F*ck Love

K: You can’t just move to my home and not speak to me anymore.

Why not?

K: So, you really aren’t speaking to me?

No! I didn’t say that.

K: Where are you living?

Ugh. Yuck. It’s none of his business anyway. I don’t have to answer. In fact, I won’t.

I have a roommate. It’s Greer. I rent a room from her.

I bite my nails while I wait for his text bubble to pop up, but it never does. God, it’s like I have no self-control. No will power. I think about texting PSYCH! But I don’t do things like that either. Oh my God, I’m supposed to be doing things differently.

I text: psych

And then: Just kidding. About the psych. Not Greer. I really live with her.

And then: She’s so great. I don’t even care what you think.

And then: Are you mad at me?

I almost have no nails left by the time his bubble pops up, but that’s cool because everyone has fingernails, and I like to be different.

K: You’re manic.

I swear to God, I’m so sad about my nails. I was trying to grow them. I study my hands before typing: No. Not at all

He sends a picture. I recognize it as being part of the bar at Tavern on Hyde. The picture is of a glass of wine sitting on a beverage napkin. I smile.

K: I feel like you need it

Yeah. I wish

K: The good news is everywhere has wine! A friend of mine owns a winery over on Marrowstone. You should go check it out.

He sends me the address, and tells me it’s called Marrowstone Vineyards.

I mention the winery to Greer that night, hoping she’ll want to go with me. I sit on the only available stool in the reading room and watch her paint.

“Who told you about that place?” She puts down her brush. Her voice is defensive.

“Ummm, I just heard there’s wine. And I like wine. Are you okay?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah, sure. It’s just … that place has a lot of memories. My friends and I used to sneak on the property when we were younger, get high, and drink.”

I’ve never actually met any of her friends. Don’t get me wrong—Greer is a popular girl. When you have silver hair, and only wear one color, people will start to notice you. She never has people over, and though she knows everyone, there’s never been someone she’s seemed truly intimate with.

“So…”

“Sure,” she says. “It’ll be fun. Do you want to go tonight?” I wasn’t expecting to go tonight, but I shrug, and Greer goes to her room to get ready.

Ten minutes later she walks out wearing all black. Like, I’ve never seen Greer in anything but shades of purple. It scares me.

“Everything else is dirty,” she says when she sees my face. “Let’s go.”

I follow her out, wishing I had changed out of my work clothes. I’m such an underachiever it’s depressing. Beige bitch.

We listen to oldies as we curve the roads to Marrowstone. It’s unusually dry outside, but the clouds are dark and heavy—an ominous warning of the days to come. It’s like Greer reads my mind.

“Today is the last day before the rain comes. Enjoy it.”

I’ll enjoy the rain, but I don’t say so. It’s considered blasphemy in Washington to not enjoy the rainless summer while you have it. The winery sits on the water where you can watch the cruise ships pass on their way to the ocean. We pull up to a building and hop out of the car into the dirt. A vineyard sits beyond the building; already harvested of grapes, it’s just a dusty shadow of vines and leaves. To my left is a large house, which watches both the water and the winery from a collection of sharp rectangular windows. You can see the remnants of fruit on the ground around the trees: apples, cherries, pears, and plums—shriveled, their juices soaked into the dirt. Greer seems to be frozen on the spot as she looks toward the house.

“What is it?” I ask. “You look like you’ve seen a—”

“I-I’m fine. Let’s drink wine. Can we? Do you want to? Let’s go.” She marches up to the door of the winery. Did we exchange personalities on the ride over? I’m confused. She springs for a bottle and carries it outside to sit on the patio.

“Okay, seriously, Greer. What’s wrong with you?” I take the bottle from her and use the corkscrew to open it.

She points to the house.

“I cheated on my boyfriend,” she says. “Right there, next to that house.” I don’t look; I’d rather watch her face right now. Was this the place of downfall? The end of Kit and Greer?

“We didn’t have to come,” I say, wondering why Kit would suggest this place. Stupid fuck. It’s like he was trying to get … revenge! OMG!

“Greer,” I say. “Let’s go.”

“No,” she says firmly. “It’s just a place.”

“Tell me about it then,” I say. “Was it Kit?”

Her head turns so hard I’m afraid her little neck is going to break.

“How do you…?”

“A guess,” I say.

Greer is staring at her wine glass, glassy-eyed. All of a sudden she smiles.

“That was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“It’s cool,” she says. “I got you; it’s the ripples.”

I can’t tell if she’s covering her true feelings, but she just included me in her art—and I like that.

“I was just young,” she says. “I abandon before I can be abandoned. Sometimes that’s been a good thing, but with Kit, it wasn’t. I really hurt him. I’m not as reckless anymore. But I haven’t dated in a long time. I’m on strike.”

“My boyfriend cheated on me,” I tell her. “Before I came here. He got a girl in his office pregnant.”

“Fuck him,” Greer says. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Fuck him, and fuck love.” We clink glasses, and she looks genuinely happy after that. Maybe coming here wasn’t so bad after all. Therapeutic. I look toward the angular roof of the house and wonder who lives there. How many secret things has that house seen? I want to live in a house that’s seen things. I want to live.

You’ll never find a better place to be depressed than Washington State. There are thousands of places you can go to stare at beautiful scenery and feel deeply sorry for yourself. Most days, the sky will even weep with you. And thank God for that—for the absence of light. The setting of a perfect melodrama. Greer offers to take me to all of the best places to be depressed.