F*ck Love
Page 13
“Helena!” he yells, holding out his hand for me to stop.
I like the shock on his face. I like that we’re both shocked.
“Let me explain,” he tries.
I raise my hand to hit him again, and he flinches back.
“How long has this been happening?”
His face blanches.
“Not long.”
“How long?” I yell.
“A year,” he says, dropping his head.
“A year,” I whisper. Suddenly, there’s no more hitting in me. Just wasteland. My shoulders slump forward.
“Why?” I ask. And then as a noise rises from my throat—a sob—and I say the most pathetic thing. “What did I do wrong?”
Neil drops his head. “Nothing, Helena.” And then, “She’s pregnant.”
I can’t stand. I drop hard onto the sand and look at the surf. There are no waves in this part of Florida, so instead of surfers, you get little kids in Dora the Explorer swimsuits.
“You’ve been busy,” he starts. “It just happened, and it was a mistake.” Saying it was a mistake doesn’t make it hurt less; in fact, it feels starker underneath all of this sun, and heat, and sand. It’s like they’re punishing me too.
“I’m sorry,” he says. But there’s not a sorry big enough for a betrayal like this. A year. Neil was the one I was making plans with. Talking about the future with. After the initial shock, the hurt surges forward. I stand up. I can’t be here. I can’t look at him. He has a zit on the side of his neck: bright, and red, and bulbous. I’m so revolted that I ever dated him.
“Please, Helena,” he says. “It was a mistake. I love you.” But I’m not having it, and his use of the word ‘love’ makes me laugh. Love is faithful, love is kind, love is patient. Love is not—I wasn’t thinking. I grab my things, stumble away. The dream, I think. This was in the dream. And her name is Sadie.
“Avada Kedavra,” I whisper at Sadie.
I walk home. Not because I can’t call someone. Hell, Della would be there in a second with a machete. I just need to think. I take a selfie while I wait at a red light and send it to the MEM folder. I call it, Fuck Love.
Neil doesn’t want to be with Sadie, though Sadie wants to be with Neil. Isn’t that a funny thing? He wanted her enough to risk my heart. I hear this all through phone messages, e-mails, texts, and Della. Apparently, during my quarter-life crisis, Della and Neil became close. I’d feel betrayed, but Neil already took care of that one. Sadie is keeping the baby, of course, because her dad is a minister, and she is pro-life. Not pro-abstinence. Neil says he will be in the baby’s life as much as Sadie will let him. He wants to work things out with me. I don’t like working out of any kind. Not the body or the heart. Just thinking about working things out makes me tired. I am sleepy for working things out. I tell Neil to go to hell, and then I cry for two days. Was it me? Was I too cold? Too inexperienced? Not pretty enough? Not good enough in bed? And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves? It wasn’t my fault. Actually, maybe it was. Fuck it. What did it matter anyway?
I go get drinks at Tavern on Hyde. I haven’t heard a peep from Kit in weeks. His girlfriend, on the other hand, has been camped out in my bed, this time in support of me. She still asks me to make her snacks, even though I’m the one with the broken heart. She even tells me that it’ll keep my mind off things. “You need to stay busy.”
I am avoiding her tonight, though apparently not her boyfriend. All I can think about is Kit and the dream. How he was almost warning me. Perhaps in my subconscious, I knew. Neil hadn’t been Neil for a long time. In hindsight, we hadn’t connected in … a year.
I stumble into Tavern on Hyde with a severely tangled braid, and dark circles under my eyes. Kit is talking to some of his customers on the other side of the bar when he sees me. He does a double take, and I wonder how rough I look. You look rough in a vulnerable, pretty way, I tell myself. Though I should probably start combing my hair again.
“Hello,” he slides a drink in front of me before I’ve even had the chance to sit down. “How’s your heart?”
“I feel sober, and I want to feel drunk,” I say.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He wipes the bar down with a rag, then leans on his elbows and studies me. His eyes are really lovely and sad. “The sadness comes in waves, yes? It’s like you feel something different every ten minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering who broke his heart. What a cunt. I drink my purple drink and stare at my phone. But every time I stare at a phone, I see tits in my mind. You can’t get those things out of your head, you know?
Della is texting me. We should get dressed up and go out tonight!
To dance with men who will later break my heart?
D: You have to be positive, she texts back.
Fuck that.
D: I’ll meet you for drinks then, she sends.
I’m already drinking. I just want to be alone.
She doesn’t text back, and I know her feelings are hurt.
I put my phone away. Aside from the unbearable heart pain, feelings of inadequacy, sporadic tears, and hopelessness, I kind of like being single. You’re not responsible to tell anyone where you are or who you’re with. It’s freedom and loneliness, exhilaration and inner calm. You don’t have to shave. It’s the best high and the worst low. The motherfucking pits. I choose to ignore Della and my parents, and there’s not a thing they can do about it.
Kit doesn’t mention the note I left him, thank God. Maybe he’s forgotten, or maybe he thinks I was too drunk to know what I was doing. We make small talk between his other customers, and I check out his suspenders when he’s not looking. He has really broad shoulders; he could be too stocky, but everything narrows out at his waist. He’s not my type, but it’s okay to notice things. I don’t want to be the type of self-centered person who only notices things about themselves. So, really I’m practicing being a good person by checking out Kit’s suspenders. And that’s what it’s about—the suspenders. He sings me a song about cheating and tells me that it’s on Carrie Underwood’s album. When he hits the high notes, he closes his eyes and points a finger in the air. It all reminds me of Mariah Carey, and that’s a bit uncomfortable.
I like the shock on his face. I like that we’re both shocked.
“Let me explain,” he tries.
I raise my hand to hit him again, and he flinches back.
“How long has this been happening?”
His face blanches.
“Not long.”
“How long?” I yell.
“A year,” he says, dropping his head.
“A year,” I whisper. Suddenly, there’s no more hitting in me. Just wasteland. My shoulders slump forward.
“Why?” I ask. And then as a noise rises from my throat—a sob—and I say the most pathetic thing. “What did I do wrong?”
Neil drops his head. “Nothing, Helena.” And then, “She’s pregnant.”
I can’t stand. I drop hard onto the sand and look at the surf. There are no waves in this part of Florida, so instead of surfers, you get little kids in Dora the Explorer swimsuits.
“You’ve been busy,” he starts. “It just happened, and it was a mistake.” Saying it was a mistake doesn’t make it hurt less; in fact, it feels starker underneath all of this sun, and heat, and sand. It’s like they’re punishing me too.
“I’m sorry,” he says. But there’s not a sorry big enough for a betrayal like this. A year. Neil was the one I was making plans with. Talking about the future with. After the initial shock, the hurt surges forward. I stand up. I can’t be here. I can’t look at him. He has a zit on the side of his neck: bright, and red, and bulbous. I’m so revolted that I ever dated him.
“Please, Helena,” he says. “It was a mistake. I love you.” But I’m not having it, and his use of the word ‘love’ makes me laugh. Love is faithful, love is kind, love is patient. Love is not—I wasn’t thinking. I grab my things, stumble away. The dream, I think. This was in the dream. And her name is Sadie.
“Avada Kedavra,” I whisper at Sadie.
I walk home. Not because I can’t call someone. Hell, Della would be there in a second with a machete. I just need to think. I take a selfie while I wait at a red light and send it to the MEM folder. I call it, Fuck Love.
Neil doesn’t want to be with Sadie, though Sadie wants to be with Neil. Isn’t that a funny thing? He wanted her enough to risk my heart. I hear this all through phone messages, e-mails, texts, and Della. Apparently, during my quarter-life crisis, Della and Neil became close. I’d feel betrayed, but Neil already took care of that one. Sadie is keeping the baby, of course, because her dad is a minister, and she is pro-life. Not pro-abstinence. Neil says he will be in the baby’s life as much as Sadie will let him. He wants to work things out with me. I don’t like working out of any kind. Not the body or the heart. Just thinking about working things out makes me tired. I am sleepy for working things out. I tell Neil to go to hell, and then I cry for two days. Was it me? Was I too cold? Too inexperienced? Not pretty enough? Not good enough in bed? And when disloyal, seed-sowing scum buckets slept with other girls, why did women look inward to find fault in themselves? It wasn’t my fault. Actually, maybe it was. Fuck it. What did it matter anyway?
I go get drinks at Tavern on Hyde. I haven’t heard a peep from Kit in weeks. His girlfriend, on the other hand, has been camped out in my bed, this time in support of me. She still asks me to make her snacks, even though I’m the one with the broken heart. She even tells me that it’ll keep my mind off things. “You need to stay busy.”
I am avoiding her tonight, though apparently not her boyfriend. All I can think about is Kit and the dream. How he was almost warning me. Perhaps in my subconscious, I knew. Neil hadn’t been Neil for a long time. In hindsight, we hadn’t connected in … a year.
I stumble into Tavern on Hyde with a severely tangled braid, and dark circles under my eyes. Kit is talking to some of his customers on the other side of the bar when he sees me. He does a double take, and I wonder how rough I look. You look rough in a vulnerable, pretty way, I tell myself. Though I should probably start combing my hair again.
“Hello,” he slides a drink in front of me before I’ve even had the chance to sit down. “How’s your heart?”
“I feel sober, and I want to feel drunk,” I say.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He wipes the bar down with a rag, then leans on his elbows and studies me. His eyes are really lovely and sad. “The sadness comes in waves, yes? It’s like you feel something different every ten minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering who broke his heart. What a cunt. I drink my purple drink and stare at my phone. But every time I stare at a phone, I see tits in my mind. You can’t get those things out of your head, you know?
Della is texting me. We should get dressed up and go out tonight!
To dance with men who will later break my heart?
D: You have to be positive, she texts back.
Fuck that.
D: I’ll meet you for drinks then, she sends.
I’m already drinking. I just want to be alone.
She doesn’t text back, and I know her feelings are hurt.
I put my phone away. Aside from the unbearable heart pain, feelings of inadequacy, sporadic tears, and hopelessness, I kind of like being single. You’re not responsible to tell anyone where you are or who you’re with. It’s freedom and loneliness, exhilaration and inner calm. You don’t have to shave. It’s the best high and the worst low. The motherfucking pits. I choose to ignore Della and my parents, and there’s not a thing they can do about it.
Kit doesn’t mention the note I left him, thank God. Maybe he’s forgotten, or maybe he thinks I was too drunk to know what I was doing. We make small talk between his other customers, and I check out his suspenders when he’s not looking. He has really broad shoulders; he could be too stocky, but everything narrows out at his waist. He’s not my type, but it’s okay to notice things. I don’t want to be the type of self-centered person who only notices things about themselves. So, really I’m practicing being a good person by checking out Kit’s suspenders. And that’s what it’s about—the suspenders. He sings me a song about cheating and tells me that it’s on Carrie Underwood’s album. When he hits the high notes, he closes his eyes and points a finger in the air. It all reminds me of Mariah Carey, and that’s a bit uncomfortable.
