F*ck Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Tarryn Fisher

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.tarrynfisher.com

  Cover Designer: Maripili Menchaca, Maripili Graphic Studio

  Editor: Madison Seidler, www.madisonseidler.com

  Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my haters

  Fuck you

  Chapter One: #wtf

  Chapter Two: #drankthekoolaid

  Chapter Three: #socks

  Chapter Four: #smutlover

  Chapter Five: #art

  Chapter Six: #sooverit

  Chapter Seven: #hero

  Chapter Eight: #fucklove

  Chapter Nine: #beforehecheats

  Chapter Ten: #foodporn

  Chapter Eleven: #kitella

  Chapter Twelve: #olfuckery

  Chapter Thirteen: #negative

  Chapter Fourteen: #omg

  Chapter Fifteen: #yogi

  Chapter Sixteen: #awkward

  Chapter Seventeen: #byethen

  Chapter Eighteen: #gravity

  Chapter Nineteen: #findmagic

  Chapter Twenty: #fuckfear

  Chapter Twenty-One: #victorianseaport #historical #eclectic #old

  Chapter Twenty-Two: #whyyousoobsessedwithme

  Chapter Twenty-Three: #craigandhislist

  Chapter Twenty-Four: #artiswar

  Chapter Twenty-Five: #marrowstone

  Chapter Twenty-Six: #dontfeartheanimals

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: #mybestfriendswedding

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: #squash

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: #mentelllies

  Chapter Thirty: #corked

  Chapter Thirty-One: #donottouch

  Chapter Thirty-Two: #badasstobathtub

  Chapter Thirty-Three: #places

  Chapter Thirty-Four: #justadream

  Chapter Thirty-Five: #lefttoburn

  Chapter Thirty-Six: #badnews

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: #chilipepper

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: #carousel

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: #couplesbedtime

  Chapter Forty: #sucks

  Chapter Forty-One: #lieinit

  Chapter Forty-Two: #illshowthemimpretty

  Chapter Forty-Three: #rosecoloredglasses

  Chapter Forty-Four: #stranger

  Chapter Forty-Five: #hooked

  Chapter Forty-Six: #beigebitch

  Chapter Forty-Seven: #delirium

  Chapter Forty-Eight: #coke

  #epilogue

  #acknowledgments

  “You are supposed to be with me.”

  What words are these? They startle me, and at first I think I’ve heard him wrong. He’s leaning across the table while our significant others are twenty feet away, waiting in line for our food.

  “You and me,” he says. “Not us and them.”

  I blink at him before I realize he’s making a joke. I laugh and go back to looking at my magazine. Actually, it’s not really a magazine. It’s a math journal, because I’m super cool like that.

  “Helena…” I don’t look up right away. I’m afraid to. If I look up and see that he’s not joking, everything will change.

  “Helena.” He reaches out and touches my hand. I jump, pull back. My chair makes a horrid scraping sound, and Neil looks over. I pretend that I dropped something and reach under the table. Under the table are our shoes and legs. There is a blue crayon lying at my feet; I pick it up and resurface.

  Neil is at the front of the line ordering our food, and my best friend’s boyfriend is waiting for my response, his eyes heavy with burden.

  “Are you drunk?” I hiss. “What the fuck?”

  “No,” he says. Though he doesn’t look so sure. For the first time, I notice the scruff on his face. The skin around his eyes is sallow. He’s going through something, maybe? Life is being bullshit.

  “If this is a joke, you’re making me really uncomfortable,” I tell him. “Della is right there. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I only have ten minutes, Helena.” His eyes move to the blue crayon, which is resting between our hands.

  “Ten minutes for what? You’re sweating,” I say. “Did you take something, are you on the crack?” What type of drugs make you sweat like that? Crack? Heroine?

  I want Neil and Della to come back. I want everything to go back to normal. I spin around to see where they are.

  “Helena…”

  “Stop saying my name like that.” My voice shakes. I make to stand up, but he grabs the crayon, then my hand.

  “I don’t have much time. Let me show you.”

  He’s sitting very still, but his eyes remind me of a cornered animal: frightened, panicked, bright. I’ve never seen that look on his face, but since Della’s only been dating him for a few months, it’s a moot point. I don’t really know this guy. He could be a druggie for all I know. He turns my hand over so it’s palm up, and I let him. I don’t know why, but I do.

  He places the crayon in my palm and closes my fist around it.

  “You have to say it out loud,” he says. “Show me, Kit.”

  “Say it, Helena. Please. I’m afraid of what will happen if you don’t.”

  Because he looks so afraid, I say it.

  “Show me, Kit.” And then, “Should I know what this is?”

  “No one should,” he says. And then everything goes black.

  Kit is there when I wake up. My head is aching, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I must have passed out. That’s never happened to me before. I sit up, but instead of being on the floor of the Bread Company, I am spread out on someone’s sofa. It’s a nice sofa, the kind you see in a Pottery Barn catalog. Five bajillion dollars of treated suede. I scratch at it, and then sniff my finger. Suede.

  “Neil?” I sit up, looking around. Did they carry me to the manager’s office? How embarrassing. Pretty fancy couch for a manager. “Kit, what happened? Where’s Neil?”

  “He’s not here.”

  I stand up, but it’s too fast, and I get dizzy. I slump back onto the couch and put my head between my knees.

  “Get Neil, please.” My voice sounds nasally. I look up to see Kit’s jeans still in front of me. He makes no move to get Neil. With a deep sigh, he sits down next to me.

  “Neil is in Barbados on his honeymoon.”

  “Did he get married on the way back to our table?” I say through my teeth. I’m done with this game. Della is off her rocker if she keeps seeing this guy. He’s on drugs, or nuts, or both.

  Kit clears his throat. “This is actually his second marriage. He was married to you for a while.”

  My head shoots up. When he sees the look on my face, he flinches.

  A child comes running into the room and flings himself on my lap. I recoil. I don’t like kids; they’re messy and noisy, and—

  It asks me for a sandwich.

  “Hey, buddy. I’ll get you one. Let’s give Mom a minute.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  I’m off the sofa and backed into a corner in five seconds. Kit and the small human are already gone from the room. I can hear their voices, high and happy. The Pottery Barn room. There is a lot of navy blue everywhere I look. Navy blue picture frames, navy blue bra
ided rugs, navy blue planters, spilling with healthy ferns. I walk to the window, convinced I’m going to see the parking lot in front of the Bread Company. Maybe they carried me over to the Pier One. Instead, I’m looking at a pretty garden. A knotty oak stands in its center, a circle of white stones around its base.

  I’m backing away from the window when I walk into something. Kit. He grips the top of my arms to steady me. I tingle where he touches me. I’m allergic to nuts.

  “Where the hell am I?” I ask, shoving him away. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re in your house,” he says. “214 Sycamore Circle.” There is a long pause, and then he says, “Port Townsend, Washington.”

  I laugh. Whoever did this got me good. I step around Kit and run through the house. A dining room opens into a large, airy kitchen. I can see water beyond the windows, its surface prickled by rain. I am staring at the rain when a small, lispy voice says, “What are you wooking at?”

  The kid. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, stuffing his face with bread.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Thomas.” When he says his name, wet bread flies out of his mouth and sprays the table.

  “Thomas who? What’s your last name?”

  “Same as Dad’s, but not the same as yours,” he says, matter-of-factly.

  My skin prickles.

  “Thomas Finn Browster. And you are Helena Marie Conway.” He fist pumps the air. Browster! Neil’s last name.

  I hear Kit behind me, and when I turn to look at him he’s leaning against the fridge, frowning.

  He lifts a finger to his lips when he sees me watching him, and then glances at the boy.

  “You have another one,” he says.

  “Another what?”

  “Child.” He pushes away from the fridge and walks toward me. All of a sudden I’m noticing the gray at his temples and the fine lines around his eyes. He doesn’t look like the Kit from the Bread Company.

  He steers me toward a bedroom and opens the door. A nursery. A tiny head with fluffy black hair. I peer into the crib, my heart racing.

  “You said Neil was on his honeymoon, but she’s just a bab—”

  “She’s ours.”

  I swallow. “Yours and mine?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart is freaking out. I can feel it pumping all the blood to my brain.

  “Are you a time traveler?”

  Kit smiles for the first time. Deep smile lines cut into his cheeks like he does a lot of it. Funny, I can’t remember seeing Kit smile. He always seems so serious, which is what Della likes about him. Della.

  “Where’s Della?” Oh God. I had a baby with her boyfriend. I look down at my hand, but there’s no wedding ring.

  He walks out of the room. I glance back at the baby before I follow him out.

  When we’re in the hallway, he closes the nursery door.

  “We’re not exactly on speaking terms with Della,” he says.

  I feel such grief. Della and I had been a thing for over ten years. Kit sees the look on my face and quickly averts his eyes.

  “This is a dream,” I say. Kit shakes his head no. I catch a glimpse of myself in the heavy, gilded mirror behind his head. My hair is short. Highlighted. “No, a nightmare,” I say, reaching up to touch it. “I look like a mom.”

  “You are a mom.”

  In this alternate universe, or time travel, or dream, I am a mom. But I am just Helena in my mind. Child-free and flat-bellied. And before me is Kit. The guy my best friend thinks is “the one.” It is not possible that I would ever look at him that way. I look at him now, trying to see him in a different light. He is so different from Neil. Stocky, a little scruffy. Neil shaved his arms; Kit’s arms are covered in black hair. Neil has dark eyes; Kit has light eyes. Neil wears contacts; Kit wears glasses. Della and I have never shared the same taste in men, which suited us just fine. Made chicks before dicks easier to live by.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “She’s still in Florida. We moved here two years ago.”

  Kit takes my hand. “Let me show you something,” he says.

  It feels all wrong. Our fingers don’t fit well together. His hands are large, his fingers broad. My hand feels stretched and awkward in his. Della always said that hands should fit together like puzzle pieces. Hers and Kit’s fit. She told me that!

  The little boy suddenly appears from the kitchen. Kit lets go of my hand to swing him into his arms.

  They seem very comfortable together, considering he’s not the boy’s father. Neil is his father. So where is Neil? And what happened between us?

  “What happened to Neil? Why aren’t we together?”

  He glances at the little boy … what was his name? Tim? Tom? And sets him on his feet.

  “Go put in a movie, little man, and I’ll be in there in a minute to watch it with you.”

  He’s a good kid, I guess, because he nods without arguing and runs off, his bare feet slapping the hardwood.

  “Neil cheated on you,” he says. “But it’s not as simple as it sounds. You aren’t mad at him. You understood.”

  Heat rises to my face. Neil cheated on me? Neil wasn’t the type, not to mention he worshipped the ground I walked on. “He would never,” I say. Kit shrugs. “People are people. Things change.”

  “No,” I say. “This is a Pottery Barn life. I don’t want it.”

  “Like I said, it’s not that simple. He had his … reasons.”

  Before I can ask what those reasons are, the baby starts to cry. Kit glances at her door and then back at me.

  “She only wants you. She’s teething. If I go in there and get her, she’ll freak out.”

  “I don’t even like babies.”

  He grabs my arms and spins me around ‘til I’m facing the nursery door.

  “You like this one,” he says, giving me a little shove.

  “What’s her name?” I hiss, before opening the door.

  He grins. For whatever reason, my stomach does a little flip.

  “Brandi.”

  I give him a disgusted look. “Like the liquor?” I hiss.

  He tries not to smile, but all of a sudden I see where those deep lines on either side of his mouth come from.

  “It’s what you were drinking the night you got pregnant.”

  “Oh God,” I say, pushing open the door. “I grew up to be a goddamn cliché.”

  Brandi is sitting in her crib, screaming. Her arms go up the minute she sees me. I’ve never had a baby reach for me before; they like me less than I like them.

  I pick her up, and she immediately stops wailing. She’s little. Petite. And she has so much hair she looks like a little lion. I guess if I liked babies, this one would be considered cute. I carry her out to her … father. “Here,” I say, offering her to him. He shakes his head. “You hold her.”

  I do so stiffly as we walk toward what looks like another living room. This one less Pottery Barn adult, and more Pottery Barn kids. God. If this was all real, what happened to me? I didn’t like shit like this. My apartment looked like a garage sale gone wrong.

  “Why does everything look like this?” I ask him.

  “Look like what?”

  “Like I have no personality.”

  Kit looks surprised. “I don’t know. This is what you like. I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “How long have we been together?”

  The corners of his mouth twitch, and before he says anything, I know he’s going to lie.

  “Few years.”

  “And we love each other?”

  He stops rifling through a drawer to look at me.

  “Do you know that feeling you have right now? The bewilderment, the fear, the fascination?”

  I nod.

  “That’s what I feel every day. Because I’ve never loved someone like I love you.”

  My stomach does this involuntary flutter thingy. I feel guilty that my best friend’s boyfriend made my stomach flutter. Luckily,
Brandi yanks on my hair so it looks more like pain than a reaction to his words.

  He goes back to his drawer and pulls out a coloring book. At first I think he’s getting it for the little boy, but then he hands it to me.

  “Do you want me to give it to Tim?” I ask, confused.

  “Tom,” he says. “And no. That’s what I wanted to show you.”

  I flip to the first page and find what I’m not expecting. Beautiful pictures of castles made of candy, fairy houses perched in fruit trees, and princesses fighting dragons. The type of coloring book I would have wanted as a child.

  “What’s this?” I ask, not looking up. I want to see more.

  “It’s yours,” he says, taking the baby from me.

  I laugh. “I can’t draw. I’m not artistic at all.” I slam it shut and hand it back to him. This is such a strange dream. I pinch myself, but I don’t wake up, and it hurts.

  “That’s how you bought this house, moved to Washington. You have a line of them, and they’re very popular. There are even posters and notebooks. You can buy them in Target.”

  “Target?” I repeat. “I’m in school to be an accountant,” I say. “This is silly. I want to wake up.”

  Why am I getting upset? If this is a dream, I should just go with it, right?

  Tom comes running in just then and announces that he spilled grape juice on the floor. Kit leaves in a hurry, and I am left alone to tend to the little girl. I sit her on my lap and touch her mane of silky hair. She sighs contentedly, and I figure she likes it. “I like it too,” I tell her. “One time I fell asleep at a funeral because my dad was playing with my hair.” I keep doing it so she doesn’t cry and alert Kit to the fact that I know nothing about babies. When he comes back, we are sitting on the couch, her half-drugged against my chest. I’m still trying to wake myself from this strange dream. He leans against the doorframe, smiling that half-smile he does. “She’s just like you.”

  “You don’t know what I’m like,” I say.

  “Really, Helena? Don’t I?”

  I hesitate. I don’t know anything.

  I keep expecting the dream to end, but it doesn’t. I spend what seems like hours with Kit, Tom, and Brandi as they move through their day. I try to be a good sport, pretending to fit in with his life, even taking a walk with them through the greenest woods I have ever seen. Do dreams really go on this long? Why when you wake up, do dreams seem so hazy and distorted? We stop at a lake, and Kit and Tom skip rocks while I hold Brandi, who really, to my horror, doesn’t want anyone but me. I scoop some of the rich, wet dirt onto a fingertip and taste it. Dirt shouldn’t have a taste in a dream. Or it should taste like Oreos. It definitely shouldn’t taste like dirt. After the walk, Kit cooks us all dinner. Fish he caught himself. He grills it outside on the patio he says that I designed. Again, I remind him that I’m not creative enough to have designed something as majestic as the patio. It reminds me a little of the coloring books, with their carved wood tree houses, and lanterns hanging from trees. The fish is delicious. By the time Kit carries Brandi and Tom inside to give them their baths, I am in full panic mode. I reference the movies I’ve seen to help me: Inception, BIG, The Wizard of Oz. When Kit comes back carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, I’m crying and ripping the paper napkins into confetti.