F*ck Love

“Well, because I’m a grownup, and I don’t need to confer with my friends about my decisions.”

We are sitting at a sidewalk cafe in downtown Ft. Lauderdale. The waiter drops off our sangria, and, sensing the tension, disappears almost immediately. She pulls out her phone to text Kit—fast thumbs, a childlike pout.

“Hey,” I say, touching her hand. “We can visit each other. Think of how fun that will be.”

There are tears in her eyes when she sets her phone down on the table. “I don’t want to be here without you.” A second later I see a text from Kit pop up. “What?!”

“Nah, you’ll be okay, Dells. You have Kit, and your new house. You guys want to get married…” My voice trails off on the last one. I take a sip of sangria. The glass is sweating.

Della sniffs. “Kit’s on his way,” she says.

“Oh, no. Dells, why? This was supposed to be just girls!”

I get panicky. Take more sips. Signal the waiter for another.

“Well, everything changed when you announced you were moving away.”

We mostly small talk. I make fun of myself because it always makes her smile. But, today Della is focused, and nothing can distract her.

“Who will save me from my family?” she asks. “Who will show up to make me snacks?”

“Kit,” I say. “That’s his job now.”

Kit arrives, and the mood of our lunch changes. He doesn’t feed into Della’s depression; instead, he lights up the whole restaurant with his wit, and his suspenders, which he’s wearing because he has to go straight to work after this. We are signing receipts, and closing our wallets when he turns to me.

“Why?”

“Not you too; just leave me alone about it,” I say. Della sniffles and leaves to go to the bathroom to cry.

“Why?” he asks again when she’s gone.

I look at him long and hard. He doesn’t look away.

“Why not? I’m young, I’m boring, I’m hurt. Seems right.”

“You’re running,” he says.

I wonder why he’s looking at me so intently, and why he’s clenching his fists, and why he looks so great in suspenders.

“You should know,” I shoot back.

His mouth tightens, but I’ve got him there.

“Where are you going?”

This is the hard part. I haven’t told anyone but my parents where I’m going. I want it to stay that way until I move.

I shake my head.

“You’re going to Washington,” he says.

My mouth twitches. Bad, bad poker face. How the hell does he know that?

“No.”

“Yes, yes you are,” he hisses.

I look over his shoulder to check for Della. She’s still drying her tears.

“No, I’m moving to Dallas.”

“You’re lying. It’s hot there, and you hate cutoffs and boots.”

How does he know that?

“Are you leaving because of me?”

Ooof, ouch, the heat from his eyes is burning.

I try to look offended. I even roll my eyes. I’m not good at eye rolling, Neil used to say it made me look gassy.

“I told you why I’m leaving,” I tell him, standing up. He grabs my hand, and it’s like the dream. So much that I yank away from him and take a few steps back. Where’s the crayon? I see it, lying on the floor under the table. God. Is it blue? You’re being stupid, I tell myself. This is a restaurant, there are always blue crayons lying on the floor.

“You’re not crazy,” he says. “I—”

“Kit,” I interrupt him. “Della’s coming.”

Della calls me later that night. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences lately, but you’re still my best friend, and I love you.” I let that sink in along with guilt. “We’ll make this work.”

“Sure, Dells. Of course we will.”

“I have to have someone to call to update about my life,” she says.

“Of course you do.” I smile against my phone. “That person has always been me, hasn’t it?”

When people resolve themselves to something, it becomes very difficult to feel anything but that resolve. And so, as I board my plane to Seattle, wearing a Sounders sweatshirt that June gave me as a goodbye gift, I do not cry, I do not worry, and I do not have feelings of self-doubt. This was what I had decided to do, and that was that. I pull my wine cork from my purse and hold it tightly in my fist as I take my seat and stare out the window. The Florida rain is hard and slanted. I wonder if it will be raining when I reach Seattle, which I hear has more of a gentle mist. I do not think of Kit, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Della. I do not think of Della, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Kit. I think only of my new adventure. In fact, it’s the only adventure I’ve ever taken, which makes it more exciting. A first. I want to be a magical folk, and not a muggle. I pull out my worn, dog-eared copy of The Goblet of Fire. It’s the same book I’ve kept on my nightstand since I first read it six years ago. My favorite of the seven. I brought it with to read on the plane, for courage. To remind myself of why I am doing this. It’s my Felix Felicis.

“Harry Potter,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?”

A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face? Don’t stereotype, Helena! I do my best to smile politely.

“Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly.

“But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?”

She’s enraged.

“You would love this book,” I say, shoving The Goblet of Fire at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.”

“You, young lady, are part of a depraved and lost generation.”