F*ck Love
Page 38
I laugh.
“You’re so dumb.”
“At the wedding—” he says.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I interrupt. I want to stand up and leave, but the server is right there with my wine, blocking my path.
“Helena, shut up and listen.”
“Okay.” I take my wine and go to town on it.
“I shouldn’t have let you run off like that. I was a little in shock.”
“Oh my God, it’s so hot in here,” I say, ignoring him. I look around, fanning myself.
“I’m in love with you, Helena. I should have told you then, but I’m telling you now. I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry?
“You’re sorry for being in love with me?”
“I’m sorry for not telling you. Focus.”
“Did you break up with Della?”
“Della and I broke up, yes.”
“Because…”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
There’s a ringing in my ears. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with the wine. I’m allergic.”
“You’re allergic to emotion,” Kit says.
“I have to go,” I tell him, standing up. “Wait. Does she know? Did you tell her that thing you just told me?”
It’s the first time he looks away. “No.”
“So you’re secretly in love with me? And you came here to tell me. And if I don’t reciprocate, then you can go back to Della? No harm, no foul.”
“No. It’s not like that. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Are you still in love with Greer, too?”
“Oh my God. No, I’m not in love with Greer.” He jumps up and pulls me back down to my chair. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Or angry.
“Helena—”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Why?”
“It gives me butterflies, and I don’t trust you or your butterflies.”
His lips pinch together like he’s finding all of this very funny. “You’re not supposed to admit I give you butterflies.”
He takes out his phone and starts texting. I’m about to ask him who texts at a time like this, but then I see his name pop up on my screen.
We’ll try this, he says.
Okay
K: Do you remember the day you taught me how to make eggs?
Yes…
I look up at him. His head is bent over his screen, and he’s grinning.
K: I went home and started writing. An hour with you and I felt like the inspiration I’d been waiting for my whole life hit me all at once.
Why didn’t you tell me?
K: Why would I? You were my girlfriend’s best friend. And you were with Neil. I took it for what it was. You were my muse.
I’m grinding my teeth so hard I can hear the cracking. Kit pauses texting to nudge my glass of wine toward me.
K: Helena, I love you. I’m in love with you. Say something…
Men tell lies
And then I stand up and walk out before he can stop me.
I don’t know where to go. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and breathe in the sharp, piney air. I feel compressed. I’m folding my emotions like a piece of paper—a tiny square, into a tiny square, into a tiny square. When they’re folded up enough I can leave them in a corner of my mind somewhere, to be forgotten. That’s how I deal, isn’t it? And sometimes, on a day like today, I imagine that my brain is littered with hundreds of bastard feelings I won’t claim.
I’m on the sidewalk looking left to right, ready to sprint. I forgot my coat inside the restaurant, which is unfortunate because it’s cold. I’m afraid he’s going to come after me, and I’m also afraid he’s not. I’m not sure what’s worse at this point? I have to get out of here so I can think. I duck my head and stick my phone in my back pocket as I head for the docks. It’s late for Port Townsend. I’m dizzy from the wine; my limbs feel loose like the spaghetti I was eating. Most of the shops that sit along Main have closed for the night. A few stragglers walk the sidewalk with their dogs, already bundled up for the cooler weather. I clutch my arms around myself, and try to smile as I pass them. I’m in a hurry, and they move out of the way for me.
The walk to the marina is ten minutes; the run is six. I’m not wearing the right shoes, and my feet are aching. I stop when I reach the Belle, my favorite. She’s rogue among the other boats—handcrafted and hardworking with rustic milled logs. She makes all the other boats look like they’re trying too hard.
My wine cork is in my hand. I spin it around my thumb over and over as I look at the water. I don’t even know how it got there. It always finds its way into my hands when I’m distressed. It’s so stupid, holding onto a little piece of cork like it’s a security blanket. I lift my fist above my head, with only a moment’s hesitation before I throw it into the water. And then I start to cry because I really love my wine cork. Fuck that. I pull off my shoes and straighten my topknot. There’s no point to straightening it, but it feels like I should, like a boxer cracking his neck before he dances into the ring. I’m about to dive in when someone grabs me from behind.
“Helena! Don’t be crazy.” Kit drags me back from the edge of the dock. I struggle to get away from him.
“I want my wine cork,” I say. I realize how crazy that sounds. I do. But I can barely see it anymore, just a tiny smudge on the surface of all that ink. Kit doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. He ducks his head and narrows his eyes, pointing to the wine cork, which is drifting farther and farther away.
“That?”
“Yes,” I say.
He pulls off his jacket and shoes, never taking his eyes from the spot in the water.
“Oh my God! Kit, no! It’s just a wine cork.” I wait until he’s already lowering himself into the water to say it, though. I don’t want him to change his mind. When he pulls himself back onto the dock, water is running into his eyes, and he’s shivering. If he gets pneumonia and dies, it’s going to be my fault. And then I’ll hate my wine cork. But I’ll still have it.
“We need to get you dry,” I tell him. I look back toward the cannery. Greer will be home. I’m thinking of Greer. Seeing her. Her seeing him. Him seeing her. Us all together. So bizarre. Also, I don’t want to share Kit.
“You’re so dumb.”
“At the wedding—” he says.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I interrupt. I want to stand up and leave, but the server is right there with my wine, blocking my path.
“Helena, shut up and listen.”
“Okay.” I take my wine and go to town on it.
“I shouldn’t have let you run off like that. I was a little in shock.”
“Oh my God, it’s so hot in here,” I say, ignoring him. I look around, fanning myself.
“I’m in love with you, Helena. I should have told you then, but I’m telling you now. I’m sorry.”
He’s sorry?
“You’re sorry for being in love with me?”
“I’m sorry for not telling you. Focus.”
“Did you break up with Della?”
“Della and I broke up, yes.”
“Because…”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
There’s a ringing in my ears. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with the wine. I’m allergic.”
“You’re allergic to emotion,” Kit says.
“I have to go,” I tell him, standing up. “Wait. Does she know? Did you tell her that thing you just told me?”
It’s the first time he looks away. “No.”
“So you’re secretly in love with me? And you came here to tell me. And if I don’t reciprocate, then you can go back to Della? No harm, no foul.”
“No. It’s not like that. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Are you still in love with Greer, too?”
“Oh my God. No, I’m not in love with Greer.” He jumps up and pulls me back down to my chair. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Or angry.
“Helena—”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Why?”
“It gives me butterflies, and I don’t trust you or your butterflies.”
His lips pinch together like he’s finding all of this very funny. “You’re not supposed to admit I give you butterflies.”
He takes out his phone and starts texting. I’m about to ask him who texts at a time like this, but then I see his name pop up on my screen.
We’ll try this, he says.
Okay
K: Do you remember the day you taught me how to make eggs?
Yes…
I look up at him. His head is bent over his screen, and he’s grinning.
K: I went home and started writing. An hour with you and I felt like the inspiration I’d been waiting for my whole life hit me all at once.
Why didn’t you tell me?
K: Why would I? You were my girlfriend’s best friend. And you were with Neil. I took it for what it was. You were my muse.
I’m grinding my teeth so hard I can hear the cracking. Kit pauses texting to nudge my glass of wine toward me.
K: Helena, I love you. I’m in love with you. Say something…
Men tell lies
And then I stand up and walk out before he can stop me.
I don’t know where to go. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and breathe in the sharp, piney air. I feel compressed. I’m folding my emotions like a piece of paper—a tiny square, into a tiny square, into a tiny square. When they’re folded up enough I can leave them in a corner of my mind somewhere, to be forgotten. That’s how I deal, isn’t it? And sometimes, on a day like today, I imagine that my brain is littered with hundreds of bastard feelings I won’t claim.
I’m on the sidewalk looking left to right, ready to sprint. I forgot my coat inside the restaurant, which is unfortunate because it’s cold. I’m afraid he’s going to come after me, and I’m also afraid he’s not. I’m not sure what’s worse at this point? I have to get out of here so I can think. I duck my head and stick my phone in my back pocket as I head for the docks. It’s late for Port Townsend. I’m dizzy from the wine; my limbs feel loose like the spaghetti I was eating. Most of the shops that sit along Main have closed for the night. A few stragglers walk the sidewalk with their dogs, already bundled up for the cooler weather. I clutch my arms around myself, and try to smile as I pass them. I’m in a hurry, and they move out of the way for me.
The walk to the marina is ten minutes; the run is six. I’m not wearing the right shoes, and my feet are aching. I stop when I reach the Belle, my favorite. She’s rogue among the other boats—handcrafted and hardworking with rustic milled logs. She makes all the other boats look like they’re trying too hard.
My wine cork is in my hand. I spin it around my thumb over and over as I look at the water. I don’t even know how it got there. It always finds its way into my hands when I’m distressed. It’s so stupid, holding onto a little piece of cork like it’s a security blanket. I lift my fist above my head, with only a moment’s hesitation before I throw it into the water. And then I start to cry because I really love my wine cork. Fuck that. I pull off my shoes and straighten my topknot. There’s no point to straightening it, but it feels like I should, like a boxer cracking his neck before he dances into the ring. I’m about to dive in when someone grabs me from behind.
“Helena! Don’t be crazy.” Kit drags me back from the edge of the dock. I struggle to get away from him.
“I want my wine cork,” I say. I realize how crazy that sounds. I do. But I can barely see it anymore, just a tiny smudge on the surface of all that ink. Kit doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. He ducks his head and narrows his eyes, pointing to the wine cork, which is drifting farther and farther away.
“That?”
“Yes,” I say.
He pulls off his jacket and shoes, never taking his eyes from the spot in the water.
“Oh my God! Kit, no! It’s just a wine cork.” I wait until he’s already lowering himself into the water to say it, though. I don’t want him to change his mind. When he pulls himself back onto the dock, water is running into his eyes, and he’s shivering. If he gets pneumonia and dies, it’s going to be my fault. And then I’ll hate my wine cork. But I’ll still have it.
“We need to get you dry,” I tell him. I look back toward the cannery. Greer will be home. I’m thinking of Greer. Seeing her. Her seeing him. Him seeing her. Us all together. So bizarre. Also, I don’t want to share Kit.
