You Love Me(You #3)(47)

I needed you and you knew it—our connection is like me, it exists—and I settle into my sofa and my cats gather and romp. I spend the rest of the night texting with you about Christmas stories and the Bukowski you bought for Nomi and it’s calming and cozy—you send me a picture of your bare legs, your fuzzy sock slippers—and our phones are magic. We are magic and we light up the wee hours of the long, heavy night but eventually you do have to get some sleep—big day today—and I wish you sweet dreams. I am content. Loved. It’s almost like your friend Melanda ceases to exist, like Santa Claus finally did me an overdue solid and schlepped into this house and dragged your friend out of here, onto his fucking sleigh.

Almost.





17





It’s the day after Christmas and I’ve been living in a fantasy, texting with you when you manage to squirrel away from your family. This power imbalance wouldn’t work with anyone but you, Mary Kay, constantly empathetic—I hope you don’t mind me only having a minute here and there—and though we don’t say it, we both know that this is the last holiday we’ll spend apart.

My present to Melanda was giving her exactly what she wanted: no fucking food. But it’s been almost two days and I don’t want her to starve to death—that takes too long—so I’m on my way downstairs with a bowl of food—she really is like my dog—and lucky for me, she’s asleep. No more film school today because she’ll make up more stories to stay alive. And it’s not entirely her fault for thinking she has a chance. Last night, I told you about how I gave the fecal-eyed family a wreath and you said I’m too nice for my own damn good. And you’re right, Mary Kay.

I am. But I’m also a fucking procrastinator. I know I have to kill Melanda. But I just keep putting it off.

It’s not just me, Mary Kay. Most “normal” people in America are in the same boat right now, torn between wanting to save the people they’re stuck with and wanting to fucking kill them. I don’t know if her story about you is true, but I know that I don’t care. So what if you had a callous moment in the delivery room? You had just created a child with Phil. We’re animals. Animals eat other animals alive. That’s the way the system is designed. And so what if you manipulated Melanda into being your unofficial co-parent? You were stuck with Phil and mothers do crazy shit. Love lets my son chew on Christmas lights—I don’t even let my cats do that—and the fact is, motherhood is the hardest job in the world. I love the person you are now, Mary Kay—you wished me a Merry Christmas, you wished me a Merry Christmas—and if someone from my past attacked you, well, you might hear things about me that would put you off.

I’m a lot of things, Mary Kay, but I’m not a hypocrite.

I’m on my way to the library when Melanda’s phone pings in my pocket.

Christmas wasn’t the same without you. Hope you had fun with Carl! Would love to see pics!

LOL no pics cuz his kids were with his wife and we were pretty much naked the whole time bwaahahahahha

Well that’s great. I can’t stop thinking about Joe… We’re talking nonstop like teenagers.

I pump my fist. Well, not really, but I want to.

Sweetie don’t think. Just do! Lol love you! Hope you guys had a fun holiday too!

There’s a big difference between telling someone that you hope they had fun and asking if they had a good time. You know it too, and you don’t write back to Melanda. Good. You’re right. We have been texting like teenagers and we’re not in high school and it’s time for you to step up and make room for me. I get to the library before you and I am shelving Richard Scarrys by the Red Bed when I hear your voice.

“Hey,” you say, and what a rush, to finally hear your voice out loud in person, to see your face. You murmur now, as if things changed for us over the past few days, because they did change. “I am… I have a little something for you.”

You’re holding a white box and there is a red ribbon wrapped around the white box and you motion toward the door and I follow you outside, where it is gray. Drab. As if January can’t fucking wait to get here. We didn’t go more than two hours and twelve minutes without talking over the last five days but now we sit on our love seat like strangers on a bus.

You hold your box. “Is this weird?”

“Only if there’s a bomb inside.”

You laugh. I always make you laugh. “Yeah… I got you a little something…” Because we bonded over Christmas. “You were so great with Nomi the other day and that meant a lot to me.”

“Well, that was nice of you.”

You nod. You’re still married and you feel guilty, which is why you can’t speak the truth and I get it. We’re at work. We have to pretend the last few days never happened, not because someone might be eavesdropping—we’re alone out here—but because you too are procrastinating. You look down at the box that sits on your lap. A corduroy skirt today. Black tights.

“So how was it? How was Christmas with the family?”

You look at me—you can’t fucking believe how good I am—and you crack a smile. “Well, it was our first Christmas without Melanda. So we didn’t have a buffer.”

You really do believe it’s her texting you and I smile. “And how was that?”