“Tell me,” I heard her say over the phone. “Are there handsome, single men working there?”
I had a date with Dean lined up for a week after my move. “Dean,” my mother said, clapping. “A handsome name for a handsome man.”
My dad shook his head behind her shoulder, his eyes large.
Before I left, my dad and I poured her bottle of Zin down the drain and refilled the bottle with a hot sauce concoction we’d been working on all day.
“Don’t forget to video her reaction,” I whispered in my dad’s ear when I kissed him goodbye. “She’s going to divorce both of us if we don’t stop.”
My dad guffaws. “She’d have to learn to pump her own gas,” he calls out.
“Never gonna happen!” I wave goodbye.
Two down—the most important two. Now I just had to tell Della and June. Thank God. I give eight weeks’ notice to my job. I haven’t been there long enough for anyone to really care that I’m leaving. They throw a party for me anyway, and spell my name wrong on the cake. I wait to tell Della last.
“What the hell do you mean you’re moving to Washington?” she says. “How could you just make a decision like this and never talk to me about it?” I sit there for a while, thinking about how to answer her, running the tip of my finger over the grooves that mark the edge of the table. We are at that age that balances between independence and conferring with your friends about every miniscule decision you make. I’ve never liked that part of adolescence, but tried my hardest to play along. Should I get bangs, Della? Do I want a silver car or a gold car? The dark wash jeans, or the light?
“Well, because I’m a grownup, and I don’t need to confer with my friends about my decisions.”
We are sitting at a sidewalk cafe in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. The waiter drops off our sangria, and, sensing the tension, disappears almost immediately. She pulls out her phone to text Kit—fast thumbs, a childlike pout.
“Hey,” I say, touching her hand. “We can visit each other. Think of how fun that will be.”
There are tears in her eyes when she sets her phone down on the table. “I don’t want to be here without you.” A second later I see a text from Kit pop up. “What?!”
“Nah, you’ll be okay, Dells. You have Kit, and your new house. You guys want to get married…” My voice trails off on the last one. I take a sip of sangria. The glass is sweating.
Della sniffs. “Kit’s on his way,” she says.
“Oh, no. Dells, why? This was supposed to be just girls!”
I get panicky. Take more sips. Signal the waiter for another.
“Well, everything changed when you announced you were moving away.”
We mostly small talk. I make fun of myself because it always makes her smile. But, today Della is focused, and nothing can distract her.
“Who will save me from my family?” she asks. “Who will show up to make me snacks?”
“Kit,” I say. “That’s his job now.”
Kit arrives, and the mood of our lunch changes. He doesn’t feed into Della’s depression; instead, he lights up the whole restaurant with his wit, and his suspenders, which he’s wearing because he has to go straight to work after this. We are signing receipts, and closing our wallets when he turns to me.
“Why?”
“Not you too; just leave me alone about it,” I say. Della sniffles and leaves to go to the bathroom to cry.
“Why?” he asks again when she’s gone.
I look at him long and hard. He doesn’t look away.
“Why not? I’m young, I’m boring, I’m hurt. Seems right.”
“You’re running,” he says.
I wonder why he’s looking at me so intently, and why he’s clenching his fists, and why he looks so great in suspenders.
“You should know,” I shoot back.
His mouth tightens, but I’ve got him there.
“Where are you going?”
This is the hard part. I haven’t told anyone but my parents where I’m going. I want it to stay that way until I move.
I shake my head.
“You’re going to Washington,” he says.
My mouth twitches. Bad, bad poker face. How the hell does he know that?
“No.”
“Yes, yes you are,” he hisses.
I look over his shoulder to check for Della. She’s still drying her tears.
“No, I’m moving to Dallas.”
“You’re lying. It’s hot there, and you hate cutoffs and boots.”
How does he know that?
“Are you leaving because of me?”
Ooof, ouch, the heat from his eyes is burning.
I try to look offended. I even roll my eyes. I’m not good at eye rolling, Neil used to say it made me look gassy.
“I told you why I’m leaving,” I tell him, standing up. He grabs my hand, and it’s like the dream. So much that I yank away from him and take a few steps back. Where’s the crayon? I see it, lying on the floor under the table. God. Is it blue? You’re being stupid, I tell myself. This is a restaurant, there are always blue crayons lying on the floor.
“You’re not crazy,” he says. “I—”
“Kit,” I interrupt him. “Della’s coming.”
Della calls me later that night. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences lately, but you’re still my best friend, and I love you.” I let that sink in along with guilt. “We’ll make this work.”
“Sure, Dells. Of course we will.”
“I have to have someone to call to update about my life,” she says.
“Of course you do.” I smile against my phone. “That person has always been me, hasn’t it?”
When people resolve themselves to something, it becomes very difficult to feel anything but that resolve. And so, as I board my plane to Seattle, wearing a Sounders sweatshirt that June gave me as a goodbye gift, I do not cry, I do not worry, and I do not have feelings of self-doubt. This was what I had decided to do, and that was that. I pull my wine cork from my purse and hold it tightly in my fist as I take my seat and stare out the window. The Florida rain is hard and slanted. I wonder if it will be raining when I reach Seattle, which I hear has more of a gentle mist. I do not think of Kit, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Della. I do not think of Della, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Kit. I think only of my new adventure. In fact, it’s the only adventure I’ve ever taken, which makes it more exciting. A first. I want to be a magical folk, and not a muggle. I pull out my worn, dog-eared copy of The Goblet of Fire. It’s the same book I’ve kept on my nightstand since I first read it six years ago. My favorite of the seven. I brought it with to read on the plane, for courage. To remind myself of why I am doing this. It’s my Felix Felicis.
“Harry Potter,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?”
A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face? Don’t stereotype, Helena! I do my best to smile politely.
“Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly.
“But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.”
“Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?”
She’s enraged.
“You would love this book,” I say, shoving The Goblet of Fire at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.”
“You, young lady, are part of a depraved and lost generation.”
She gets up, and I see her march to the front of the plane where the flight attendant meets her. I point my straw at her back and whisper, “A
vada Kedavra.”
She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.
“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.
There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief. Liars! Where is the rain? There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.
“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.
“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”
He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”
I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.
He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Of course it’s not.”
He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy. Magic, I tell you.
Kit texts me: What are you doing?
Having a birthday smoke with a friend, I send back.
K: Guy or girl?
I make a face, and then type: Guy
He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.
I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not, he sends.
I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.
K: What were you typing?
I laugh out loud. Nothing. Go away.
He sends a sad face.
And then…
K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?
Should I?
I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.
K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.
That scares me, I send back.
K: Precisely the reason you should do it.
He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.
I’ll think about it.
Kit sends a thumbs up.
K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.
I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond: In a Range Rover on the ferry.
It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.
K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.
I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.
I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water. It scares me. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.
I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.
There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.
K: #Fuckfear
We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.
In my dream, Port Townsend was emerald-glossy—a place where nature is given reign to be free and loud. It is so in real life, too, but I didn’t imagine all of the water. Water with the Cascades etched in a jagged shadow behind it. Cold, blue water, where if you watched long enough, you’d see a seal break the surface and then dip back down, its body a glossy black. All so crisp, like a postcard. I arrive on a day when someone is blowing giant bubbles down Main Street. “This isn’t real. Is this real?” I say to myself. It’s okay to talk to yourself here; I saw someone else doing it.
The store windows are decorated for fall. They’re perfectly curated—plump pumpkins piled next to rosy-cheeked scarecrows. The air already smells like nutmeg and crushed leaves. A shop owner is hanging scarves on a rack on the sidewalk. She smiles at me, her long gray hair catching in the breeze. “You look new,” she says.
“I’m visiting,” I tell her. “I love it here.”
“Here loves you,” she tells me. “Mutual love is a magical thing.”
I buy a scarf from her because she’s an excellent salesperson, and for five minutes I wasn’t thinking fuck love. I find out that her name is Phyllis, and she’s a lesbian. I know this because as she bags my scarf, she says, “My partner loves this scarf. She says it looks like wet pavement.”
“Your business partner?” I look around for the partner.
“My life partner.” She points to a picture behind the register of a woman with spirally red hair.
“What’
s her name?” I ask. Phyllis laughs.
“Ginger,” she says. She hands me my bag, and I feel like I’ve made a friend. Two friends: Phyllis and Ginger. But, that’s the way of Port Townsend. I step out of the store and find a bench where I can watch.
The people are painted in expression and art. Tattoos, hippies with long hair, punks with no hair, the elderly, and the young, children who say hello to you as you walk by. No one is guarded, or jaded, or tired. It’s all witchcraft. I’ve found it, the place of non-Muggles. Kit’s openness is not so strange when you meet people like Phyllis. I feel light as I walk down the street, marveling, hoping my car doesn’t get towed away from where I parked near an old clam cannery that sits on the water. How could he leave this place for muggy, flat Florida? Greer must have long reach. That scares me. I feel like I understand Kit less after coming here. Perhaps I underestimate Greer. Now, all I want to do is find her. My mental image of her is of a girl with straight brown hair, tied back in a low ponytail. She wears camp T-shirts from her counselor days, and has bright blue eyes. That’s what Kit loved the most about her—her eyes. They were full of open honesty. I imagine that’s why he gravitated to Della, because she is Greer’s polar opposite. This is a hippie town, so she probably wears Birkenstocks and carries a woven backpack. When she’s older she will look like Phyllis and braid flowers into her pubic hair. I wonder if she’s moved on since Kit. Bought a house with someone … had a baby. I need to know, I need to know, I need to know.
I eat lunch at a little place that only serves soup. I listen to the clanking of spoons on porcelain and think it sounds more musical than it would anywhere else. I pay my bill, and I’m looked in the eye when I’m told to have the best day. I am having the best day, thank you very much. I take a long walk along the water, take some photos of a beautiful old boat called The Belle, and upload them to Instagram. Kit likes them right away.
He texts me and says: I know the lady who owns that boat!