“It’s wrong,” I say.
Greer shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She stands up and stretches, her purple shirt bright against the green backdrop. “Let’s go hike,” she says. “Stop the talk about Kit and Della, yes?”
I stand up, too, and follow her. We make it half way up the hill before we stop. And then we decide that we’d rather go get hot chocolate. Or chocolate. Or not hike.
A day later, an e-mail arrives in my inbox. It’s from Greer. I open it to find an airplane ticket to Santa Fe.
“What is this?” I call to ask her.
“You’re my date, remember?”
“I don’t think I ever agreed to this. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Don’t be such a coward, Helena. You have to fight for what you want. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that?”
No one ever had, and I didn’t feel good about fighting for something that someone else had already laid claim to. I think of ways to get out of it all week, but in the end I pack a small carry-on and pretend I’m doing this for Greer. All I have to take with is a beige dress; in fact, most of my clothes are beige, and cream, and white. Creamy colors aren’t offended by Florida’s heat. But now I live in Washington, and I’m just some beige bitch with too many pairs of cutoff shorts.
We land in Santa Fe mid-afternoon, and our cab drives us through the antique streets of the city, and my eyes hang large. It looks like another place. Most of America looks like America, but Santa Fe looks like Santa Fe. I love it, and I’m scared of it. I ask Greer about this cousin of Kit’s who is getting married, and she tells me her name is Rhea and she’s marrying a guy named Dirt.
“He’s an artist. He makes pottery from sacred dirt.”
“Is that why he named himself Dirt?” I ask.
“His name was already Dirt; he went on a search for himself, and then incorporated his name into his art.”
I want to laugh, but I realize it’s the accountant side of me that wants to make fun of Dirt’s journey. As someone who is inartistic and trying very hard, I will respect Dirt’s creative vision. Maybe I will learn from it.
We check into our funky hotel, with its uneven concrete floors and rickety furniture. Greer tells me it’s actually really expensive to stay here because it’s all about the authentic experience.
“It was a Spanish mission in the 1800s. You’re sleeping in the same room conquistadors stayed in!” she says brightly.
I look around at the patchy walls, and the bloody toe I got from the cracked floor, and feel lucky to live in the 21st century.
“Freshen up,” Greer says. “We can hit the town.”
I am fresh. But I change, put a new band-aid on my toe, and put on lipstick.
“Uh uh,” Greer says, when I walk out of my bedroom. “We aren’t going to a Mommy-and-Me group.”
She digs around in her suitcase and produces a sleeveless black dress with tassels running from under the arm to the hem.
“That’s not your style at all,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you bought that.”
“You’re right. I brought it for you. It’s your style.” She tosses it at me.
“Greer, I have never in my life worn something like this. It’s not my style.”
“Just because you haven’t worn it doesn’t mean it’s not your style. Some people are too reserved and stuck in their ways to really know what suits them.”
Okay. I have nothing to lose, so I put on the dress. All of a sudden I have breasts and an ass.
“Yikes,” she says. “You’re so ugly. Maybe you should take that off.”
I make a face at her. I’m not stupid. I’m a fast learner.
We go to a fancy bar. We drink fancy wine. We dance to eighties music. My hair is askew, tumbling and stuck to my face. And when I sway, so do my tassels. So I sway. God, this is fun. Della never wanted to dance because it made her sweaty. Greer is dancing so hard I can see the sweat running down her neck.
And then Kit walks in. And I don’t stop swaying. I blow him a kiss, and dance with Greer, and watch him watch me. My heart is aching just from the sight of him. I’ve never wanted something so bad in my life. He looks different, but I know that’s probably not true. My eyes are different. In my eyes, Kit grows more beautiful every time I see him.
“He didn’t know I was coming?” I ask Greer.
“On the contrary,” Greer says. “He asked me to bring you.”
“Hey, lonely heart. Wanna go for a walk?” That’s the first thing he says to me after all this time. Months and months. Wanna go for a walk? Kit and his walks.
I really, really want to go for a walk, because this bar is hot, and there are too many people, and I need to breathe clean air. All of these things come secondary to the fact that it’s him I want to walk near.
I lead the way out of the bar, my shoulders still moving to the music. I hear Kit’s laughter behind me. It curls up and around my heart and causes it to beat faster—a heart jockey. He thinks I’m funny. I guess he always has. I’m not really funny, just very awkward. As we make our way out, I think about the fact that he’s leaving his friends behind—people he hasn’t seen in ages—to go on a walk with me, the weekend of his cousin’s wedding.
The New Mexico air doesn’t taste the same as the Florida air. When it hits us in the face I don’t flinch. It smells dry and earthy. I think of Dirt, and giggle. When Kit and I are far enough away from the music, I look at him out of the corner of my eye and grin. He sort of looks the same. Maybe tanner. I bet Della’s been dragging him to the beach. I do a little jig next to a fountain while Kit quietly watches me. If I didn’t know him, I would think that it looks like he has a million things to say. And he probably does; he just never says them.
I stumble forward, clumsily, and sit next to him, swinging my legs back and forth.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Why do you have that look on your face?”
“What look?” he asks. “This is just my face.”
“Your face has a look. Like you’re anxious or something.”
“I am.”
I jump up. “I’m so hyper right now. Hold that thought while I run around the fountain.”
Kit laughs so hard he almost falls over, craning his neck all the way around to watch me.
“I forgot how weird you are,” he says when I sit back down. “You’re a dead language, you know that? No one is like you, and you are like no one.”
It’s a nice compliment, probably more than my brain can handle right now.
“So, why are you anxious?” I reach into the fountain and cup some water in my hand, letting it run down the back of my neck.
“I’m waiting for the inevitable question.”
Am I that predictable?
“So,” I say. “Are you in love?” I make jazz hands, and he grabs my wrists, but then quickly drops them.
“Yes.”
This time, no hesitation. No dancing eyes. No avoiding the question. My stomach drops, and my heart grows old and saggy. I couldn’t run around the fountain even if I tried. Why did I even feel happy enough to do it in the first place?
“Word,” I say. And then, “Wow.”
Kit has thick, black lashes. They almost make him too pretty, but the square shape of his jaw rescues his masculinity—giving all of the fine features a square, hard canvas. When he looks at you, though, through those lashes, it’s like he’s conveying something important with his eyes. He doesn’t know the effect he has on women. I’ve watched the silent swooning, the way he makes women stumble over their words, and causes their faces to fill up with color.
“May I use your phone, please?” I ask. Kit hands me his phone without hesitation. I open the camera, turn it to selfie mode, and snap a picture of myself.
“What are you doing?” Kit asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a picture of myself.”
“I know that. But why?”
He watches as I text the picture to myself. I le
ft my phone back in the hotel room, but now I wish I’d brought it. I could send an SOS to Greer.
“I take pictures of myself as I experience big moments in life. I name them and keep them in an album.” He makes a face and shakes his head. His eyes are dancing, though—thinking, thinking, thinking.
“What will you name the moment you just experienced?”
I look at the picture I just took: spiral curls stick straight out from the sides of my head, my topknot is crooked, and mascara decorates the underside of my eyes like black bruises. I look a little hopeless, a little angry.
“Fuck love,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him defiantly. He draws back like I’ve hit him, the smile turning into a wince.
“Fuck love,” I say again. Kit doesn’t understand. He’s shaking his head like love doesn’t deserve cruel words. I want to find Greer, get out of this place. Get away from Kit, who takes a year to acquire love, and a year to destroy my heart.
“Helena,” he says. “It’s not like that.”
“Have you seen Greer yet? Long lost love Greer? Are you out of love with her? It only took you a year to fall in love with Della, and—”
“Stop it,” he says.
I have tears now. Stupid, repulsive tears.
“I’m in love with you!” I yell, and immediately regret it. Why would a person feel the need to yell something like that at the top of their lungs?
The silence is all consuming. It’s a thing of pain. It draws out, and across, and over—like a dull-bladed knife. A confession so bare. The shock on his face, I can’t stand to see it. It’s embarrassing. I turn to go. A step or two, and then I take off running. My hair comes loose and streams out behind me. It makes my escape heavier than it already is.
He doesn’t call out to me like men do in the movies. My footsteps are the only ones I hear. There is no chase, no romance. And in that moment I think of the dumbest thing, a line from My Best Friend’s Wedding. ‘You’re chasing him, but who’s chasing you?’
I don’t go to the bar. I go back to the hotel and pack my things. A shirt here, a shirt there—tossed into my duffel. I rush through it all, trying not to think about what just happened. How I burned my relationship with both Kit and Della in that one irresponsible moment. I splash water on my face, and run outside to meet my cab. And, as I get to the airport, I realize that I’m a runner. Life gets hot and I pack my things and leave. It’s new, but so is being an adult. I’m learning about myself. But, hey! I did what I came to do. So I’m an accomplished runner. Greer has been blowing up my phone for the last three hours. I wonder if she saw me leave the bar with Kit. If she found him when she couldn’t find me. Did he feel all of the old things when he saw her, or is his heart firmly grounded in Della now? I text and tell her that I’m going home.
Greer texts me back: He’s on his way there.
I look around, panicked. I’m already through security. He can’t get to me. And why would he want to? I’m already so embarrassed. I said the unsayable thing to my best friend’s boyfriend. I clutch my duffel to my chest and count backward from a thousand. I’m a lot falling apart. A lot hurting. I feel like a failure and a flake. And then we board, and I order a drink without a mixer. And I know I’m wearing a slutty dress, and my hair is a mess, and people are looking at me. But they can’t see my heart. If they could see my heart, they’d understand why my mascara is smudged.
It's fall, on a sidewalk, in a town I love. It's a month after the wedding. My embarrassment has mostly congealed, though I've spent a lot of time not thinking about what I said to Kit. This month I am a writer. I document my days in a series of blog posts I never actually publish. The blog is called Fuck Love. I'm not sure what the purpose of it is, except to journal my feelings, and also it feels good. You don't have to publicly fail with writing like you do with watercolors, or clay birds, or sketching a tree. Private failure is much more comfortable. I am mentally planning a blog post called: I Didn't Get to Fuck My Love-when I hear my name being called. I turn around to search the sidewalk. And then he’s there-the love I didn't get to fuck- the cold wind lifting his hair, his smile lifting me. My heart is vigorous and angry. It’s not agreeing with the rest of my body, which is turning toward him. No, no, no, it beats.
“My God! Kit! What are you doing here?”
“Hey, lonely heart.”
An ache burns in my chest as my heart succumbs to him.
I fall into his hug, pressing my face against his leather jacket. He smells like gasoline. “I’m so homesick,” I say. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“I was homesick, too,” he says. He brings two gloved hands to my face and looks in my eyes. “Among other things.”
I suddenly feel it; our awkward last encounter comes creeping back to me. I look away, and he lets me go.
We’re on a stage now, and it feels awkward. There are other humans flowing around us. For a minute it was just Kit and I.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he says.
My heart is racing. I wonder where Greer is. Does she know he’s here? Is he here for her?
“Is Della…?”
“No,” he says. “I came on my own. Want to go for a walk?”
I laugh and shake my head. “God. Yeah … sure.”
We walk up Main Street past shoppers and mothers pushing strollers. I try to catch someone’s eyes. I want to relay, using telepathy, that I am with the man I love and can’t have. A car hits a puddle, and I have to jump out of the way to avoid the spray. I jump sideways and knock a little old lady to the ground. Kit and I rush to help her up, and I start to cry because I’m worried that I broke her hip.
“Oh, honey. I’ve already done that. I’m made of metal.” She taps her hip and her knee, and also her skull, which makes me really worried. She lets us fuss over her for a few minutes, seeming to enjoy the attention, then tells us we’re a really cute couple, and we should go spend the rest of the afternoon kissing. I flush at the thought, but Kit just laughs and plays along. With our new friend—whose name is Gloria—watching us, Kit grabs my hand and leads me away.
“I didn’t want to disappoint her,” he tells me. “I did it for Gloria.”
“Gloria can’t see us anymore,” I say. “So why are you still holding my hand?”
He smirks at me, but still doesn’t let go. We pass an ice cream shop, and he looks at me.
“It’s too cold for ice cream,” I say. But I really want one, and he knows it.
“Says who?”
I don’t know. My mom? Society? Fuck it.
“Get me apricot brandy,” I say. I don’t crowd into the warmth of the shop; I stay on the sidewalk where I wait for him.
“Are you … here for Greer?” I ask when he hands me a cone.
He looks confused. A drop of ice cream lands on his hand. “Why would I be here for Greer?”
I wipe away the ice cream on his hand with my napkin.
“Because she was the one. Great love, true love, young love, first love—”
“Thanks, Helena. I get the picture. And no, I’m not here for Greer.”
“Oh,” I say.
We walk in silence for a little bit. The ice cream becomes my enemy. He was holding my hand five minutes ago, but now he is holding ice cream.
“Why are you here then?” I blurt.
“I told you. I was homesick. I needed to come back and do some soul searching.”
“Oh. But—”
“Helena!”
“No more questions,” I say. I make the motion of zipping my lips, after which Kit’s eyes drag to my mouth, and I blush.
“We’re taking a break,” he says. “Things got…”
“What?”
I don’t want to seem like an eager beaver here, but I am. Also, I know how these things go. How couples fall in and out of a relationship, but always seem to get back together in the end. When Neil cheated on me, I tried to find ways to mentally justify getting back together with him. If I could save the relationship, it wouldn?
??t seem like I just lost years of my life with the wrong person. Salvage what’s left to cover my mistakes.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Things went wrong. Even if you have something strong, jealousy will destroy it.”
I bite back all the words, all the questions. I am familiar with Della’s jealousy. More familiar with the insecurity that strikes like a match against anything that threatens her.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“I have a place here,” he says.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t know.
“Like, you just keep it here. In case…”
“It belonged to my uncle. When he died he left it to me.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. There’s so much I don’t know, and that makes me sad. “And how long will you be staying?”
He looks at me then, and suddenly I know that people are what you truly need to be afraid of. People with eyes that communicate. People who can hurt you so hard you’d wish you were never born.
“It all depends.”
I trip on a crack in the sidewalk, and Kit reaches out to steady me.
“On what?”
While I wait for him to answer, I notice the length and curl of his lashes, the downward tilt of full lips. I look away, try to focus on something else: a soggy half-eaten hot dog on the sidewalk, a woman’s mismatched socks peeking out from her tennis shoes. Things that don’t make me dizzy.
“On how my truth is received.”
I’m about to ask him to further expound, when he says he has to go.
“I have to meet my mom for lunch. She’s trying to get me to move back.”
“Oh,” I say. I like his mom already. “Moms usually know what’s best for you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“No,” I say. “If she’s anything like my mom, you probably shouldn’t listen to her.”
He laughs. “See you soon, Helena.”
Soon after, I hear from Della. Della, who I haven’t heard from in months. She texts to say that they broke up after a fight they had. When I don’t answer her texts right away she calls me.