You

by Caroline Kepnes

“I’m going to the store,” I say and I grab my keys.

  “You want company?” She’s not mysterious.

  “No,” I say and I grab my coat.

  “You need cash?” She sits up. She’s pathetic.

  “No,” I say. “Stay put. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  I run down the stairs and I stop. I could do anything to Karen Minty and she’d stay. She has her claws in me, Beck. Her mother is knitting me a sweater and her father wants to take me out on his boat one of these Sundays. I sit down on the stoop. Maybe now that I’m away from Karen Minty I can make a list of things that I like about her.

  #1 Karen Minty grew up with three brothers so she’s mellow.

  And it’s true. She is mellow. FedEx fucks up the new Nora Roberts and I can put Karen on a subway and send her uptown and she’ll haul ass up there, and drag a box of books back on the subway, up the stairs, and to the shop. And if I ask her to, Karen will unload the books, price them, and stack them. She doesn’t complain, Beck. She wants to be asked, like a little brat trying to do good on Christmas Eve in case Santa is watching. I can even ask her to get out the Swiffer and clean up the dust she noticed while she was stacking.

  #2 Karen Minty likes to clean.

  “I grew up in a fucking pigsty,” she likes to say. “Only way shit gets clean is if I clean it and I like shit clean, so there you go.”

  #3 Karen Minty likes to cook.

  And she’s good at it. I haven’t eaten like this in I don’t know how long, real family food (a lasagna that will taste good even five days later cold), and the runner’s body I had going when I was tracking Peach Salinger (who would be absolutely horrified by Karen), well, I still have it for the most part because Karen likes to cook, eat, clean, and fuck. And she intends to do all these things with me forever. I found a little plastic file box of recipes that belong to her mother. I texted her about the recipes and she wrote back:

  I’m cooking a helluva lot more in your kitchen than I am in mine.

  Anything I want, anytime, I can ask her for it and she can make it because her mother knows how to make everything. I brought leftover lasagna for Ethan and he thinks her mother should do a cookbook. She is that good.

  #4 Karen Minty is a good fuck.

  The way that you like to talk shit about Blythe, the way that you like to tease—your nipples popping in the shop on Day One—well, Karen Minty just likes to ride dick. All dick; you can tell she’s been fucked a lot and it doesn’t bother me. I’m the best she’s ever had; her words, not mine.

  #5 Karen Minty knows Ethan is good people.

  We went out with Blythe and Ethan once. It was bad. Blythe balked at Karen’s greyhounds and told her that Leonardo DiCaprio drinks a lot of beverages, Karen. Are you that naive? Ouch. The next day, Ethan showed up at the shop apologizing—“Blythe doesn’t have a lot of girlfriends! I hope Karen isn’t hurt!”—and Karen popped in while he was there. Karen told Ethan that Blythe is “super smart” and “wicked pretty.” When Ethan went to go take a shit, Karen told me that she thought Blythe was a cunt. “Ethan should be with a nice girl,” she said. “But nice guys always get with bitches. They don’t break up if you call ’em out on it. Give him time. He’ll dump her eventually.” Karen Minty truly is a nurse.

  A couple of days ago, he asked me, in complete seriousness, if I plan to propose to Karen.

  “Ethan, it’s been two months.”

  He shrugged and told me for the fiftieth time how he proposed to his ex Shelly after six weeks.

  I told him straight, “And look how that turned out.”

  “When you know, you know.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Ethan.”

  “Well, you better start thinking about knowing,” he said and for once he had a five o’clock shadow—another miracle. “Because she definitely knows.”

  #6 . . .

  It’s no use. Maybe Dan Fox loves Karen Minty, but I don’t love Karen Minty. I love you. I love your depth and your letters to yourself and I am wrong to be leading her on. And honestly, she comes on too strong. Otherwise why would Ethan and Nicky be talking about marriage when we’ve been going out less than two months. And here she comes, bounding down the apartment building’s stairs after me.

  “Boo!” she screams.

  And I flinch even though I knew she was coming.

  “Oh my God, you scare so freaking easily.” She laughs. She sits down next to me and leans her head on my shoulder and she sighs. “I don’t scare at all. When I was a kid, my brothers tried to fuck with me so much that, I don’t know. I think I just like lost all my fear or something.”

  It’s a nice night. There are kids playing outside. It’ll be spring before you know it. Karen Minty yawns. “What a night, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  She hears the timer on the oven and she pulls me close and plants one of her hard, bossy kisses on me. “You want enchiladas?”

  “Do I ever not want enchiladas?” I say and I get another kiss.

  “Well, come on,” she says. “First enchiladas. Then you promised you’d help me with my flash cards.”

  I pocket my store keys and follow her back up the stairs to my place.

  #7 Karen Minty has a great ass.

  #8 Karen Minty makes great enchiladas.

  #9 Karen Minty mixes sexual favor cards in with her nursing school flash cards so that randomly, I’ll flash her a card that says TAKE MY TOP OFF.

  #10 Karen Minty likes to fuck.

  After we fuck, I look at my list and realize that I left off #6.

  #6 Karen Minty knows what she wants. She wants to be a phlebotomist.

  She doesn’t complain about her homework because she knows what she wants. She wants to draw blood from people; she wants to be a phlebotomist.

  “I’m a great fucking stick and when you’re laid up in a bed for eight days with fucked veins and your IV jams because some dumb tramp messed up your meds, the most important thing in the world to you is a great stick. Not a great doctor, a great stick. And I want to be the stick heard ’round the fucking world.”

  Do you see that, Beck? It’s not like she wants to tweet about being a nurse—“Fucking Twitter my ass, I prefer life,” she said just the other day. There’s a simplicity to it all that is really good for me and I know it because my cheeks are flushed, my belly is full, my dick is the stick heard ’round the fucking world—just ask Karen—and I wake up and I want to get out of bed and do my life. But I also wake up thinking about you.

  I finish reading my list to Dr. Nicky. At first he doesn’t say anything.

  I am impatient. “What’s up, Doc?”

  “You tell me, Danny.”

  “I did my homework. Now it’s your turn.”

  Dr. Nicky just stares at me and I just stare at Dr. Nicky. Does he do this to you?

  “Okay, Danny. I’m gonna ask you something.” He leans in. “Does Karen know that you’re not in love with her?”

  I can’t lie to him about Karen. He can’t help me unless I tell the truth. “No,” I say. “She doesn’t know.”

  “Lies don’t pave the way to joy,” he says and sometimes he reminds me of a rabbi and I can’t believe I used to think that you had sex with him. “And, if there’s anything I’ve learned in almost fifty years on this planet, it’s this: If you don’t start with crazy, crazy love, the kind of love that Van Morrison sings about, then you don’t have a shot to go the distance. Love’s a marathon, Danny, not a sprint.”

  I blurt, “What about you? Do you love your wife?”

  “No,” he says, super quick. “But I did.”

  On the way home from therapy, I’m depressed and I check your e-mail. You RSVPed yes to a birthday party at an upscale bowling alley for assholes. I know that you won’t go; you never go anywhere anymore. You only go to Dr. Nicky’s because he’s . . . Dr. Nicky. But I know that Karen Minty will go with me to the bowling alley and sit there until I say it’s time to go home.

  She sits with me at the hipster
bar near the lanes and we don’t belong. We are the only people who are not a part of the party. They are all around us, talking about Lena Dunham’s wardrobe—Who’s Lena Dunning? Karen Minty wants to know—and they talk about the alpha male’s vintage suspenders—Karen Minty chews on her straw and shrugs—and they talk about Campus Dance at Brown—Karen Minty plays a game with jewels on her phone. You don’t show up at the party and Karen Minty is in love with me and I don’t love her back, I can’t. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you and life would be easier if I could turn into a fan of The King of Queens. But I can’t, Beck. And you of all people would understand. It’s like the letter you wrote to yourself today:

  Dear Beck, Louisa May Alcott is right. An extraordinary girl can’t have an ordinary life. Don’t judge yourself. Love yourself. Love, Beck

  37

  I’VE read enough books and seen enough movies to know that Nicky fucked up when he told me about his wife. I’m not surprised when he tells me we need to talk. He accepts full responsibility for the breach, for crossing the patient-therapist boundary. I’ve never seen the guy look worse, Beck. And he’s such a good person, like Mr. Mooney back in the day, before he got angry at me, at life. I can’t stand to hear him cut himself down.

  I plead, “Hey, come on, Doc. Stop beating yourself up already.”

  I can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying and he might be the only guy on earth who can do those two things at once. He’s a juggler and God bless him because I could never apologize to another dude for saying one freaking thing about my own life.

  “Danny,” he says. “All I can do for you now is give you a referral. You want a referral?”

  There are pit stains on his shirt and his clothes are wrinkled, as if he’s been in them for too long. I know how to cheer him up and I tell him I don’t need a referral because I’m better. He smiles. I go on. I tell him I don’t have a mouse in my house because he’s the best shrink ever.

  “How’s it going with Karen?”

  “It’s good,” I say. I want him to feel accomplished. “Seriously, the mouse is dead.”

  “Wow,” he says and somehow, he sounds jealous. Or maybe he’s just sad.

  I tell him that his mouse-cat theory is genius and he likes that I use that word, genius. Of course, I don’t tell him that I want to cover myself in cheese and peanut butter in order to get the mouse to come back. He deserves better.

  “I’m happy for you, Danny,” he says. “You worked hard and you did your homework and this is all you, kid. Figuring out what makes you happy is a journey.”

  You make me happy. I nod. “You said it.”

  “Being obsessed didn’t make you happy,” Nicky continues. “And you knew that. And more important, you acted on that knowledge and decided to rise above your obsession. You’re smart, Danny.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Doc.”

  “I wish we were all as smart as you,” he says and he has that sad, glossy-eyed look again as he talks about how hard it is to make a mouse go away. I’m sitting and thinking about you, my beloved mouse. Nicky is right. You might never show up again—you might be gone—I know it’s possible that you’ve moved on—you could even be seeing someone. But the most important thing I know is that I want the possibility of you more than the reality of Karen Minty.

  “And what can I say, Danny? I’m also so happy your cat worked out,” he says. “When you came in here, I was worried. You did not look well. You looked like a prisoner.”

  “I felt like one,” I say. And I did. I do.

  “But then you got yourself a cat,” he says.

  “Amen,” I say. I picture Karen Minty on all fours with your little body hanging out of her mouth.

  “Hey, I went on YouTube and watched that Honeydrippers video today right before you got here,” he says and his eyes pop. “I can understand your obsession. That video is trippy, that guy in his Speedo, that jacket. What is that jacket doing on that hanger?”

  We laugh but his sadness is like a fever that shows up in his eyes, in his mouth. I feel bad about lying and his phone buzzes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I have to check it.” He says he has to step out—“shit hitting the fan at home,” now that he has broken the doctor-patient dynamic he can overshare again—and he promises to be back in five minutes. He closes the door and immediately I look at his computer. I wanted inside that computer the first time I stepped into this room. You live in there, somewhere, and the temptation to find the Sea of Love is overwhelming. I would swear that you are calling from inside the hard drive, luring me to your own sea, and I can’t help it. I really am like the guy in the video. And this is it, my big chance. I’ve never been alone in here and fuck it. I run over to Danny’s desk and I tap the space bar and dive in.

  Looking at the screen-saver family snapshot of Nicky with his wife and his daughters makes me feel guilty. I’m violating our trust and Nicky’s family is so innocent, lined up in front of Nicky’s Pizza in Chestertown, NY. There’s something pathetic about a grown man forcing his wife and daughters to pose on a rainy day in front of a pizza place just because it’s called Nicky’s. I feel for the guy but I want you and I minimize the Honeydrippers video—he’s a good man, he really was looking at it—and I search the hard drive. Wow. Dr. Nicky doesn’t write about my sessions or your sessions or anyone’s sessions. He just dictates his thoughts into his iPhone and downloads the MP3 files onto his computer. There is a folder called GBeck with a bunch of audio files. I get that Van Morrison feeling that Nicky was talking about. I send myself the folder. I delete the e-mail in his sent folder. I empty the trash. I made it.

  But I didn’t. It’s over. I fucked up.

  Nicky’s back with a disappointed smile and he sighs. “Danny, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I tell you the video’s here and I leave. I’m losing it, Danny.”

  I breathe. I made it after all. “No you’re not, Doc,” I say and I mean it.

  He looks weak, and his voice is unsteady. “How about that referral?”

  I take the referral and shake his hand and leave. I am sad for Nicky but nothing can touch my excitement over the files, GBeck. In the elevator I do something I never do. I pray for Nicky to find someone who can give him that Van Morrison feeling so that his bleached teeth won’t seem so laughably out of place on his drawn, sad face.

  The elevator dumps me in the lobby and Danny Fox is dead. When I step outside I stumble, a fucking crack in the sidewalk. There is a black hole in my mind: Am I nuts? I could just keep eating Karen’s eggs and Karen’s pussy. I could start over with Nicky’s referral and try to live life without you.

  I could.

  But the truth is, cats bore me. I’d rather listen to tapes of Nicky talking about you than have intercourse with Karen Minty. And if Van Morrison’s not crazy, then neither am I.

  Dear Joe, You are not a cat person. You want a mouse. Love, Joe

  38

  I have to buy headphones at a fucking deli because I have to know now what Nicky has said about you and the guy takes forever and why do so many morons go into customer service and I grab the headphones and mutter, thanks, asshole, and I’m out of there and I tear into the package and it’s sealed too tight and I scream and a few people on the street back away from me like I’m the Hulk busting out of his dress shirt and I duck into the alley and take the time to crack the plastic and get the headphones out and throw away the instructions and I can’t get them into my phone fast enough as I run down the stairs and swipe my MetroCard and hit play on the first MP3 as I step onto the train and sit down across from a blind black guy who smiles for no reason.

  Okay, day one, Beck. Female. Early to mid twenties. Hypersexualized. Boundary issues. Father issues. Claims to be here to resolve her issues with men but doesn’t seem to realize that I have a ring on my finger. Only mode of communication is seduction. Repeatedly crosses her legs and wears a flimsy shirt without a bra. Attention seeking. Directly asks about transference, severe narcissistic disorder. Insists on
calling me Dr. Nicky in spite of my repeated statements that I am not an MD. Repeatedly asks if I’m married and if I have a good sex life with my wife to avoid discussing her own life. Tells me she slept with her therapist in college. Repeatedly. I ask why she doesn’t see a female clinician and she says she has one mother, doesn’t need another. Possible borderline, predatory, masochistic tendencies.

  The blind black guy is staring at me but he’s blind and he can’t see me and I can’t get mad at him and I skip ahead to another segment. Maybe the next one will be better. It has to be.

  Marcia was a fucking nightmare this morning. Mack overslept again and Amy has the flu and Marcia is just incompetent as a mother. I almost canceled but found myself soothed by knowing that I would see Beck. I’ve grown to look forward to my time with this young woman. I find myself counting down, thinking about what I’ll wear that day. She makes my life bearable, damn it. Now who’s asking about transference? Today, she presents in sweatpants and a formless top, with messy hair and shiny skin. I can’t help but feel that she dressed down for me, which is more intimate than dressing up for me. We establish goals: She wants sexual confidence. Which I find amusing because she is sex.

  I hit PAUSE and I want the black man to stop smiling. I want the world to stop smiling. I fast-forward. I hit PLAY.

  She claims that I have opened her up and that she’s taking a much-needed break from men, that she’s realized things about her father, things about her love life, and all of this after just a few sessions because I am the most amazing doctor she has ever had. I tell her again I’m not a doctor. Is it terrible that I love it when she calls me Dr. Nicky? Don’t answer that. (Sigh.) Anyway, I tell her that there is no magic cure. She shakes me off. She says I have lit up something inside of her. She says she has never felt so in tune with herself. She says talking to me is the time of her life. She is presenting more sexually, in kneesocks and skirts. I think she knows I’m falling for her. And my God, I think she’s falling for me. I think about her too much. And sometimes I worry that she knows. I should stop therapy but I can’t. I am so tired of Marcia and the broken washing machine and Beck is . . . a reprieve.