You Love Me

by Caroline Kepnes

  “Honey, enough about the movies. You’re in trouble. MK will go to the police if I don’t call her back. I mean yes, your little Minnesota story is cute, absolutely, but if I did fly to Minneapolis, I’d call her from the airport to bitch about a loud ‘businessman’ and I’d call her from the hotel to bitch about the sheets. You don’t know how it is with sisters.”

  “You’re not her sister.”

  She huffs. “Fine. You won’t be the first overzealous man to dig his own grave.”

  You see the best in people—always a dangerous approach to life—and this why we’re a good team, Mary Kay. I see the worst. I tell Melanda that I don’t care if I go to prison. I tell her that she’s the one behind bars, that her whole life is a loveless fucking lie. She rolls over—I’m getting to her—and I tell her that I am here to protect you from her and that no matter what happens, I have all the evidence. I know that she resents you and I tell her that she’s neither a feminist nor a sister and that you’re not gonna be her prisoner anymore.

  And now she sits up and looks at me. “So Phil and I went out in high school.”

  It’s so sad, how puffed up she gets by mentioning ancient high school history. “Ah,” I say. “So Mary Kay stole your boyfriend. No wonder it’s so toxic between you two.”

  “Hardly,” she says. “I only tell you because obviously, I never moved on. Phil is… well, he’s a rock star…” Mick Jagger is a rock star. Phil DiMarco is a rocker. “And honey…” She puts her hand on her chest. “It’s sad that you think that she’d ever leave him for you.”

  “Tell me the code to your condo.”

  She grins. “Ah,” she says. “I got to you, didn’t I?”

  “I’ll get in there one way or another, Melanda.”

  “I know,” she says. “You’ll get into my condo. But you’ll never get between MK and Phil…” She smirks again. Vicious as an eighth-grade queen bee. “It’s so cute. You swagger in here because she finally told you about Phil. You break into my phone… you think you know us… I don’t know your deal, but you’ve obviously seen Beaches and Romy and Michele. You know that best friends talk about everything.”

  “Give me the fucking code.”

  “But you don’t have transcripts of our wine nights… our phone calls…”

  I hate my skin for turning red. “Just tell me the code.”

  “Pound 342,” she says. 342 as in You love me. Ugh. “You can write it down.”

  I should just fucking kill her, Mary Kay. “Thank you.”

  I turn to go and she baits me. “I wish you were there the night she told me about you.”

  I say nothing.

  “How you didn’t go to college… how you don’t have any friends… and I definitely wish you had been there the night she told me about what a bad kisser you are. Too much tongue.”

  I won’t let her see my face. I know better, Mary Kay. She’s lying. She has to be lying.

  “It’s so sad that you actually think you’re in competition with Phil…” My teeth are chattering. “And she’s right, Joe. You read too much.” No such thing. “You overdose on beef and broccoli…” You would never say that about me. “That’s the only possible explanation for why you could believe that she’d ever leave someone like him for someone like you. She’s too kind for her own good. Obviously she said something that put a pep in your step today but my God, honey, get a clue. MK is nice to everyone. She’s a librarian, a public servant. A people pleaser. It’s just a shame when guys like you take kindness so personally.”

  She yawns like my mother and she reminds me of my mother, who would turn up the volume on Jerry Springer when I got home from school, when I wanted to tell her about my day. When I was dead to her because I was happy. That’s what’s happening right now, Mary Kay. You put a “pep in my step”—you told me I exist—and your friend wants me to stumble. She’s not smart like you and me—she can’t be happy for other people, not really—and she won’t ever learn her lesson and fuck it. Do I do it right now? Do I kill your best friend?

  “Sweetie,” she says. “Could you move the TV in here? I have sensitive retinas and the glare from the window really is killing me. I’d also love a steak. I am simply dying for some real red meat, you know?”

  I want to, I do. But no. I don’t have a plan and I’m not going down over Melanda.

  I slam the door and on the way upstairs, my tongue pulsates in my mouth. Fuck you, Melanda. My tongue is just fine.

  Isn’t it?

  15

  I did not give her my fucking TV and I am not going to get her a steak. Bad dogs don’t get treats. Everyone knows that. And that’s what she is, Mary Kay: a bad dog. Territorial and violent. She attacked me and I brought her home. I fed her. I tried to train her and she turned around and assaulted me again.

  I definitely wish you had been there the night she told me about what a bad kisser you are. Too much tongue.

  Now I’m pacing in my backyard (watching my estranged son run around on Instagram to remind myself of how fucking good I am. He’s toddling. He’s cute. I made that). I trip on an exposed root in the natural landscape and I hate Bainbridge Island because there is such a thing as TOO FUCKING QUIET. We’re not in the desert and no one has to be on the factory line at 7:00 A.M. so why is everyone but me asleep?

  I wasn’t gonna hurt anyone. I’m a good goddamn guy but I’m a lonely guy, bullied and used. She attacked me! It’s her fault that she’s in that basement, that I’m in this mess, and did you really make fun of my kissing? Did you mean it when you said you never thought you’d meet someone like me? Or is Melanda right? Was that your kind way of telling me I’m not good enough?

  I can’t be here. And no I don’t want to get on the ferry and ride to Seattle and stuff my face with salmon ampersand quinoa and visit a bookstore underneath a market—we get it, Seattle, you have history—only to be hungry an hour later and hunt down some restaurant with a twee pink door. All of that is really only fun if you’re doing it with someone you love and I love you but you’re like the rest of the islanders right now.

  You’re in bed.

  I put on my gloves—no fucking prints, no DNA—and I unlock the door to Melanda’s condo and set the stage for her departure in case you do pop by. I go in the bathroom—the door is propped open by a copy of The Thorn Birds that she cut in half—and it’s a foul mess of O.B. tampons and Fitness magazines and monogrammed towels: MRS. Wow. Melanda Ruby Schmid really is a very bad dog. Her parents knew it, burying the ruby because they knew she wasn’t a gem, saddling her with initials she could never live up to. I pick up a framed photo of you and your best friend and even when she’s happy, she’s miserable. Hiding behind sunglasses while you squint in the sun.

  I check my phone. Melanda is tearing the sheets off the bed and she isn’t capable of appreciating a surprise movie-binge staycation because she isn’t capable of love. She only sleeps in one half of her bed at home—the other half is littered with mini Dove wrappers and oh for fuck’s sake, Melanda, you’re not a supermodel. Buy a candy bar.

  She’s reading Sarah Jio’s Violets of March and no, Melanda, that book isn’t about you. It’s about a nice woman, a divorcée who got married because she believed in love, unlike some people.

  Was she right, Mary Kay? Are you never gonna leave him?

  I open the junk drawer in her kitchen and she has dozens of Women’s Fitness exercise calendars and they’re glued together by time and self-loathing. I look in her mirror—it rests on the other half of The Thorn Birds—and it lies to me and makes me taller and thinner than I am. I look above her mirror where there’s another big fat lie in the form of a cheery sign: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. I pick up her computer and the last thing she googled was young Carly Simon and no, Melanda. You don’t look like Carly Simon because Carly Simon has a soul. I turn on her TV where it’s nothing but Real Housewives. She didn’t watch the documentaries made by women for women that she praises on Twitter and she listens to “Coming Around Again” so much becau
se if no one ever stays—and who could stay—then no one ever leaves and thus no one can ever return to play the game again with her.

  But this is the burden of being a good guy. I would never say any of that to her.

  The person I need right now is you. And it’s late but it’s not that late.

  I pick up Melanda’s phone.

  Melanda: You there?

  You: Yep. Can’t sleep. How’s the trip? Did you get in safe?

  Oh, Mary Kay. You could sleep if you were with me and so could I.

  Melanda: Yes and sooooo… okay so I met someone lol

  You: Already? You just landed, no?

  Melanda: Well… we actually started talking a couple months ago but long distance I mean I didn’t say anything because who knows but now I’m here and well… NOW I KNOW lol

  You: Wow. Well that’s… great?

  Oh, Mary Kay, you are greener by the bubble.

  Melanda: lol yes with him right now so gotta scram but yay for meeee!

  You: Wow! Details? Tell me he’s not married.

  Jesus, you are jealous and as well you should be. You see now that Melanda took a leap of faith so she gets to be happy and this is how I make you see the light.

  Melanda: Nope! Divorced. Totally free… no offense lol

  You: Ha.

  I grin. It is a little fun to get under your skin.

  Melanda: wow INDEED and he can KISS lol speaking of which… how’s your little friend?

  You: That’s so great M!

  You didn’t bite the bait but on a good note, I hear the pain in your voice.

  Melanda: I forgot about just kissing someone who like really really really knows how to kiss lol am sorry I am in seventh grade right now woo hooo lololol

  You: Yeah. Nothing like a kiss.

  I miss your yeah and do you mean our kiss?

  Melanda: You ok with stuff?

  You: Yeah. Just trying to get Nomi to do her college essay. Maybe I’ll go back to college too! When do you find out about the job?

  Jesus, Mary Kay. Life moves forward. You went to college. You married Phil. Get with the program and move on. Don’t pine for the past and don’t make it all about the future. Be here now and give me your Lemonhead.

  Melanda: Haha you could not pay me to go back to school I am so happy right now. I mean Carl… my interview is tomorrow but I feel really good about it you know?

  You: So happy for you M. Seriously.

  Seriously. Take it in, Mary Kay. I know that divorce used to seem like a bad idea, like you’d be at wine bars eight nights a week with Melanda. Squabbling over horny Shortus types, men you don’t even like, regretting every decision that led to that barstool. But you met me. It’s time to leave that fucker and be with me. Carl did it. He left his wife and you can too.

  Melanda: Ok seriously back at you ARE YOU OK you can talk about joe. I won’t yell at you and make fun of his sweater lol I promise

  I wait. I watch the screen. Nothing. Nothing at all. And then a minute later:

  You: Melanda you don’t have to make a dig at him every time I mention him. I know you don’t like him. Message received.

  Melanda: I’m sorry I’m just like CARL CARL CARL ONLY GOOD MAN ON EARTH

  You: Well that’s great. Can’t wait to meet him if things work out.

  If. Ouch! Is that the issue? You want the sure thing over the risk?

  Melanda: Oh it’s more like whatever happens, being with him is a game changer you know? He went through the fire and he left his wife and even if it doesn’t work out I am just so happy we met you know? That said ok yes we are totally getting married lolol

  You: Ha.

  You never do the isolated ha and Melanda’s really getting to you. Good.

  Melanda: r u mad at me?

  You: No. Just feel like shit tonight. And I know. I’m married. I made this mess and I have a husband but I don’t need a lecture right now so please spare me.

  Melanda: Only love you sweetie. And on that note… I know I was hard on Joe.

  Mary Kay: Eh. I should probably just forget it. It was just a kiss. A good one. I was living in a fantasy. Cliché but true, ya know?

  I have my answer. You do like the way I kiss and Melanda was right about one thing. I’m nothing like Phil. I’m better than Phil. And Melanda may not have come around and seen the light just yet, but I’m in control now and it’s time for her to be a real friend.

  Melanda: No MK. Look pre-Carl I was in man-bashing mode. I can admit that. I mean you know that…

  Mary Kay: I know he wasn’t your favorite…

  Melanda: Do me a favor. Give it a chance. I’m not saying to leave Phil and I’m not saying Joe is anywhere near the man that Carl is… lol gush gush gush… but I just… I want you to be happy. There’s no law that says you can’t just get to know him I mean you told him about Phil. Don’t push him away.

  Mary Kay: Um who is this and can you send my friend Melanda back

  A chill runs through my body. I stare at the phone and fuck you, Steve Jobs and Mother Nature, because this is the flaw of all communication. Why can’t we take things back? The pressure is increasing every second and I have to say something but did I go too far?

  Melanda: Oh believe me I’m grossed out too and fully aware that in seven days I will probably hate Carl and Minnesota lolol

  You are typing. Slowly. The dots appear and the dots go away and people who go to bed early wake up early and I need to finish packing up for Melanda’s imaginary trip and I need to get the fuck out of here before the joggers awake and boom.

  Mary Kay: I was just kidding. Very happy you’re happy. And yeah… about Joe, we’ll see.

  Oh yes we fucking will, Mary Kay.

  16

  It’s Christmas Eve and all day long, I live like a Mothball. I don’t make eye contact with you unless you address me, which you do twice, both times for professional reasons. At noon, I go out to the love seat, because I always go out to the love seat. I know how to take a hint, Mary Kay. “Melanda” told you to give me a chance, but the last time we spoke, you told me to back off.

  The door opens at 12:13 and you’re wearing your coat—you mean to stay—and you make a sad face at my lunch. “Well, that’s not beef and broccoli.”

  “No,” I say. “This is what we call a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  You sit on the love seat. Not close as in Closer. But you’re not shoved against the armrest. You smile at me. Playful. “Is it okay if I tell you that Nomi likes the Bukowski you suggested?”

  “I think that’s okay. Is it okay if I tell you that I’m really happy you came out here?”

  “Well, I think that’s okay. But I should ask you if it’s okay for me to say that I was up all night because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  “I think it’s okay for you to say that… as long as it’s okay for me to say that I was up all night thinking about you too.”

  We are on fire and you scratch your messy bun. Red. Gold. You. “Is it okay for me to say that I thought about you in the shower?”

  “Only if it’s okay for me to say that I always think about you in the shower.”

  You turn red. “Is it okay for me to say that I’ve been hoping that you do?”

  “Only if it’s okay for me to say that I fucked you in my head in every square foot of this library.”

  You glance at me. Did I go too far? You smile. “Is it okay for me to be a little insulted that you haven’t imagined what we could do right here?”

  “I said every square foot of the library, Mary Kay.”

  “Yes, but in my head, we’ve been on every square foot of the property.”

  Now you went too far and you turn red and I want to hug you but there are Mothballs inside and there’s an invisible ring on your finger. “See,” you say. “This is the catch-22. We both know that a lot of this is about the boundary. I mean who’s to say that all the tension between us isn’t about the boundary? I’m thinking of both of us here, Joe. Beca
use look at us. Yesterday I was a nervous wreck about telling you and it turns out you already know… joke’s on me… and today, ten seconds into it and it’s… Well, my God, our IQs are dropping a million points a second.”

  You’re the one who’s married and I’m the one who’s not and I wouldn’t respect you, let alone love you, if you weren’t so torn up right now, but it’s time for me to show off for you the way you showed off for me. “You’re right,” I say. “And we should probably go back inside.”

  You look at me like you were hoping I would kiss you. As if I can fucking do that. “Is it okay if I say I’m sorry for imploding?”

  I stand up. You’re still sitting. At this height, you could unzip me and put me in your mouth and that’s what you want but you’ve convinced yourself that it’s all you want when it comes to me. I leave you on the love seat and go back into the stacks and wait three minutes and text you from Melanda’s phone.

  So?

  So what?

  So did you see Joe yet? Sorry lol I’m in love mode!

  You’re spending the rest of your lunch break hiding from me in your office and you sigh.

  Well I just offered to sleep with him in the parking lot. He probably thinks I’m insane. THIS is insane.

  You’re talking yourself out of it and I’m sick of the way you women call out everything natural and reasonable as insane. But I’m not me. I’m Melanda.

  Well maybe you should lol kiddiiiiiiing

  You pick up a candy cane on your desk and bite into it. Crunch. Like the rock hitting Melanda’s head in the woods. And maybe there is a little holiday fucking magic just for us. Maybe something good will come out of this mess after all.

  What if I’m just really horny or what if HE’S just really horny? What if I’m just building him up in my head. I mean look at Seamus. Nice pig, but a pig. We know men. Joe is probably too good to be true. You’re the one who said it. No friends. No ties. He spent Thanksgiving alone and you know what they say. People show you who they are.