F*ck Love
Page 57
“I do. A book he wrote. I haven’t opened the envelope to read it.”
I expect him at least to recoil about that one. Instead, I see his shoulder lift and fall in a shrug.
“Did he write it to reach you?” he asks.
“Good question. I don’t know. Maybe to say goodbye.” My eyes focus on the tinsel. It doesn’t look so bad. I don’t know why I was so jazzed about it.
“You’ll never know unless you read it. Then you can decide what to do.” His voice is a little melancholy. I’m just noticing. Rich and sad.
“There’s nothing to do. He’s moved on. I told him to go.”
Where is the bartender? My drink is done. I need saving from this man who is trying to bend my thoughts.
“You’re going to tell me that all is fair in love and war,” I say. “And that’s just not true.”
He laughs. It’s a throaty laugh. Not insincere, but not completely honest either.
“There is only war in love,” he says. “If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying. The constant fight to keep love relevant, while growing and changing as a human, is the battle. You fight for them, fight to keep them, fight to love them. Do you fight for yourself, or do you fight for the relationship? What can’t you live without? There’s your answer.”
I listen. He speaks with conviction, and whether or not I believe him, I am compelled to weigh his words. I see him stand up, and I am given a brief glimpse of his face as he slides a bill out of his wallet and drops it on the bar. He is even younger than I thought, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard. He walks toward me, and I tense. It’s the roll of his shoulders—a man who moves like a lion. I don’t want to know who he is, but I do. He feels dangerous, like a man with an agenda. I’ve barely had time to register the agenda part when he’s looming over me, and I have to look up at him. The sunlight from the windows glints in my eyes. I clutch the edges of my stool like a child.
“We are only given one life. You want to waste it waging war against yourself, go right ahead.”
He reaches out and touches a thumb to the space between my eyes, then leans down to speak close to my ear. “Or you can fight for what you want,” he says softly. His breath blows up strands of my hair. “What are you scared of, Helena?”
I’ve never said it out loud. Never confessed to a friend, but here I am confessing to a stranger.
“I’m scared of what they’ll really think of me. If I embrace who I know I am.”
I am trembling. My confession saps the strength, the whiskey, right out of me.
He smiles like he was waiting for this all along. He has warm skin; I can feel the heat radiating off him. God, this man is probably never cold.
“Let people feel the weight of who you really are, and let them fucking deal with it.”
I am breathless—my mouth open and my eyes glazed. An orgasm for the truth.
He drops a piece of paper on the bar next to my empty glass and walks out the door.
The spot on my forehead where he touched me is tingling. I reach up and rub it. The weight of who I am. It isn’t my responsibility to deal with it. It is theirs. Muslim is right. I am, what I am, what I am. Stay or leave.
His words settle over me. I narrow my eyes against them. I don’t have to believe. I don’t. But I do. And that’s when things change. Can change wash over you in a matter of seconds? It just takes the right moment, the right words, the aligning of brain and heart. I will fight.
Muslim Black is staying in Manresa Castle. I hear it’s haunted to high hell—dead women tortured by love and all of that bullshit. You can’t even die and escape a broken heart. Depressing. Haunting or not, there’s something about Muslim that tells me he won’t mind a few ghosts. I don’t call him right away. I carry the slip of paper in my pocket. It feels like a live thing. It’s just your curiosity, I remind myself. Did he creep me out, or was I attracted to him? Maybe it was both. What does that say about me anyway? When I do finally call him, he answers the phone saying my name. The voice that encumbers enough rasp and spice to make every hair on your body stand on end. And then it says your name. The E’s are breathy, the last letter strong. It’s his own way, and no one has ever said it like that before.
“Hello, Helena.”
“How’d you know it was me?” My heart pounds, and I have to bend over at the waist and hide my face between my knees until it’s time to talk again.
“I don’t give people this number.”
“You gave me the number.”
“I can’t hear you…”
I sit up and say it again.
“You’re not people,” he says.
I wonder if he’s lying on the hotel bed or walking around the room.
“Who am I?”
I hear him shifting the phone around. Perhaps changing positions. Is he weighing how best to answer me? I don’t want to be part of his game; that’s not why I called. When he answers me, his voice is rich, back to normal. “You’re Helena. Isn’t that enough?”
I sniff. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Try to make me feel special so you can hook me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Okay.”
“Can you teach me how to do what you do?”
“Which is what?”
I don’t want to play that game. I want him to read my mind like before. Not make me beg.
“Never mind.” I start to hang up the phone when I hear him say, “No, no, no! Wait. Helena…” Did his facade falter? I’m curious. Which is the only reason I bring the phone back to my ear. I don’t have time to be sorry for calling, because then he’s telling me what I want to hear.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll teach you.”
To get what you want, but to still be suspicious—it’s a grimy feeling. Like you’re doing something wrong. And I am, aren’t I? I decide to check Muslim’s motives, not mine.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you asked me to.” And then, “Would you like to meet for dinner?”
I agree to meet him at Alchemy the next night. I suggested somewhere light and warm with lilac walls that reminded me of Greer, but Muslim wanted Alchemy.
“I like the name,” he said, before we settled on six o’ clock.
I dress all in black, but when I look at myself in the mirror, I look deranged and frightened. So, I change into a beige sweater and ripped blue jeans that Greer says make me look like a sexpot. My topknot is extra large and in charge as I walk down to Alchemy at 5:55. I do not feel in charge, and that is the point of Muslim Black, I suppose. Am I really doing this to get Kit back? Or am I in some sort of grieving, fascinated rebound phase? Who cares? I tell myself. Just do what you need to. Whatever that is. Before I walk in the door to Alchemy, I take a selfie, titled: Hooked.
I expect him at least to recoil about that one. Instead, I see his shoulder lift and fall in a shrug.
“Did he write it to reach you?” he asks.
“Good question. I don’t know. Maybe to say goodbye.” My eyes focus on the tinsel. It doesn’t look so bad. I don’t know why I was so jazzed about it.
“You’ll never know unless you read it. Then you can decide what to do.” His voice is a little melancholy. I’m just noticing. Rich and sad.
“There’s nothing to do. He’s moved on. I told him to go.”
Where is the bartender? My drink is done. I need saving from this man who is trying to bend my thoughts.
“You’re going to tell me that all is fair in love and war,” I say. “And that’s just not true.”
He laughs. It’s a throaty laugh. Not insincere, but not completely honest either.
“There is only war in love,” he says. “If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying. The constant fight to keep love relevant, while growing and changing as a human, is the battle. You fight for them, fight to keep them, fight to love them. Do you fight for yourself, or do you fight for the relationship? What can’t you live without? There’s your answer.”
I listen. He speaks with conviction, and whether or not I believe him, I am compelled to weigh his words. I see him stand up, and I am given a brief glimpse of his face as he slides a bill out of his wallet and drops it on the bar. He is even younger than I thought, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard. He walks toward me, and I tense. It’s the roll of his shoulders—a man who moves like a lion. I don’t want to know who he is, but I do. He feels dangerous, like a man with an agenda. I’ve barely had time to register the agenda part when he’s looming over me, and I have to look up at him. The sunlight from the windows glints in my eyes. I clutch the edges of my stool like a child.
“We are only given one life. You want to waste it waging war against yourself, go right ahead.”
He reaches out and touches a thumb to the space between my eyes, then leans down to speak close to my ear. “Or you can fight for what you want,” he says softly. His breath blows up strands of my hair. “What are you scared of, Helena?”
I’ve never said it out loud. Never confessed to a friend, but here I am confessing to a stranger.
“I’m scared of what they’ll really think of me. If I embrace who I know I am.”
I am trembling. My confession saps the strength, the whiskey, right out of me.
He smiles like he was waiting for this all along. He has warm skin; I can feel the heat radiating off him. God, this man is probably never cold.
“Let people feel the weight of who you really are, and let them fucking deal with it.”
I am breathless—my mouth open and my eyes glazed. An orgasm for the truth.
He drops a piece of paper on the bar next to my empty glass and walks out the door.
The spot on my forehead where he touched me is tingling. I reach up and rub it. The weight of who I am. It isn’t my responsibility to deal with it. It is theirs. Muslim is right. I am, what I am, what I am. Stay or leave.
His words settle over me. I narrow my eyes against them. I don’t have to believe. I don’t. But I do. And that’s when things change. Can change wash over you in a matter of seconds? It just takes the right moment, the right words, the aligning of brain and heart. I will fight.
Muslim Black is staying in Manresa Castle. I hear it’s haunted to high hell—dead women tortured by love and all of that bullshit. You can’t even die and escape a broken heart. Depressing. Haunting or not, there’s something about Muslim that tells me he won’t mind a few ghosts. I don’t call him right away. I carry the slip of paper in my pocket. It feels like a live thing. It’s just your curiosity, I remind myself. Did he creep me out, or was I attracted to him? Maybe it was both. What does that say about me anyway? When I do finally call him, he answers the phone saying my name. The voice that encumbers enough rasp and spice to make every hair on your body stand on end. And then it says your name. The E’s are breathy, the last letter strong. It’s his own way, and no one has ever said it like that before.
“Hello, Helena.”
“How’d you know it was me?” My heart pounds, and I have to bend over at the waist and hide my face between my knees until it’s time to talk again.
“I don’t give people this number.”
“You gave me the number.”
“I can’t hear you…”
I sit up and say it again.
“You’re not people,” he says.
I wonder if he’s lying on the hotel bed or walking around the room.
“Who am I?”
I hear him shifting the phone around. Perhaps changing positions. Is he weighing how best to answer me? I don’t want to be part of his game; that’s not why I called. When he answers me, his voice is rich, back to normal. “You’re Helena. Isn’t that enough?”
I sniff. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Try to make me feel special so you can hook me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Okay.”
“Can you teach me how to do what you do?”
“Which is what?”
I don’t want to play that game. I want him to read my mind like before. Not make me beg.
“Never mind.” I start to hang up the phone when I hear him say, “No, no, no! Wait. Helena…” Did his facade falter? I’m curious. Which is the only reason I bring the phone back to my ear. I don’t have time to be sorry for calling, because then he’s telling me what I want to hear.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll teach you.”
To get what you want, but to still be suspicious—it’s a grimy feeling. Like you’re doing something wrong. And I am, aren’t I? I decide to check Muslim’s motives, not mine.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you asked me to.” And then, “Would you like to meet for dinner?”
I agree to meet him at Alchemy the next night. I suggested somewhere light and warm with lilac walls that reminded me of Greer, but Muslim wanted Alchemy.
“I like the name,” he said, before we settled on six o’ clock.
I dress all in black, but when I look at myself in the mirror, I look deranged and frightened. So, I change into a beige sweater and ripped blue jeans that Greer says make me look like a sexpot. My topknot is extra large and in charge as I walk down to Alchemy at 5:55. I do not feel in charge, and that is the point of Muslim Black, I suppose. Am I really doing this to get Kit back? Or am I in some sort of grieving, fascinated rebound phase? Who cares? I tell myself. Just do what you need to. Whatever that is. Before I walk in the door to Alchemy, I take a selfie, titled: Hooked.
