F*ck Love (9 page)

I am at an estate sale with Kit, Della, and our friend, June, who we’ve hung out with on and off since high school. June and I are on the front lawn, looking though boxes of old books, while Kit and Della are in the house looking at the furniture.

“Do you think Kitella will be moving in together soon?” June asks.

I look up surprised. “Kitella?”

“Kit and Della,” she says. “Kitella.” June is an odd bird. I know I’m an odd bird on the inside, but June is an odd bird on the inside and the outside. I eye her floral hat, and the paperclip necklace she’s wearing.

“Kitella,” I snort. “I don’t know. Della’s apartment is so … Della. I can’t see a guy moving in there.”

“They’d change things for sure. Make room. They’ve been together a while now.”

“Only like eight months,” I say defensively. “Not that long.”

“Come on, Helena. Della doesn’t usually make it through the three-month mark. Her wedding board is growing on Pinterest. Those two are serious.”

It is true. She has a menu and flower girl gifts now. Della always found something wrong with the boys she dated. Charles was too needy, Tim was too jealous, Anthony had an annoying twin sister. Kit is perfect; she says it all the time. And they are furniture shopping as we speak.

“Do you like them together?” I ask June.

“Yeah, they’re cute. I think he balances her. He’s not as shallow as some of the other guys she’s dated.”

June wanders off to look at a lamp, and I feel like sinking into the sea of grass. Why did all of that feel like bad news? It isn’t because I don’t want my best friend to be happy, because I do. I just want her to be happy with someone else. I go find them in the house. They’re looking at bookcases.

“I saw ones just like this in Restoration Hardware,” Della says. “For four times the price. This is a steal.”

Kit doesn’t look convinced. “We don’t have enough books combined to fit on these things.”

“We can buy more!” Della says. Then she turns to me and her pink lips are spread so wide I can see every single one of her teeth.

“We’re moving in together!” she squeals and claps, and I stand there dumbfounded, wondering if June has psychic ability.

“Into your apartment?” I ask, because it’s the only thing I can think to say.

“No, silly. That’s too small. We are going to buy a house.”

I look at Kit, but he’s avoiding my eyes.

“That’s so great,” I say. “Congratulations, guys.” And then I say I have to go to the bathroom, but I go outside instead. I need air, space to hide my falling face. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever experienced, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it anyway. That’s the most pathetic part of being a human, the emotions you don’t ask for or want, they just rush you anyway. I roll my wine cork between my palms. In a house nearby, someone is frying bacon. I can hear a man’s rackety, wet cough, and I can feel sorrow spreading from brain to heart. I know that life is not simple because I am not simple. In fact, I am learning that I am more than simple and less than normal. To fall in love with a boy is one thing, but to fall in love with your best friend’s boy because of a dream is … well, I’m fucked.

You don’t start searching for truth until something goes terribly wrong and you realize that you need it. There’s no going back after that. The emotional concrete is poured. A foundation laid.
This is what it feels like
to go mad,
I think. It feels like I’ve skipped ten years and just did the growing up without having to do the actual time. Willful blindness belongs to the young. In my case, I learned of my depravity early enough to rid myself of it. I cannot hate Sadie; Sadie would have happened with a different name. Maybe when I was already married. Sadie is just the name of Neil’s inability to be faithful. Perhaps she saved me from a lot more. I cannot hate the dream; the dream woke me up. But, that’s all it was—a dream. I keep art, because I never knew I loved it until I became a coloring book artist. I carry a knapsack with me now, filled with charcoals, pencils, a sketchpad, a wine cork. I give up listening to the beach music that was with me through college, and I make playlists that sound yearning and pathetic. I am what I am. I marvel at how yearning can make you disintegrate. And to keep from disappearing all together, you must rebuild yourself. I get a tattoo on my wrist, but I don’t tell anyone, and I hide it underneath my watch.
May
is all it says. Because that’s when my perspective shifted.

I help Kitella move into their new home. A tan house with white window boxes. It’s the first time I’m seeing them in over a month. Kit hasn’t been able to work on his story because of the move, so I’ve no communication with him either. When I pull up, it’s not Della but Kit who comes outside and throws his arms around me. I’m stiff at first, but then I lift my arms and hug him back. The worst part of a hug is the smell. If you hug a person enough, their smell becomes familiar, and you associate it with comfort, intimacy, and closeness. Kit always smells like gasoline and pine needles.
Gasoline and pine needles,
I think as I release him.
How ridiculously appropriate
. An olfactory experience turned olfuckery. Now I won’t be able to smell gasoline without seeing his pretty face. I follow him into the house; he seems excited. Della is unpacking dishes into the kitchen cabinets, a pink bandana tied around her hair. I hate to say it, but she’s glowing. “Helena!” She launches herself at me, and I stumble backward into Kit. We all fall, and we all laugh on Kitella’s new kitchen hardwood.

“This feels so right,” Della says. “All back together.” I roll away from them and toward the fridge. I pull a can of Coke from the bottom shelf, while still lying on my back.

“I’m already tired from this move. Can we just do this all day?”

Kit hauls me to my feet, and I’m given the job of unpacking and organizing Kitella’s closet. This is nothing new. Della has been making me organize her closet since freshman year of high school. As payment for the service, I get to choose one thing I want from her extensive wardrobe. I find a pair of designer jeans I like and set them aside.
Mine.

“
Don’t touch those Rag and Bone jeans,” she yells from the kitchen. I put them back and take her favorite blazer to spite her.

Kit’s clothes put me in a bad mood. There’s too much plaid. No one should wear this much plaid. I sniff a shirt, and then I sniff it again. The third time I sniff it is just to even things out; I like groups of three.

“Did you just smell my shirt?”

I spin around. He’s leaning on the closet door, arms folded, and of course blocking my escape.

“It smells moldy. Don’t you think?” I hold it toward him, but he doesn’t reach for it. He has a pretty intense stare. What disturbs you more than the stare though is the smirking.

He doesn’t know shit,
I tell myself.

“It smelled moldy…” I say again. He looks at my mouth, and I squirm.

“Della wants to get dinner.”

I look down at my raggedy, moving day clothes. “Can’t we just order in?”

“She’s sick of being here. She wants to get out for a bit.”

Not even unpacked and already sick of being in her house.

“You’ve got your topknot going,” Kit says. “That’s all the dressing up you need.”

Della must have taught him that word. I liked hair hive better.

We decide on sushi. But Della doesn’t do hole-in-the-wall sushi, where she says the fish is fishy. We have to go to the big, fancy place downtown. I wear my new blazer, though, which makes me cheerful. June meets us at the restaurant. I think Della invites her places so I don’t feel like the third wheel. But truly, I feel like the third wheel even when I’m alone. June waves to us when we walk up to the restaurant. It’s robust waving. Like she’s just been shipwrecked and needs us to see her. She’s wearing a turban on her head, and her T-shirt says
Cou Cou.

“I like this girl,” Kit says. I grin. Me too.

We’re not even in the restaurant when we see Neil and pregnant Sadie. She is heavy with child, as I am heavy with topknot. Neil flushes when he sees me. He looks from me to Sadie with cornered rat expression.

It feels shitty to see them here. They were supposed to go away, evaporate into a cloud of infidelity and lies. My first instinct is to run. Why would I be the one running? They’re the liars and cheats. I’m standing close to Kit, and all of a sudden I feel the pressure of his hand on my lower back.

Neil opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand.

“Don’t hurt your brain. This is awkward for all of us except June, who likes being awkward. Hello, from us to you. Now move aside; we are hungry for raw fish.” Kit snickers, and Della elbows him in the ribs.

Neil and Sadie move along quickly. I don’t look at Sadie, so I don’t know how she takes all of it, but Neil looks stricken. When we walk through the doors of the restaurant, all three of them start laughing. Kit kisses me on top of the head, right by the topknot. “Brilliant,” he says. “You’re all the muse I’ll ever need.” This sends me into tingle/butterfly/confusion overload. I sit as far away from him as I can and flirt with the waiter. It’s brotherly. I know that. He’s a kind, kind human, and I am a whore for that dream. By the end of dinner I’ve ruined my new blazer with soy sauce and Sriracha.

“There’s a whole market for you in disposable clothes,” Kit says.

Della glares at me, but she really has no right. It’s
myyy
blazer. June and Kit walk up ahead, and Della links arms with me.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I may be pregnant.”

When my eyes grow wide, she hushes me. “I haven’t told him. Don’t say anything.”

“What does ‘may be’ mean? Like you’ve taken a test? You’ve missed a period? What…?”

Della glances at Kit to make sure he’s still distracted. “Well, I haven’t taken the test yet. I am a week late. A
week
,” she emphasizes.

This is not the first time Della is a week late on her period. It is, however, the first time she looks happy about it.

“Well, let’s get one then,” I say around the emotion clogged in my throat. “We should know so we have peace of mind.”

Della nods, glowing eyes and a small happy smile on her lips. I’ll be happy for them. I swear to God I will. I’ll just need some time to adjust.

Della’s test is not positive. I watch her wrap the test in toilet paper and push it to the bottom of the trashcan. She’s wearing a look of severe disappointment. It’s a strange thing to grasp, that just a little while ago the worst thing that could happen was a positive pregnancy test. Now, my best friend, who once spent an afternoon in hysterics because of a broken condom, was grieving the fact the she wasn’t pregnant. She wanted this badly. Why? I do not know. She already has Kit. His eyes are fixated on her. She doesn’t need a baby to gain his attention, nor to keep him. She comes from a good family, the kind that gets together on Tuesday nights for no reason other than to spend time with each other and to eat their Nonna’s Sugo.

“One day,” I say to comfort her. It’s not what she wants to hear. She turns away from me and opens the bathroom door. She sent Kit to the store for milk so that we could carry out our mission in secret. She thought that when he got back there would be something to celebrate.

“Why are you upset, Della? I thought you would be relieved.”

“I am relieved,” she lies. I am the one who is relieved. I think of what Kit told me that night we took a walk. How unsure he was about his feelings for her. Things may have changed since then, but something tells me a few months aren’t enough to cure a man of his past.

“Della,” I say. “You like to do things in order. First, a beautiful wedding, then a beautiful baby, okay?”

I hug her, and she starts to cry.

“I wanted to give him something,” she says.

Her gray eyes are misty, her lashes damp. She is so achingly beautiful, feminine, and vulnerable. I understand why men take their feelings for her so seriously. She’s Della.

“Maybe start with a smaller gift,” I say. “Like a watch, or a kitten, or something.”

She laughs through her lovely tears and throws her arms around my neck. “You always know what to say. Thank you, Helena.”