips.

This is my first real experience with sexual tension, and I can barely catch my breath.
God,
he tastes like he looks. I kiss him full on, just press my mouth against his. The deep sigh just slips out.

I suddenly feel his hand on the back of my neck.
Fucking oven hands!

And that’s my last thought. He traps me at his mouth, pulls me flat onto his lap, and kisses me so deeply that I whimper into his mouth. Lank, drunk, dizzy, glassy-eyed: my body is so ready for anything he wants to do to it that I feel ashamed. I pull away from his mouth and his hands, and stumble off his lap. I back up as far as the room will let me go, bumping into the wall. I want to hug the wall, or for the wall to hug me.

“Fuck that,” I say in his general direction. “You have no discipline.” My shirt is hanging off my shoulder, and my topknot is sloping left. He leans over, still sitting on the couch, and puts his face in his hands.

“That’s not true. I’d like a do-over.”

I cackle, and reach up to cover my mouth, trapping the rest of my laugh behind my hand. Kit leans back when he hears my laugh, and smiles.

“Come here, Helena,” he says. He reaches his hand toward me. I go to him. Maybe I run. Probably not, though, because that’s not cool.

I spring onto his lap as he’s standing up, and he catches me, hands around my butt. Then he lays me down very gently on the couch, before lowering himself on top of me. We kiss like that for a long time. Slow kisses with my hands in his silky, black hair. It feels like my dream—so familiar—but neither of us pushes forward. It’s enough to feel his weight, and taste his mouth, and know that he’s ready, pressed between my thighs. I never knew that I was capable of kissing someone for that long. I didn’t even know I liked kissing. Maybe I didn’t like things enough because I was doing them with the wrong person. The only reason we stop kissing is because someone is knocking on Kit’s door. He rolls off me, and then pulls me to my feet. We both stand in the middle of his living room, completely disoriented.

“You should answer that,” I say.

“Okay, so you hear it too? I wasn’t sure if it was my heart.”

So cheesy, but I can’t help but love it. I point him to the door. “I’ll um … go to the bathroom.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because. I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

Kit scratches the back of his head. “Okay. We can talk about that later. Do you think they’re denting my door knocking that hard?”

I laugh and shove him forward. “Go!” I say.

I rinse my face in the sink and try to straighten my hair. I’m not really thinking about the person at the door until her voice catches me. Greer. I immediately look for a window to climb out of. I’m willing to fall to my death to not be here right now. Kit’s bathroom windows are sealed. I sit in the bathtub and try to cover my ears.
It’s not my business, it’s not my business, it’s not my business.

But it is. A little bit at least.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” she asks.
Yeah, I want to know that too.
I pick up his green soap and smell it.

“
I didn’t know I had to,” I hear Kit say. “Listen, can we do this another time?”

Greer’s voice gets snippy. I’ve never heard her be that snippy with anyone.

“I’m dismissed, huh?”

“Greer, it’s not like that. You just came charging up here and put a dent in my door with your fist.”

“Fine,” I hear her say. “I just wanted to tell you that while you were gone, Roberta died. I didn’t want to text it.”

“For real? You could have told me.”

I can’t stop sniffing the soap. Like, I’m just holding it below my nose, and I’m sitting in a bathtub, and I’m a psycho.

“Well, now I did.”

“How?” Kit asks.

“She was run over.”

Oh God, I hope they’re talking about a dog.
If I had my wine cork, this thing with the soap wouldn’t be happening. They talk for another minute, and then I hear the door close. Kit calls to me from the living room. When I don’t come out right away he knocks on the door.

“You okay?”

“Who’s Roberta?”

He tries the knob.

“She was our dog. Wanna talk about it?

“What kind of dog was she?”

“A poodle.”

I put down the soap. “You had a poodle named Roberta?”

“I’m a cool guy.” I climb out of Kit’s bath and open the door.

“I feel weird about being here. You have a girlfriend who happens to be my friend, and I live with your old girlfriend, and I’m way too saturated in this situation to be making out with you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve put you in a difficult position,” he says. “But I’m not sorry I kissed you. Or you kissed me. I’m not sorry.”

“You said that.” I try to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

“I’m not sorry. I just need you to know,” he says, again. “I’m no—”

I jump at him and press my hand over his mouth. He laughs and kisses the inside of my palm.

“I have to go,” I say. “It was nice kissing you.”

He hugs me tightly before I leave, and kisses me on the temple. “Let me find you. Don’t run.”

I walk home very slowly.

Four missed calls and eight texts from Della. What the hell am I doing?

Each night, right before I lock up the gallery, my screen will light up to notify me that I have a text.
Kit
, my notification will say. I become flustered when his name appears. I spend a few moments not looking at my phone and distracting myself with other things—an empty stapler, a painting I’ve seen every day for months will have a new speck of paint to observe, writing down that we need more trash bags. During this time, an ache will start in my chest and build like a bad case of heartburn. Except it’s not heartburn; it’s Kit burn. When I finally run out of things to do, and make my way over to my phone, I know what I will see. Each night he sends a picture of a different place in Port Townsend; one day it’s a statue of Galatea, the sea goddess, and the next what looks like an old, rusted elevator shaft the color of a robin’s egg. He sends one of the Rose Theatre, and on another day a grimy restaurant that serves the best hash brown casserole I’ve ever eaten. The old boat/bike sculptor—a hippie “fuck you” to conformity—sits on Main Street, a beautifully, scrappy eyesore. He sent me there yesterday. Though she’s in plain view, he wanted me to find her. Pay attention only to her on that particular day. I love it. Each night after my picture comes, I put on my coat, lock the gallery doors for the evening, and find the place where Kit is waiting. It’s a treasure hunt for Kit. And all that other stuff. That’s the essence of him. I wonder if Della appreciates that part of his nature, or if it goes unseen.