You Love Me(You #3)(7)
“Oh come on,” I say. “I stole a newspaper. I didn’t steal her dog. And they’re like everyone here. Lights out by ten P.M.”
“You come on,” you sass. “You love being the rebel night owl. I bet you’re up all night chain-smoking and reading Bukowski.”
I like it when you tease me and I smile. “Now that you mention it, Bukowski might be the way to get Nomi off her Columbine kick.”
“That’s a great idea, maybe I’ll start with Women…” You always appreciate my ideas—I love your brain—and I ask you what you think Bukowski would have thought of my fecal-eyed neighbor and you laugh-choke on your beef, my beef, and you hold your stomach—it hurts lately, what with the butterflies, the private jokes. I pat you on the back—I care—and you sip your water and take a deep breath. “Thank you,” you say. “Thought I was gonna faint.”
I want to hold your hand but I can’t do that. Not yet. You pick up your phone—no—and your shoulders slouch and I know your body language. I can tell when the Meerkat is texting—you sit up a little straighter—and I can tell when it’s not the Meerkat, like now. I’ve done my homework, Mary Kay—it’s amazing how easy it is to get to know a woman when she follows you back online!—and I know about the people in your life, in your phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” you say. “Sorry, it’s just my friend Seamus. This will just take a sec.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “Take your time.”
I know, Mary Kay. You have a “life” here and it’s mostly about your daughter, but you also have your friends, one of whom is Seamus Fucking Cooley. You went to high school with him—yawn—and he owns a hardware store. Correction: He inherited the store from his parents. Whenever he texts, he’s whining about some twenty-two-year-old girl who’s fucking with his head—ha!—and you are compassionate. You always say that he’s sensitive because he used to be picked on about being short—I bet the shithead bullies used to call him Shortus—and I always bite my tongue—Look at Tom Fucking Cruise!—and you’re still texting.
“Sorry,” you say. “I know this is rude.”
“Not at all.”
Making you feel better makes me feel better. But it’s not easy, Mary Kay. Every time I ask you to get coffee or invite you to pop over you tell me you can’t because of Nomi, because of your friends. I know that you want me—your skirts are shorter every day, your Murakami is hot for me—and I come in early and I stay after my shift ends. You can’t get enough of me and you’re spoiled because I’m here almost every day. You never send me home and when you joke about the two of us loitering in the parking lot I tell you that we’re lingering. You like that. Plus, you like all my fucking pictures.
@LadyMaryKay liked your photo.
@LadyMaryKay liked your photo.
@LadyMaryKay WANTS TO FUCK YOU AND SHE IS PICKY AND PRIVATE AND PATIENT AND SHE FINALLY FOUND A GOOD MAN AND THAT’S YOU JOE. YOU’RE THE ONE. BE PATIENT. SHE’S A MOM. SHE’S YOUR BOSS. SHE COULD GET FIRED FOR HITTING ON YOU!
Finally, you shove your phone into your pocket. “Oof, I think I need a drink.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I think I told you he has this cabin in the mountains…”
You told me about his fucking cabin and I’m not impressed. I’ve seen his Instagram. He doesn’t like to read and he bought his biceps at CrossFit. “I think so, yeah.”
“Well, he brought this girl up there and she spent the whole trip complaining about the lack of Wi-Fi. And then she bailed on him.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah,” you say. “And I know it sounds bad, this same old story of a middle-aged guy going for twenty-two-year-old girls, but”—there is no but, it’s just plain bad—“you know how it is. He’s like a brother to me. He’s insecure…” No. He’s just a man. “And I feel for him. He does so much for this island. He’s a saint, truly. He donates books constantly…” ONE HUNDRED GRAND, HONEY. “He’s like our own Giving Tree…”
No man is an island or a tree but I smile. “I got that impression,” I say. “I saw signs for his Cooley 5K and the Cooley ‘street cleaning task force.’ But maybe instead of doing so much for others…” God, this hurts. “Maybe he should be in that cabin clearing his head.”
“Yeah,” you say. Yeah. “And that’s probably the right move because he truly does have the worst luck with women.”
Sorry, Mary Kay, but if you knew about my exes… “He’s lucky he has you.”
You blush. You’re quiet, too quiet, and you don’t want this fucking man, do you? No. If you wanted him, you would have him because look at you. You sigh. Sighs are signs of guilt and okay. He wants you and you don’t want him—you want me—and you shrug. “I don’t know about that. It’s just second nature for me, you know, helping people, being there…”
We are the same, Mary Kay. We just have different styles. “I can relate.”
We’re quiet again, closer now than we were an hour ago. My whole “Mr. Goody Two-shoes” plan isn’t just about me anymore. It’s about us being good together. I swore I won’t ever hurt anyone for you, not even the guy who owns the hardware store where the female staffers swan around in tight jeans and tight shirts bearing the Cooley name. I’m kind like you. I’m good like you. I gulp. I go for it. “Maybe we could get a drink later…”