You (You #1)(99)

#1 Beck sees beyond my background and knows that you don’t have to go to college to be smart.

#2 Beck loves me in her own way, with a toothbrush, a robe.

#3 Beck isn’t afraid to tell me how much she loves being with me.

#4 Beck wakes up happy when she wakes up with me.

#5 Beck can’t cook and neither can I and she says that’s good because it means we get to learn, together.

#6 Beck looked up solipsistic in the dictionary that night. And now her dictionary is marked with all kinds of words that came out of my mouth and into her world.

#7 When she orgasms, she clings on to me with her entire body. Her tits respond to my touch. Respond. Her whole body is a response.

#8 She has the capacity to be genuinely happy for other people. She takes pride in the fact that she put Ethan and Blythe together. She is sweet.

#9 She remembers everything I said or nothing I said and it’s always good either way. She says sometimes that she’s so crazy about me that she goes deaf when I talk.

I can’t wait anymore. I want you now and I run up the last few steps and swing open the door and I’m hard as a rock and I’ve got Pitch Perfect in my hand but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The tapestry that covers the hole is on the floor. And you look at me with new eyes when you see me. You are holding a pair of your panties. You quiver with fear, like I am a horror movie, like I am a Rottweiler or a rejection letter and I am none of those things and I take a step toward you. “Beck,” I try.

“No,” you say. “No.”





46


YOU’RE the one who snooped in my wall yet you’re acting like I’m the only one in this apartment with problems. You want to leave me, of course. You are afraid of the Box of Beck. You are judgmental, nasty. You stand in front of the hole in the wall behind my sofa—my special and private place—and my box is on my sofa, partially shredded because you tore into it like a sewer rat. There is only one good thing about any of this. In your haste to snoop through my things, you left your phone on the coffee table. I grab it while you’re burrowing through the box.

“This is a used tampon.”

“It’s in plastic.”

“Don’t you fucking move,” you order.

A lot of guys would be pissed, but not me. I know you’re out of your mind right now, Beck. Hell, you’re angry that I “stole” your Mardi Gras beads but you didn’t even know they were missing until now. You’re mad that I helped you scour your apartment for your Chanel sunglasses last week when I “clearly” knew they were in this box. But honestly, you’re better off without those fucking obnoxious glasses. They’re for people like Peach; you look silly in them and you change the subject.

“Well, what about this?” you vent. “This is my yearbook, Joe.”

“And it’s perfectly fine.”

“It’s mine, you sicko. You didn’t go to Nantucket High School. This is my book from my life and my friends and my home.”

“Beck.” You have never sounded more selfish but I will be patient.

You point at me. “No.”

You can’t be held responsible for your actions. You keep looking at the fire escape like that’s a possibility for you. You’re talking crazy, like you’d leave me after all that pie, all that talk about moving in together. I try to reach you: “Beck, calm down. You’re not climbing out the window and you’re not gonna run down the stairs when you’re out of your mind like this.”

Round and round we go, one minute you are afraid, one minute you are going to kill me, one minute you think I am going to kill you, one minute you are the victim of my evildoing (LOL) and one minute I am the victim because you are going to kill me (LOL). You snarl and call me a fucking sicko. I know you don’t mean it. If you were truly afraid, you would make a serious attempt to “escape.” But the fact is that I know you. I know you are pleased with your discovery. You like attention and devotion and that box is proof that I am attentive, devoted. If that box contained Candace’s things, you would have broken your neck trying to get out of my home. You will get on my side, but I have to be patient. You’re in shock. You scream again. My head is starting to pound and I worry about the neighbors and I snap.

“Would you please shut the fuck up already? Do you hear me calling you names? How do you think I feel when I walk in here and find you in my wall? Do you think that feels good? Do you think I like to be spied on?”

“You have a box of my shit,” you sneer. “I’m leaving.”

“Nobody’s making any decisions right now,” I say. “And let’s be honest, Beck. I could just as easily say I’m done with you for snooping around in my stuff.”

“I—I can’t believe this,” you stammer. “You’re crazy. You’re crazy.” And here you go again, with the chattering teeth and you’re pulling at your hair. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Don’t you get tired of your dramatics?

“Calm down, Beck,” I plead. “Why don’t you sit down on the sofa?”

Your cheeks get red and you get up on your tippy toes and you call me names—psycholoonnutjobfreakassholesickocreep—and it’s fine. I know you don’t mean it.

“Oh I mean it, Joe.” You gawk and you brandish my Figawi hat. “I don’t even want to know where this comes from.”