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.
“Is he there, Helena? Do you know?”
I catch sight of my own face in the mirror when I answer her; I look like a disgusted human. I don’t want to be in the middle of whatever they have going on. I don’t want to betray one for the other.
“You should call him,” I say. “Remember he’s disappeared before.”
“I have called him. Oh my God, Helena, I call every five minutes. He just said he needed some time away. Like, I don’t know how to do anything. I don’t even know how to pay my mortgage.”
I can hear the tears, the snot, the Della who sits in a robe and eats chocolate and frets. I feel guilty for not being there for her, but no, I am not everyone’s crutch. I am learning to walk on my own; they need to learn, too.
“You can figure things out until he comes back,” I say. “Your mom will help you.”
There’s a long pause before she says, “Have you seen him?”
“Yes,” I say. “Not that long ago. Walking down the street. He was going to see his mom.”
“Did he say anything? About me?”
“Not really. Just that you were on a break.”
Della starts to cry. I hold the phone away from my ear and chew vigorously on my lip. I am feeling two things: pity, which is truly a nasty, condescending thing to feel for someone, and opportunistic. I don’t want her to have him back. I don’t want her to convince him she can be different. I know she can’t.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell her. “If he needs time to figure things out, you have to give that to him. Don’t call every five minutes either. Try to spend some time … thinking.” After we hang up, she sends a text to thank me, and also to beg me to call with anything I hear. I want to tell her I’m not her personal gossip girl. I feel sick. Sick for Della, sick for myself. A little bit sick for Kit, but not much. He deserves to suffer.
June texts to tell me she saw Neil’s baby at the grocery store, and its head looks like a squash.
Is it a boy or girl? I ask.
J: It’s a squash!
News of Neil’s baby looking like something you can find in the produce section of the grocery store should make me happy. I feel nothing. I don’t care to revel in infant ugliness. I don’t care to think about Neil at all. What does that mean? Have I moved on from my hurt? And is squash a fruit or a vegetable?