F*ck Love
Page 35
“I’m waiting for the inevitable question.”
Am I that predictable?
“So,” I say. “Are you in love?” I make jazz hands, and he grabs my wrists, but then quickly drops them.
“Yes.”
This time, no hesitation. No dancing eyes. No avoiding the question. My stomach drops, and my heart grows old and saggy. I couldn’t run around the fountain even if I tried. Why did I even feel happy enough to do it in the first place?
“Word,” I say. And then, “Wow.”
Kit has thick, black lashes. They almost make him too pretty, but the square shape of his jaw rescues his masculinity—giving all of the fine features a square, hard canvas. When he looks at you, though, through those lashes, it’s like he’s conveying something important with his eyes. He doesn’t know the effect he has on women. I’ve watched the silent swooning, the way he makes women stumble over their words, and causes their faces to fill up with color.
“May I use your phone, please?” I ask. Kit hands me his phone without hesitation. I open the camera, turn it to selfie mode, and snap a picture of myself.
“What are you doing?” Kit asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a picture of myself.”
“I know that. But why?”
He watches as I text the picture to myself. I left my phone back in the hotel room, but now I wish I’d brought it. I could send an SOS to Greer.
“I take pictures of myself as I experience big moments in life. I name them and keep them in an album.” He makes a face and shakes his head. His eyes are dancing, though—thinking, thinking, thinking.
“What will you name the moment you just experienced?”
I look at the picture I just took: spiral curls stick straight out from the sides of my head, my topknot is crooked, and mascara decorates the underside of my eyes like black bruises. I look a little hopeless, a little angry.
“Fuck love,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him defiantly. He draws back like I’ve hit him, the smile turning into a wince.
“Fuck love,” I say again. Kit doesn’t understand. He’s shaking his head like love doesn’t deserve cruel words. I want to find Greer, get out of this place. Get away from Kit, who takes a year to acquire love, and a year to destroy my heart.
“Helena,” he says. “It’s not like that.”
“Have you seen Greer yet? Long lost love Greer? Are you out of love with her? It only took you a year to fall in love with Della, and—”
“Stop it,” he says.
I have tears now. Stupid, repulsive tears.
“I’m in love with you!” I yell, and immediately regret it. Why would a person feel the need to yell something like that at the top of their lungs?
The silence is all consuming. It’s a thing of pain. It draws out, and across, and over—like a dull-bladed knife. A confession so bare. The shock on his face, I can’t stand to see it. It’s embarrassing. I turn to go. A step or two, and then I take off running. My hair comes loose and streams out behind me. It makes my escape heavier than it already is.
He doesn’t call out to me like men do in the movies. My footsteps are the only ones I hear. There is no chase, no romance. And in that moment I think of the dumbest thing, a line from My Best Friend’s Wedding. ‘You’re chasing him, but who’s chasing you?’
I don’t go to the bar. I go back to the hotel and pack my things. A shirt here, a shirt there—tossed into my duffel. I rush through it all, trying not to think about what just happened. How I burned my relationship with both Kit and Della in that one irresponsible moment. I splash water on my face, and run outside to meet my cab. And, as I get to the airport, I realize that I’m a runner. Life gets hot and I pack my things and leave. It’s new, but so is being an adult. I’m learning about myself. But, hey! I did what I came to do. So I’m an accomplished runner. Greer has been blowing up my phone for the last three hours. I wonder if she saw me leave the bar with Kit. If she found him when she couldn’t find me. Did he feel all of the old things when he saw her, or is his heart firmly grounded in Della now? I text and tell her that I’m going home.
Greer texts me back: He’s on his way there.
I look around, panicked. I’m already through security. He can’t get to me. And why would he want to? I’m already so embarrassed. I said the unsayable thing to my best friend’s boyfriend. I clutch my duffel to my chest and count backward from a thousand. I’m a lot falling apart. A lot hurting. I feel like a failure and a flake. And then we board, and I order a drink without a mixer. And I know I’m wearing a slutty dress, and my hair is a mess, and people are looking at me. But they can’t see my heart. If they could see my heart, they’d understand why my mascara is smudged.
It's fall, on a sidewalk, in a town I love. It's a month after the wedding. My embarrassment has mostly congealed, though I've spent a lot of time not thinking about what I said to Kit. This month I am a writer. I document my days in a series of blog posts I never actually publish. The blog is called Fuck Love. I'm not sure what the purpose of it is, except to journal my feelings, and also it feels good. You don't have to publicly fail with writing like you do with watercolors, or clay birds, or sketching a tree. Private failure is much more comfortable. I am mentally planning a blog post called: I Didn't Get to Fuck My Love-when I hear my name being called. I turn around to search the sidewalk. And then he’s there-the love I didn't get to fuck- the cold wind lifting his hair, his smile lifting me. My heart is vigorous and angry. It’s not agreeing with the rest of my body, which is turning toward him. No, no, no, it beats.
“My God! Kit! What are you doing here?”
“Hey, lonely heart.”
An ache burns in my chest as my heart succumbs to him.
I fall into his hug, pressing my face against his leather jacket. He smells like gasoline. “I’m so homesick,” I say. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I was homesick, too,” he says. He brings two gloved hands to my face and looks in my eyes. “Among other things.”
I suddenly feel it; our awkward last encounter comes creeping back to me. I look away, and he lets me go.
We’re on a stage now, and it feels awkward. There are other humans flowing around us. For a minute it was just Kit and I.
Am I that predictable?
“So,” I say. “Are you in love?” I make jazz hands, and he grabs my wrists, but then quickly drops them.
“Yes.”
This time, no hesitation. No dancing eyes. No avoiding the question. My stomach drops, and my heart grows old and saggy. I couldn’t run around the fountain even if I tried. Why did I even feel happy enough to do it in the first place?
“Word,” I say. And then, “Wow.”
Kit has thick, black lashes. They almost make him too pretty, but the square shape of his jaw rescues his masculinity—giving all of the fine features a square, hard canvas. When he looks at you, though, through those lashes, it’s like he’s conveying something important with his eyes. He doesn’t know the effect he has on women. I’ve watched the silent swooning, the way he makes women stumble over their words, and causes their faces to fill up with color.
“May I use your phone, please?” I ask. Kit hands me his phone without hesitation. I open the camera, turn it to selfie mode, and snap a picture of myself.
“What are you doing?” Kit asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a picture of myself.”
“I know that. But why?”
He watches as I text the picture to myself. I left my phone back in the hotel room, but now I wish I’d brought it. I could send an SOS to Greer.
“I take pictures of myself as I experience big moments in life. I name them and keep them in an album.” He makes a face and shakes his head. His eyes are dancing, though—thinking, thinking, thinking.
“What will you name the moment you just experienced?”
I look at the picture I just took: spiral curls stick straight out from the sides of my head, my topknot is crooked, and mascara decorates the underside of my eyes like black bruises. I look a little hopeless, a little angry.
“Fuck love,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him defiantly. He draws back like I’ve hit him, the smile turning into a wince.
“Fuck love,” I say again. Kit doesn’t understand. He’s shaking his head like love doesn’t deserve cruel words. I want to find Greer, get out of this place. Get away from Kit, who takes a year to acquire love, and a year to destroy my heart.
“Helena,” he says. “It’s not like that.”
“Have you seen Greer yet? Long lost love Greer? Are you out of love with her? It only took you a year to fall in love with Della, and—”
“Stop it,” he says.
I have tears now. Stupid, repulsive tears.
“I’m in love with you!” I yell, and immediately regret it. Why would a person feel the need to yell something like that at the top of their lungs?
The silence is all consuming. It’s a thing of pain. It draws out, and across, and over—like a dull-bladed knife. A confession so bare. The shock on his face, I can’t stand to see it. It’s embarrassing. I turn to go. A step or two, and then I take off running. My hair comes loose and streams out behind me. It makes my escape heavier than it already is.
He doesn’t call out to me like men do in the movies. My footsteps are the only ones I hear. There is no chase, no romance. And in that moment I think of the dumbest thing, a line from My Best Friend’s Wedding. ‘You’re chasing him, but who’s chasing you?’
I don’t go to the bar. I go back to the hotel and pack my things. A shirt here, a shirt there—tossed into my duffel. I rush through it all, trying not to think about what just happened. How I burned my relationship with both Kit and Della in that one irresponsible moment. I splash water on my face, and run outside to meet my cab. And, as I get to the airport, I realize that I’m a runner. Life gets hot and I pack my things and leave. It’s new, but so is being an adult. I’m learning about myself. But, hey! I did what I came to do. So I’m an accomplished runner. Greer has been blowing up my phone for the last three hours. I wonder if she saw me leave the bar with Kit. If she found him when she couldn’t find me. Did he feel all of the old things when he saw her, or is his heart firmly grounded in Della now? I text and tell her that I’m going home.
Greer texts me back: He’s on his way there.
I look around, panicked. I’m already through security. He can’t get to me. And why would he want to? I’m already so embarrassed. I said the unsayable thing to my best friend’s boyfriend. I clutch my duffel to my chest and count backward from a thousand. I’m a lot falling apart. A lot hurting. I feel like a failure and a flake. And then we board, and I order a drink without a mixer. And I know I’m wearing a slutty dress, and my hair is a mess, and people are looking at me. But they can’t see my heart. If they could see my heart, they’d understand why my mascara is smudged.
It's fall, on a sidewalk, in a town I love. It's a month after the wedding. My embarrassment has mostly congealed, though I've spent a lot of time not thinking about what I said to Kit. This month I am a writer. I document my days in a series of blog posts I never actually publish. The blog is called Fuck Love. I'm not sure what the purpose of it is, except to journal my feelings, and also it feels good. You don't have to publicly fail with writing like you do with watercolors, or clay birds, or sketching a tree. Private failure is much more comfortable. I am mentally planning a blog post called: I Didn't Get to Fuck My Love-when I hear my name being called. I turn around to search the sidewalk. And then he’s there-the love I didn't get to fuck- the cold wind lifting his hair, his smile lifting me. My heart is vigorous and angry. It’s not agreeing with the rest of my body, which is turning toward him. No, no, no, it beats.
“My God! Kit! What are you doing here?”
“Hey, lonely heart.”
An ache burns in my chest as my heart succumbs to him.
I fall into his hug, pressing my face against his leather jacket. He smells like gasoline. “I’m so homesick,” I say. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I was homesick, too,” he says. He brings two gloved hands to my face and looks in my eyes. “Among other things.”
I suddenly feel it; our awkward last encounter comes creeping back to me. I look away, and he lets me go.
We’re on a stage now, and it feels awkward. There are other humans flowing around us. For a minute it was just Kit and I.
