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.
“Since you’ve stolen my girlfriend, I’ve come to make you both dinner,” he announces. I feel unreasonably disappointed that he didn’t come just for me. I’m sort of your wife! We had a child together for God’s sake.
“Great song.” He steps around me and kisses Della.
“Yeaaah.”
I put Carrie on mute, but Kit keeps singing it from the kitchen. Even when he thinks no one is looking, he does the closed eye, finger pointy thing. It has deep potential to be adorable, but he’s not my type. And God, stop stealing shit from Mariah.
He doesn’t ask me where anything is, or for help—not that I would have given it to him anyway. He bangs around in the kitchen while Della and I watch reruns of Teen Mom, until he announces it’s time for dinner.
“What did you make?” I ask, sitting at my table and feeling strangely like a guest.
“Ropa Vieja.”
I scrunch my nose. “Old clothes?” My Spanish is limited to four years of high school, so I could be wrong.
“Yes. Delicious.”
Della doesn’t question Kit’s dirty laundry, so I don’t either. Turns out it’s extra fucking good. I want to take a picture for my MEM folder and call it: I’ll Eat His Old Pants, but that would risk questions and judgment. They both might get the wrong idea. Kit does cleanup and dishes, and shoos me out of the kitchen when I try to help.
“He’s perfect,” Della announces. “Let’s stay up all night and play games.” Forty minutes and four beers later, she passes out on my sofa. Kit and I are playing Mancala, but he really sucks.
“It’s your strategy,” I tell him. “You have none.”
“Wanna go for a walk?” Kit asks. We both look at Della who won’t be waking up any time soon.
“Dells,” I say, shaking her shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.”
She moans into the sofa cushion and slaps me away.
I shrug. “She hates the heat anyway,” I tell him. “It frizzes her blowout.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kit says, smiling. “She’s my girlfriend.”
I feel my face flush and hurry to the door ahead of him. Of course. Of course.
I don’t have a blowout; I just have a messy bun. Kit pats the top of it when we step out into the thick air.
“It’s like a hair hive,” he says. “Small creatures could live in there.”
“I had a snail as a pet once,” I say. “Its name was SnailTail.”
“Your weirdness never ceases to amaze me,” Kit says.
“I was taking art classes,” I blurt.
Kit looks at me funny, his head cocked to the side. “Was?”
“I stopped going because it was affecting my relationship. Neil made me feel like I was cheating on him when he found out.”
“Ah, well, good ol’ Neil was probably feeling a little guilty about his own extracurricular activities and looking for something to blame.”
“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.
“Since you’ve stolen my girlfriend, I’ve come to make you both dinner,” he announces. I feel unreasonably disappointed that he didn’t come just for me. I’m sort of your wife! We had a child together for God’s sake.
“Great song.” He steps around me and kisses Della.
“Yeaaah.”
I put Carrie on mute, but Kit keeps singing it from the kitchen. Even when he thinks no one is looking, he does the closed eye, finger pointy thing. It has deep potential to be adorable, but he’s not my type. And God, stop stealing shit from Mariah.
He doesn’t ask me where anything is, or for help—not that I would have given it to him anyway. He bangs around in the kitchen while Della and I watch reruns of Teen Mom, until he announces it’s time for dinner.
“What did you make?” I ask, sitting at my table and feeling strangely like a guest.
“Ropa Vieja.”
I scrunch my nose. “Old clothes?” My Spanish is limited to four years of high school, so I could be wrong.
“Yes. Delicious.”
Della doesn’t question Kit’s dirty laundry, so I don’t either. Turns out it’s extra fucking good. I want to take a picture for my MEM folder and call it: I’ll Eat His Old Pants, but that would risk questions and judgment. They both might get the wrong idea. Kit does cleanup and dishes, and shoos me out of the kitchen when I try to help.
“He’s perfect,” Della announces. “Let’s stay up all night and play games.” Forty minutes and four beers later, she passes out on my sofa. Kit and I are playing Mancala, but he really sucks.
“It’s your strategy,” I tell him. “You have none.”
“Wanna go for a walk?” Kit asks. We both look at Della who won’t be waking up any time soon.
“Dells,” I say, shaking her shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk.”
She moans into the sofa cushion and slaps me away.
I shrug. “She hates the heat anyway,” I tell him. “It frizzes her blowout.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kit says, smiling. “She’s my girlfriend.”
I feel my face flush and hurry to the door ahead of him. Of course. Of course.
I don’t have a blowout; I just have a messy bun. Kit pats the top of it when we step out into the thick air.
“It’s like a hair hive,” he says. “Small creatures could live in there.”
“I had a snail as a pet once,” I say. “Its name was SnailTail.”
“Your weirdness never ceases to amaze me,” Kit says.
“I was taking art classes,” I blurt.
Kit looks at me funny, his head cocked to the side. “Was?”
“I stopped going because it was affecting my relationship. Neil made me feel like I was cheating on him when he found out.”
“Ah, well, good ol’ Neil was probably feeling a little guilty about his own extracurricular activities and looking for something to blame.”
