F*ck Love (5 page)

“It’s like a seahorse who was born in the sky,” he says. I smell vodka on his breath, but still. Weren’t all of the greatest artists junkies and alcoholics? I frame my airborne seahorse and hang it in my bedroom. It’s just the beginning. I’m going to be so super good at this one day.

Della invites us to dinner at her apartment a few weeks later. I haven’t seen either her or Kit since the smutty bookstore kiss. And I don’t want to. I’ve managed not to think of him at all. Even in art class when I draw a tree house that looks more like a minivan. Even when I scramble eggs. It’s easy to forget a guy who has melty smurf eyes and a melancholy face. I’m not about that life.

“I don’t want to go,” I tell Neil. “I have to look for a job. I’m a grown up.”

“Being a grown up can wait for a night,” he says. “Della’s been complaining that she never sees you anymore.”

Della hasn’t been complaining to me. I wonder why she’d talk to Neil about something like that.

“Okay,” I say. “But she can’t cook, so maybe we should eat dinner before we go.”

Neil agrees, and we make plans to eat at Le Tub before we head over to her house. Le Tub is a Miami oceanside restaurant that uses old bathtubs and toilets as decoration. If you’re really lucky, you get a table by the water where you can see the manatees as they swim by. Someone once told me that it was one of Oprah’s favorite restaurants, but seriously, Oprah has a lot of favorite things—it all sounds like lies at this point.

I make sure my hair is blow-dried this time, and put on my nice silk shorts and a peasant top. Neil whistles when he sees me, and I make a mental note to try to look nice more often.

“Legs for days,” he says.

“All the better to wrap around you,” I say, then immediately blush. I never say things like that. So embarrassing. Neil likes it. He makes me drink three glasses of wine, and when we hug in the parking lot after dinner, he slips his fingers under my shorts and kisses my ear.

I’m like a real life seductress. Who knew wine could unwind me?

Della announces that we smell like steak when we arrive. She leans in to sniff my hair, and I swat her away. We lie and say it’s the air freshener in Neil’s car, and I hand her a bottle of wine. It feels different in here. Like, not as Della. I eye the living room suspiciously. Everything is neat and orderly. No sign of a male live-in. But still…

She ushers us into her pink living room where a tray of appetizers is set up on the coffee table.

I blink. Fancy shit. I forget I just ate dinner and try it all. Salmon canapés, miniature meat pies, baked brie. I spill mango salsa on my shirt, and I don’t even care. The button of my shorts is digging into my stomach. Della pours me a glass of wine, and while I’m trying to wipe off the salsa, wine splashes onto my shirt.

“Where did you buy this?” I ask through a mouthful of cheese.

“I didn’t buy it,” she says. “Kit made it.”

The cheese gets stuck in my throat, and I cough. It’s awful, like my whole life flashes in front of my eyes, and it’s so boring. Lying little shit. Neil hits me on the back. I’m bent over and watery-eyed when Kit walks into the room, a tray of something perched on his steepled fingers.

“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.