Meant to Be

by Julie Halpern

  “Really?” I confirm. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sitting on a pile of Savannah Merlot money, and what the hell am I going to do with it?”

  “You could leave the house. You could go to Australia. Visit me while I’m there? For research?”

  “Nah, I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to impede on your exciting new life. Your uncle Jim will enjoy watching from the sidelines as usual.” Jim stands up to clear the table, wearing the same sweatpants, the same Mr. Bubble t-shirt.

  “You can choose to do something different, too, Uncle Jim. Why don’t you get out? Live a little. You’re not that old,” I emphasize, knowing I’ll hit a nerve.

  “I’m not old at all!” Bull’s-eye. “It’s called being reclusive, and some very unique and fascinating people were infamously reclusive: J. D. Salinger, Howard Hughes, Charles Foster Kane…”

  “Wasn’t he a fictional character?”

  “Point being that I have made a choice, and this is it. Yay me. I choose to write romance novels for unfulfilled women, I choose to wear a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt every day, and I choose to live in a house with my sister and her obnoxious teenage daughter.”

  “I’m not obnoxious! I care about you and want you to be happy, and it’s kind of hard to see how anyone would be happy living the way you do.” I wince when I realize how bad that sounds. “I mean, it’s just different from what I’d choose and so that makes it hard for me to relate to and I’m just digging my hole deeper here, aren’t I?”

  “You’re lucky we’re related,” Uncle Jim says coolly. “And that I don’t have any other nieces to give my fortune to.”

  “Thank you.” I stand and offer Uncle Jim a peacemaking hug. “I am very grateful I am your only niece, too.” He pushes me away, exasperated.

  “I’m going to work,” he says. “Are you off today? I’m not being blinded at breakfast by your god-awful shirt.”

  “Hanging out with Lish for the first time alone in forever. Not since Travis came to town.”

  “Ooh. I like the sound of that. When Travis Came to Town: A Soft-Core Western with Savannah Merlot.”

  “Make sure to dedicate it to your adorable niece.”

  Lish is deep in a book on her porch swing as I pull into her driveway. She places a bookmark inside the novel, something she does religiously. It makes holiday shopping for her extra-easy, and she has amassed an impressive collection of bookmarks lo these many years. I join her on the swing, currently dangling from a metal base after an unfortunate incident in the middle of her parents’ mortifying, chain-breaking makeout session. We spent a lot of time on this swing as kids: pretending we were driving to Greenland, playing endless rounds of Would You Rather?, and discussing plans for the future home we planned to share with our husbands. The last memory makes me sad, both at the idea that we’d want to stay in the same place forever and that we are nowhere near that fantasy becoming reality anymore. Life is so different now. We are so different now. We are so different, period. The world isn’t the same world as when we were ten. It’s impossible to make sense of it, and yet here is Lish, content with a man she met because of cosmic happenstance. Would I find contentment, too, if I chose to find my Empty?

  Would me, Travis, Lish, and Hendrix Cutter all live in the same house?

  I blurt out a laugh at this ridiculous thought.

  “What?” Lish asks, smiling with me.

  “Just remembering things from when we were little,” I tell her.

  “Like what?” she asks. We spend the next two hours falling down the rabbit hole of childhood reminiscing: the time Lish’s grandma bought her a Barbie McDonald’s and we spent an entire day building the set, complete with tiny burger boxes and drive-through headsets. Lish reminds me of our twin stuffed-animal dogs, Chocolate and Peanut Butter (they went so well together) and how neither of us has any idea where the dogs went.

  “How is that possible?” I ask. “How could we have loved something so much and have no idea what happened to it?”

  “One of life’s great mysteries.” Lish nods. We avoid any mention of the present, of college, of Travis, of MTBs in general until lunch. “You want a sandwich? Travis has us fully stocked on lunch meat.” My first instinct is to make a snarky comment, but what could I possibly have against lunch meat? Aside from the salt and the sulfites and that meat is a subjective word. Not that it will stop me from partaking.

  We eat at the kitchen counter, standing while we pluck olives and pickles out of jars. Travis also has excellent taste in salty sides.

  “How has work been? You haven’t mentioned Luke much.” Lish waggles her eyebrows and passes me a cheeky smile. Little does she know.

  “Yeah, that’s a pretty long story. It involves me being naked at the Devil’s Dinghies and, oh yeah, his penis being inside me.”

  “You had sex at work?” Lish practically sprays pickle juice all over the countertop. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands.

  “The timing never seemed right. I didn’t want to talk about it with Travis next to you. And there was so much to say, I didn’t know where to start.”

  “Start pre-penis, and leave out no details from that Devil’s Dinghies story. I can’t believe you did that, by the way. And yet, you’ve always had a weird connection with that ride. Maybe it makes sense. Just don’t name your firstborn Beelzebub.”

  I start from the beginning, how Luke was extra flirty when work started and how he broke up with his girlfriend. “Luke and I were both open to exploring people other than our Empties.…”

  “And explore you did!” Lish interjects. It makes me giddy how Lish this feels. I was afraid that the silly, pervy, BFF part of Lish was fading.

  I told her how the Devil’s Dinghies sex went down, but how it wasn’t quite as I’d imagined.

  “First-time sex never is,” she says as though expert. “It’s just fact. Sex gets a lot better when you know the person and can tell them what you want.”

  “Like you and Travis, I’m assuming?”

  “It’s so cliché, but ever since we said ‘I love you,’ sex has been explosive. Like, nothing has ever felt that good.”

  “But is that why? The whole ‘I love you’ thing? Or could it be something else? Like, maybe he read a guidebook or took lessons or something. Or maybe your bodies are proportionately correct together,” I hypothesize.

  “Or maybe he’s my MTB, and this is part of that,” Lish offers.

  Frustrated, I pound my fist on the kitchen counter. “I don’t want to believe that! I can’t believe that! It goes against everything I feel about choice and free will. The only good sex I’m ever going to have is with someone named Hendrix Cutter? Who, by the way, has a girlfriend.”

  “We are definitely coming back to the fact that you know factoids about Hendrix Cutter. And just because his Chapbook page says he has a girlfriend doesn’t mean he still does. Maybe it’s outdated.”

  “How the hell did you know that was on his Chapbook page?” I yell.

  “I looked once, but then Travis told me that wasn’t cool and you should be able to look when you’re ready.”

  “Travis said that?” I’m reluctantly impressed.

  “Of course he did,” Lish affirms. “But back to sex. I’m not saying the only way to have good sex—or a good relationship with good sex—is necessarily with your MTB. But if your MTB is really your meant-to-be, then why wouldn’t it all be great? I would like to believe that whoever or whatever started this Naming thing knew what he or she or it was doing.”

  “That sounds so bogus! How is this reality now? My life is dictated by a stupid Name on my body that will be there forever—we think! What if it goes away? Or changes? It’s only been six years.”

  “It’s possible. I mean, if a Name can suddenly grow on my body, then anything is possible,” Lish concurs.

  I try to calm myself. “I want to know, Lish, if I’m going through all this effort to change my destiny, only to find out that my destiny would have
made me the happiest. What if the only people in the world who find happiness are those who seek out their Empties? Am I dooming myself to be miserable?”

  “No, of course not,” Lish answers assuringly, although I detect a note of hesitation. “Look, my life is not going to be candy and roses all the time, I’m sure. It’s still life. People suck, cars break down, there’s still war, poverty, racism, disease, clogged toilets … the world is essentially still a shitty place. But maybe finding true love will make it all more bearable, and gradually even the bad things will get better.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I ask skeptically.

  “Maybe? I sound like a total culty turd, I realize, but perhaps that’s the MTB love messing with my brain.”

  “I still don’t know what to do about Luke,” I add.

  “What does your gut tell you?” Lish asks.

  “My gut is very confused. When I’m not near him, I’m kind of over him. When I am near him, I can be swayed.”

  “I think that’s your groin, not your gut talking.”

  “So now I have a talking groin? Maybe I’d be better off joining the circus.”

  “You’re pretty close with that carny you work at.”

  “Judge all you like. I bring happiness and joy and, you know, devils to the little children.”

  “I say stick with Luke for a little while longer. Until Hendrix knocks at your door. Can’t hurt, right?”

  “I guess not. And if Hendrix wanted to knock at my door, he would’ve done it already. Not that I care. Maybe I just need more time with Luke like you said, and then it will get really good,” I say not at all convincingly.

  “Now tell me about Hendrix Cutter’s girlfriend.…”

  Lish persuades me to sit at her computer and peruse his Chapbook page. “He’s a good artist.” She side-smiles at me. “And it’s sweet that he included his dog and sister on his page.”

  “Lish,” I say scoldingly. “This is purely a recon mission so you could see that it doesn’t even matter if I contact him because he has a girlfriend.”

  Lish has heard not a word of what I’ve said besides if I contact him. “Ohmygod, when are you going to do it? What are you going to say? Can I be there? Or do you want to be alone?” She is wild-eyed and breathless, and it’s rather terrifying.

  Before she can help me pick out wedding rings, we hear footsteps approach from the hallway and Travis walks in.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy to see Lish’s dopey cowboy lover.

  “And that is my cue to head home,” I say, as Travis kisses Lish hello like a television housewife.

  “No, stay,” Travis pushes, kneading Lish’s shoulders adoringly.

  “That’s okay. I have to work early tomorrow, and you two haven’t seen each other all day. I’m sure you have loads of things to catch up on.” I gather myself and give a quick wave to the disgusting lovebirds before I take off.

  Is that what I want? Shoulder massages and hello kisses and genial home welcoming? Maybe eventually. But I’m only eighteen. If Hendrix Cutter is indeed my MTB and we are, nauseatingly, meant to be together, why couldn’t it wait until we both have explored what else is out there? It would give us more to talk about. He’s probably exploring right now, hence the not knocking on my door.

  My phone buzzes.

  Hang after work tomorrow? I miss U.

  I wish Luke and I had more to talk about. Or less to talk about. Or that the use of U didn’t disturb me so. Still, I shall persevere. Because it is my choice. Even if I have to force myself to do it.

  CHAPTER 30

  Today was a slippery sort of day; the type when no one seems to be able to hold on to anything. Scoops plop off ice cream cones, stuffed-animal prizes gather around benches waiting for their winners to reclaim them, and not one but two separate shoes float past me in the river of the Devil’s Dinghies. How those children managed to exit the ride and fully walk away is beyond me. Ace job on the parenting.

  I was also feeling a bit slippery, in the trying-to-get-away-from-a-certain-person-every-chance-I-got department. I don’t not like Luke. I’m just … confused. Was it my lack of satisfaction with the Luke situation that drove me to a Hendrix Cutter search? Or would the cosmos have forced me into an Internet search eventually whether I wanted to or not? The bad sex isn’t helping. Nor are the bordering-on-clingy texts.

  Take, for instance, my good-morning text from Luke (those exist now).

  Can’t wait to see you tonight. I need U.

  There’s nothing inherently disturbing about this upon first reading. But after close inspection, I can find upward of sixteen things that bother me about it. (To start, why use both you and U? Make up your mind!)

  Two summers in a row, I was gushy over this guy. For two long school years I used fantasies of Luke Jacobs and the Wheel of Torture as part of my masturbatory canon.

  Here we are, living the dream, as it were, and I am not enamored with any of it.

  I passed him early this morning and allowed myself to be taken into his consuming hug. He smelled good. He felt pleasantly solid. Admiration remained for his structure. But that gooey, delicious, tingly feeling was missing.

  I’ve thought about it all day, and I’ve come up with the following list of possibilities as to why I’m not melting in my Underoos when I’m near Luke Jacobs anymore:

  1) He likes me too much. (This is the dumbest reason ever to not like a guy, but maybe a part of me thinks I’m not deserving of his love.… Nah. I’m deserving, I just don’t know if I want it.)

  2) He is different than he used to be—before he seemed all casual and laid back. Now, he’s so serious with all his lovey-dovey-ness and wanting to hug and cuddle. (Have I always been this cold?)

  3) That time he told Adam we had sex really pissed me off—true, but I’d be lying if I said it still bothered me.

  4) He went from lukewarm to hot very quickly. Ha! Lukewarm! See what I did there? But seriously, ladies and germs, what changed from him wanting a casual summer fling to these boyfriend-esque texts? I know I’ve been considering upping the ante on possibly liking him more and for longer, but something isn’t gelling.

  5) Do we really have all that much in common? I don’t know what he wants to study in college. I don’t know his middle name. He doesn’t seem to want to travel. The only things I can think of us sharing are our commitment to our summer jobs, a pleasure in berating Adam, and a love for my boobs, which brings us to …

  6) Sex. This is a tricky item. As I have so eloquently shared, I do find quite a bit of enjoyment in our trysts (so fancy), up to a point. But everything else is lacking. Is it his technique? His attention to detail? My waning level of attraction? Missed communication? Or is there something even deeper than all of the above? What if it’s …

  7) Hendrix Cutter and Scarlett Dresden. Are these merely engraved onto our bodies or are they entrenched into our very beings?

  I hate to believe that I do not have a choice in whom I am going to end up with. I know I’m stubborn, I am a complete and royal asshole, but I refuse to give up on the notion that our lives add up to more than a single person’s Name on our chests.

  My list accelerates the day, and when six o’clock comes, I round up all the slippery items that made their way up the Dinghies river: the two shoes (yet unclaimed), a sopping-wet stuffed animal that resembles a bunny but may be a bear, and a locket that was once gold, as indicated by a few remaining splotches, but ultimately revealed itself as plastic. I pass Luke on my way to the park’s lost and found. He slithers his arm around my waist, and I will myself to remember how much I once wanted this. It doesn’t feel terrible; it’s the sensation of no sensation that is bothersome. “Want me to take your lost-and-found items up front?” I ask him.

  “Thank you.” He grins admiringly and then proceeds to swallow my face with a massive kiss.

  8) I don’t think I am down with PDAs. Particularly of the tongue variety.

  After I am granted access t
o air again, Luke tells me, “I have to run a couple errands for my mom. Want to come with me?”

  In the past, Luke would have received several gold stars for this proposal. Running errands for his mom? How sweet. Inviting me to join him? Inclusive. Asking instead of telling me? Admirable. But it’s just so glaringly … boyfriend.

  That’s when it hits me. I want to be free! I don’t want to be tied down. Like that balloon a mom triple-ties to the stroller until it eventually deflates and drags along the ground and disintegrates. I want to be the balloon a kid lets go of the second his mom buys it! The reason I don’t like this MTB bullshit is the lack of freedom, and here I am claiming I’m going to find love other than Empty love. Love is not what I want at all! I want romance and summer flings and someone to touch my body other than me! So I say to Luke, “That’s okay. Why don’t you go ahead, and then meet me here for some painting?”

  I want to wink at Luke, to hint that by painting I mean third time’s a charm, but sadly I have never acquired the ability to wink. It’s a travesty, I recognize.

  “Sounds great. We’ve barely made a dent in the wall,” he says, while I’m praying he means, “Let’s get bare again by the wall.”

  I’m so glad we had this little hypothetical talk.

  Luke kisses me good-bye (again!), and I’m off to grab my backpack and phone from my locker before sitting down to paint. Brian from maintenance stands above the Dinghies river like a gondolier, stick in the water. “Lots of lost items reported today,” he tells me while I cross toward the grass. “Thought I should check.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Someone lost a shoe!” he announces.

  “Another one? They do say things come in threes,” I note.

  “I thought it was bad things come in threes,” he questions.

  “Yeah, but they also say third time’s a charm.”

  “That they do,” Brian concurs.

  Even Brian agrees.

  * * *

  I paint for a good half hour then stop to snack on an apple from my bag. I check my phone and find some texts.