Authors: Julie Halpern
Where were we now?
I’ve heard countless people say bad things happen in threes. That never made sense to me. Shit happened all the time; how could anybody determine where the pattern of three ended and the next one began? Maybe Leo’s brother dying had nothing to do with my first two bad things. Maybe Becca was going to die. Or my mom. Or one of my brothers. Or both. If both of them died, did that count as one or two bad things?
No, I didn’t believe in the “cycle of three bad things” any more than I believed in love at first sight and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Love was never going to be something you could find in the split-second glance of judgment we make on people we don’t know, and if people seemed like they were up to no good, chances are they were. My dad taught me that.
Just because three horrible things happened, that didn’t mean more weren’t to come. Better to protect yourself than kick yourself later for being an asshole. Now, that was something I believed in.
“Can someone help me up?” Becca asked, and before I could reach for her, Brian extended his hand. While they made with the niceties, Leo and I looked at each other, on the verge of words. I must have opened my mouth five times while trying to think of something to say. We looked like two fish in an aquarium.
I studied Leo’s face, the straight lips, the too-sweet freckles, his translucent eyelashes. In that moment I hated myself for not trying to be there for him.
Fish mouth again.
Brian broke the underwater moment. “You guys want to come to the screening of
Reanimator
with us?”
“I’m sure they’re busy,” Leo informed him.
“Yeah,” I agreed out of obligation. “We can’t. I promised Becca’s mom I’d bring her home for dinner. She’s hardcore about making her eat her vegetables.” I looked at Becca, whose mom told her to stay out as long as she wanted.
“Yeah.” She presented her best disappointed face, always the actress. “Maybe another time?” she asked.
“Sure.” Brian smiled, googly eyed. If he only knew Becca was attached to a homeschool beefcake.
Not knowing how to say good-bye, nor really wanting to, I blurted, “Want to get coffee sometime?” at Leo, a line direct from the list of top asshole-isms.
“Maybe,” Leo answered, kind of sounding like an asshole himself.
“That would be great,” Becca pushed. That he would
maybe
want to get coffee with me? I felt like I was morphing into one gigantic asshole as we spoke. Like, literally a human-sized hole in an ass.
“Better get in line so we can get seats. Nice meeting you guys.” Brian winked. I always said never trust a winker.
Or anyone else for that matter.
Leo and Brian walked away, and Becca and I headed for my car. “What happened?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” I played dumb. Or maybe I just was.
“That was your big chance to charm Leo back into your evil clutches, and you totally choked.”
“I didn’t choke. He didn’t want to see me. Or watch
Reanimator
with me. Or drink hot caffeinated beverages with me.” I stomped ahead of Becca, who called after me, “Slow down!”
I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I need to sit down,” she said. We plopped down on a parking block, so Becca could rest.
“I fucked this up, didn’t I? Not just today, but, like, forever.”
“Possibly not. Leo did say maybe. He could have flat-out said no and called you a twat.”
“Leo has never used the word ‘twat’,” I guessed.
“Well, more people should.”
“Do you think I’m a twat?”
“Not all the time.” I flicked Becca’s arm. “Watch it. I bruise easily. What I meant was, maybe you are a twat sometimes, but Leo already knew that. Maybe he understands. I mean, you just lost your dad, and then his brother goes and dies. People deal with death in all sorts of weird ways.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed, Davis Humper.”
“Did you seriously just use the word ‘hump’?”
“Don’t forget Davis.”
“Wish I could.”
That night, as I replayed every detail of my debacle with Leo, my phone buzzed on my nightstand. It was a text. From Leo.
Yes to coffee. Tomorrow?
Fuckbaskets. What made him change his mind? Was this his opportunity to tell me off? To make up? To introduce me to his fiancée?
I didn’t want to wait and give him a chance to change his mind.
Have to work tomorrow.
After work
OK. 7:30 @ Brew Town?
OK
I waited for more texts, felt like I should say something else but lacked the words to express anything. What would I express if I had? I wished my mom had homeschooled me, so I had the gall to write sappy love notes like Caleb. But Leo wasn’t the sappy love-note type. I didn’t think. Whether or not he was, I wasn’t. I couldn’t even handle those three little words.
I handled liking the guy who said them even less.
I WAS A JANGLY BALL
of stress all day at Cellar. Too many hunks of turkey and plops of mayonnaise missed their bread, and my feet were surrounded by casualties.
“Are you on the rag or something?” accused Doug. “You’re surlier than ever today.”
“Maybe. Want me to pull out my bloody tampon and show you?” That shut him up. Guys seemed much better equipped at handling the hypothetically hormonal aspect of menstruation than the actual act.
My shift ended at seven. Brew Town was only two stores away, and I used the extra half hour to change out of my subby shirt and into one that didn’t smell quite as much like roast beef. At 7:25, I ascended the stairs and walked out the door of Cellar. There, two doors down, leaning against the storefront with a cigarette in his hand, was Leo.
He wore a heavy black down jacket and a black winter hat over his buzzed hair. He looked around nonchalantly, either not in a rush to find me or really just taking in the sights. When our eyes met, he brought the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, blew out the smoke, then stamped out the rest of the cigarette with his shoe. It could have been a calculated move to show me that he was smoking again, that I had no influence over him. Or maybe he started smoking again because of other reasons. Because the world was oh-so-far from revolving around me.
I approached Leo, and he eased himself out of his window lean.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he repeated. He held the door open for me with his back, hands in his pockets. Without taking off his coat, he slid into a table near the window.
“What do you want?” I asked, standing next to him. He looked at me, almost annoyed. “Coffee?” I pushed.
“Oh. Large. Black.”
I didn’t bother asking him which brew. I guessed that wasn’t something he cared much about. At the counter, I ordered him a medium roast and hoped it was the right choice. I selected a mocha for myself. When the barista asked for the name on my order, I told him, “Ash,” the name of Bruce Campbell’s character in the Evil Dead movies. I thought maybe it would soften the situation. I waited by the counter for the drinks, and when the barista called, “Ash,” I looked over at Leo for approval. He watched passersby at the window. I was pissed at myself for bothering.
“Your black coffee.” I delivered the cup in front of Leo, drawing his attention back inside. I shook off my coat but left on my gloves, fingerless ones that converted into mittens.
“Thanks,” Leo offered flatly, and poured a heaping amount of sugar into his cup.
I felt like I was supposed to talk. But what about? The easiest segue into conversation was Dead of Winter Con, so I took it.
“How was
Reanimator
?”
“The same as it always is.” Leo didn’t look at me when he answered.
He stirred his coffee. I blew on mine. An imaginary clock ticked loudly in my brain.
“Why are we here?” I broke the silence. He managed to look at me. I wanted to drown in his green eyes, until he said, “Fuck if I know. Brian made me text you last night.”
“He made you? Like, held a gun to your head and threatened your firstborn?”
Leo stared at me drolly. “This was your idea. Total mistake.” He abruptly pushed his chair back but didn’t stand.
“I don’t feel like it is,” I told him.
“What do you feel, Alex?”
Shit. Was this the moment where I was supposed to excrete emotions? Was that the only way to make this thing right?
“Do you still love me?” I asked.
Wrong question.
“Seriously. Seriously? You are royally fucked up, Alex.”
“Oh, is that why you asked me here? To be a total dick and tell me shitty things about myself? Because I don’t need you for that. Perfectly capable of self-loathing on my own, thank you.”
We stared at each other through squinted eyes. If we were bulls, steam would have come snorting out of our noses.
“Why did you ask me here? And don’t tell me because Brian made you.”
“I don’t know. It’s been a shitty few months, and as much as I hated running into you yesterday you looked really cute with that viscera hanging off your head.”
And … melt.
I tried not to smile at the compliment, but it was impossible not to. “That’s a good word. Viscera.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. We watched each other, silent again, less snorty. “I need more than cute viscera, though.” He sipped his coffee.
“Like what?” I asked, stumped.
“I’m not going to feed you your lines, Alex.” I still didn’t know what to say. He waited. “So that’s it, then?” he questioned.
Part of me had hoped that everything that happened, or didn’t happen, in the last few months could be erased. Forgotten. What good would it do to rehash all of the shit?
I’m the idiot who asked if he still loved me. And I’m also the idiot who decided to say, “I got a new print of
Children of the Corn
if you want to watch it.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t look quite as mad anymore, just disappointed. Which was much worse.
I stood up and walked over to his chair. We were about the same height when he sat and I stood, and I pulled off his hat to run my fingers over his hair. It had worked for me in the past when words failed me, as they often did. I leaned in and stole a kiss, then backed away to gauge his reaction. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, his other hand cupping my neck as he kissed me back. The warmth rushed from my lips to my toes, and for a minute all was forgiven.
Until he pushed me away and snatched back his hat. “Damnit, Alex.” He wiped his lips off with the top of his hand. “I gotta go.” He crushed his hat back on his head and shoved his way out the door, leaving his large coffee behind.
I slunk back to my chair and sipped my mocha. When I was done, I forced myself to drink the rest of Leo’s coffee, too. The bitter taste filled my mouth and coated my stomach. I imagined it was poison, a concoction that would eat away at my tongue, my teeth, my esophagus, rendering me physically speechless. A fitting end to someone who never said the right thing.
BECCA STAYED HOME
from school much of the next week. The radiation made her throat incredibly sore, to the point where swallowing hurt. Her mom wouldn’t let me come over, telling me I made Becca laugh too much and that would just hurt her throat more. I sent Becca a link to
Ordinary People
, the saddest movie ever made, with the note, “I hope you never laugh again.”
She wrote me back that Caleb had come to her rescue with homemade hard candies.
Right. Hard candies. I know what you mean.
Perv.
Takes one to know one.
It was hard to communicate with Becca about Leo through typing only. She was stuck on the positive of “At least he wanted to see you. And he kissed you!”
“And then he stopped kissing me. Is there anything more mortifying than a guy not wanting to kiss you back?”
“Try not being able to kiss a guy because you have puke breath twenty-four, seven.”
That shut me up. My problems still weren’t real problems next to Becca’s.
I drowned my sorrow and guilt in Ben and Jerry’s and horror movies. Friday night, my mom asked if I would watch the twins so she could play mahjong with some friends.
“I know they’re old enough to be alone, but I’d feel better if you were home with them. Please don’t drive anywhere.” Mom had chilled a lot with her tension over driving, except at the thought of her three children being alone in a car together. She never said, but I knew what she thought; if we were all driving together, we could all die together, too. I told her we’d stay home, order pizza, watch some movies.
“Nothing too scary,” Mom requested. “CJ wouldn’t want you to know, but he’s been having nightmares lately.”
For being such a turd, CJ sure was sensitive.
I suggested we watch
Dead Set
with our pizza. “You know how you always ask me why I dress like this everyday? Well, now you’ll know. Plus, you love reality TV.”
“Sounds cool,” AJ agreed.
CJ wasn’t so convinced. “Is it scary?”
“No. It’s fake. Do you believe in zombies?”
“Not really. I mean, no.” CJ played it cool.
“The show is about a group of idiots on a reality show where they all have to live together in the same house. We get to watch behind the scenes, too, which is where my character is. Then, outside the house, where they’re totally locked in, the world is overrun with zombies. And they have to figure out what to do. It’s genius. Way more gross than scary. You love gross, CJ. Remember that mole rat that was eating its own baby at the zoo? It’s practically the same thing.”
CJ was lightly convinced by the mole rat, and we started the marathon. All was well for the first hour. But then things took a turn for the worse, and not just for the characters turning into the living dead.
“Can we turn it off?” I hadn’t noticed that CJ was squinting his eyes in an effort not to see the screen. I paused, unintentionally on a screen shot of someone getting their eyeball eaten.
“Just turn it off!” CJ yelled. I complied. This wasn’t normal CJ behavior. Tears formed at the corners of his closed eyes.