You (You #1)(52)

21


I’M not mad. Really. I’m not mad. You’re a good friend. I know that Peach’s parents have already gone back to San Francisco. And I know that you have to be there for her. I am not going to challenge you like Lynn and Chana who throw around words like codependent and refuse to visit Peach in the hospital. I’m not mad. I’m not! I prove that I’m not mad by sending flowers to her in the hospital. I even pay extra for a big yellow balloon with a smiley face.

Does a guy who’s mad buy the balloon? No, he doesn’t.

And I’m not being a dick to customers, either. You can tell I’m not mad because I’m more patient than ever. I don’t lay into Curtis about being late and I don’t bitch him out when he forgets to order more Doctor Sleep (the only book we’re moving, aside from the prequel, of course) and watching that book settle in at the top of the Times bestseller list makes me more and more aware of the fact that we’re not progressing. Our first real date was the day that book came out and now that book’s breaking records and having its third fucking month on the bestseller list and I’m reading about the inevitable movie adaptation on the Internet for no reason at all—and I am not mad at you or at King or at the customers or Peach or anything. I am not mad she’s a liar. I feel for the poor girl. She’s obviously a product of her family’s sociopathic tendencies and she’s tragically obsessed with you and honestly, if anything, I’m just worried for you.

And I can wait. Some good shit happens fast (a bestselling book), and some good shit happens slow (love). I get it. You are busy. You got class—I get it—and you got Peach—I get it—and you’re not avoiding me—I get it—and you have pages due—I get it—and Peach just can’t deal with being around guys—I get it—and you can’t e-mail as much with all that’s going on—I get it—and you think of me when you get into your bed that I made for you—I get it. You see, Beck, I am not a narcissistic asshole who expects his needs to come first at all times. I wake up and run to the water and back and my legs are firmer all the time—you’ll see, eventually—and I sell King and I read King and I eat lunch, alone, and dinner, alone, and not once do I bitch at you about blowing me off. Not once.

The balloon, Beck, it was almost ten more dollars with the tax and when I asked you if it got there, I could hear the Peach in you.

“Yeah,” you said. “It did.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, Joe, forget it. I mean for her everything is wrong right now, you know?”

“Beck, what the fuck?”

And I didn’t say that in an asshole way. I just wanted you to be straight with me.

“Joe, never mind. It’s fine.”

“Obviously, it’s not.”

You let out a sigh and you’re the one who’s mad and you sound different, like you’ve been drinking the green juice delivered to Peach’s each morning, like you’re starting to like this way of life, sleeping uptown, waking up without a single piece of IKEA in the room.

“Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not mad, Beck.”

“We both just felt like the balloon was a little insensitive.”

“Insensitive.”

“I mean . . . it’s a smiley face.”

“It’s a get-well balloon.”

“Yes, but, Joe, it’s not that simple.”

“On the website it’s right there in the Get Well section.”

“Yes, but it’s not like she got hurt playing tennis.”

Tennis.

“Beck, be reasonable.”

“I am reasonable.”

“I meant no harm.”

“I know, Joe. It’s just that a giant yellow smiley face is kind of the last thing in the world you want to see when there’s some creep out there who broke into your home and attacked you. I mean, it’s a smile. This is just, like . . .”

“Jesus,” I said.

“It’s not a smiling kind of time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Beck, can we get coffee or something?”

“I really can’t right now.”

You never sounded farther away from me and I will take that balloon and stab the fuck out of it and at the same time I will take that balloon and tie it around Peach’s neck because WHO THE FUCK CAN CUNT OUT OVER A BALLOON?

WELL, it’s been seven hours and six whole days since Peach got home from the hospital. You are busy with school and busy with Peach, still living at her house. But you are not too busy to exchange e-mails with a stranger named [email protected].

You: Hey, can you call me??

Captain: Not right now. Are you still coming this weekend?

You: I’m really busy. Can’t you just call me?

Captain: I want to see you.

You: I don’t have a car.

Captain: Get one and I’ll take care of it. You’re still size small, right?

You: Yes.

When your plans with the Captain are finalized, you leave Peach’s place and get into a cab. I call you. I get voice mail and I do not leave a message. I am not the Captain and you ignore Peach’s call and she e-mails you, all caps: WHERE ARE YOU?