I'm Thinking of Ending Things(11)

Jake readjusts his hands on the wheel, sits up even straighter. I hear my phone beep, indicating a message has been left.

“He told me he knew it seemed weird to talk about this. He may even have apologized, admitting he’d never told anyone else this detail. She swore this talent made her more powerful than money or intelligence or anything else. The fact that she was the best kisser in the world made her the center of the universe, in her words.

“He was looking for me to reply, or to say something. I didn’t know what to say. So I told him what came to mind, that kissing involves two people. You can’t be a singular person and be the best kisser. It’s an action that requires two. ‘So really,’ I said, ‘you would only be the best if the other person was also the best, which is impossible.’ I told him, ‘It’s not like playing the guitar or something, where you’re alone and you know you’re good at it. It’s not a solitary act. There needs to be two best.’

“My answer seemed to bother him. He was visibly upset. He didn’t like the idea that alone, you couldn’t be the best kisser, that one was reliant on another kisser. And then he said, ‘This is too much to overcome.’ He said that would mean we’d always need someone else. But what if there wasn’t someone else? What if we are all just alone?

“I didn’t know what to say. Then he kind of snapped, as if we’d been in an argument. He said, ‘It’s stupid to try to wait the rain out.’ He told me to take a right out of the parking lot. It was so strange. He indicated where I should go with various tilts of his head. He was quiet after that.”

“Interesting,” says Jake.

“I’m almost done.”

“Go on.”

“For the remainder of the lesson, Doug was twitchy in his seat and seemed disinterested in anything driving related. He offered some basic advice on driving technique, but mostly he looked out the windshield. This was my first and last driving lesson.

“Since it was still raining, he told me he’d drop me off at my place so I didn’t have to wait for the bus. Very little was said. When we reached my house, I pulled up in front and told him I’d keep practicing with my dad. He said that was a good idea. I left him there and ran into the house.

“About a minute later—it wasn’t long—I came back outside. He was still there in the car. He’d moved himself into the driver’s seat and had the wheel in both hands. The seat was still positioned for me, as was the mirror. He was squished in tight. I signaled for him to lower the window. He slid the seat back first before rolling the window down. It was still normal then not to have power windows.

“Before it had fully reached the bottom, I slid my head into the car and gently placed a hand on his left shoulder. My hair was soaked. I had to make a point. I told him to shut his eyes for a second. My face was close to his. He did. He shut his eyes and sort of leaned toward me. And then . . .”

“What? I can’t believe you did this,” says Jake. “What the hell came over you?”

It’s the most animated I’ve ever seen Jake. He’s shocked, almost angry.

“I’m not sure. It just felt like I had to.”

“This seems so unlike you. Did you ever see him after that?”

“No, I didn’t. That was it.”

“Huh,” says Jake. “Is a second person required for there to be a best kisser? It’s interesting. That’s the kind of thing that can stay with you, that you can think about and obsess over.”

Jake passes the slow-moving pickup in front of us. It’s black, old. We’ve been following that truck for a while, pretty much for the entire story. I try to see the driver as we go by but can’t make him out. There haven’t been many cars with us on the road.

“What did you mean when you said all memory is fiction?” I ask.

“A memory is its own thing each time it’s recalled. It’s not absolute. Stories based on actual events often share more with fiction than fact. Both fictions and memories are recalled and retold. They’re both forms of stories. Stories are the way we learn. Stories are how we understand each other. But reality happens only once.”

This is when I’m most attracted to Jake. Right now. When he says things like “Reality happens only once.”

“It’s just weird, when you start thinking about it. We go see a movie and understand it’s not real. We know it’s people acting, reciting lines. It still affects us.”

“So you’re saying that it doesn’t matter if the story I just told you is made up or if it actually happened?”

“Every story is made up. Even the real ones.”

Another classic Jake line.

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“You know that song ‘Unforgettable’?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How much is truly unforgettable?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I like the song, though.”

“Nothing. Nothing is unforgettable.”

“What?”

“That’s the thing. Part of everything will always be forgettable. No matter how good or remarkable it is. It literally has to be. To be.”

“That is the question?”

“Don’t,” says Jake.