Phoebe Will Destroy You

by Blake Nelson

  At the Happy Bubble, I was slow and distracted. After lunch I began to come to my senses. I began to process what I’d seen outside Phoebe’s house. By the end of my shift I’d straightened out certain facts in my head. The first was: Phoebe had a boyfriend. Okay. That made sense. She was super cute, and a million guys liked her. So no surprises there. The second was: The boyfriend was Wyatt. This also made sense. He was a confident, good-looking (by Seaside standards) stoner guy who drove a Camaro, which, if I was honest with myself, was exactly the kind of guy you would expect Phoebe to be with. And then third: But she also liked me. That was correct too, I believed. I mean, I was a year younger than her, and not a badass like Wyatt. But I was okay-looking. And I was Kyle’s cousin, which probably counted for something. Plus, we had slept together. Twice. And not only slept together, but talked and shared things and dozed in each other’s arms. Something real had happened. Even if it was just a summer fling, Phoebe did care about me. Of course she did. And think how much I cared about her! I would have done anything for her. And I still would. Even after I’d seen Wyatt going into her house.

  * * *

  At home that night, after dinner, I ended up on the couch with Emily, watching Dancing with the Stars. She was texting a lot. Her life was starting to change now: Summer was winding down; Seaside High School would be starting soon.

  I had my copy of Letters to a Young Poet. I still hadn’t gotten past page twelve. I was trying to read it during the commercials. But I was too upset. I would occasionally get up and calmly go downstairs, where I would stomp around the basement and silently rage and fume. Then I’d come back up as if nothing had happened.

  Then I remembered that Emily was friends with Wyatt. Maybe she knew something about the situation. Maybe I could get some information out of her. And so, during the next commercial, I casually said: “Does that guy Wyatt have a girlfriend?”

  Emily didn’t answer right away. She was busy texting. “Wyatt?” she said. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Justin was saying he saw him with Phoebe,” I said, pretending to look at my book.

  “Phoebe Garnet?”

  “That’s what he said. They seem like a good match.”

  Emily looked over at me. She was very perceptive. She could tell I was up to something.

  “Do you know Phoebe?” she asked me.

  “Me?” I said. “Sure. I mean, I’ve talked to her. She and Nicole come into the Happy Bubble sometimes.”

  “But you yourself? Have you talked to her?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. I ended up at her house once, with her and Nicole.”

  Emily lowered her phone and gave me her full attention. “You’ve been to Phoebe Garnet’s house?”

  “Yeah,” I said casually. “What’s so weird about that?”

  Emily turned back to the TV. “Nothing.”

  I sat very still. I didn’t say anything.

  “What was her house like?” asked Emily.

  “It was just a house. She and her mom make T-shirts and stuff. For tourists.”

  “What else do you know about Phoebe?” she said to the TV.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just what everyone knows. She and Nicole. They’re the life of the party.”

  “Yeah,” said Emily. “That’s true.”

  “I was just curious. Because Justin was saying—”

  “Are you in love with Phoebe Garnet?” said Emily, turning toward me.

  “Me?” I said. “No . . . I mean . . . I like her.”

  “Oh my God,” said Emily, staring hard into my face. “You are.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Does Jace know about this?”

  “There’s nothing to know. I mean—”

  “What exactly happened? Did you hook up with her?”

  “Uh . . . well . . .”

  “Oh my God,” said Emily, turning back to the TV. “You hooked up with Phoebe!”

  “It wasn’t like that. I mean, we were drunk . . .”

  “Of course you were drunk,” said Emily. “She’s always drunk.” She stared at the TV without seeing it. “Do you think Phoebe loves you?”

  This question seemed to stab into me. I looked at Emily. Why was she being so hostile about this? “I don’t know . . . probably not . . . I mean, she likes me. She seems to enjoy my company.”

  Emily shook her head. She seemed physically pained by what I was telling her. She turned back to me. “Listen,” she said. “Phoebe doesn’t love you. You need to know that. Phoebe doesn’t love anyone.”

  “What about Wyatt? She seems to love him.”

  “She doesn’t. She doesn’t love Wyatt. And she doesn’t love you.”

  “But she must love somebody. . . .”

  “No. She doesn’t. She can’t.”

  “Why can’t she?”

  “I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter!”

  “Well, actually it does matter,” I argued. “I mean, I know what you’re saying. She’s a tough girl. She’s had a hard life—”

  “Oh my God,” said Emily, shaking her head.

  “—but that doesn’t mean she can’t love somebody,” I pleaded. “Everyone can love somebody. And if they don’t have a person, they love their cat, or their dog. It’s natural. People love. It’s part of being human.”

  Emily stared at the TV. “Wow,” she said. “She got you. She really got you. You’re lucky you’re leaving.”

  39

  When I went to bed, I lay for a long time staring up at the wood beams and pipes.

  Before tonight I’d assumed Phoebe and I would get together for some sort of final good-bye. Of course we would; you didn’t have something as intense as we had, and then just vanish out of each other’s lives. I’d imagined we would meet somewhere special. We’d talk, we’d feel sad together, but also we’d remember the fun we’d had and the feelings we’d shared.

  Of course you did that. It would be heartless not to. And then you gave them one last hug and said good-bye and maybe shed a tear or whatever.

  I’d been debating different locations for this final conversation. Phoebe and me on the Promenade, or sitting by a beach fire. I’d explain that I understood about Wyatt. He lived here. I did not. Obviously she and I could only be a temporary thing. I could accept that. But I would also tell her how much I loved her. I would do anything for her. I would help her in any way I could.

  But now I wondered if I’d get a chance to say any of this. The whole situation had shifted so dramatically. I wasn’t sure I understood Phoebe at all. It suddenly seemed possible I might never see her again.

  * * *

  For the next couple days I went to the Happy Bubble like always. I vacuumed. I cleaned. I ate stale donuts with Justin. I watched Mike smoke Marlboros in the back parking lot.

  One day after my shift, I walked into town. I went to the coffee shop, where I stared at the pages of Letters to a Young Poet one more time. It was hopeless. I was never going to read this book. Maybe I didn’t need the advice of some old German dude anyway.

  I left the coffee shop and jammed the book in my back pocket. I walked down Main Street toward the Promenade. Summer was nearly over. There were still tourists around, but it was a different feeling. Main Street felt slower, less intense, a little melancholy. The beach had gotten colder, windier, blurrier. The sky didn’t have that same midsummer brightness.

  Of course the main thing in my brain was still Phoebe. I kept having this idea: If you love her, fight for her. But what did that mean, exactly? Get in a fight with Wyatt? Go bang on her door and demand something? What would I demand?

  Fortunately, I had my real life to think about too. I was going back to Eugene soon. I needed to talk to my dad about scheduling. And I’d never called Dr. Snow back either. And what about my mom? What would happen with her when I got home? Would she want to see me on certain days? I was too old for that. I was done being “parented.” At least by her. Plus, if Richard was around, what was I supposed to do with that? I
mean, I barely knew the guy. And what I did know, I wanted to kill.

  * * *

  I continued to walk, lost in my thoughts. I found myself standing outside the Seaside Library.

  I moved closer to the glass door and looked in. Jace was there, sitting behind the desk, scanning books. I swallowed once. I opened the door and went in.

  When she saw me, a tight frown came onto her face. Emily had obviously told her about Phoebe and me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” she said, returning her eyes to her books.

  I moved forward, toward her desk. “How’s it going?” I said.

  “Okay,” said Jace. She kept scanning. When she was done, she stood and began putting the books in a cart and arranging them. “We’re actually going to close in a few minutes,” she said.

  I nodded. I looked around the room. “Feel like going to the Sandpiper when you get off?”

  She shook her head. “No, I have to help my mom.”

  “Help her do what?”

  “Set up these cabinets she bought.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually, they’re more like bookshelves.”

  “Could I help?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I mean, it’s just moving some stuff around. We can handle it.”

  I nodded. She didn’t want to hang out. That made sense. I thought I should go. But I couldn’t seem to move. “Listen . . . Jace . . .”

  She looked at me.

  “I know things got sort of . . . ,” I said. “I guess what I mean is, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt . . . or what was happening. . . .”

  She blushed slightly. She refocused on her books. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I know about Phoebe. I understand. . . .”

  I looked around the library some more. It was more of a children’s library, I realized. A big poster on the wall showed a choo-choo train telling kids to read. There were stuffed animals in the storytelling corner and a miniature table and chairs.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” said Jace, still not looking at me. “Emily told me. I mean, not just about Phoebe. Before that. About your family and stuff. And your mom. She told me before you even got to Seaside.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which was a mistake it turned out, because then I liked you before I even met you. And then . . . well . . . you didn’t like me back. Or not in the same way.”

  “But I did like you back,” I said.

  “Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter now.”

  “I just got pulled off in a different direction.”

  Jace sighed. “Phoebe does that to people. I actually had a feeling that might happen. I was going to say something to you. I was going to warn you. But then I thought it wasn’t any of my business. And you probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. Nobody ever does.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I stood there, staring at the choo-choo train on the wall.

  Jace began walking around, turning off the lights. She got out her keys. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have to lock up now.”

  I nodded and walked toward the door. I went outside but held the door open for a minute, waiting, thinking she might say something else, or say good-bye or something.

  But she didn’t. Instead she disappeared into the little office in back. So I let the door close and walked away.

  40

  I finally called my dad. I told him the bus schedule options for coming home—one bus left in the morning; the other left in the afternoon. We decided on the late one.

  He didn’t say anything about Mom. He seemed quiet in general and said he would update me when I got home. So I got off the phone and let him be.

  On my last full day in Seaside, I went for a long walk on the beach and thought about Phoebe. I remembered all the way back to when she and Nicole first came into the Happy Bubble in the Jeep. How fun they seemed that day. Even grumpy Mike had left his post to join in. And then they’d come back a couple days later. That was the time Phoebe came into the office to use the restroom, and I’d moved aside to let her pass. In that moment, as our bodies nearly touched, I’d felt a part of me switch on. It was as if my soul had been searching for her soul, and had been for a long time. And here it was. Finally. Here she was.

  And then the night of the party at the Cove, she and Nicole coming down the trail. Nicole yakking and screaming and waving to her admirers, while quieter, more mysterious Phoebe followed behind, picking her way down, not needing to call attention to herself. She appeared so delicate, so fragile, and yet she was actually not that way at all. Which was something I hadn’t understood. And still didn’t.

  And then the fateful morning, which I’d replayed in my mind a hundred times. Finding her on the beach, lifting her up, holding her in my arms, already loving her, already protecting her, already wanting to be part of her crazy life. And the ride in the truck: that intoxicating mix of confusion and chaos and excitement and sympathy. I can help you. And then pulling into her driveway, and her still so out of it, and me so focused on her, so aware of her, so locked in on every detail of her being.

  Why did I love her so much? This was the question. I barely knew her. You’d think sleeping with her would give me some idea who she really was, but that had only created an even more impenetrable wall between us. That was how she kept you away. By having sex with you. It was so backward from what you thought, from everything you’d ever been told about women and life and how love was supposed to work.

  It was some trick she did. Some way of keeping herself hidden. By giving me the thing that guys always want, she slipped away, escaped into the ocean fog, vanished at the very moment I thought I’d possessed her. And oh my God, how I wanted to possess her. Still. Even now. Even when I knew better and had been warned and knew that nothing good could come of it. . . .

  * * *

  I walked for miles. Low clouds came in off the ocean, and a light rain began to fall. Still I continued, farther than I’d ever gone, beyond Gearhart, halfway to Tillicum.

  When it really started to rain I turned around and went back. It was ten thirty by the time I got back to Gearhart and nearly midnight when I could see the soft lights of Seaside through the mist. I had vowed to not contact Phoebe before I left. I hadn’t really embarrassed myself yet. I hadn’t broken down or cried or acted pathetic in any way. If I kept to myself, I could leave with my dignity intact. If she’d wanted to see me, she could have found me easily enough. I was at the Happy Bubble every day. Unlike her, I was easy to locate.

  But walking back along the northern section of the Promenade, I found myself drawn toward the narrow streets, which, if I followed them, would lead to Phoebe’s house. I gradually veered in that direction and began taking the necessary lefts and rights. I passed the nicer houses closest to the ocean, and then the not-so-nice houses farther in. Junk in people’s yards. Old tires. A metal bed frame. A rusting boat trailer. Sadness. Darkness. The whole of the world: It was all right there in Seaside.

  My plan was to not stop. If I passed by Phoebe’s but kept walking, nothing bad could happen. And technically this was a slightly faster route back to the Reillys’. And anyway, I was leaving the next day. Why not let Fate push me around as it would? What was I saving myself for?

  * * *

  I turned onto her street. My heart began to pound hard in my chest. My tired legs became springy with nervous energy. Her house appeared on my left, the roof drooping slightly, the screen on a front window ripped.

  I slowed my pace to take in these details. I didn’t want to linger or stare, but I also didn’t want to rush by and not feel whatever emotions had driven me here.

  As I slowed to a stop, I searched the front windows for signs of life. There didn’t seem to be any. But that was the front of the house; the kitchen and Phoebe’s bedroom were in the back.

  Then I heard a banging sound. A screen door? It was from behind the house. I hurried across the street into the neighbor’s yard, where I ducked be
hind that same tree. Oh great, I thought. It’s probably Wyatt again.

  But I didn’t see the Camaro. I crouched behind the tree and watched the side of the house. I heard footsteps. It was so quiet I could hear the heavy breathing of whoever was coming out.

  I kept still and waited. A large man appeared from the side of the house. He spit on the ground as he walked. It was not Wyatt. So who was it? As he turned down the street, he reached into his overcoat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth. I began to recognize these movements. And then, when he stopped to light the cigarette, I knew exactly who it was.

  It was Mike. From the Happy Bubble.

  41

  Aunt Judy took me to meet the Greyhound the next day. The skies were gray and overcast. A few raindrops fell as we drove along the highway. Aunt Judy switched on the wipers for a moment, then switched them off.

  It would have been nice if Emily had come, or Jace, but apparently that wasn’t happening. I thought about the other people I might never see again: Justin. Kelsey. Even Kyle, who might be whisked up into the fame and fortune of professional sports, never to be heard from again. And other stray people: Tyler with his hippie dance. The bashful counter girls at the Freezie Burger. Soft-hearted Billy Malone. And then back to Justin, with his claw hand. Despite everything, Justin had been a real friend to me. Even when I wasn’t much of a friend back.

  But back to Emily and Jace. Had they totally dismissed me now? For getting involved with Phoebe? That didn’t seem right. How much can you help who you love and who you’re attracted to? But in another way I understood. It was one of the lessons of Seaside. You had a choice: simple, solid relationships, where everyone understood each other and nothing much happened. Or something beyond that, something where you risked more and got more, and then eventually paid the price.

  * * *