F*ck Love

by Tarryn Fisher

  “Wow,” I say, stepping inside. “This is dreamy.”

  “It’s all yours.” Greer smiles. There’s a queen bed and two nightstands. I’m going to fill the shit out of those nightstands: papers, gum, bobby pins.

  When I spin around I see a large oak dresser and the door to my own bathroom.

  “The closet is in the bathroom,” she tells me. “I’m next door. Please don’t greet me in the morning.”

  I can’t picture her being anything but perky and friendly, but mmkay.

  She doesn’t show me her bedroom. Is it purple? Or does it break all the rules and is blue? Are there giant Kit posters, or giant teddy bears? She leads me into the reading room, which is surprisingly filled with paint supplies.

  “Why isn’t it called the painting room?” I ask.

  Greer looks confused. “I don’t know.” There’s not much to talk about after that because her paintings are beautiful. Truly it’s not fair to be as beautiful as Greer, and also have this much talent. I get lost in all the water, the ripples. There are so many patterns and variations. Some of the paintings have more transparent water than others. You can see the smooth white rocks beneath the surface, or a little minnow.

  “Wow, Greer. There’s so much hidden meaning in these. They’re beautiful.” She ducks her head, bashful. I like that about her. Humble artists always genuinely impress me. She looks really uncomfortable, so I ask to see the rest. When she’s done giving me the tour, she helps me carry my suitcases inside, and I write her a check.

  “Why do you paint ripples?” She’s on her way to the fridge. Her steps falter. It’s slight, but heavy.

  Her back is to me when she answers, and I don’t know her well enough to hear a change in her voice.

  “Cause and effect,” she says. When she turns around she has a bottle of water in her hand. She unscrews the cap and takes a sip. “We think we can control our lives, but our lives control us. And everything that touches our lives controls us. People have less power than they think they do. It’s just the reactions we control.”

  She says it with such conviction. I partially believe it.

  “So we are all just sitting waiting for things to cause ripples?” I ask.

  What caused me to have that dream? It certainly wasn’t me. Yet that dream rippled my life. Caused me to change everything.

  “I think so,” she says.

  “But we have power to choose the reaction. That means something.” I’m getting upset, and I don’t know why.

  Greer shrugs. “Does it? Or are past experiences controlling our choices? It’s a scary thought, I know.”

  “I like math,” I blurt.

  Greer laughs.

  “I don’t like to think that I have no choice,” I say. “It may be true, but it frightens me.”

  “That’s why we make art, Helena,” Greer says. “Art is the war against what we do not choose to feel. It’s the battle of color, words, sound, and shape, and it rages for or against love.”

  God, Kit, you’re so fucking stupid. Della?

  I want Greer to tell me all the things. Like I need to know who I am, and why I’m not good at painting. And I’d like to know the meaning of life, because I think she has the answer.

  She asks me if I’m hungry, and I lie and say yes, even though I just ate. I watch her make Panini in a fancy press. She squeezes oranges by hand and hands me a cup of juice. It’s sweet and pulpy. No one has ever squeezed oranges for me before, except maybe the guy at Jamba Juice.

  I learn more from Greer in those two minutes than I’ve learned from anyone in the history of ever.

  “I’d like for you to teach me everything you know about life,” I say. “Are you willing to do this?”

  She spins around and flicks an orange at me. It hits me in the forehead.

  “I know nothing about life,” she laughs.

  “Okay, but I’m trying to find myself.”

  Greer grins. “That, my dear, is the scariest thing you’re ever going to do.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you might not like what you find.”

  I move in with my small collection of belongings: mostly clothes, and shoes, and photos. My bedroom has a view of the water, and for the first six weeks, I wake up each morning frightened that this new life will be taken from me like the other one I fell in love with. I have nightmares about having to leave Port Townsend and the cannery. Each dream ends with the Range Rover sinking into the water behind the ferry. During the day I work in the gallery, helping Eldine with the books, the sales, and shipping pieces to customers from other states and countries. I like it; it’s peaceful work, and Eldine mostly keeps to herself. Some days Greer meets me for lunch, and other days I carry my sandwich to the harbor where I wander around reading the names of the boats until it’s time to go back. Nights, I work on my art—all of which is terrible. You can’t force it, Greer tells me when I throw a paintbrush across the room. I’m not really good at anything, but I want to be. That’s enough to keep my hands and mind moving between paints, and clays, and words. What I refuse to do is anything that I did before. It takes discipline to accomplish this, as humans are addicted to the familiar. I don’t eat my usual cereal; I don’t drink a soy latte with Splenda. I don’t watch reality TV, or read romance novels to fill my life with all the things I’m missing. I do not text Kit. Except that one time. But mostly I do not text Kit. And then one day he texts me, after the longest stretch we’ve ever gone without speaking. I am taking a walk along the dock, taking pictures of the boats, when his name appears on my screen. I’m nervous to open the text. Silly. Or maybe not, since I don’t want him to know I’m living in the cannery with Greer.

  K: You can’t just move to my home and not speak to me anymore.

  Why not?

  K: So, you really aren’t speaking to me?

  No! I didn’t say that.

  K: Where are you living?

  Ugh. Yuck. It’s none of his business anyway. I don’t have to answer. In fact, I won’t.

  I have a roommate. It’s Greer. I rent a room from her.

  I bite my nails while I wait for his text bubble to pop up, but it never does. God, it’s like I have no self-control. No will power. I think about texting PSYCH! But I don’t do things like that either. Oh my God, I’m supposed to be doing things differently.

  I text: psych

  And then: Just kidding. About the psych. Not Greer. I really live with her.

  And then: She’s so great. I don’t even care what you think.

  And then: Are you mad at me?

  I almost have no nails left by the time his bubble pops up, but that’s cool because everyone has fingernails, and I like to be different.

  K: You’re manic.

  I swear to God, I’m so sad about my nails. I was trying to grow them. I study my hands before typing: No. Not at all

  He sends a picture. I recognize it as being part of the bar at Tavern on Hyde. The picture is of a glass of wine sitting on a beverage napkin. I smile.

  K: I feel like you need it

  Yeah. I wish

  K: The good news is everywhere has wine! A friend of mine owns a winery over on Marrowstone. You should go check it out.

  He sends me the address, and tells me it’s called Marrowstone Vineyards.

  I mention the winery to Greer that night, hoping she’ll want to go with me. I sit on the only available stool in the reading room and watch her paint.

  “Who told you about that place?” She puts down her brush. Her voice is defensive.

  “Ummm, I just heard there’s wine. And I like wine. Are you okay?”

  She clears her throat. “Yeah, sure. It’s just … that place has a lot of memories. My friends and I used to sneak on the property when we were younger, get high, and drink.”

  I’ve never actually met any of her friends. Don’t get me wrong—Greer is a popular girl. When you have silver hair, and only wear one color, people will start to notice you. She never has people ove
r, and though she knows everyone, there’s never been someone she’s seemed truly intimate with.

  “So…”

  “Sure,” she says. “It’ll be fun. Do you want to go tonight?” I wasn’t expecting to go tonight, but I shrug, and Greer goes to her room to get ready.

  Ten minutes later she walks out wearing all black. Like, I’ve never seen Greer in anything but shades of purple. It scares me.

  “Everything else is dirty,” she says when she sees my face. “Let’s go.”

  I follow her out, wishing I had changed out of my work clothes. I’m such an underachiever it’s depressing. Beige bitch.

  We listen to oldies as we curve the roads to Marrowstone. It’s unusually dry outside, but the clouds are dark and heavy—an ominous warning of the days to come. It’s like Greer reads my mind.

  “Today is the last day before the rain comes. Enjoy it.”

  I’ll enjoy the rain, but I don’t say so. It’s considered blasphemy in Washington to not enjoy the rainless summer while you have it. The winery sits on the water where you can watch the cruise ships pass on their way to the ocean. We pull up to a building and hop out of the car into the dirt. A vineyard sits beyond the building; already harvested of grapes, it’s just a dusty shadow of vines and leaves. To my left is a large house, which watches both the water and the winery from a collection of sharp rectangular windows. You can see the remnants of fruit on the ground around the trees: apples, cherries, pears, and plums—shriveled, their juices soaked into the dirt. Greer seems to be frozen on the spot as she looks toward the house.

  “What is it?” I ask. “You look like you’ve seen a—”

  “I-I’m fine. Let’s drink wine. Can we? Do you want to? Let’s go.” She marches up to the door of the winery. Did we exchange personalities on the ride over? I’m confused. She springs for a bottle and carries it outside to sit on the patio.

  “Okay, seriously, Greer. What’s wrong with you?” I take the bottle from her and use the corkscrew to open it.

  She points to the house.

  “I cheated on my boyfriend,” she says. “Right there, next to that house.” I don’t look; I’d rather watch her face right now. Was this the place of downfall? The end of Kit and Greer?

  “We didn’t have to come,” I say, wondering why Kit would suggest this place. Stupid fuck. It’s like he was trying to get … revenge! OMG!

  “Greer,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “It’s just a place.”

  “Tell me about it then,” I say. “Was it Kit?”

  Her head turns so hard I’m afraid her little neck is going to break.

  “How do you…?”

  “A guess,” I say.

  Greer is staring at her wine glass, glassy-eyed. All of a sudden she smiles.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “It’s cool,” she says. “I got you; it’s the ripples.”

  I can’t tell if she’s covering her true feelings, but she just included me in her art—and I like that.

  “I was just young,” she says. “I abandon before I can be abandoned. Sometimes that’s been a good thing, but with Kit, it wasn’t. I really hurt him. I’m not as reckless anymore. But I haven’t dated in a long time. I’m on strike.”

  “My boyfriend cheated on me,” I tell her. “Before I came here. He got a girl in his office pregnant.”

  “Fuck him,” Greer says. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Fuck him, and fuck love.” We clink glasses, and she looks genuinely happy after that. Maybe coming here wasn’t so bad after all. Therapeutic. I look toward the angular roof of the house and wonder who lives there. How many secret things has that house seen? I want to live in a house that’s seen things. I want to live.

  You’ll never find a better place to be depressed than Washington State. There are thousands of places you can go to stare at beautiful scenery and feel deeply sorry for yourself. Most days, the sky will even weep with you. And thank God for that—for the absence of light. The setting of a perfect melodrama. Greer offers to take me to all of the best places to be depressed.

  “Have you ever been depressed?” I ask her.

  “Well, there was this one time…” she says, winking at me. For an artist, her personality lacks the ups and downs, the moodiness.

  She makes a list in purple sharpie, and we check off places one by one. It’s all a trick; I know this. She’s trying to wake me up, and I do wake up. The air, the wind, the water, the mountains—they all wake up my senses. My heart is asleep. We are at Hurricane Ridge one afternoon when Della texts to say she thinks Kit is going to propose to her. I turn off my phone and lie back on the narrow wall we’re sitting on until I am looking up at the gray sky.

  “What is it, Helena?” Greer asks, crouching next to me. “You’re only melodramatic like this when something is really wrong. Is it Kit who makes you like this?”

  I can’t lie to her after everything she’s done for me. I try to turn my face away, but she grabs my chin with her long, smooth fingers and studies my face, frowning.

  “Della thinks he’s going to propose,” I say. And then, “It’s no big deal.”

  “Shit,” she says. And then, “Shit.” Again. “What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, you know … nothing.”

  Greer laughs. “You should at least tell him.”

  “Hell no. Tell him what?”

  She doesn’t say anything; she’s thinking. I pull out clumps of grass as I wait for her evaluation. “Don’t hurt the grass, Helena. We need everything on our side from here on out, especially the earth. Tell me about that dream you had. The one you said started all of your troubles.”

  I dust my hands on my pants. “No. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  Greer sighs. I’m trying the pixie’s patience.

  “You’re his ex,” I hiss. “I’m the psycho who’s in love with him. Forgive me for not wanting to talk about my inappropriate feelings with the woman who chased him out of town.”

  “Ahh, Helena!” She spreads her arms out, and the wind whips the tassels on her purple jacket. “The best kind of love is the love that isn’t supposed to happen.”

  I chew my nails, spitting them out the side of my mouth.

  Greer slaps my hands then motions for me to start talking.

  I tell her about my dream as we sit on a wall on top of Hurricane Ridge. I’m terribly embarrassed by it. When I’m done, she’s quiet.

  “When Kit was a little boy, he had this recurring dream.” She shakes her silver hair at the mountains, smiling some long ago smile. “It was about lions. A pride of them. They’d come for him, only him. Pace the empty streets of Port Townsend looking for him. He’d hide, but no matter where he hid, they’d always find him. He was terrified. He said he could smell their rancid breath, feel them ripping into his body with their teeth, and he’d wake up screaming.”

  I grimace.

  “So, we went to see this ‘witch.’” She makes air quotes around the word ‘witch,’ and smiles at me. “She had this new age store, sold dream catchers and whatnot. She doesn’t have the store anymore, but she lives near the winery on Marrowstone. People still go to her. Anyway, she told us that Kit needed a talisman to chase away the dreams. First, she gave us a dream catcher. Of course it didn’t work. So we went back to her the following week. She gave us these stones next—said that Kit was to put them under his pillow and they’d trap the dream.”

  Greer hands me a bottle of water from the cooler. She opens and sips her own, and I notice that her lips leave a strawberry pink mark on her bottle.

  “When the stones didn’t work we went back, and when the tonic didn’t work we went back, and so on and so on. Finally, when we went to her for the fiftieth time, she sat us both down. She told us that something in Kit’s life was causing him to have the dream, and we could stop it together.”

  I feel uncomfortable now. I know so little
about Kit’s life, and she knows so much. It makes me feel like I have no ground for this thing I feel for him.

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Kit said that sometimes he was aware that he was dreaming, and it was still frightening, but less so because he knew he’d wake up. So we talked about him fighting back during those aware dreams. Hurting the lions before they could hurt him. He was skeptical, but he said he’d try. A week later he came running up to me at school, said he’d done what I’d told him. He’d ripped the lions’ jaws open with his bare hands. Fought them off.”

  “Did he have the dream again?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Greer said. “But, less and less frequently. Sometimes he still had it before he left PT. But he conquered some sort of subconscious fear, and he wasn’t afraid of it anymore.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  Now that the story is over, I’m not sure why she told it to me. And then it clicks. The night Kit and I took a walk through my apartment complex. My asking him about having a Greer-inspired tattoo. ‘Don’t fear the animals.’ That was hers. I feel sick with jealousy. So much more meaning than a flower, or cross, or even her name. It is their history. Their bond. And what right do I have to be jealous? He isn’t even mine. I am not in the chain of girlfriends; Della is.

  “He’s going to be in Santa Fe next weekend,” Greer says.

  “What? How do you know?”

  “His cousin’s wedding. I’m invited, and I’d love it if you came along as my date.”

  I shake my head. “No. I can’t. Della will—”

  “Della will not be there,” Greer tells me. “Her mother’s birthday or some shit like that.”

  I feel guilty that I forgot about her mom’s upcoming birthday. I used to be very close to her family.

  “Either way, it’s not right. I can’t do that. They’re a family, her and Kit.”

  “Not until they’re married,” Greer says. “And we have ample time to stop that from happening.”