You by Caroline Kepnes
“Right,” I said, and I didn’t realize it but an imprint was made then and I would never have a woman over without candles lit because of some pussy-whipped husband buying Tom Clancy for himself and candles for his sex-withholding wife. What makes us become us? What fucks us up and why? I have no idea but I know that at 7:12 I started to resent those candles and the little pathetic scented fires in each of them. The pizza was cold and the wine I bought—I hate wine—was getting shittier by the second. You can’t let wine breathe for that long—and I knew you weren’t coming and that it was a matter of time before you flaked out on me and sure enough at 7:14 when I was sitting at the table—the table I dragged home and up the stairs for this very moment—when you texted:
Don’t hate me but I have to bail
And that smiley face is your body, closed, and your eyes averted and your resignation from all things me, from all things us, and I don’t need to read your e-mail to know that I can’t fully blame this on Peach because she’s not the spazzing dick, that’s me, and I put Twizzlers in a vase for you, Beck. I pick up the vase and throw it at the wall, at the tapestry I bought from an old lady down the street to cover the hole in the wall to make you feel more at ease in my place. The vase doesn’t crack. It just bounces onto the couch and I must be the limpest limp dick in the world. I can’t even break a vase and I lunge at the candles but I don’t want to set this place on fire. You were in this place and still you fucked me. I cannot hold this place responsible and I cannot blame the vase or the Twizzlers or the DO NOT CROSS police tape on the shower curtains and I lower my hand onto a candle and the fire is hot and my skin aches and I’d set my dick on fire if I could but we know that I’m a limp dick pussy. I don’t have the balls to do that. The smell of burnt flesh overwhelms the cold pizza and it’s a good thing I didn’t waste any money on flowers.
29
I’LL tell you something about suicide, Beck. If I were going to off myself with a handgun or a noose or a permanent swim, which I’m not, now would be the time to do it. You have dismissed me and it’s been five hours and eleven days since you took your love away and all of our songs sound bad because they will never see us standing from such great heights and no, you will not still love me tomorrow because you never loved me at all. I’m not Bobby Short or (the real) Beck and you don’t want to defy the logic of all sex laws with me and you are not in love again and you do not love, love, love it. I made it inside of you and you don’t want me back. Nothing is fun anymore, not even coming up with tweaked-out Benji tweets:
Coke. Because I’ll sleep when I’m dead. #cocacola #hahaha
“Excuse me but can you stop with your phone and look at me,” an uppity old broad squawks. I hit TWEET and offer my assistance.
The bitch barks, “I said I don’t need a bag. I brought my own.”
“Good for you,” I snap and crumple the paper bag and throw it in the trash just to let her know who’s boss and Ethan sighs and apologizes to her and pulls the bag out of the trash and this is what my life has come to: me, Ethan, and a bunch of book-buying assholes.
I spend day after day with Ethan and getting to know him is no easy thing especially now that I don’t get to tell you about him. You complained about the loud fan in the employee restroom and pushed me to replace it as anyone would; Ethan calls it a “sound machine” and claims it doesn’t bother him. He’s almost like a hermaphrodite, this kid, in a CK One asexual cologne 1992 sort of way. Without asking I can tell you that he knows all the words to “Gonna Make You Sweat” and he’d be at home on a dance floor sidestepping, clapping, and counting. Out loud. He’s aggressive in all the wrong ways and he was born too late and he looks tired at forty-one from years of hunting for a color-blocked, Rick Dees–narrated way of life. You can either feel bad for the guy or jump him and steal his wallet. He’s a litmus test of a person and half the customers meet his smile and the other half glare at him and I tell him all the time that he should work in an old folks home and I mean it. He could deejay dance parties for people in wheelchairs, on life support. People with crooked, chamomile-scented dicks and lazy, warped vaginas would spark to his total, complete, and tragically inherent want for a time long gone.
“Have a good one, ma’am!”
“Ethan, you don’t have to call everybody ‘ma’am,’ ” I say. “Some people, some people you just wave or leave it at ‘you’re welcome.’ ”
He won’t listen or learn or bend and I’m losing patience with him, with life, with humans. I have nothing left to crave and dream about anymore. I feel queasy when I look at him because he’s so fucking nice that he doesn’t mention you at all. He doesn’t lord his relationship over me and he says as little as possible about Blythe, which makes me like a pity case. All I have is a shitty memory of our quick sexual congress, your eight seconds as a monkey locked to my dick. Every day, the hotness in Macy’s seems cooler and the sex memories are like all memories, doomed to tarnish and weaken with time. You told Chana:
I just got too deep, too fast . . . again.
The again hurt and it’s all perpetually downhill. My days begin with stale Frosted Flakes and newly ripped jeans I forgot to wash, won’t wash; you were on them. I ride the train to work and I don’t care about the books because you’re not touching them. I check your e-mail ferociously. You go on with your life and you don’t write to me. I pick at the scab on my burnt finger. I don’t want it to heal and I want this pain and I tear at my finger that you liked so much that night in the horse-drawn carriage. My finger oozes pus and blood and pain like everything else in my life. If Ethan tells me one more fucking time that I ought to go get my finger checked out and sue the maker of the coffee pot—I had to think fast, you can’t tell the new kid on the register that you lit up your finger when you got dumped—well, if Ethan doesn’t shut his face he’s gonna get hit in the face, pus and all.
And even though you only worked here a short while, you were a permanent marker on this place. And somehow, it feels vicious that Ethan now stands in your place. He likes new things, crisp Gap “merch”—“What a great sale!” he exclaims as if I want to know the story of how he got his discount denim—and his button-down shirts—“On Tuesdays, everything in the clearance section at the Gap is an additional forty percent off!” he informs me, as if to mark my calendar, as if I asked—and every day he’s in a good fucking mood and clean shaven and tragically, pathetically hopeful that more good things are going to happen for him. Having Blythe has made him feel like a winner and he plays the lottery now. “Hey, Joe, maybe we can go in on a ticket together, you know, like you read about in the paper, those guys that work together and win together!” Every day he raves about his coffee—as if this is something that needs to be pointed out, that coffee tastes like coffee—and when it’s January, the most universally reviled month of the year, and it’s sleeting and the sky looks like acid washed jeans and the store has to be mopped three times a day because of slobs in their boots and slobs with their umbrellas, and he’s got to fucking sing out, “Don’t you love a gray day?” and when the sun does shine to mock us cuz it’s thirty-two degrees he’s got to sing out again, “Nothing like a winter sun, am I right?”
And the worst part is that he won’t hate me, Beck. I can ignore him and bark at him and he’s my dog, smiling every time I walk into the shop. He’d never kill himself either, even if he missed a 75 percent off sale at the Gap. He’s too mild. One day, when he first started, he showed up with a bag from Bed Bath & Beyond. When he went to take a shit—he eats too much bran, worries about his colon—I peeked in the bag. Do you know what was in there? I’ll tell you what was in there: a collapsible tray table. Is there any sadder purchase in this fucking world? Maybe a CD of C+C Music Factory’s Greatest Hits, but that’s about it. And I remember thinking, Ethan is gonna go home from the shop and make fiber for dinner and put the dinner on his new tray and watch network sitcoms and think about how funny The Big Bang Theory is. He will literally lick the plate clean and fold his tra
I hate Ethan. I hate him for having Blythe. When we broke up, they should have broken up and I try to be normal. I ask him what’s up with them, but he feeds me bullshit: “We don’t want to rush into anything and we both value our independence, so we’re taking it nice and slow, you know?”
No, I don’t know because I don’t value my independence. I value your pussy. If I were in his Reeboks—divorced, coupon-hoarding, slow—I would have put a bullet in my head. These are the darkest days in the history of the world and I’m losing it. And as if that’s not enough, he is trying to learn Spanish from listening to Enrique Iglesias songs and he asks if he can put some on right now.
“Sure,” I say. I don’t care anymore. I’m so dead that I’m deaf.
“I don’t have to listen to it right now.” He panders. “Want me to play something else? I have a ton of playlists on here. I have club music and rock music and jazz music.”
“Ethan, it’s not ‘jazz music.’ It’s just ‘jazz.’ ”
“Joe, you know so much about everything,” he says and he always finds a reason to smile. If I gave him a bloody nose he’d find a reason to thank me. “I feel like I’m learning more every day!”
I go downstairs and lock the door and check your e-mail. There is a lot of junk about school, some financial bickering with your parents, your dad is helping you “a little” and you’re pity-partying with Lynn and Chana about “the Januaries.” You are trying to keep busy, buying all kinds of shit online, putting it on Daddy’s credit card, then promising Daddy you’ll return it. There’s no way around it anymore. You are gone, shopping, and I peel the new skin off my burn and watch the pus ooze. I am not healing. I refuse to get over you. Then you write to Chana:
I am so sorry but I am not gonna be able to go to that show with you next week. It’s just, well, I miss Joe.
If I had a folding TV dinner tray I would hurl it at the window and pound my chest like a barbarian, like a thick-dicked alpha gorilla. Yes! You miss me! It’s true! You do! The countdown to the apocalypse is canceled and you miss me and I blow on my finger and I love life and C+C Music Factory and maybe Ethan really will learn Spanish and I read on:
I don’t know if it’s him per se or what we had. But I keep thinking about him and I keep almost calling and I am going to call if I don’t get out of here. So I am gonna go to Peach’s place in Little Compton and just kind of decompress.
And now I’m pacing because you love me so much you have to leave New York. It’s official. You are obsessed and you go on:
So, again, SO sorry to bail. But Peach says you are welcome to join if you want!
Chana’s response is epic and I love her and I love the world. She is succinct:
? Um, ok, Beck. You miss Joe so you’re running off to a deserted beach house in the dead of winter with Peach?
You: I need space.
Chana: Well, no offense but I don’t think of a Peach pit as “space.” See you when you’re back.
You miss me and you miss me and there’s an e-mail from Peach:
Beckalicious, you rule. I know you were on the verge of calling Joseph last night and I am SO PROUD OF YOU for not caving. You are so talented and you’re in school. Of course that has to come first. And Joseph above anyone would want you to do what’s best for you. Don’t be so hard on yourself, B. Anywho . . . we’re going to have a blast in LC. Oh. Before I forget, it turns out that most of the bedrooms are mid-renovation. I hate to do this but can you actually not invite C&L? Thanks!
Bedrooms are under construction but there is always room for one more. It’s vacation time! And before you can vacate you need to prepare! Everyone knows that! I bolt up the stairs and tell Ethan I’m going to the Gap.
“Don’t even look at anything in the front!” he advises. “Plow right on through to the back!”
“You’re a good man, Ethan,” I say and I mean it. “You’ll be speaking Spanish in no time!”
“Thanks, Joe! Or should I say . . . Gracias! And remember, it’s Tuesday!”
“I know,” I say. “All clearance items are forty percent off.”
“You know it, Joe!”
And I do. I can’t wait to get new things. I like old things but you like new things and maybe there’s something to be said for new things. You miss me and that’s new, and that’s good.
30
I’M back at the shop surrounded by newness, and maybe I’m more like you than I know because the new things are exciting, Beck. New bandages—clean!—new hat—wool!—new haircut—short!—and a new attitude—psyched! I let Ethan go home early and he said he was happy to see me in such high spirits. It’s only a matter of time before you reach out to me—you miss me—and I check your e-mail again because the news has been so good. Chana’s laying into you about your “LC” tweet:
Chana: “LC”? Beck, the only way you could sound like more of an asshole is if by “LC” you mean Lauren Conrad. You can’t call it “LC” if you’ve never been there. Which you haven’t, right?
You: Okay, you’re right. LC was a lame tweet. I just feel kind of off since Joe.
Chana: If you feel off, then you should be a grown-up and call him up and see him again. Running away with Princess Peach is literally the worst thing to do.
You: I know. It’s like in Sex and the City when Carrie is in Paris with the Russian and she says she can’t help but wonder what it would be like if she were there with Mr. Big.
Chana: Except that’s a bullshit TV show where they have to drag things out. This is real life. Stop being a drama queen and call him up. Who knows? Maybe he’ll even go to Rhode Island for a night.
Oh Beck, I’m going to be there every night. This is it. Our new beginning. You write back:
You: Hmm. That actually sounds kind of nice.
Chana: Then do it. Invite him. Fuck Peach. You can pretend he hunted you down all romantic and shit.
You: Maybe. Imagine if I just text him the address and say come lol.
And I check my phone for a text from you. Nothing. But it’s official, you want me and it’s official, I want you. I can’t sit around here and wait. I have to man up and I do. First things first, I find Peach’s family’s address online through a combination of an old article in Architectual Digest and Google Maps. Now I call Mr. Mooney and ask if it’s okay to go on a road trip and close up for a few days.
“Joe, you’re the boss over there now. And you know how I feel about January. It’s a waste. Take a vacation. You’ve earned it.”
And I have.
All the while, you’ve been e-mailing with Chana and Lynn, who is also on Team Joe, naturally:
Lynn: So why don’t you run away with him instead of Peach?
You: Please don’t hate on Peach. She’s going through a rough time.
Chana: Her whole life is a rough time. Ugh. Next!
Lynn: You know everything in that part of Rhode Island is closed, Beck.
You: Guys, please. It’s just a weekend. It’s not a big deal.
Chana: Tell her thanks for inviting me and Lynn. Whatever.
You: Chana, she did invite you. She asked me to invite you.
Lynn: That’s not the same thing as a personal invitation . . .
You: Guys, she’s depressed. You know she has a stalker, right?
Lynn: LOLOLOLOLOL
Chana: How much is she paying him?
Lynn: LOLOLOLOLOL
You: Guys . . . she means well
Chana: Of course $he doe$.
Lynn: #welldonechana
You:
I love your friends for being on my side. It means a lot to me and one day at our wedding I’l
Peach: Almost forgot, you will DIE over our library. Tons of first editions, Beck. Spalding was a friend of the family, we have tons signed, so much amazing stuff, real rare editions that you can’t get anywhere. I mean I have a signed To the Lighthouse. Virginia Woolf, well, it’s a long story better saved for this weekend over a bottle of Pinot.
You: You know who would love that? Ugh, of course you know who would love that.
Peach: I know, sweetie. I also promise that getting out of the city will be the best distraction.
You: Yeah. I hope so.
I toss your phone into the plastic Gap shopping bag. It’s time to stop reading your e-mail and start getting ready to see you. I can’t wait until you break down and write to me. And I know you will. You’ll be all alone in your bedroom in the beach house thinking about how much better it would be with me. You’ll text me and I’ll get there and you’ll let me in and we’ll sneak upstairs and have beach house sex. I am calm now that I know our fate. All I have to do is get to Little Compton and await your call.
I lock the basement doors and turn off the lights and try to remember where I parked Mr. Mooney’s car and wonder if I should take 95 the whole way. Murphy’s Law exists for a reason, so the front door opens and a few latecomers shuffle inside.
I call out in my friendliest tone, “I hate to do this but we’re closing!”
I know the sounds of this shop and I have a bad feeling. I know what it sounds like when someone locks the front door and I know what it sounds like when the OPEN sign flips to CLOSED. My machete is in the basement and I am upstairs and I hear them charging me, whoever they are. There are three of them, faceless dudes in Barack Obama masks, two big, one smaller. The smaller one wields a crowbar and there’s no time to hide in the vestibule or the basement. When you can’t win, you lose and they all come at me at once.