F*ck Love

by Tarryn Fisher

  I help Kitella move into their new home. A tan house with white window boxes. It’s the first time I’m seeing them in over a month. Kit hasn’t been able to work on his story because of the move, so I’ve no communication with him either. When I pull up, it’s not Della but Kit who comes outside and throws his arms around me. I’m stiff at first, but then I lift my arms and hug him back. The worst part of a hug is the smell. If you hug a person enough, their smell becomes familiar, and you associate it with comfort, intimacy, and closeness. Kit always smells like gasoline and pine needles. Gasoline and pine needles, I think as I release him. How ridiculously appropriate. An olfactory experience turned olfuckery. Now I won’t be able to smell gasoline without seeing his pretty face. I follow him into the house; he seems excited. Della is unpacking dishes into the kitchen cabinets, a pink bandana tied around her hair. I hate to say it, but she’s glowing. “Helena!” She launches herself at me, and I stumble backward into Kit. We all fall, and we all laugh on Kitella’s new kitchen hardwood.

  “This feels so right,” Della says. “All back together.” I roll away from them and toward the fridge. I pull a can of Coke from the bottom shelf, while still lying on my back.

  “I’m already tired from this move. Can we just do this all day?”

  Kit hauls me to my feet, and I’m given the job of unpacking and organizing Kitella’s closet. This is nothing new. Della has been making me organize her closet since freshman year of high school. As payment for the service, I get to choose one thing I want from her extensive wardrobe. I find a pair of designer jeans I like and set them aside. Mine.

  “Don’t touch those Rag and Bone jeans,” she yells from the kitchen. I put them back and take her favorite blazer to spite her.

  Kit’s clothes put me in a bad mood. There’s too much plaid. No one should wear this much plaid. I sniff a shirt, and then I sniff it again. The third time I sniff it is just to even things out; I like groups of three.

  “Did you just smell my shirt?”

  I spin around. He’s leaning on the closet door, arms folded, and of course blocking my escape.

  “It smells moldy. Don’t you think?” I hold it toward him, but he doesn’t reach for it. He has a pretty intense stare. What disturbs you more than the stare though is the smirking.

  He doesn’t know shit, I tell myself.

  “It smelled moldy…” I say again. He looks at my mouth, and I squirm.

  “Della wants to get dinner.”

  I look down at my raggedy, moving day clothes. “Can’t we just order in?”

  “She’s sick of being here. She wants to get out for a bit.”

  Not even unpacked and already sick of being in her house.

  “You’ve got your topknot going,” Kit says. “That’s all the dressing up you need.”

  Della must have taught him that word. I liked hair hive better.

  We decide on sushi. But Della doesn’t do hole-in-the-wall sushi, where she says the fish is fishy. We have to go to the big, fancy place downtown. I wear my new blazer, though, which makes me cheerful. June meets us at the restaurant. I think Della invites her places so I don’t feel like the third wheel. But truly, I feel like the third wheel even when I’m alone. June waves to us when we walk up to the restaurant. It’s robust waving. Like she’s just been shipwrecked and needs us to see her. She’s wearing a turban on her head, and her T-shirt says Cou Cou.

  “I like this girl,” Kit says. I grin. Me too.

  We’re not even in the restaurant when we see Neil and pregnant Sadie. She is heavy with child, as I am heavy with topknot. Neil flushes when he sees me. He looks from me to Sadie with cornered rat expression.

  It feels shitty to see them here. They were supposed to go away, evaporate into a cloud of infidelity and lies. My first instinct is to run. Why would I be the one running? They’re the liars and cheats. I’m standing close to Kit, and all of a sudden I feel the pressure of his hand on my lower back.

  Neil opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand.

  “Don’t hurt your brain. This is awkward for all of us except June, who likes being awkward. Hello, from us to you. Now move aside; we are hungry for raw fish.” Kit snickers, and Della elbows him in the ribs.

  Neil and Sadie move along quickly. I don’t look at Sadie, so I don’t know how she takes all of it, but Neil looks stricken. When we walk through the doors of the restaurant, all three of them start laughing. Kit kisses me on top of the head, right by the topknot. “Brilliant,” he says. “You’re all the muse I’ll ever need.” This sends me into tingle/butterfly/confusion overload. I sit as far away from him as I can and flirt with the waiter. It’s brotherly. I know that. He’s a kind, kind human, and I am a whore for that dream. By the end of dinner I’ve ruined my new blazer with soy sauce and Sriracha.

  “There’s a whole market for you in disposable clothes,” Kit says.

  Della glares at me, but she really has no right. It’s myyy blazer. June and Kit walk up ahead, and Della links arms with me.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “I may be pregnant.”

  When my eyes grow wide, she hushes me. “I haven’t told him. Don’t say anything.”

  “What does ‘may be’ mean? Like you’ve taken a test? You’ve missed a period? What…?”

  Della glances at Kit to make sure he’s still distracted. “Well, I haven’t taken the test yet. I am a week late. A week,” she emphasizes.

  This is not the first time Della is a week late on her period. It is, however, the first time she looks happy about it.

  “Well, let’s get one then,” I say around the emotion clogged in my throat. “We should know so we have peace of mind.”

  Della nods, glowing eyes and a small happy smile on her lips. I’ll be happy for them. I swear to God I will. I’ll just need some time to adjust.

  Della’s test is not positive. I watch her wrap the test in toilet paper and push it to the bottom of the trashcan. She’s wearing a look of severe disappointment. It’s a strange thing to grasp, that just a little while ago the worst thing that could happen was a positive pregnancy test. Now, my best friend, who once spent an afternoon in hysterics because of a broken condom, was grieving the fact the she wasn’t pregnant. She wanted this badly. Why? I do not know. She already has Kit. His eyes are fixated on her. She doesn’t need a baby to gain his attention, nor to keep him. She comes from a good family, the kind that gets together on Tuesday nights for no reason other than to spend time with each other and to eat their Nonna’s Sugo.

  “One day,” I say to comfort her. It’s not what she wants to hear. She turns away from me and opens the bathroom door. She sent Kit to the store for milk so that we could carry out our mission in secret. She thought that when he got back there would be something to celebrate.

  “Why are you upset, Della? I thought you would be relieved.”

  “I am relieved,” she lies. I am the one who is relieved. I think of what Kit told me that night we took a walk. How unsure he was about his feelings for her. Things may have changed since then, but something tells me a few months aren’t enough to cure a man of his past.

  “Della,” I say. “You like to do things in order. First, a beautiful wedding, then a beautiful baby, okay?”

  I hug her, and she starts to cry.

  “I wanted to give him something,” she says.

  Her gray eyes are misty, her lashes damp. She is so achingly beautiful, feminine, and vulnerable. I understand why men take their feelings for her so seriously. She’s Della.

  “Maybe start with a smaller gift,” I say. “Like a watch, or a kitten, or something.”

  She laughs through her lovely tears and throws her arms around my neck. “You always know what to say. Thank you, Helena.”

  I stroke her hair like I used to do in high school when I was the pretty one, and the boys she liked couldn’t see past the braces and sharp knees. They’ll all be sorry one day, I used to tell her. And they all were.

  Kit’s pickup pulls into the driveway,
and she pulls away from me to go to him. It’s all right. I do not covet Della’s emotional dependence. I’m rather relieved that the responsibility is no longer mine. I watch as she runs out the front door and flings herself at him, wrapping her legs around his torso. He drops his bags to hold onto her. Of all the things that have happened tonight, that’s what affects me most. The way he so effortlessly drops his bags to catch her. I don’t have much reference since Neil was my one serious boyfriend, though I know he never would have dropped his bags to catch me lest something broke. That causes an ache deep in my chest. To know that there are guys willing to drop their shopping bags to catch their girl. And I want someone to love me that effortlessly. Or maybe, I think morosely, I want Kit to love me that effortlessly. To raise my son, and to nurture the art that lies dormant in me. It’s such a bad time to do this, but I think of baby Brandi. Della wanted to have Kit’s baby, and in some other life I already had. I start to giggle, and by the time Kit and Della walk back through the doors, I am full out belly laughing.

  “What?” Della asks. She looks around like there’s a joke she missed. Kit’s mouth twitches, and then he starts to laugh too.

  “What’s wrong with you guys?” Della perches her hands on her hips, but she’s smiling.

  I can’t even stand up straight. I slide down the living room wall as my stomach rolls with laughter. Have I ever laughed like this? No, and I don’t even know what’s funny.

  “She just caught the giggles,” Kit says, shaking his head. There’s a short smile attached to his mouth. “She doesn’t even laugh; that’s a cackle.”

  Della nods. “I always thought her laugh sounded evil.”

  This makes me laugh harder; the fact that Kit noticed right away, but it took Della ten plus years, and her boyfriend, to know that I have an evil laugh. She wanders off to the kitchen, shaking her head. It’s a bad time to catch Kit’s eye. He’s still standing in front of the closed door, bag in hand. He’s not laughing or smiling anymore. His lips are folded in, and his eyes are narrowed. When our eyes catch, my laughter is gone. Just like that. It’s the Kit I saw in my dream, the one who grabbed my hand and said, “You are supposed to be with me.”

  I lean my head back against the wall, hands dangling between my knees. Drunk and not drunk. Sober and not sober. Locking eyes with Kit Isley in his newly purchased love nest doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel like shit. I look back at his face because I want to know what he’s feeling. I can see Kit’s chest heaving. Deep breaths because … what? Maybe he had a dream too. Maybe he feels a connection too. It’s probably all in my head, and that’s what makes me feel truly crazy, that I might be making all of this up. I don’t know what propels me to say it. Obviously, I’ve been doing a lot of crazy shit lately.

  “Hey, Kit.” My voice is barely audible. I touch my lips to make sure they’re really moving. “I had a dream.”

  I move the hair from my eyes so that I can see him clearly, and hold it back out of my face.

  His eyes get wide; his lips unfold.

  “So you’ve said.” His voice is soft. “What was your dream about?”

  Now that he’s asking I don’t know how to say it. Thick tongue, thicker thoughts. How does one declare lunacy? My chest begins to ache. This was a huge mistake. I am still feeling the alcohol from dinner.

  Then Della drops something in the kitchen. A glass shatters along with my moment. Timing is everything when you’re about to tell someone you dreamed him into your heart. Fuck if that’s not the corniest thing I ever heard. Kit’s head turns toward the kitchen where Della is cursing loudly, calling for help. He glances back at me regretfully. His eyes drag over my face one last moment, and then he is gone. I don’t even say goodbye. I sneak out while they are in the kitchen. I won’t be missed. I’ve always been the weird one anyway, expected to do things like this. Della likes being around her friends, but ever since she started dating Kit she’s needed us less and less. Which is good. Except not, because I can’t do what I’m thinking. I can’t.

  The next morning I open my e-mail to find something from Kit. Last week someone hacked his e-mail and sent me a virus in the form of skinny pills, so I don’t open it right away. I wash my face, make coffee, and put Pat Benatar on the record player. When I finally settle down with my computer, I see that the e-mail is untitled. I brace myself for another virus, but when I open the file, it’s a chapter. I feel giddy that he’s writing again. I sip my coffee and scroll through to see how long it is. It’s been a while since the last time Kit sent me a chapter, and a while since I read a good book. Last I read George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown were stuck between a rock and a hard place. Denver broke his leg and lost his job, and Stephanie, being the ever-kind soul that she was, let him move in with her. George was now at a disadvantage and hoping to injure himself as well. I picture them all living in Stephanie Brown’s small apartment and giggle. People didn’t really take such desperate measures for love. Poor Stephanie Brown was running herself dry with all of their neediness. But when I scroll down, it’s not their story I see. It’s something new. Something that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck from sheer creepiness. I close my computer. Drum my fingers on the case. Open it again. It’s still there, and I’m not dreaming.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE DREAM

  When I am finished reading, I shut down my computer and go back to bed. I feel safer in my cocoon of creamy sheets and fat pillows. How? How on Earth did he write that? What did it mean? How could he? I stare at the cold coffee on my nightstand and feel ill.

  I’m so embarrassed. What was I thinking telling him that? I gave Kit a few words, some ill guarded emotion, and behold! Chapter One: The Dream. Did Chapter One come out of him or me? I don’t know much about artists, but I’m beginning to feel as if they possess sorcery.

  My lease is up in a month. I can move. God, haven’t I always wanted to get out of this hot cesspool of sweaty, tanned people and sharp palm trees? I have a disease called can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. And seriously, if you know you’re going to implode, isn’t it better to get to the going?

  “Calm down, Helena. You can’t leave town because your best friend’s boyfriend has psychic powers.”

  I crawl toward my phone and check my text messages. There’s a message from Kit.

  K: I wrote five more chapters last night.

  What happens in those five chapters? I want to know. His characters have no names; he simply calls them He and She. He does this. She does that. It’s elusive, and his male character’s use of portmanteau words makes me smile. That’s Kit. Fralad for a fried chicken salad, which the character doesn’t think is a salad at all. Smust when he’s not sure if he’s smitten or in lust. Priend for an acquaintance that thinks they’re a friend. And then I find myself searching for myself in the woman, who Kit describes as being aloof, preoccupied, and disconnected from the world around her. Was I those things? Or was I self-absorbed to think she was me? It crosses my mind that my words to him last night could have struck an idea, and the similarities could be coincidental.

  I text back. What is this book going to be about?

  His text bubble appears as he starts to type, then abruptly it’s gone. It starts, then it’s gone again. He’s typing things then erasing them. I strangle my phone, then slam it on the bed a few times. It’s lying facedown on the comforter, and I lift the corner to peek at the screen. There isn’t a text. I go to the kitchen for a snack, then circle my bed a few times while I spoon peanut butter into my mouth from the jar. I’m scared that he’s texted. I’m also scared that he hasn’t.

  “You chicken!” I yell. I lunge for the phone, dropping the peanut butter jar on the floor.

  The first text message is from Della: CALL ME NOW!

  All caps. We reserve all caps for emergencies.

  Kit’s text is underneath Della’s.

  K: You tell me.

  I don’t know what that means. Is he telling me that since I inspired the story, I hav
e say over where it goes? I call Della.

  “The test was wrong!” she screams into the phone.

  It takes a minute to register what she’s talking about. The test was…

  “What?!”

  “I took another one. I took five. They’re all positive.”

  My head is spinning. I sit on the edge of the bed and put my head between my knees. I’m waiting for my feelings to catch up to my shock. Somehow I know they’re not going to be good feelings, happy ones. Though they should be because my best friend is having a baby.

  “Have you told—”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I haven’t told him yet. I’m scared.”

  “Scared of what?” I ask dryly. “You wanted this.”

  “Yeah. But it’s not like we planned it or talked about it or anything. I don’t really know what he’s going to say.”

  If she doesn’t know what Kit would say, she doesn’t know Kit very well. I could picture him being surprised, taking a few hours to let it process, then he would let resignation turn to happiness. Kit is the kind of guy who shows up.

  “Wow,” I say. “Everyone is having babies.” It’s a stupid thing to say, and I immediately apologize. “Sorry, I’m just in shock. And obviously not everyone is having babies … just you and Sadie.”

  I bite my lip waiting to see how she’ll take that one. I keep making stupid comments, and I don’t mean to. Honestly. I’m happy for her. I think.