You Love Me

by Caroline Kepnes

  You told me about his fucking cabin and I’m not impressed. I’ve seen his Instagram. He doesn’t like to read and he bought his biceps at CrossFit. “I think so, yeah.”

  “Well, he brought this girl up there and she spent the whole trip complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi. And then she bailed on him.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah,” you say. “And I know it sounds bad, this same old story of a middle-aged guy going for twenty-two-year-old girls, but”—there is no but, it’s just plain bad—“you know how it is. He’s like a brother to me. He’s insecure…” No. He’s just a man. “And I feel for him. He does so much for this island. He’s a saint, truly. He donates books constantly…” ONE HUNDRED GRAND, HONEY. “He’s like our own Giving Tree…”

  No man is an island or a tree but I smile. “I got that impression,” I say. “I saw signs for his Cooley 5K and the Cooley ‘street cleaning task force.’ But maybe instead of doing so much for others…” God, this hurts. “Maybe he should be in that cabin clearing his head.”

  “Yeah,” you say. Yeah. “And that’s probably the right move because he truly does have the worst luck with women.”

  Sorry, Mary Kay, but if you knew about my exes… “He’s lucky he has you.”

  You blush. You’re quiet, too quiet, and you don’t want this fucking man, do you? No. If you wanted him, you would have him because look at you. You sigh. Sighs are signs of guilt and okay. He wants you and you don’t want him—you want me—and you shrug. “I don’t know about that. It’s just second nature for me, you know, helping people, being there…”

  We are the same, Mary Kay. We just have different styles. “I can relate.”

  We’re quiet again, closer now than we were an hour ago. My whole “Mr. Goody Two-shoes” plan isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about us being good together. I swore I won’t ever hurt anyone for you, not even the guy who owns the hardware store where the female staffers swan around in tight jeans and tight shirts bearing the Cooley name. I’m kind like you. I’m good like you. I gulp. I go for it. “Maybe we could get a drink later…”

  You put your hand on your shirt. Deep V-neck sweater today, deep for a librarian who bends over a lot. Say yes. “I wish,” you say, as you stand. “But I have girls’ night and I should probably get back inside.”

  I stand because I have to stand. “No pressure,” I say. “Just throwing it out there.”

  We’re lingering as if we can’t bear to go inside and time is slowing down the way it does before a first kiss and we do need to kiss. You should kiss me or I should kiss you and it’s fall and you’re falling in love with me and I’ve never felt less alone in my life than I do when I’m with you. There’s an invisible string pulling our bodies together but you walk to the door. “Hey, if I don’t see you, have a good weekend!”

  * * *

  Six hours later, and I am NOT HAVING A GOOD FUCKING WEEKEND, MARY KAY. I want to spend my downtime with you and okay. You didn’t lie to me. You’re not out with Seamus—he’s at a dive bar watching a soccer game because people here like soccer—but you’re at Eleven Winery with Melanda.

  She’s your “bestie” and she’s @MelandaMatriarchy on Instagram—oy—and she celebrated Gloria Steinem’s birthday by posting a picture of… Melanda. This woman is an English teacher, she’s your daughter’s teacher, constantly harassing your Meerkat to stop romanticizing Dylan Klebold in the comments—Boundaries, anyone?—but you see the best in people. Melanda was the first friend you made in Bainbridge and she “saved your life” in high school, so when she issues Instagram mandates to BELIEVE ALL WOMEN—as in, the mandate is on a T-shirt stretched over her unnecessarily big boobs—well, you like every fucking one of them.

  And you do this even though she doesn’t like all of your pictures—you are the bigger person, just like me—and when she wants to go to Eleven Winery and bitch about her OkCupid dates—generally this is every Tuesday and every Friday—you go.

  It doesn’t take a genius to see that I should be with you, that Melanda should be with Shortus. But they’re two sides of the same coin. She likes to hate men because she’s too guarded to find real love—your words, not mine—and this man-boy wants a chick to suck on his Shortus. And then my phone buzzes. It’s you.

  You: How’s your night?

  Me: Hanging in there. How’s girls’ night?

  You: You mean women’s night.

  This is our first text—YES!—and I can tell you’re a little drunk. I want to pound my chest and pump my fist because I’ve been waiting for you to reach out to me and I haven’t reached out to you because I have to be paranoid. I know how it works in this antiromantic world. I couldn’t be the one to hit you up on your personal phone because the Injustice System could take my innocent gesture and frame me as a fucking “stalker.” This is life without a Get Out of Jail Free card but it turns out, life is good. You did it, Mary Kay! You crossed the line and texted me after hours and the library is closed but you are open. And thank God I dragged my ass to Isla Bonita tonight—another win!—because now you’re gonna see that I’m not sitting at home pining for you. I’m just like you, out on the town with my friends—the other guys at this bar would appear to be my “friends” on security camera footage—and now I get to make you sick with FOMOOM—fear of missing out on me.

  Me: Well I’m at BOYS’ night. Beer and nachos and soccer at Isla.

  You take a beat. It’s killing you to realize that I’m on Winslow Way too, 240 feet away. Come on, Mary Kay. Spill that wine and run to me.

  You: You make me laugh.

  Me: Sometimes boys and women drink at the same bar.

  You: Melanda hates sports bars. Long story. Bartender was rude to her once.

  I bet every bartender in the state was rude to Melanda but then, it can’t be easy being Melanda. I snap a picture of the bumper stickers behind the bar—MY BARTENDER CAN BEAT UP YOUR THERAPIST and I DON’T HAVE AN ATTITUDE PROBLEM. YOU’RE JUST AN ASSHOLE—and I send it to you and then I write to you.

  Me: Tell your friend Melanda that I get it.

  You: I love you.

  Me. Numb. Lovestruck. Speechless. Cloud 9000. I stare at my phone, at the dots that tell me there’s more to come and then boom.

  You: Typo. I meant I love your picture. Sloppy fingers. lol sorry just… yeah… wine.

  My heart is pounding and you love me. You said it. Everyone around me is oblivious, but Van Morrison is egging us on from the speakers—this seems like a brand-new night and this feels like a brand-new night—and what the fuck am I doing?

  You want me. I want you. Fuck it.

  I’m outside, en route to Eleven Winery, closer as in Closer, but then I stop short.

  Yes, you told me where you are but you didn’t invite me to join you. And let’s say I did interrupt your women’s night. Is this really the way for us to start our love story? Deep down, I know that good guy island etiquette requires that I give you your fucking “space.” The walls of Eleven are thin and I hear laughter in “your bar.” You’re not just with your best friend. You know a lot of flannel-vested townies inside and I want to rescue you from that noisy tedium that can’t possibly compare to our lovebird lunches in the garden.

  But I can’t save you, Mary Kay. Tonight we made progress—you texted me, you started it—and I want that to be what you think about when you wake up tomorrow. It’s not easy, but I walk into the alley, away from the sound of your voice. Before I get home, I’m smiling again because hey, this was still a big night for us. You had all those people to talk to, your best fucking friend, but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You picked up your phone and texted me. Rude. Obsessed. Sassy. And of course you couldn’t help it.

  After all, you love me.

  And you can tell me that you didn’t mean it that way. You can point to the fact that you were drinking. You can say that you were sloppy. But anyone with a phone knows that there are very few actual mistakes when it comes to the things we put in writing, espec
ially after a few drinks. You said it and on some level, you meant it and your words are mine now, glowing in the dark in my phone.

  I sleep well for a change, as if your love is already working its magic on me.

  3

  Everybody working for the weekend can bite me. I hate the weekends on this island, the flabby, brunchy vats of time where families and couples convene and revel in their togetherness with no regard for me, alone, missing you so much that I walk to the Town & Country grocery store—your grocery store—just hoping to bump into you at some point this weekend while your I-Love-You is still fresh, still new.

  Sadly, we miss each other on Saturday and again on Sunday. But fuck you, weekend warriors, because Monday’s finally come. I look good even though I didn’t sleep last night—There’s no doubt, I’m in deep—and I pull a bright orange sweater over my head. This will make it easier for you to spot me in the stacks and I check Instagram. Last night, I posted some yearning Richard Yates. Did you touch the white empty heart beneath my Young Hearts Crying and turn it red?

  No, you didn’t. But that’s okay.

  @LadyMaryKay did not like your photo because she likes YOU, Joe.

  I lock my door even though the Mothballs tell me I don’t have to lock my door and I walk by the movie theater on Madison—I want to go down on you in the dark—and I go to Love’s Instagram and watch my son tear up Good Night, Los Angeles. I know better than to walk into Love’s online family museum when I need to be at my best and I see your Subaru in the parking lot—you’re here!—and I quicken my pace and then I slow down—Gently, Joseph—and I walk inside but you’re not on the floor and you’re not in your den. Grrr. I shuffle off to the break room, where a married old Mothball tells me about his wife harping on him to take Advil for his lower back pain and I want that to be us in thirty years, but that will never be us if we don’t seal the fucking deal.

  I fill Dolly Carton and push her into the stacks and boom. It’s you. You put your hands on Dolly and your eyes on me. “Hey.”

  I fight the urge to do what you want me to do, to grab you right here, right now. “Hey.”

  “Do you want to go get lunch in town or are you attached to your Cedar Cove special?”

  YES I WANT TO GO TO LUNCH. “Sure.”

  Your cheeks are Red Bed red and you want to eat food with me and there is a zipper in the center of your skirt and it’s a skirt I’ve never seen, a skirt you broke out today, for me, for our lunch date. You fiddle with the zipper. You want me to fiddle with it. “You wanna go now?”

  We are putting on our jackets and we are lovebirds in a movie, strolling on Madison Avenue under a classical score. You want to know if Fecal Eyes introduced herself yet and I tell you she didn’t and you sigh. “Unbelievable,” you say. “See, if this were Cedar Cove, Nancy and her husband would have baked you a pie by now.”

  I don’t want a pity party so I ask about your weekend—code for: remember when you told me you love me?—and you tell me that you and the Meerkat went to Seattle. I am bright, interested. “That sounds fun. What’d you do?”

  “Oh you know how it is. She’s at that age where she walks ten feet ahead of me and if I want Italian, she wants Chinese and if I say that sounds good…”

  “She wants Italian.”

  “And she was freezing, she refused to bring a jacket. We popped by to visit some old friends who have a guitar store, they’re like family…” Your voice trails off. And you shrug. “And lunch was just Danishes on the ferry. Another proud mom moment, you know?” You laugh. “So, Joe, did you… do you want kids?”

  It’s a trick question. Nomi’s a senior in high school and if I say I want kids and you don’t want more kids then you have a reason to push me away. But if I say I don’t want kids, then you might think I don’t want to be a stepfather. “I’ve always felt like, if it happens, it happens.”

  “It’s the difference between men and women. For all you know, some kid could show up and knock on your door, 23andMe style, like ‘Hi, Dad!’ ”

  If only you knew, and I smile. “What about you? Do you want more kids?”

  “Well… Nomi was the surprise of my life, you know? Lately, it’s hitting me that there’s this whole new chapter ahead. I don’t know about another kid, but opening a bookshop, that I can see.” Your voice trails off—you’re picturing us in our Bordello—and you dig your hands into your pockets. “So,” you say, your voice shaky with first-date nerves. “How was the rest of guys’ night?”

  I like this new side of you, Mary Kay. Jealous. Frisky. And I am sarcastic. “Oh you know, beer… nachos… babes.”

  “Ah, so does that mean you met someone?”

  God, you have it bad for me and I smile. “Well, I thought I did…” I have to tease you a little. “But then this woman I work with texted me and I guess I kinda blew it.”

  You know that you are this woman and you shrug, slightly demure, and it’s a reminder that as much as we are soulmates, we don’t know each other, not like this, on a sidewalk in motion. “Oh come on,” I say. “You know I’m kidding… I don’t go out on the prowl at bars and I’m certainly never, you know, looking for babes…” RIP Beck walked into my bookstore same way you happen to work at my library. “For me it’s always intangible. It’s not about looks… it’s about chemistry.”

  Did you just arch your back a little bit? Yes you did. “I get that,” you say. “I relate.”

  We fall into a natural, sexy silence and if we were on a busy four-lane street in L.A., I could take your hand. I could kiss you. But this is an island and there is no anonymity and the walk is over. You open the door to the diner and my eyes turn into hearts. Retro red. Red booths like our Red Bed and you chose this place because of the booths. You know the host and he’s a gentle man—ring on his finger—and he tells you your booth is open, your booth as in our booth.

  We sit across from each other and I did it. I got you all to myself. And you did it. You got me all to yourself.

  I open the menu and you open a menu even though you’ve been eating here for a hundred years. “I always get the same thing, but I think I’ll mix it up today.”

  I make you want to try new things and I smile. “Any suggestions for me?”

  “Everything’s good,” you say. “But I wouldn’t mind if you got something with fries… just saying.”

  You order a bowl of chili and I go for a club sandwich with fries and you smile at me but then something catches your eye. You sit up straight and wave. “Melanda! Over here!”

  It’s supposed to be you, me, and fries but your friend Melanda clomps up to our booth. Body by Costco—bulk-order boobs—and she moves like a linebacker charging for an end zone, as if life is war. She’s sweaty—wash that shit off before you enter a restaurant, Melanda—and she needs a tutorial on Instagram filters because the dissonance shouldn’t be this jarring. You air-kiss her and tell her she looks great—I don’t agree—and why is she here? Are you hazing me? The host brings Melanda a menu and her nostrils flare and she’s a so person, sucking up the oxygen with a non sequitur. “So I just had the worst row at school with that math teacher Barry who thinks that being ‘a father of daughters’ entitles him to help me with the Future.”

  She’s not British and she shouldn’t say row and you look at me. “Melanda’s starting a nonprofit for local girls…” Melanda bites her lip in protest and you elbow her in response. “A nonprofit for young women…” She winces and you throw up your hands as in I give up and she puts her eyes on me.

  “So, what MK means is that I’m building an incubator for young women. It’s called The Future Is Female. You’ve probably seen posters in the library…”

  “I sure did,” I say, recalling the mixed messages inviting girls to establish boundaries online and commanding them to use her hashtag in all of their posts. #MelandaMatriarchySmashesThePatriarchy… and the young women who forget to promote her brand!

  Melanda laughs. “And?”

  “And obviously I’m all fo
r it.”

  You’re different around her, cautious, but that’s the story of humans. We shrink to fit. I know Melanda’s type. She doesn’t want questions. She wants praise, so I tell her it’s a genius idea. I don’t say that there’s a way to do these things without being a fucking asshole. But there is. “Well,” she says. “I’m past the idea phase. We launch early next year.” She picks up your water glass. “Which reminds me, MK, did you review my latest mission statement?”

  You didn’t review it yet and you pull a packet of Splenda from your purse and she grimaces like you pulled out a crack pipe or a Bill Cosby biography. “Sweetie, no,” she coos. “You have to stop trying to kill yourself.”

  That language was telling. On some level, she wants you to die, and you don’t know it and she doesn’t even fully know it and it’s all a little sad.

  “I know,” you say. “I’m terrible. I have to stop it with the Splenda.”

  It’s not my place to butt in—are you ever gonna introduce us?—and she sips your water and sighs. “So they fired my trainer, finally. I wasn’t the only one who complained about him.”

  You say you’ve never joined a gym and I want to hear more but Melanda cuts you off to bitch about her toxic trainer and I wish she’d follow the rules spelled out on her T-shirt—LET HER SPEAK—and you wink at me and… wait. Is this a fucking setup?

  “Melanda,” you say. “Before we get off track, this is Joe. I told you how he’s volunteering at the library, he just moved here a few months ago.”

  I extend my hand. “Good to meet you, Melanda.”

  She doesn’t shake my hand. She sort of pats it and this isn’t a setup. My first instinct was right. You are hazing me and Melanda’s like a wannabe tough frat guy in a Lifetime movie who doesn’t want anyone else in the frat. “How nice,” she simpers. “Another white man telling us what to read.” She slaps her clammy hand over mine. “Honey, please. You know I’m kidding, just having a day.”

  You make eyes at me the way you did on Day One in the library—Please be patient—and Melanda says that her toxic trainer asked Greg, the barista at Pegasus, to stop selling her cookies and you nod, like a therapist. “Well, I’m glad that Greg told you about it. He’s a good guy in that way.”