F*ck Love

  “What does that mean, June? That’s crazy.”

  June waves her hands in the air and laughs. “I’m not offended. Trust me. I just know how things work. Let me speak your language so you can understand. Della is Choo, and I am Luna Lovegood.”

  I hit the tabletop. “You are Luna! Oh my God!” Why hadn’t that clicked for me?

  “Exactly,” she says.

  “I love it when you speak Harry Potter to me. Who am I?”

  “You’re a muggle who wants to be magical.”

  I frown. “That’s so mean.”

  June shrugs. “So go be magical. It’s a choice.”

  Maybe she’s right. I started to, didn’t I? When I took those classes. I feel so pouty. I am just a muggle. A beige bitch muggle. It’s a sad day in Helena Land.

  Before we part ways, I hug her big. “I’m going to talk to Della,” I tell her. “Try to make things right.”

  She won’t look at me. And that’s when you know June has more to say.

  “Sometimes you can’t. Just be okay with that, all right?”

  “Sure, June. Sure.”

  But Della and I had worked through puberty together. When she started cheerleading junior year and made new friends, we worked through that. And when I started dating Louis from the debate team, and didn’t see her as often, we worked through that. And when we had our first serious fight about the way she had changed, we worked through that. And when we had nothing in common anymore, we worked through that. We work through things. That’s us.

  All the way home I’m thinking about what June said. How much of this is my fault. What could I have done differently? I am not good at flirting. I don’t try to flirt. Had I flirted with Kit in front of Della and not known I was doing it? If I’ve done something wrong, I want to own it. I’ve tried to be friendly to him, aloof. But, that dream … it made me different. And if I were to be really, really honest with myself, I’d say that the dream affected my ability to forgive Neil. All of a sudden I had ideas about things being better. About my loneliness being gone.

  I call Della as soon as I get home. I have it all planned out—everything I’m going to say. She picks up on the third ring. There’s a lot of noise and shuffling in the background.

  “Hello? Dells?”

  I hold the phone away from my ear, and I’m about to hang up when I hear it. A long moan, heavy breathing.

  “Della?” I say.

  Della answers, but its Kit’s name she says, followed by a series of yelps. I hang up quickly and feel heat climb my face. She must have accidentally answered while they were having sex. Oh God. I cover my face with my hands. I’m scarred for life.

  I feel something else too. What is it? I push it away and go open a bottle of wine. I don’t even bother to get a glass; I drink straight from the bottle. The wine hits the back of my throat, and I treat it like water. So classy. I wish I had something stronger—like that bourbon Neil used to bring over on special occasions. Five sips and you felt like you were made of fire and courage. I needed courage. I was a wimp.

  She calls me later that night as I’m climbing into bed.

  “Hey, sorry I missed your call.” Her voice is flat. Dry. I’m still loopy from the bottle of wine I drank.

  “Oh. No problem.”

  There is a long pause, which makes me wonder if she’s waiting for me to say something about what happened. Does she know? And then I feel like the dumbest fuck. Of course she knows. Because she didn’t miss the call. She did it on purpose.

  My voice is colder than it would have been without the realization.

  “Just calling to check in. Haven’t spoken to you since the BBQ. You were acting weird.”

  “Everything is fine,” she says. “Same as always.”

  I nod. Well then.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “Bye then.”

  She hangs up first.

  That is it, isn’t it? She has nothing to say to me, and I have nothing to say to her. It hurts.

  “Hos before bros!” I yell at the phone. But it’s too late. A bro came, and both the hos are in turmoil.

  “Fuck you, Kit Isley,” I say under my breath. But I don’t mean it, and Della already has that covered. The saddest part is I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. Normally, I’d talk to Della. Kit. Kit is the one I really want to talk to. Ha! She’s right, isn’t she?

  I take out my phone, hold it above my head, and snap a picture. I call it, The Muggle Loses a Friend.

  I don’t talk to Kit or Della for a month. That’s thirty days of isolation from a person I’ve never gone without, and also, a person I don’t want to go without. I’m mostly depressed about it, but I keep myself busy with work and the new art classes I’m taking. Be magical, June said. So, I’m trying. I just want to earn my wand. Martin and Marshall from work talk me into going to the Broward County Fair. To even out the girl/boy score I ask June to come. Martin is stout and red-haired. He fancies himself a wine connoisseur and likes to make the rest of us feel inferior. I swear to God, even his voice changes when he’s lecturing us on the delicate skins of pinot grapes. I sink lower into my seat because I don’t know which grapes those are. The red ones? Martin’s favorite movie is Sideways with Paul Giamatti. I see the similarities. Marshall, on the other hand, is Puerto Rican and bitterly confused as to why his parents would name him Marshall when his brothers are named Roberto, Diego and Juan Carlos. He suffers from a self-professed identity crisis. I like them both very much, though June thinks they’re weird. Which says a lot. We spend the night wandering from ride to ride as Martin educates us on the difference between Pinot Gris and Pinot Grigio. (Answer: They're made from the same grape, but Pinot Gris is produced in France, while Pinot Grigio derives from Italy.) I’m half-interested and keep asking him questions. The boys take a bathroom/food break, and June grabs my arm, digging her nails into my skin.

  “He keeps asking me if I’m interested in moving to China,” she hisses. She glances at Marshall, who is waiting in line for a funnel cake. “I think he’s trying to wife me.”

  “You’re not seeing anyone,” I offer helpfully. “And you love Chinese food.”

  “Ugh!”

  She marches off to the bathroom while I get in line for the Gravitron.

  “Cool, Helena,” I say to myself. “Piss off your one remaining friend.”

  “I’ll be your friend.”

  I turn around to find Kit standing behind me, a shit-eating grin on his face. I get over my shock as quickly as I can, and push back my shoulders.

  “Doubtful,” I snap. “Your girlfriend wouldn’t like it.”

  Whoa! Suppressed anger much?

  I look at him apologetically and duck my head.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “The truth is often angry.”

  “How’ve you been?” I’m trying not to obviously search the crowd for Della, but I can’t help it. My eyes are dancing around like a crack head.

  “She’s in the bathroom,” he says. “She’ll probably run into June and take a few minutes extra to chat. That’s who you’re here with, right?”

  I wonder if he saw us, or if he stalked our Instagram pictures.

  Marshall chooses that exact moment to shove a funnel cake in my face. I smile tightly.

  “Marshall, this is my friend, Kit.”

  “Hey man,” Marshall juggles his drink and plate to shake Kit’s hand, then he shoves the funnel cake at me again.

  “Nope. No. Nothing’s changed since twenty seconds ago.”

  Kit shoves both hands in his pockets and looks from me to Marshall. He has a funny look on his face.

  “So—” he says.

  “Ah, here come the girls and Martin,” I interrupt him.

  Our pack thickens as Della, June, and Martin walk up. Della is dressed in ridiculous leather shorts and a matching leather top. I’m not sure if she’s an erotic trapeze artist, or a girl desperate for everyone to look at her. I wish
I hadn’t worn beige. She’s arm in arm with June when they approach us. I look at Kit to see if he likes that sort of outfit, but find him looking at me.

  “Hi,” Della says. “Fancy seeing ya’ll here.” She is introduced to Martin, gives me a short hug, and latches on to Kit.

  I look away.

  “So are you going to ride this thing?” Della asks, looking around the group. “Because I am definitely not.”

  “I don’t really want to either,” June says. “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel.”

  Della smiles brightly at her and nods, then sticks out her bottom lip and looks up at Kit. “Come with us,” she says.

  “I’d rather ride this,” he says. “You go ahead.”

  “I want you to come with,” she insists.

  I can feel it, the tension.

  All of a sudden I want a piece of Marshall’s funnel cake. I take the plate from him and start putting chucks in my mouth.

  “I thought you didn’t want any,” he complains. I hand back the plate and take his Coke. Kit and Della are having an argument. She’s insisting he come, and he’s refusing to leave.

  “I’m just really craving a kebab right now,” I say. “Anyone want to come with me to get a kebab?” I look at Martin, who looks at Marshall, who looks at June.

  “You’re next in line,” June says. “You can’t leave now.” I see her eyes dart nervously toward Kit and Della.

  “Let’s go, June,” Della says, breaking away from Kit and marching off in the direction of the Ferris wheel. June mouths HELP to me, and then scurries after her.

  “I’m going with them,” Marshall says.

  “Dude!” Martin looks put out. He watches his friends chase after the girls, and then turns to us.

  “You have to ride in twos.” He looks at Kit when he says this.

  That’s not true. The Gravitron can be ridden alone, but Kit plays along.

  “Yeah,” says Kit. “So, are you riding by yourself?”

  I stifle a laugh, but, Martin isn’t having it. He squares his already square shoulders and glares at my friend, Kit.

  “Helena came to hang out with me tonight.”

  I jerk in surprise and make a face. Kit sees it and laughs.

  I’m about to tell Martin that I pretty much came because they begged me, and that just because I came didn’t mean I had to be glued to his side, when we’re suddenly at the front of the line. Kit grabs my hand and pulls me up the three stairs to the entrance of the ride. We’re herded into the Gravitron, which smells like popcorn and sweat, and the mix of metal and grease. It’s disgusting and exciting at the same time.

  I glance back and see Martin scowling at us. I didn’t know he was into me until that moment. It’s funny what people don’t see. I’m still holding onto that thought when all of a sudden I literally cannot see.

  We stumble forward, searching for the nearest wall. Kit finds us a spot in the back, and we stand with our backs to the padded sides of the Gravitron, never letting go of each other’s hands. This has always been my favorite ride—completely enclosed, with padded panels lining the inside wall. Riders lean against these panels, which are angled back. As the ride rotates, the rider is glued to the pad behind them by centrifugal force (Neil told me that). It’s a combination of spinning, the inability to move my arms and legs, and the dark that thrills me. I close my eyes as the music begins to play. Kit lets go of my hand, and I force my head left to see why. He’s using both hands to cover his face. I laugh, but it’s swept away. I reach for his wrist to pull his hand away; it’s a struggle, and I’m moving in slow motion. My whole body flips to its side, and now I’m facing Kit. I can’t stop laughing. Kit peeks out from beneath his fingers. Even in the dark, as strobe lights flash across his face, I can see that he’s a little green.

  “You could be riding the Ferris wheel,” I shout. Kit laughs, and then flips on his side to face me. All of a sudden we’re separated by a pathetic three inches. I can’t really go anywhere since the Gravitron is in the middle of its most fierce spin. It’s hard to move, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe too. I’m glad it’s dark, and that Kit doesn’t have access to my expression. He has a different kind of access, and I finding myself daydreaming about a kiss. It’s sick, and I’ve never done that before. But I’ve also never been this physically close to Kit Isley. I close my eyes to fend him off. And then. And then I feel his hand on my face. Longing can come to a person at the most inopportune times. Like when you’re on a fair ride and gravity is holding you down, and your dream husband puts his warm hand on your cheek, even though it’s really hard work to do that. I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s happening in his. I’ll fucking die if he looks at me like I look at him. I keep them shut and feel a tear squeeze its way from the corner of my eye. It struggles down my cheek and rolls onto Kit’s hand. And then the ride is over. The spinning slows, and we are given back control of our arms, and legs, and head, and hands. Which is why I’m surprised when Kit’s hand doesn’t immediately leave my face. We’re thrown to our feet as the music ends, bodies still closer than they should be. The doors haven’t opened yet, so we stand like that for a minute—my forehead on his chest, his hands around my upper arms. It’s a suspended moment, both inappropriate and innocent at the same time. I cling to him, smell him, wish he was mine. And then the doors slide open, and I’m running.

  I take a selfie. Call it, The Muggle Searches for Magic, and then I pack a small overnight bag and drive the five hours to my parents’ house. My mother hasn’t been speaking to me. She wanted me to forgive Neil, which was fine. There was room in my heart for forgiveness; there wasn’t room in my life for someone who constantly needed it. She wanted to plan a wedding, and I’d foiled her plans of tulle, and pearls, and cake tasting. My father is working in the yard when I pull up. He tips back his Yankees cap and comes to say hello to me.

  “Didn’t know you were coming, Hellion. Your mother is going to be so happy to see you.”

  “I didn’t know either. And don’t lie to me, Daddy. She’s still pissed.” He smiles like he’s caught.

  “She’s at the market, so hide your car around back and get her really good.”

  I nod. Nothing better than scaring your overbearing, controlling mother. My dad liked torturing her too; he’d been putting ideas in my head since I was a little girl. Move all of the paintings in the house to different rooms. Rub butter on her reading glasses. Wrap cello wrap around the toilet seat.

  My poor mother (who really deserved it). At least she only had the pranks of one child to worry about. My dad comes inside to make me a prime rib sandwich left over from their dinner the night before.

  “You coming here to tell us something, Hellion?”

  “Yup.” I sip spiked lemonade from the Mason jar he hands me. God bless him.

  “Good or bad?” he asks. My dad can’t keep still. He’s never been good at it. I watch him move from the sink, to the fridge, to the back door.

  “Why can’t you just ask me a question directly?” I ask him. “What are you here to tell us?” I imitate his deep voice. He shakes his head.

  “I don’t sound like that. But, fine,” he says. “What are you here to tell us?”

  “I’m moving.”

  “To where?”

  “It’s really none of your business, Dad.”

  He comes to sit down across from me. “Is this about Neil?”

  I’m shaking my head before he’s finished his sentence. “No, it’s about me. I’ve always been that girl who you can count on—steadfast, predictable, mousy brown hair. That’s why Neil liked me—well, he wanted me to dye my hair blonde—but the other parts. And you know what? I don’t even think that was me. I think it’s what everyone expected from me, so I just went along with it.”

  “So, you’re telling me that on the inside you’re a wild, unpredictable blonde?”

  “Maybe. I’d like the chance to find out.”

  “Why can’t you find out here?”

 
I put my pale hand over his brown, calloused one. “Because I’m not brave enough to change with everyone watching me. I want to do it alone. I want it to be real.”

  He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. I think he learned that look from watching too many Robert De Niro movies. My dad is a handsome guy, his hair is all white, but he spikes it up. He has a tattoo of a flamingo on his forearm. A dare from his college days. I always wanted to be like him, but my personality veered more toward my mother’s.

  “Your mother is overbearing and controlling,” he says. “Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s the reason I fell in love with her. All five feet of her, not afraid of anything, and always telling me what to do. It’s pretty hot.”

  “Eww, Dad.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, it’s nature. Overbearing mothers usually give way to one of two things in their children: rebellion or passivity. In your case, the latter.” He dips his finger into the honey jar that sits in the middle of the table and rubs it across my forehead.

  “Go child,” he says. “Be at peace. Let no one overbear you.”

  “It’s supposed to be oil,” I say. “You’re supposed to anoint my head with oil.”

  I can feel the honey dripping down my forehead toward the bridge of my nose, and then it hangs like snot from the tip of my nose. I lick it off.

  “Your mother just pulled into the driveway,” he says. “Go hide in the pantry and scare her.” I hear her tires on the gravel and stand up.

  Two days later, I leave my parents’ house, confident as fuck. I even have a little bounce in my step that’s normally not there because of my really bad posture. My mother was hesitant at first, but after an afternoon of sulking and moodily sipping Zinfandel, she decided that the men in Florida weren’t suited for my reserved and articulate personality. The men in Florida. That’s why I was given her blessing to leave. Family is a wonderful thing, mostly when they’re not projecting their shit on you. She called a friend, who called a friend, who had a job secured for me in less than five hours.