“No, silly. That’s too small. We are going to buy a house.”
I look at Kit, but he’s avoiding my eyes.
“That’s so great,” I say. “Congratulations, guys.” And then I say I have to go to the bathroom, but I go outside instead. I need air, space to hide my falling face. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever experienced, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it anyway. That’s the most pathetic part of being a human, the emotions you don’t ask for or want, they just rush you anyway. I roll my wine cork between my palms. In a house nearby, someone is frying bacon. I can hear a man’s rackety, wet cough, and I can feel sorrow spreading from brain to heart. I know that life is not simple because I am not simple. In fact, I am learning that I am more than simple and less than normal. To fall in love with a boy is one thing, but to fall in love with your best friend’s boy because of a dream is … well, I’m fucked.
You don’t start searching for truth until something goes terribly wrong and you realize that you need it. There’s no going back after that. The emotional concrete is poured. A foundation laid. This is what it feels like to go mad, I think. It feels like I’ve skipped ten years and just did the growing up without having to do the actual time. Willful blindness belongs to the young. In my case, I learned of my depravity early enough to rid myself of it. I cannot hate Sadie; Sadie would have happened with a different name. Maybe when I was already married. Sadie is just the name of Neil’s inability to be faithful. Perhaps she saved me from a lot more. I cannot hate the dream; the dream woke me up. But, that’s all it was—a dream. I keep art, because I never knew I loved it until I became a coloring book artist. I carry a knapsack with me now, filled with charcoals, pencils, a sketchpad, a wine cork. I give up listening to the beach music that was with me through college, and I make playlists that sound yearning and pathetic. I am what I am. I marvel at how yearning can make you disintegrate. And to keep from disappearing all together, you must rebuild yourself. I get a tattoo on my wrist, but I don’t tell anyone, and I hide it underneath my watch. May is all it says. Because that’s when my perspective shifted.
I help Kitella move into their new home. A tan house with white window boxes. It’s the first time I’m seeing them in over a month. Kit hasn’t been able to work on his story because of the move, so I’ve no communication with him either. When I pull up, it’s not Della but Kit who comes outside and throws his arms around me. I’m stiff at first, but then I lift my arms and hug him back. The worst part of a hug is the smell. If you hug a person enough, their smell becomes familiar, and you associate it with comfort, intimacy, and closeness. Kit always smells like gasoline and pine needles. Gasoline and pine needles, I think as I release him. How ridiculously appropriate. An olfactory experience turned olfuckery. Now I won’t be able to smell gasoline without seeing his pretty face. I follow him into the house; he seems excited. Della is unpacking dishes into the kitchen cabinets, a pink bandana tied around her hair. I hate to say it, but she’s glowing. “Helena!” She launches herself at me, and I stumble backward into Kit. We all fall, and we all laugh on Kitella’s new kitchen hardwood.
“This feels so right,” Della says. “All back together.” I roll away from them and toward the fridge. I pull a can of Coke from the bottom shelf, while still lying on my back.
“I’m already tired from this move. Can we just do this all day?”
Kit hauls me to my feet, and I’m given the job of unpacking and organizing Kitella’s closet. This is nothing new. Della has been making me organize her closet since freshman year of high school. As payment for the service, I get to choose one thing I want from her extensive wardrobe. I find a pair of designer jeans I like and set them aside. Mine.
“Don’t touch those Rag and Bone jeans,” she yells from the kitchen. I put them back and take her favorite blazer to spite her.
Kit’s clothes put me in a bad mood. There’s too much plaid. No one should wear this much plaid. I sniff a shirt, and then I sniff it again. The third time I sniff it is just to even things out; I like groups of three.
“Did you just smell my shirt?”
I spin around. He’s leaning on the closet door, arms folded, and of course blocking my escape.
“It smells moldy. Don’t you think?” I hold it toward him, but he doesn’t reach for it. He has a pretty intense stare. What disturbs you more than the stare though is the smirking.
He doesn’t know shit, I tell myself.
“It smelled moldy…” I say again. He looks at my mouth, and I squirm.
“Della wants to get dinner.”
I look down at my raggedy, moving day clothes. “Can’t we just order in?”
“She’s sick of being here. She wants to get out for a bit.”
Not even unpacked and already sick of being in her house.
“You’ve got your topknot going,” Kit says. “That’s all the dressing up you need.”
Della must have taught him that word. I liked hair hive better.
We decide on sushi. But Della doesn’t do hole-in-the-wall sushi, where she says the fish is fishy. We have to go to the big, fancy place downtown. I wear my new blazer, though, which makes me cheerful. June meets us at the restaurant. I think Della invites her places so I don’t feel like the third wheel. But truly, I feel like the third wheel even when I’m alone. June waves to us when we walk up to the restaurant. It’s robust waving. Like she’s just been shipwrecked and needs us to see her. She’s wearing a turban on her head, and her T-shirt says Cou Cou.