Heart the Lover (18)

‘After all that. I didn’t know what to do after you left. I was so angry at Sam for not going after you, for not apologizing. He never apologized, did he?’

‘No.’



‘He felt shitty about it, he did. But he couldn’t say he was sorry.’

‘He was angry about a lot more than cigarettes.’

‘I know.’

But I don’t know what he knows, what he means.

‘He wrote me a note. You probably know that.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘It wasn’t an apology. It was more of a screw-you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine. He wasn’t my type.’

‘I could have told you that last fall.’

‘I wish you had.’

‘I knew about the first note he wrote you.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I might have helped him a bit. At the end.’

‘Heart the Lover?’

He smiles.

Fuck. ‘That was the only good line,’ I say. ‘You were quite the puppet master.’

‘I didn’t mean to be.’

‘You salvaged our first date, too. “How was the daisy?”’ I say in a loud voice.

He laughs. ‘I didn’t think he’d get you back there after The Deer Hunter.’

‘Three hours straight of Russian roulette.’ I put my finger to my temple and pull the trigger. ‘Click.’

‘I told him it was a bad idea.’



‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I know he’s your best friend and I don’t wish him ill, but I honestly hope I never have to see him again in my life.’

‘I’m assuming this means you’ve broken up.’

I laugh.

He shrugs. ‘I didn’t know for sure. Things were tense before he left. He wasn’t himself. Then he did leave and I wanted to go see you but I didn’t know if you’d want to see me or if you’d think Sam had sent me, that I was doing his bidding or something. I started to think I wouldn’t even have one friend left in the fall and then that morning just before I left town, I saw the story at the back door.’

‘You liked it.’

‘I hated it.’

‘What?’

‘Maudlin, overwritten, banal.’

‘Banal?’

‘Isn’t the whole thing about writing that the stakes have to be high? Who cares about this dope wandering around campus?’

‘That moment at the end when they’re standing there and—’

‘I know, the button thing. Didn’t do it for me.’

‘It was gorgeous and tender. Everything in it is working toward this mood, this ache, this very tactile sensation that gets deep in your bones. He sort of reminded me of you.’



‘Of me? That loser? How does he remind you of me?’

Because I’m a little in love with him. Because he moves me. I can’t think of anything true that I could say out loud.

‘If I ever write something decent,’ he says, ‘it’s going to be a whole lot better than that.’ He stands up. ‘Hold on. I have something for you.’ He goes quickly down the stairs in the shirt I hadn’t seen before today, his skinny arms, his dark elbows. He reaches into the back seat of his mother’s car. He comes back up the stairs and hands me a book. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to arrive completely empty-handed.’

It’s a paperback, gold and black. Hunger by Knut Hamsun.

‘It’s about being a writer, no matter the cost.’

‘Thank you.’ I want to hug it. Instead I read the back. Or pretend to. The words won’t stay in place.

‘I was nervous earlier. So I forgot to give it to you. You’ll like it, I think.’

‘Why were you nervous?’

‘I wasn’t sure you really wanted me here. That you were just being nice. On the phone.’

‘Wait till you sleep on that lumpy couch. You won’t think I was being very nice.’

‘And I worried you thought it felt like a date, tonight. At the restaurant.’

I laugh. ‘It did feel a little like a date, didn’t it?’



‘You put on a dress.’

‘I did.’

‘And the waitress thought so. She called you a keeper.’

I love that we’re reminiscing about the evening already. But for some reason I blurt out, ‘Your dad said I was the kind of girl you divorce.’

This stuns him.

‘Sam told you that?’

I nod.

‘My dad has said that about every woman since he left my mother. Even my stepmother.’

I’m embarrassed I brought it up.

‘My dad is a jerk, Jordan. It’s why I couldn’t stay there. He didn’t want me working for my uncle, he didn’t want me seeing my friend EJ. He didn’t want me spending time with my mother or playing tennis. One minute I’m a lazy hippie and the next I’m a pretentious yuppie. Either way, he’s convinced I am an all-American fuck-up, which is sort of his catch-all for any kind of person except him. I’m like my mother, I’m as useless as a beggar in Calcutta. Just a running commentary. He has these things on repeat and one of them is that every woman is the kind of woman you divorce. I feel awful you had to hear it.’