“I feel sober, and I want to feel drunk,” I say.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He wipes the bar down with a rag, then leans on his elbows and studies me. His eyes are really lovely and sad. “The sadness comes in waves, yes? It’s like you feel something different every ten minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering who broke his heart. What a cunt. I drink my purple drink and stare at my phone. But every time I stare at a phone, I see tits in my mind. You can’t get those things out of your head, you know?
Della is texting me. We should get dressed up and go out tonight!
To dance with men who will later break my heart?
D: You have to be positive, she texts back.
Fuck that.
D: I’ll meet you for drinks then, she sends.
I’m already drinking. I just want to be alone.
She doesn’t text back, and I know her feelings are hurt.
I put my phone away. Aside from the unbearable heart pain, feelings of inadequacy, sporadic tears, and hopelessness, I kind of like being single. You’re not responsible to tell anyone where you are or who you’re with. It’s freedom and loneliness, exhilaration and inner calm. You don’t have to shave. It’s the best high and the worst low. The motherfucking pits. I choose to ignore Della and my parents, and there’s not a thing they can do about it.
Kit doesn’t mention the note I left him, thank God. Maybe he’s forgotten, or maybe he thinks I was too drunk to know what I was doing. We make small talk between his other customers, and I check out his suspenders when he’s not looking. He has really broad shoulders; he could be too stocky, but everything narrows out at his waist. He’s not my type, but it’s okay to notice things. I don’t want to be the type of self-centered person who only notices things about themselves. So, really I’m practicing being a good person by checking out Kit’s suspenders. And that’s what it’s about—the suspenders. He sings me a song about cheating and tells me that it’s on Carrie Underwood’s album. When he hits the high notes, he closes his eyes and points a finger in the air. It all reminds me of Mariah Carey, and that’s a bit uncomfortable.
When he’s in the kitchen getting someone’s food, I leave cash on the bar and sneak out. I don’t like goodbyes, especially when they’re directed at me. I think I’m clever until I get to my car and see Kit sitting in my front seat.
“You think I don’t know you by now?” he asks. He gets out to make way for me.
“You were busy,” I say. “I have things to do.”
“Like what?”
I lick my lips because they still taste like lemon.
“I have to wash my hair.”
“Clearly,” he says. He closes the door once I’m in and bends down to lean his elbows through the open window.
I am shaking I’m so nervous. He’s going to ask me about the damn napkin, I just know it. I’ll say I don’t remember, and who is he to argue?
“Helena…” He smiles. “Goodnight.”
God. Fuck. He steps away, grinning. A terse smile, and I throw the car into reverse, trying not to look at him in the rearview as I cruise out of the parking lot. It’s not until I’m home and getting out of the car that I notice the napkin on my passenger side seat.
I pick it up. It’s the same kind they keep at the bar.
Give me a reason not to
I groan. No, no, no, no, no. I stuff the napkin in my purse and head inside. Della will be here. Della is here.
“Where have you been?” she asks when I walk through the door. She’s in pajama pants and a bra—both mine. I resent her large tits. They remind me of bad texting times.
“I was at a Harry Potter convention. Why? Do you need a snack?” I ask.
“I was worried.”
“Dells, you could go home, you know. I appreciate all the love, but I don’t need a babysitter.”
“People commit suicide all the time after breakups.”
“I’m not going to commit suicide. I stopped for a drink at Tavern on Hyde,” I tell her.
Her face lights up. “Did you see Kit? Is he still hot?”
“I did see him; he was wearing suspenders and a long-sleeve shirt in this weather. Super hot.”
“He doesn’t like me to go in when he’s working,” she says. “He says it’s not professional to have your girlfriend drinking at your place of employment.”
I nod. Della was a sloppy drunk; she always ended up fondling a stranger and singing En Vogue at the top of her lungs. Kit was probably just trying to save himself the embarrassment.
“He’s really nice, Della,” I say. “A good guy.”
I hate using the good guy cliché with Kit, but what else is there to say. It’s true. Della beams. She’s so happy with this she makes me a snack. She’s already named their children, and has a board on Pinterest for their wedding. As we eat our snack, she pulls it up and shows me the new centerpieces she’s found.
“A winter wedding,” she says. “Because they’re much more romantic.” In Florida, winter is sixty-five degrees, but I don’t say this. I nod and approve of her lantern centerpieces. Fucklovefucklovefucklove.
Give me a reason not to
I kiss the top of her head. There isn’t a good reason. They are cute together. It doesn’t matter that I already know the name of his daughter. That was just a dream.
One night, as Della and I are listening to Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats,” there is a knock on my door. I go to answer it, only to find Kit on my welcome mat, a bag of groceries in his hand.