Each night, right before I lock up the gallery, my screen will light up to notify me that I have a text. Kit, my notification will say. I become flustered when his name appears. I spend a few moments not looking at my phone and distracting myself with other things—an empty stapler, a painting I’ve seen every day for months will have a new speck of paint to observe, writing down that we need more trash bags. During this time, an ache will start in my chest and build like a bad case of heartburn. Except it’s not heartburn; it’s Kit burn. When I finally run out of things to do, and make my way over to my phone, I know what I will see. Each night he sends a picture of a different place in Port Townsend; one day it’s a statue of Galatea, the sea goddess, and the next what looks like an old, rusted elevator shaft the color of a robin’s egg. He sends one of the Rose Theatre, and on another day a grimy restaurant that serves the best hash brown casserole I’ve ever eaten. The old boat/bike sculptor—a hippie “fuck you” to conformity—sits on Main Street, a beautifully, scrappy eyesore. He sent me there yesterday. Though she’s in plain view, he wanted me to find her. Pay attention only to her on that particular day. I love it. Each night after my picture comes, I put on my coat, lock the gallery doors for the evening, and find the place where Kit is waiting. It’s a treasure hunt for Kit. And all that other stuff. That’s the essence of him. I wonder if Della appreciates that part of his nature, or if it goes unseen.
On one particular day, Kit sends me a picture of a courtyard of brown brick. It is grown over with fluorescent green moss, the floor a thick carpet of red leaves. It takes me thirty minutes to find it, though it was only two blocks away.
“You bastard,” I say, when I round the corner and see him standing against a wall, leaning ever so casually. “It’s hidden. That was hard!”
“Nothing worth finding is actually easy to find,” he says. “I know this from experience.” I pretend to not hear him and stop to look around. The beauty overtakes me. Of the courtyard, and him. And him in the courtyard. He’s wearing a plaid hoodie and ripped jeans, standing amongst all those leaves. It’s not an image I’ll easily get out of my mind.
“Why did you want to show me this?” I ask, though I already know. He’s teaching me Port Townsend.
“It’s a favorite place. A hiding spot.”
We don’t stay there. We walk back to his condo where he gives me a mug of mulled wine, heady with clove and oranges. Pulling me back against his chest, I sit between his legs on the couch, facing the window.
“Helena,” he says, into my ear. “You’ve been giving me a lot of attention lately. I like it.”
“Because you’re so starved for attention?” I laugh. Even as we walked toward his condo earlier, women turned around to look at him as he passed them.
“I want your attention,” he says. I close my eyes, glad he can’t see my face. I watch a couple of kids walk tightrope on a wall across the street.
“Why?”
“Helena, look at me.”
“Ugh.”
I look at him.
“I don’t have a good reason, except something about me responds to something about you.”
I know the feeling.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Yes,” he says, watching my lips. “You do.”
He’s right.
No one knows about the time we spend together, not even Greer. Especially not Greer. One morning, when we are in the kitchen, she asks me where all the light in my eyes comes from.
“Port Townsend,” I tell her. She looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s Kit,” she says.
“What? No. Who?” I spill my yogurt.
I glance at her while I wipe up the mess. Her face is neutral, but I can feel something radiating off her.
“Yes,” I say.
“I saw your purse at his apartment. The day I came pounding on his door.”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say. My face is burning.
“Did he come back here for you?”
I’ve wondered the same, though it feels indulgent to do so. This is his home. Coming to his home has nothing to do with me. As much as I’d like to believe otherwise.
“Greer. I don’t know why Kit is here,” I say, standing up. “They broke up, and I think he needed to come home for a bit.”
She nods, slowly. “Makes sense. But you know what I think? You’re going to get hurt.”
I know that. I do.
“I can’t get hurt if my heart’s not in it.”
“You’re a very, very poor liar, Helena.”
I know that too.
We don’t talk about it any more. Greer leaves without a goodbye, and I get ready to go to work. She was right. I needed to stop this now. I take out my phone and delete Kit’s number. There. Now I couldn’t text him first. Such a stupid thing, but I feel mildly triumphant. For the moment. I walk to work, formulating a plan. I’ll text Della, listen to her, comfort her. I’ll reaffirm our friendship. Chicks before dicks. I will be the friend she needs me to be, and put my feelings for Kit aside. There! I make it down the block, and turn left when I reach the Conservatory. I see him about twenty steps ahead, walking right toward me. His head is bent over his phone. I have time to turn around and run. Maybe running isn’t the best option. I go inside the Conservatory. It’s my favorite store, but today it will just serve as my hiding spot. I move past the shelves of red coral and fur throws, and head to the back of the store. There’s a piece of art I like to look at, hanging on the far wall. An octopus, legs furled, ink shooting from its mouth.
“I’ll always find you. Even when you run.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” I say, not turning around. I’m cool as a cucumber, but my heart is violent in its pumping. “I was just doing my morning exercise routine.”
“I see that,” he says. “Running away from me.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
“That’s a very self-absorbed thing to say.”
“Hey, wanna go for a walk?”
“Nope. I have to work.”
“I’ll walk you to work.”
I shrug.
Kit walks with his hands buried in his pockets. There is no wind today, but I clutch my purse like it’s going to blow away anyway. Something to do with all my tension. When we reach the gallery doors, we stop, and I dangle the keys from my fingertip, shaking them a little. Just to let him know. This is it. Peace out! I’m jingling my keys at you!
“Thank you for walking me to work,” I say stiffly. I jingle the keys louder, and they slip off my finger. Kit bends down to retrieve them, and when I look at him, he’s on one knee in front of me. He lifts my hand from my side and slips the ring of the keychain back onto my finger. It’s not on my ring finger, and for that I’m mildly grateful. There would be the issue of not being able to conceal a swoon. He’s already on his knees, looking me in the eyes. And he doesn’t break eye contact with me when he stands up either.
“I have to go,” I say.
I turn, insert key into lock, all robotic. I see him come up behind me in the reflection on the window. His voice is close to my ear. I imagine I can feel his breath, but it’s probably just a blow of wind. I imagine myself pushing the door open and walking inside—the gallery swallowing me and pressing Kit out. The gallery would have to press him out, because I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
“Don’t push me out, Helena. I’m not ready to go.”
And what can you do in that moment but close your eyes as tightly as you can and try to control the trembling in your limbs. I turn around, the stupid girl that I am, and let him kiss me. He holds my face like he wants to keep me from pulling away. He doesn’t have anything to worry about. All my attention is…
His phone rings. That’s what ends our kiss. I am left pressed to the glass doors of the gallery. I can feel Greer’s warnings staring at my back—ripples upon ripples in blues and greens and blacks. I am blurry eyed, my chest aching from … what? Longing? I watch him answer his phone, our eyes connected, then a look of surprise takes over his face.
“Whose number is this?” His voice is hard. I wouldn’t like to be on the other side of that voice. I come out of my daze a little bit. I don’t need the gallery to hold me up anymore. I right myself, straightening my hair, which was mussed underneath Kit’s hands.
I have an uneasiness. It’s building by the second. And then Kit’s eyes find mine. He’s quiet as he listens, but I can see it on his face. I already know, before he hangs up the phone and slips it back into his pocket. We are over before we even start.
“It was Della,” he says. There’s a pause. “She’s pregnant.”