You Love Me

by Caroline Kepnes

  You don’t touch me. You don’t make eye contact. You are a zombie with a second set of teeth and they’re his teeth, constant proof that he was alive, and I will be patient. I’ve been there, Mary Kay—I know what it’s like to lose someone who was bad for you. I know you’re bleeding inside. That pain you’re in gives you no right to hurt me but I won’t make this about me.

  Unlike your dead rat, I am a strong man. A good man who’s able to put you first and respect the reality that his death is harder for you than it is for me. But you’re a widow now. You’re anointed with a new title and I too could kill that fucking rat for what he did to us. His guys finish playing the one and only true hit song that Phil ever wrote and the clapping is loud, too loud. You start crying and shutting the slider behind you, leaving me on your deck alone and if you had any intention of a future with me, you wouldn’t have closed that door.

  32

  I went home. I pigged out. I played some Prince, I played some Sinéad and I was bracing myself for seven hours and fifteen days without a word from you. But I was wrong, in the best way possible. You called me last night at 1:13 A.M. and you cried and I let you cry and soon you were talking about Phil’s parents—They always treated me like I wasn’t good enough and they think it’s my fault—and then you were crying again—It’s all my fault—and then you were angry—How could he do this to Nomi?—and then you were guilty—I should have been there for him, I should have known this was too much. I was so good to you, Mary Kay. I encouraged you to let it out and you fell asleep and I did not end the call. I stayed up all night until you were coughing.

  “Joe?” you said.

  “Morning.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Of course I am.”

  You said it was the kindest thing anyone ever did for you—fuck that stupid grassy dollhouse roof—and it’s been almost two weeks. You’re in mourning, still guilt ridden. And I get it. Your separation was a secret and it’s complicated but you texted me that you forgot to buy toilet paper—it’s always something—and I went to the store and bought you toilet paper and you’re tearing the plastic.

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “This is the right kind.”

  I know because I’ve spent a lot of time in your house and I shrug. “It’s the best kind, so of course it’s your kind.”

  I make a note in my head: Buy Mary Kay’s overpriced toilet paper before she comes to my house and then the sliding door opens and it’s Shortus, who’s somehow become my unworthy rival in this irritating episode of our Cedar Cove life. He cracks his knuckles and he cracks his back and sighs. “Your gutters are officially clean, MK.”

  You’re a grieving widow and obliged to your Friends—Thank you, Seamus, you’re a godsend—and you rummage around the refrigerator. “Okay, boys,” you say, as if I am your son and Shortus is a friend I brought home from school. “Who’s hungry?”

  He plops into a chair and he is not a man, he is a fourth-grade boy. “I burned a lot of calories out there, MK. I can eat!”

  I wish he would go away. He’s different since RIP Phil died. It’s like one of those fucking reality shows where the loser thinks he has a shot because the guy in the lead pulled a muscle and backed out of the race. Shortus is actively competing with me to be the man of this house and that’s not what I’m doing. I love you. I miss being inside of you and I am your boyfriend but he’s a lonely CrossBore, a real patriarchal sexist who acts like you need us menfolk and what bullshit, Mary Kay. You don’t need men. You need me.

  I pull The North Water out of my bag and set it on the table. “Almost forgot,” I say to you, not him. “This is that book I was telling you about.”

  In other words, GET OUT, SHORTUS, and he huffs. “Jeez, Joe, I don’t think the woman can read right now. We’re still reeling, ya know?”

  He didn’t even like your husband but I can’t fight with him because he’s your friend and if he wasn’t here, we would be talking about Ian McGuire, but he is here so you just smile at the book—Thanks, Joe—and then you’re on your feet, dealing with the casserole. This is a critical time for us. You’re processing so many emotions and we need to get Closer and I’m not stupid, Mary Kay. I know you want a buffer. That’s why you let Shortus come over and have an open-door policy for the semi-Melandas who “pop by” with casseroles—No one likes that shit when they’re alive, why would they want it after someone died?—and Shortus jumps up and pulls a chair out for you.

  “Young lady, I insist that you take a load off and sit.”

  He is the patriarchy and I want to smash him and where is RIP Melanda when you need her? You don’t want to sit. You shovel lasagna onto his plate and he passes the plate to me. “That’s way too much for me, MK. Let’s give this to the bookworm, see if he can’t get some meat on those bones!”

  You like my body just the way it is and Nomi hesitates in the hallway. “What’s that smell?”

  “Casserole,” you say. “You want some?”

  She groans. “I’m going to Seattle.”

  “Nomi…”

  “I wanna see Uncle Don and Aunt Peg.”

  I met Don and Peg at the wake. They’re Nomi’s surrogate ex-hippie grandparents and they own a guitar store and you told me about them the day we walked to the diner, the day you almost told me about Phil. You pick at your lip. “But honey, you’ve been over there a lot.”

  Nomi is unmoved. “So?”

  “So maybe you could hang out here… with us.”

  Nomi grabs at the straps on her backpack. “Are they sick of me or something?”

  “Nomi, no, I just think it might be nice for you to be at home a little more.”

  “Mom,” she says, and we’re all thinking the same thing right now. That the rat died in this house. That Nomi found the rat.

  You hug your Meerkat and Shortus scoops a heap of lasagna that’s actually bigger than my portion and you walk Nomi to the door and he chews on the lasagna with his mouth wide open, like a bachelor, like a pig, and you’ll never know that he ate more than me and now you’re outside. There’s another fucking Friend popping by and I don’t blame Nomi for jumping on that ferry every day. You come back glum, holding a cheesecake.

  “MK,” Seamus says. “Do you do that tracking thing on E’s phone?”

  You dig into the cheesecake, right into the center. We haven’t had sex since Fort Ward and you’re going crazy, too. “Huh?”

  “You know,” he says. “Just so you can know where she is.”

  You dig your fork into the cheesecake and that’s my girl. “I don’t stalk my daughter, Seamus, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, you can never be too careful. Do you know what she’s up to? Do you even know that she’s in Seattle?”

  Do it, Shortus! Piss her off with your Father Knows Best passive aggression.

  You are seething. “Honestly, Seamus, if there’s one thing we did right, it’s Nomi. She’s always liked to get away and spend a night or two with Peggy and Don.”

  He runs his paws over his Cooley Hardware shirt and adjusts his Cooley Hardware hat and how was I ever “friends” with this guy? “I’m just trying to help, MK. My shop’s covered. I got a workout in this morning… so it’s no skin off my back if you want me to see where she’s at.”

  You just lost your husband and he makes it all about him as if he’s the saint and you pat his arm. “I appreciate it, but we’re fine.”

  I might spit up my lasagna and he pats your arm back. “I know you are, MK.”

  “Honestly, I don’t blame her for getting away. It’s been like Grand Central in here and the memories…”

  And it really is Grand Fucking Central because there’s a dog barking and another intruder. You jump out of your chair to greet the latest Friend and lo and behold it’s the fecal-eyed monster mommy. Finally, we are properly introduced and her hand is a dead fish and her yellow Lab still loves me and see that, Mary Kay? Dogs know good people.

  Fecal-
Eyed Nancy is fresh from a hike and she can’t stay long and you offer her cheesecake and she makes a face, as if you have cooties, as if the widow doesn’t have a right to stick a fork in her own cheesecake.

  Fecal Eyes repeats herself—We just popped by, I can’t stay—and you clear a chair for her and she sits. “Should I ask or should I leave it alone?”

  The dog rests her head on my lap. I pet her and you sigh. “I haven’t heard from her,” you say. “But like I told you, we had a falling-out.”

  Shortus turns his Cooley Hardware hat backwards. “Oh man,” he says. “I didn’t know how to tell ya.”

  All eyes on Shortus, just like he wants, except for the dog, who only has eyes for me. You sip your coffee. “Just say it. Have you talked to her?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Melanda called me a few days ago.”

  Fecal Eyes balks and you balk too and no she fucking didn’t. She’s dead. There are rumors about her because this is an island and even at the wake, I heard a couple people whispering that Melanda had an affair with a student but I don’t care about that. Melanda is dead and dead women don’t talk on the phone. Alas, Seamus wants attention, he wants to feel special, and pretending to be a conduit to your friend Melanda is one way to get it.

  Fecal Eyes picks at the cheesecake and this is what she came for: gossip. “Unbelievable.”

  Shortus scratches the logo on his shirt. “She asked me to tell you and Nomi that she sends her love.”

  You snort and do a good impression of her. “How nice.”

  “I know,” he says. “She would have come back, but you know how it is. Everyone’s talking about her ‘inappropriate behavior’ with that kid at school… She didn’t want to steal the spotlight.”

  Fecal Eyes picks up your fork, not afraid of cooties anymore. “So it is true. That woman slept with a student. I knew it, and I’m sorry, but I can’t really say I’m surprised.”

  Thank God for the fecal-eyed dog or I might throw the cheesecake at the fucking wall.

  Finally Fecal Eyes is on the move—You guys, I just have so much to dooo—and Shortus looks at his phone and lets out a big sigh. “Rats,” he says. “Actually, I can’t go to Seattle even if you wanted me to go. The girls need me at the store.”

  I almost feel bad for him as you shove him out the door, the way he had to refer to his staff as the girls. It would be awful to be so intimidated by women, so insecure that you have to make up gossip. He can’t even look me in the eye, he just waves—Maybe a beer later?—and I nod and he manipulates you into one more Thank you as you give him a casserole to take back to the shop, as if he shouldn’t be the one thanking you.

  And then he’s gone. You lock the door and come back to the table. “He means well,” you say. “But he’s doing a 5K for Phil and he put up the banner. Did you see it?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Hang on,” you say. You pick up your phone and dial. You bite your lips as it rings and then your shoulders drop. “Oh, Peg, I’m glad I caught you… Nomi’s on her way there… Oh, she is? Oh good. Okay, well, I wanna thank you guys… I know, but I still want to thank you… Okay, sounds good, thank you, Peg. Bless you, Peg.”

  I care and I ask the right question. “Nomi get there okay?”

  You nod. “She called them from the ferry…” Your mom duties are fulfilled, and right now, you just want to bitch about Shortus. “So that banner… Seamus plastered the Narcotics Anonymous logo on it in this great big can’t-miss-it font and it really rubs me the wrong way, as if that was all there was to Phil. And Nancy…” Fecal Eyes. “She means well, but her in-laws do everything for her and Phil’s parents… they haven’t even called since they went back to Florida… Tell me to stop.”

  “No. Let it out.”

  You sip your coffee. “I don’t want to trash everyone I know. It’s not them, it really isn’t. I’m not even mad that Melanda didn’t call or anything. When it’s over, it’s over.” You sigh. “I think I’m just peopled out.”

  My heart is racing and it’s just the two of us and I throw out my line to you, my bait. “Look, I get the whole peopled-out thing and any time you want me to leave…”

  Your eyes suckle mine, kittens to the teat. “No,” you say. “I want you to stay.”

  I do what you want. I stay. But I can’t make a move. You’re in mourning. I have been cautious. Respectful. No mention of Fort Ward. No Red Bed talk. I know that you did love him. I know that you did hate him. I know that permanent separation is shocking and I know that the guilt is eating you alive and I know you need to let it out.

  I stroke your hair and I let you cry. I let you be. I do what none of your Friends let you do. I support you quietly, wholly, and so you are able to cry loudly, wholly, and when your phone rings—it does that too much—you see that it’s your dad and you tell me that you should probably take it but you don’t have it in you. He feels so bad about missing the funeral but he had to miss it. He had back surgery. You send him to voicemail and that’s my cue, Mary Kay. I kiss your hand. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  * * *

  We did it. We made love in your marriage bed and we’ve been in your room for the bulk of the past twenty-four hours. It’s been fun. You worry about my cats and I tell you about the automatic feeders that dispense food and you tell me how caring I am, how responsible, and this is how you heal. This is how you learn to love me out loud, without feeling guilty about it.

  You pull the duvet over our heads and I am the man of your dreams, repeatedly offering to go, and you are the woman of my dreams, bringing my hand to your legs, to your Murakami. We break the laws of physics and travel through time and slip into our future and I hold you knowing that I will hold you forever, that this is our sneak peek at Forever.

  I kiss your foxy hair, tendrils all over my bare chest. “Do you want coffee?”

  You run your hand through my hair and sigh. “Mind reader, Joe. Truly.”

  RIP Phil never did nice things for you. No breakfast in bed, not even a fucking cup of coffee. But then you glance at one of his trash bags and you’re crying again, guilty. “I’m the worst woman in the world, if anyone knew you were here… We can’t jump into this. You know you can’t be here when Nomi gets back.”

  “I know.” I kiss your head, the most patient man alive. “You want me to take some of these bags down?”

  You pull away. “Whoa, slow down there.” You pull the covers over the part of your shoulder, the skin that I just kissed. “Way way way too soon.”

  “I’m sorry, I was only trying to help.”

  You bite your lip. You won’t let the past wreck our future. “I know, but right now I really just want coffee. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you.”

  I kiss the top of your head. “Don’t worry about me.”

  I put on pants and a shirt—the Meerkat really could come back at any time—and bound down the stairs and I can’t fucking wait for you to get rid of this house, this albatross. You’re jumpy because you’re here. In your head, this house belongs to your dead husband. And I get it. Everything will be better when we get you out of this place, when my house becomes our house. I can already see us on the sofa, watching our cats preen under the Christmas lights that will be up all year, on at all hours. I love you, Mary Kay, and I open the freezer of casseroles we’ll never eat because these casseroles are like Phil’s trash bags, like this house. They also need to go.

  I find the fucking coffee—finally—and close the door and flinch.

  There’s a man standing there, staring at me as if I’m the intruder and did Oliver send him? His face is familiar but he’s too old to be Oliver’s brother and he’s wearing a Rolex so he’s not a cop.

  He breaks the silence. “Who the fuck are you?”

  I turn that shit around. “Who the fuck are you? And how did you get in here?”

  He clocks the sink full of dirty dishes. “I’m Phil’s brother. I have a key,” he says. Blithe. Cold. “And I guess you do
too, huh?”

  33

  This no-show, middling life coach starts washing your dishes like he owns this place, like casserole dishes don’t need to soak, and he’s a straitlaced version of Phil and I want him gone—we don’t need this right now—and I hear you upstairs. You’re scrambling into your clothes and washing your face and now you bound down the stairs. You smell of soap. You washed me off.

  “Ivan,” you say, breezing right by me, putting your arms around Phil Part Two. “You’re here.”

  You should hate him—he skipped the fucking funeral—but you don’t hate him. You’re obsequious. You thank him for doing the dishes as if they aren’t still scabbed and you fawn on him for pouring dish soap into the compartment in the scrub brush—oh, please—and you treat him like a human gadget. Like he’s Mr. Fucking Fix-It. We have the iPhone, the iPad, and now we have the motherfuckering iMan.

  Yes, your brother-in-law Ivan is a textbook Ivan—entitled, arrogant, starched on the bottom and wrinkled T-shirt on top—and he’s the missing piece of the puzzle, the shark inside Phil’s shark. Better nose. Smarter. Colder. He’s only Phil’s half brother—they share a mother—and we should be talking about Phil, but it takes eleven seconds or so for Ivan to announce that he’s been taking things to the next level with his “life-coaching business.” It sounds like bullshit and you’re busy doting on him so I google him and yes. Okay. Ivan’s getting some press and he’s “trending”—that word needs to die—but anyone can see that his entire “career” is driven by his desire to be a rock star like his brother. Can you stop salivating over this fucker and remember the facts? He showed up after your husband’s funeral—what a monster—and a life coach should have compassion, not to mention a fucking shirt with some buttons.