F*ck Love
Page 40
“Give me a minute,” he says. “It’s almost ready.”
“How do you know I’m even hungry?” I ask, because it seems like the thing to ask now.
“You’re always hungry.”
He’s right.
A few minutes later he carries out two plates and sets them on TV trays that still have price tags hanging on them. He goes back to the kitchen for the wine.
“You have skills,” I tell him. He grins as he pours my wine and hands it to me.
“That’s from Marrowstone Vineyards,” I say. “Demise of your relationship. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way. She almost had a mental breakdown when we went.”
Kit shrugs. “You can remember the bad things about a place, or you can remember the good. Sometimes they’re tied together. That makes it even more interesting.”
“Word,” I say, as we clink glasses.
He won’t let me clean up the mess. He stacks the plates in the kitchen and comes to stand at the window with me. Port Townsend is covered in fog. It’s rolling down the streets, eating up the visibility. I can feel him next to me. It’s corny to think you can feel a person, especially if it’s clear across the country like we were before. But I felt him. And now that he’s next to me, I am overpowered by how intense it is to be next to him.
“This feels wrong,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
“You know why.” I turn to look at him.
“It doesn’t feel wrong to me,” he says. “It feels right.” He mimics my action and turns to me, so we’re facing each other.
“What does it feel like?”
Kit Isley is a full foot taller than me, so when I look at him, and we’re this close, I have to tilt my head back.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks.
Yeah, I sort of do. Don’t I? A couple months back, before they became serious. I remember waiting outside of Della’s apartment. They were late. Everyone was supposed to meet at her place for pizza and the game. She was introducing us to her new boyfriend. He came up the stairs before her, carrying the pizza boxes, wearing a Seahawks cap. He immediately made my hair feel frizzy. Just by existing. Because he was beautiful.
He’d said my name right away, like he knew me.
How’d you know?
You’re just like Della described you.
How had I forgotten that? All these months of obsession, and I’d forgotten that he knew me right away.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, softly. “The night we watched the Seahawks play … at her apartment.”
Kit’s eyes are soft and sleepy as he looks at me. “No,” he says. “No, that wasn’t it. Think again.”
My head jerks back. “No, that was it. I remember.”
The corners of his lips turn up slowly. “We’d already met. You just don’t remember.”
“Before that night?”
He nods. I search my mind, flipping through memories. My eyes are fixated on the dip in his throat that sits above his clavicle. Had I run into them somewhere before I officially met him as her boyfriend? On a date perhaps? I come up with nothing. I lift my eyes back to his face and shake my head.
“It was at a bar,” he said. “You were drunk.”
“When?” Being in a bar as a college student was pretty common. It was also common to be drunk and not remember half the events of the night.
“Six months before we were officially introduced.”
“And you remembered me?”
He nods, and I want to stretch up on my tiptoes and taste his mouth.
“What bar?”
“Mandarin Hide.”
Mandarin Hide. Did I remember going there? The bartenders wore suspenders and waistcoats, like what Kit wore at—
“Your suspenders,” I say.
He nods. “I had them from Mandarin. I just carried them over to the new place.”
I’d ordered Tito’s Blind Pig because I liked the name. Della drank sidecars next to me. But she wasn’t talking to me. No, she was talking to some guy who approached her, which wasn’t unusual at all. Whenever we went out together, I expected to spend half the night amusing myself while Della amused herself with boys. On that night, a fresh-faced man in a suit approached her. She’d turned her back on me to flirt with him, and all of a sudden I was alone at a bar. I remember ordering another drink. The bartender was nice. He made me another Pig and then brought me a Redbull and set it down in front of me.
What’s that for? I’d asked.
He’d smiled and pointed at Della’s back. It’s going to be a long night. I drank it, grateful and felt a weird connection with him.
“That was you. The bartender who gave me the Redbull.”
“You remembered?”
“I wasn’t that drunk,” I tell him. “And you were nice. But you had a—”
“Beard,” he finishes.
“Yeah. Holy shit.” I turn away from him and look out the window. I swore to myself that I’d never forget that night. In my alcohol haze, I’d seen Della so clearly, how willing she was to turn her back on me for a stranger. How a stranger who gave me a Redbull saw it too and showed compassion. I’d felt seen.
What’s your name? he’d asked me. And then he’d repeated it. Helena, that’s beautiful.
“So, that’s the bar where you met Della?”
He looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “She came back a few times after that. We started talking.”
“That’s why you remembered my name. That day outside of Della’s apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I suddenly wish I had a Tito’s Blind Pig to wash out my nerves.
“Do you have any alcohol?” I ask. “Like something hard. To shoot.”
“I have a bottle of tequila,” he says.
“Perfect. Bring the whole thing.”
He leaves for the kitchen, and I contemplate slipping out the front door. How long would it take for the elevator? Would he come after me? Of course he would. And I’d get all wet for nothing while trying to run away. I decide to stay dry.
Kit carries out a bowl of limes with the bottle, and a little shaker of salt. We sit in front of the fireplace and do three shots apiece, the bottle of tequila and bowl of limes between us. Passing the salt back and forth, there is more eye contact than I’d normally be comfortable with. I have the urge to look away, change the subject, laugh hysterically. But the tequila gives me courage, and I don’t break eye contact with him. We sit in the light of the fire since the kitchen light cannot reach us, and Kit has yet to buy lamps. Outside, the rain and wind have picked up, a soft susurration of the Pacific Northwest. It’s a night of fire and water, metaphorically and physically. The shush-ah shush-ah of tires cutting through puddles in the street below. The fire flicking light across Kit’s forehead and lips, warming his skin. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking. I’m in emotional purgatory, the up and the down, the right and the wrong. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying not to…
“How do you know I’m even hungry?” I ask, because it seems like the thing to ask now.
“You’re always hungry.”
He’s right.
A few minutes later he carries out two plates and sets them on TV trays that still have price tags hanging on them. He goes back to the kitchen for the wine.
“You have skills,” I tell him. He grins as he pours my wine and hands it to me.
“That’s from Marrowstone Vineyards,” I say. “Demise of your relationship. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way. She almost had a mental breakdown when we went.”
Kit shrugs. “You can remember the bad things about a place, or you can remember the good. Sometimes they’re tied together. That makes it even more interesting.”
“Word,” I say, as we clink glasses.
He won’t let me clean up the mess. He stacks the plates in the kitchen and comes to stand at the window with me. Port Townsend is covered in fog. It’s rolling down the streets, eating up the visibility. I can feel him next to me. It’s corny to think you can feel a person, especially if it’s clear across the country like we were before. But I felt him. And now that he’s next to me, I am overpowered by how intense it is to be next to him.
“This feels wrong,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
“You know why.” I turn to look at him.
“It doesn’t feel wrong to me,” he says. “It feels right.” He mimics my action and turns to me, so we’re facing each other.
“What does it feel like?”
Kit Isley is a full foot taller than me, so when I look at him, and we’re this close, I have to tilt my head back.
“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asks.
Yeah, I sort of do. Don’t I? A couple months back, before they became serious. I remember waiting outside of Della’s apartment. They were late. Everyone was supposed to meet at her place for pizza and the game. She was introducing us to her new boyfriend. He came up the stairs before her, carrying the pizza boxes, wearing a Seahawks cap. He immediately made my hair feel frizzy. Just by existing. Because he was beautiful.
He’d said my name right away, like he knew me.
How’d you know?
You’re just like Della described you.
How had I forgotten that? All these months of obsession, and I’d forgotten that he knew me right away.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, softly. “The night we watched the Seahawks play … at her apartment.”
Kit’s eyes are soft and sleepy as he looks at me. “No,” he says. “No, that wasn’t it. Think again.”
My head jerks back. “No, that was it. I remember.”
The corners of his lips turn up slowly. “We’d already met. You just don’t remember.”
“Before that night?”
He nods. I search my mind, flipping through memories. My eyes are fixated on the dip in his throat that sits above his clavicle. Had I run into them somewhere before I officially met him as her boyfriend? On a date perhaps? I come up with nothing. I lift my eyes back to his face and shake my head.
“It was at a bar,” he said. “You were drunk.”
“When?” Being in a bar as a college student was pretty common. It was also common to be drunk and not remember half the events of the night.
“Six months before we were officially introduced.”
“And you remembered me?”
He nods, and I want to stretch up on my tiptoes and taste his mouth.
“What bar?”
“Mandarin Hide.”
Mandarin Hide. Did I remember going there? The bartenders wore suspenders and waistcoats, like what Kit wore at—
“Your suspenders,” I say.
He nods. “I had them from Mandarin. I just carried them over to the new place.”
I’d ordered Tito’s Blind Pig because I liked the name. Della drank sidecars next to me. But she wasn’t talking to me. No, she was talking to some guy who approached her, which wasn’t unusual at all. Whenever we went out together, I expected to spend half the night amusing myself while Della amused herself with boys. On that night, a fresh-faced man in a suit approached her. She’d turned her back on me to flirt with him, and all of a sudden I was alone at a bar. I remember ordering another drink. The bartender was nice. He made me another Pig and then brought me a Redbull and set it down in front of me.
What’s that for? I’d asked.
He’d smiled and pointed at Della’s back. It’s going to be a long night. I drank it, grateful and felt a weird connection with him.
“That was you. The bartender who gave me the Redbull.”
“You remembered?”
“I wasn’t that drunk,” I tell him. “And you were nice. But you had a—”
“Beard,” he finishes.
“Yeah. Holy shit.” I turn away from him and look out the window. I swore to myself that I’d never forget that night. In my alcohol haze, I’d seen Della so clearly, how willing she was to turn her back on me for a stranger. How a stranger who gave me a Redbull saw it too and showed compassion. I’d felt seen.
What’s your name? he’d asked me. And then he’d repeated it. Helena, that’s beautiful.
“So, that’s the bar where you met Della?”
He looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “She came back a few times after that. We started talking.”
“That’s why you remembered my name. That day outside of Della’s apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I suddenly wish I had a Tito’s Blind Pig to wash out my nerves.
“Do you have any alcohol?” I ask. “Like something hard. To shoot.”
“I have a bottle of tequila,” he says.
“Perfect. Bring the whole thing.”
He leaves for the kitchen, and I contemplate slipping out the front door. How long would it take for the elevator? Would he come after me? Of course he would. And I’d get all wet for nothing while trying to run away. I decide to stay dry.
Kit carries out a bowl of limes with the bottle, and a little shaker of salt. We sit in front of the fireplace and do three shots apiece, the bottle of tequila and bowl of limes between us. Passing the salt back and forth, there is more eye contact than I’d normally be comfortable with. I have the urge to look away, change the subject, laugh hysterically. But the tequila gives me courage, and I don’t break eye contact with him. We sit in the light of the fire since the kitchen light cannot reach us, and Kit has yet to buy lamps. Outside, the rain and wind have picked up, a soft susurration of the Pacific Northwest. It’s a night of fire and water, metaphorically and physically. The shush-ah shush-ah of tires cutting through puddles in the street below. The fire flicking light across Kit’s forehead and lips, warming his skin. I want to touch him so much my hands are shaking. I’m in emotional purgatory, the up and the down, the right and the wrong. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying not to…
