Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  Sure enough, there’s Arthur across the street. He’s scarved and peacoated, stepping out of a substantially fancier restaurant. And it’s not like it’s some sprawling metropolis we’ve got here, but it’s still weird that he’d be in the restaurant right across the street from the restaurant that I’m in at the exact same time. That’s a thing, right? Like a sign or something.

  “I wonder who that is with him,” Emily adds mildly.

  Because – I realize in one horrible, guts-lurching instant – there is somebody with him.

  The other guy is tall and dark haired, with glasses that make him look GQ instead of nerdy. He’s got a nice coat and a scarf too. Don’t they just make a delightful fuckin’ pair. I look at him, and for some reason, I just know. I know with a sick, deep knowing.

  “Douchey Patrick,” I mutter.

  “Huh?” says Dennis.

  “You know the guy?” asks Amber. And then she gasps. “Hey – is he gay? Arthur?”

  “It looks dately,” Dennis determines.

  Dately. Dately. It looks dately.

  Amber, predictably, freaks. “Oh my God!!! Howie, holy crap, is Arthur gay and you didn’t tell me?? Some best buddy you are, you have deprived me of like a straight month of joy, asshole.” She throws a breadstick at me. I don’t even feel it. And not because it’s just a breadstick, and therefore doesn’t hurt so bad. No, it’s because I’m numb. Numb to all feeling.

  Instead of moving along, Arthur and Douchey Patrick are just standing there, talking. TALKING. I hope that maybe it will somehow turn into a fistfight, but no such luck. Instead, Arthur laughs.

  Laughs.

  “Is he gay?” Amber asks again.

  “I dunno,” I force myself to answer. “How would I know that?”

  “They’re walking mighty close,” Dennis determines.

  “This is so badass,” Amber rhapsodizes.

  There’s a screechy, jerking sound, chair legs against floor. I don’t realize until I’m looking down at everybody that it’s because I stood up.

  “Uh,” Amber says, “okay.”

  “I’m gonna go say hi,” I tell them. My voice sounds weird. Loud and kind of shaky.

  Amber says, “What?”

  Dennis says, “Don’t go out, man, it’s freezing.”

  Amber says, “Howie, so help me God, if you bust up his adorable gay date—”

  “I think,” Emily says, “it would be nice of you to say hello.”

  “Thanks, Emily,” I reply, oddly touched. “That’s just what I’m gonna do.”

  And so, hands clenched into fists, I head outside.

  “Seriously,” I can hear Dennis saying back at the table, “he gets that it’s cold, right? And wait – doesn’t he hate that guy?”

  “It’s complicated, I think,” Emily says sagely.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Turns out, Dennis is right. It’s fucking cold out here.

  I half-jog across the street, feeling like a grade-A moron all the while, and come to a stop right next to Arthur and his douchetastic dinner companion. They both stare at me, bewildered. Arthur’s bewildered face is an expression that I’m good buddies with by this point, but when Douchey Patrick does it, it’s just offensive. They look so friggin’ well-matched.

  “Um,” I say, “yo.”

  “Howie,” Arthur says slowly, “what are you doing here?”

  “Dinner with the bro and some hos back there. No big deal.” WHO AM I. “You?”

  “The same,” Arthur replies. “Minus the hos.”

  “You sure about that?” Oh, shit. It just slips out.

  Douchey Patrick stares at me.

  “Ahaha,” I throw in, real cool. “Just kidding, man.” I slug his shoulder. Hard.

  “Great to meet you, Howie,” Douchey Patrick says, rubbing his shoulder.

  “You too, D—Patrick.”

  Douchey Patrick looks over at Arthur. “He knows my name?”

  Uh, he’s right here. Douche.

  “I’m a good guesser,” I reply, all suck-on-that, before Arthur has a chance to answer. “When in doubt pick C.”

  “I’m C,” Douchey Patrick says wryly.

  “Well, you sure ain’t A.” From whence comes this drivel? “Ahahaha. Seriously, bro. Just jokes.”

  Douchey Patrick turns to Arthur. Guess he can’t handle this. Yeah, that’s right, ya douche. “You told him about me?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Arthur says, frowning.

  Oh. Right. I’m not even supposed to know about Douchey Patrick in the first place. Friggin’ life of secrecy. “Kristy said some stuff,” I explain, a little lamely. Whatever. I’m two shakes from hypothermia. I got an excuse.

  “Ahhh,” Douchey Patrick says, “Kristy.”

  He makes a face. The sort of face I imagine Emily might make when forced to eat asparagus.

  You do not asparagus Kristy Quincy.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Douchey Patrick says. “You’re the new employee. I knew ‘Howie’ sounded familiar.”

  “You told him about me?” I ask Arthur, trying not to sound too smug. Failing a little.

  “Once or twice, maybe,” Arthur replies absently.

  Underwhelming.

  “And he wound up hiring you after all,” Douchey Patrick marvels with a laugh that makes me want to punch him right in the sexy glasses. “How about that.”

  “Howie’s been a perfectly decent employee,” Arthur says.

  A perfectly decent employee.

  A perfectly decent employee?

  That’s it?

  “You must be freezing,” Arthur says to me, finally wrenching his eyes from Douchey Patrick.

  “Ehh,” I say, attempting an unaffected shrug. It’s not easy when your shoulders have frozen into place. I persevere. “Y’know. Whatever.”

  “Howie, go back inside,” Arthur instructs, his voice softening. It’s a relief to hear it do that. It’s like – like he still remembers who I am, or something. Perfectly decent employee my ass.

  But the fact remains that he’s out consorting with Douchey Patrick, and he’s telling me to go away.

  Play it cool, Jenkins. Play it so cool. “’kay, sure, whatevs. I’ll just leave you fellows to your late night man strolling. Whatever it is you’re up to. The two of you.” Should anybody stand that close together? It just seems fuckin’ invasive. “I’ll see you …”

  “Tomorrow at work, I imagine,” Arthur finishes smoothly.

  “Righto,” I agree, feeling a little slapped. “’Cause that’s where you see me.”

  “Yes,” Arthur says. He gives me this look, this ‘duh, ya weirdo, where else would I see you?’ look, and I realize – like, realize-realize – that he doesn’t want Douchey Patrick to know about me. Not in the storage closet sense.

  My stomach lurches. I try to blame the pizza. The cold. Something.

  “It was riveting chatting with you, Howie,” Douchey Patrick says, all douchey and Patricklike.

  “Yeah, you too, motherfucker,” I shoot back. “Ahahaha. Just messin’.”

  This is the worst. The freezing, awkward, I-am-a-dumbass worst.

  “Bye, Howie,” Arthur says. He reaches over and touches my arm briefly.

  “Bye, Arthur,” I reply. Then I glance at Douchey Patrick, who’s still looking quietly amused and like the worst human that’s ever lived. Something about that look, it gets to me. And so I reach over, and I touch Arthur’s arm back.

  My hands are so cold I can barely bend my fingers, and the fabric of his coat is cold, but there’s the tiniest hint of warmth underneath. Damn it, I just want him to warm me up. I like him. I so just fuckin’ like this guy. I fucked it up. I know I fucked it up.

  “Bye,” I say again.

  “Bye,” Arthur says.

  “Bye,” Douchey Patrick throws in. Ahaha, isn’t he hilarious.

  I take my hand away and let them go.

  When I get back inside, Amber and Dennis are both gaping at me. Emily is considerate enough to st
are with great interest at the napkin dispenser.

  “What the hell was the point of that?” Amber asks.

  “I just don’t like that guy,” I reply, settling back into my chair.

  Dennis joins in. “So you went out in the freezing cold to see him because …”

  “He’s my sworn enemy,” I say. “Gotta pester him at every turn. Crash his date. You know.”

  “So it was a date,” Amber says excitedly. “You got confirmation.”

  “Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “Actually, they were just telling me about all the sex they’re on their way home to have.”

  It’s a joke. It must be a special joke, though, because most jokes don’t make me nauseous.

  “Really?” She’s gonna start scribbling fanfiction on a napkin any second.

  “I think he’s joking, Amber,” Emily says. All of a sudden, I’m glad she’s around.

  “Yeah, thanks, Em,” Amber drawls.

  “You know what?” I decide. “I gotta go.”

  “What?” Amber asks.

  Okay. Maybe that was a little abrupt. Not to mention that now she’s giving me a Don’t You Dare Leave Me look of the highest order. And I know. I get it. The rules of best budhood so decree that you don’t leave said best bud with her longtime love and his girlfriend. But there’s Arthur, and there’s Douchey Patrick, and if we’re being realistic, odds are they’re probably ArthurandDoucheyPatrick, and it’s … I gotta know. I gotta know or I’ll fucking puke my own heart out.

  And so I look from Amber to Dennis, and I say, “Yeah, Kristy just texted me. She, uh, needs me to stop by.”

  “Kristy? Kristy from work?” Amber says. Hey, grave. It’s just great digging you.

  “Yeah,” I lie. “She and her boyfriend got into this huge-ass fight, and her roommate’s out of town, and she’s freaking out and I guess she really just needs someone to talk to—”

  “You? You’re seriously her best option?”

  “I dunno, Amber,” I say, silently vowing to sprint out of here if this doesn’t end in the next ten seconds. “She seemed really upset.”

  “What, no exclamation points in the text message?”

  “It’s cool,” Dennis interrupts. “Amber, you should come over, we’ll watch a movie.”

  “Dennis tells me I have to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” Emily says.

  Amber looks a little hesitant. Which is a feat, considering I’m pretty sure she feels like her brain’s gonna explode from dread and fury. “I—”

  “Amber,” Dennis says gravely, “Monty Python. Come on. Howie’s okay and everything, but Monty Python.”

  Finally: “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

  “Great.” I stand up. “See, you guys won’t even miss me.”

  I don’t look at Amber. I’m the worst person alive. I can’t bring myself to care.

  +

  Kristy opens the door. She’s wearing her pajamas already. I can hear something peppy blaring from the TV.

  “Howie?”

  “Um,” I say, “is Arthur here?”

  “He just got back.” I can tell that warning bells are going off in her head – or the Kristy equivalent, which are probably, like, sparkly fairy noises.

  “Is he alone?” I sound desperate. Crazy. I’d cringe, except the capacity for shame has been frozen out of me.

  Kristy looks like she wants to give me a hug, and the only thing that’s stopping her is the fear that I might snap at any moment. “Of course he is.”

  This is where the relief should sink in. Maybe it does, and I’m just too totally wrecked to feel it. All my visions of Arthur and Douchey Patrick partaking in some elaborate mating ritual that involves, like, the sexy removal of scarves and Banana Republic clothing – gone! It doesn’t help. I still feel terrible.

  “Oh. Uh. Okay. Well, that’s …”

  Kristy’s eyes get very bright. “Actually, Nikki and I were just leaving.”

  I look at her. Pajamas. Her hair’s pulled up in a clip, all sloppy. She’s not wearing makeup anymore.

  “Uh,” I say.

  “Yep, we’re going out!” She is the worst liar in the world. “We’ve got plans! Fun plans! Nik!” she calls. “Come on, time to go!”

  Nikki shuffles into the entryway. She’s walking weird, and I realize that it’s because her toenails are newly painted. She’s got those little white divider thingies between her toes.

  “Going where?” she grunts.

  “Just out!” Kristy chirps. She’s pulling both their coats out of the closet. She throws Nikki’s at her. It falls on the floor. Nikki stares at it. “You know what, let’s bring the movie over to Reddy’s, he hasn’t seen this one.”

  “Would he want to?” Nikki asks blankly.

  “What are you talking about? He loves Hugh Grant!” Kristy shoots a hasty glance my way, like she’s checking to see whether I’m falling for her elaborate scheme.

  “But didn’t he just say he didn’t want to come over to watch it—”

  “Arthur, we’re taking your car!” Kristy yells. “We’re taking his car,” she adds in explanation to me. “Ooh! Better go get his keys! I bet they’re on the kitchen counter!”

  Kristy darts out of the entryway. Nikki and I stare at each other.

  “What?” I hear Arthur call. The sound of his voice sends a jolt through me.

  Kristy breezes back in, jangling the keys triumphantly. “They werrreeee! They were on the counter! He won’t mind if we take the car! He doesn’t need to go anywhere! And hey, if he really does, I bet you could drive him, Howie! I’m not the best driver but I think we’ll be fine. It’s just over to Reddy’s house! How much that’s bad can really happen, right? Right! Nikki, put your coat on, oh my gosh! Take forever much?”

  “But my toenails—”

  “Oh! Your toenails!” Kristy frowns, forehead scrunching thoughtfully. “You know what, it’s not a problem! We’ll be outside for like two seconds, your feet won’t get too cold! Howie, you can carry her downstairs to the car, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, okay.”

  “Great!” Kristy waits ‘til Nikki’s got her coat on, then grabs one arm and drags her over to me. “Up up up! I’ll get the door!”

  “I’m not actually—” I say, but then Nikki puts her arms around my neck, so I pick her up as best I can. Which, to be honest, is not super-well. It may involve some ungallant hoisting.

  This is not lost on Nikki. “Don’t drop me.”

  “I’m not gonna drop you!” I scoff, like the idea’s ridiculous. Which it is. Probably.

  We make it down the stairs. I don’t drop her, for the record. I put her in the car safe and sound. Sure, there might have been a stumble or two, but there’s no problem with that, right? Keeps life interesting.

  Kristy gives me a wave. Nikki does not. Then Arthur’s car peels out onto the road with a screechy turn.

  For a little while, I stand down at the bottom of the stairs, looking at nothing. It’s getting close to pitch black out, and it’s really damn cold. I don’t really know why I’m freezing myself out here. Going upstairs just seems … well, not like the brightest of ideas, at this point. All I really wanted to find out was whether or not Arthur and Douchey Patrick were doin’ it like gay bunnies, and I did. I even got the answer I wanted. Mission accomplished.

  But I don’t exactly feel better. Just because they’re not together doesn’t mean they’re not together. They looked mighty cozy standing next to each other, and it’s not even that it was in such an obvious way. It’s more like … like they spent years together, and they’ve still got that thing. That couple thing, that vibe. Douchey Patrick might be a douche named Patrick, but he knows Arthur way better than I know Arthur. He knows all the trivial stuff, the stuff that’s important because it’s unimportant. Favorite books, family members, broken bones.

  Not to mention that Arthur must care about him way more than he cares about me. That one hits me all of a sudden, hard.

  He has to, right? Like, it’s not even a q
uestion. He might be the only one I’ve got. Arthur, he’s not in a category with Heather Grimsby and Lindsay. Arthur, he gets his own category. But me, it’s not like I’m something epic and novel to him. He’s got the gay thing down. There’s some guy out there in the world, existing, who was to him what he is to me. Maybe it’s Douchey Patrick. Maybe it’s some entirely different douchey dude.

  The point is I don’t exactly matter, in the grand Arthur Kraft scheme of things. There are two and a half year relationships, and there are storage closet rendezvoux.

  I’m suddenly so jealous of Douchey fuckin’ Patrick that I can feel it, like, everywhere. It freaks me out a little bit to hate him as much as I do right now. It’s in my nerves and the pit of my stomach, and for some reason I can’t remember feeling something this hard since my dad died. That just makes me even madder. It’s not the same at all. Douchey Patrick might be a douche and a menace, but whatever, he’s just a person whose existence inconveniences me. The same could be said about Arthur, even. Like, in the grand scheme of things, none of this is exactly monumental. I wish I didn’t feel it so fucking much.

  I climb the stairs slow, then step back through the front door, which got left open. It’s chilly in the entryway. Arthur’s standing there waiting for me, light confusion on his face. He’s wearing a pair of blue checkered pajama pants and a gray t-shirt. The fact that he’s in his pajamas makes things weirder for some reason. I’ve never seen him in normal human, non-Arthur clothes. His shirt doesn’t have any buttons. It’s alarming.

  “Kristy and Nikki went out,” I inform him. My teeth are chattering as I close the door behind me. It makes me feel like a dumbass. Dumbassery, kind of my specialty.

  “I thought they were staying in for the evening.”

  “Yeah, well. They’re out.”

  “I see that.”

  I wonder whether I should get rid of my shoes and my coat. There’s not exactly a sit down and stay awhile! warmth in the air.

  “What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, which doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma.

  “Oh, ya know.” It’s all I can come up with.