You (You #1)(58)

“So, I know it’s been a while,” you say. “But I needed someone and I thought of you and . . . you didn’t answer my calls.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and I should have given you a chance. If I were a brave man, this conversation would be happening in your apartment.

You hug your knees and rock. “Anyway, I just don’t even know right now. I’m a mess.”

“Are you okay?”

You shake your head no.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Your eyes well up and you look at me like you’ve been protecting someone for so long, like you’ve always said no when the answer is yes and you squeak out an answer. “Yes.”

And you’re bawling. I go to you and let you cry and you don’t say anything for a while. I scoop you into my arms and let you cry. Your tears soak my T-shirt and I feel like some stalker who will never wash his clothes again and your whole body is shaking from unhappiness and I will make you rattle with joy soon, soon. You pat me on the back. “Okay. I’m okay.”

I understand that you need your space and I return to my chair and you let out a big sigh. “Have you ever carried a secret around? I mean, a secret as in a lie. And one day you just fucking can’t do it anymore. And you have to let it out?”

I see Candace’s musical fucking brother on TV sometimes and I want to smash the screen and tell him that his sister did not drown while body surfing. I nod. “Yeah, I get it.”

Your eyes skate around and they finally land on me. “Well, it’s a long story but, Joe, here’s the thing. I lied to you and to everyone. My dad is not dead. He’s very alive and very well and living on Long Island.”

“Whoa,” I say. You chose me.

“I couldn’t hold it in anymore,” you say. “I had to tell someone, or else.”

“I get it,” I say. And I do. And I think that you didn’t choose someone, you chose me. And that means something, Beck. You hunted me down, me.

“And you know how girls are,” you say. “If I told Peach or Chana or Lynn or anyone like that, then they’d tell someone and that person would tell someone and someone would send out some cryptic tweet about it and ugh. That’s why I thought of you. I knew you’d let it stay here.”

“I get it,” I say. And I do. I keep many secrets and now I have yours.

“And honestly, you know, in a way I’m not lying because in every way he is dead to me, Joe,” you rail on. “But the thing is, he married a lawyer and she’s rich and he has money and I’m broke. And of course he won’t just give me money, no. I have to troll around in a fucking Charles Dickens dress with his spoiled offspring in order to get anything out of him.”

“That was a lot of information,” I say. “Charles Dickens?”

You laugh and tell me about the festival. I have to be careful here and I act like I’ve never heard of such a thing and I let you share the details and I’m methodical in my reactions and then I shake my head. “This is a lot,” I say. “Is it worth it? Putting up with all that for a few bucks?”

“Well, life costs money,” you say and you cross your arms. “If he can pay for his new kids to eat organic candy apples then he should have to pay for his old kid too.”

“I get it,” I say. And I do. Your dad and his wife probably blew four hundred bucks on Dickens costumes, hot cocoa, and candy apples. And you’re not the kind of girl to wait tables. Your friends don’t worry about money; why should you?

You finish sending a text and relax your arms and lower your legs and when animals open up like that, they want to fuck. You’re my animal on my sofa and you look around my home. “Wow,” you say. “You really do like old things.”

“I found every single thing in here on the street,” I say, proud.

“I see that,” you say, disgusted. You prefer new, sterile IKEA, yet you tuck your dirty tissues into your mangy purse. Ah, women. You wiggle your toes and start in about your dad again: “Divorce is different when you’re from a poor-ish family, you know? My dad met Ronnie on the island when she was on vacation. Literally, Joe, he met her at a bar where my sister was working. And it was hard enough to start college as the girl who grew up where everyone else goes to vacation. I didn’t want to tell people that my townie dad ran off with a tourist. Enough already, you know?”

“It’s not fair,” I say.

“It’s not,” you say and I’ve never seen you so worked up. “Being an Ivy League townie is one thing, but a townie with an absentee father? Fuck that. It’s a cliché.”

“I get it,” I say. And I do. I love you for being the prideful, scrappy little fighter that you are. You’re powerful; you kill people. You’re brutal.

“I figured when I moved here I’d start all over but I didn’t think it through.” You sigh and shake your head. “Everyone from school is here and if I told my friends about my dad now, I’d have to deal with it, you know?”

“I know,” I say. “People can be judgmental about stuff like this. You have to watch out.”

“Nobody knows,” you say and your eyes are big, mine. “Nobody.”

“Except me,” I say and you blush.

“Except you,” you repeat and you smile, almost, and then you sadden. “And I know I shouldn’t be so insecure, but he didn’t just leave, you know? He built a whole new family with a younger, cuter wife and younger, cuter kids.”