You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(115)

Girls.

I put on my Romeo jeans, the ones I was wearing on our first date, and you whistle at me.

I give you some golf claps. “Closer.”

“Ha.”

“No, I mean you almost did it then. You almost actually whistled.”

You clap your hands and that’s our little project this week. We are learning to whistle.

“All right, Cusack. Are you finally ready to blow this Popsicle stand?”

That was Dick speak—let’s blow this Popsicle stand—but you’ll stop speaking his language in time. You swat me with a new scarf. Black and white stripes. “Don’t say it, lover boy.”

“Then don’t call me lover boy.”

“Okay, lover boy.”

It’s one of those nights where it feels like spring isn’t a myth, so we decide to walk downtown. We pass a hot dog stand, and I tell you about Jeremy, how he likes to stop and smell the hot dogs. You ask about him and Sarah, and I tell you they’re still good.

“I’m so relieved, Joe. Ooh, and I would love to call Sarah and say hi. I won’t, like, tell her that I know about stuff. I just…I do feel like I could be friends with her.”

The loneliness of the girl with a million friends she doesn’t trust or know is real. The way you yearn to find your Others. The tragedy that I can’t help you.

“I’ll get her number from Jeremy, but part of their, you know, healing or whatever…She’s trying life without a cell phone for a while. The guy she cheated with, her boss…She was always sneaking off to call him, and she and Jeremy both…Well, it was her idea.”

You loop your arm through mine and lay your head on my shoulder. “That’s kind of sweet. Maybe I’ll ditch mine too.”

You are neat tonight in your black on black on black. Professional. Honest. We go to the play, and then afterward we go to Veselka, and sometime after three, we leave a big fat tip that we can’t afford and walk home together. We aren’t spoons, not tonight. Tonight, we face each other. And it’s a first for me, Vail, to fall asleep in your arms, with you in my arms, wrapped up in a way that shouldn’t be conducive to actual fucking sleep. My left arm should be full of pins and needles, and your neck should be on fire. But bodies rise, don’t they? Like souls. A few times, I wake up for a second or two. You look different tonight.

I’m pretty sure you’re doing what I promised you would do eventually. I’m pretty sure you’re dreaming. Your restlessness was never about work. All jobs are bullshit, to a degree, and you’re back in REM mode because of what really fucking matters: love, as in me.

And then the nightmare comes all at once. I wake up alone. Bad. I like it when you’re here and you’re not here. And then from bad to worse. I hear you crying. You’re out there. The loft never seemed this big and I can’t get to you fast enough and I’ll kill him, Vail, whoever broke in and did this to you. I can’t do that naked so I pull on shorts and I tear the white sheet. You’re alone, seemingly safe. Killing someone does have its consequences. I worry for you because of all the dicks still out there lurking in the shadows, picking locks on SVU. It’s a relief to see you bent on the floor, down on your knees. Physically unharmed. Pages of the Post at your feet. I sink to your level, and you are scaring me, sobbing. We’re the happiest people in the world and it’s hard not to feel a little miffed. I didn’t think you’d ever cry again.

“Vail. Are you okay?”

I reach for the cover of the paper.

Dead Man Swimming





40


The woman behind the counter at Magnolia Bakery has seen a lot of me these past couple of days. I recognize that strain in her jaw. She knows something bad happened but she doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that knowledge. I’ve offered condolences to customers in the past. Retail is weird. You know a customer and you’re not supposed to know a customer, but you do. And sure, you’re on the clock, but you’re a human. At some point, you have to do it, go there.

“Okay,” she says. “Here’s your change, and I’m not trying to pry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Well, whatever’s going on…I hope it gets better.”

I thank the nice woman and walk home to you, the sad woman.

Will it get better? It doesn’t feel like it’s getting better. Dick’s body was found three days ago. He dumped you on Instant Fucking Messenger, and you’re acting like he was ever anything but a dick to you. It’s getting scary, Vail. You haven’t been out of the house. You sleep on the sofa. You don’t mean to ice me out and I hear you when you say it’s “not about me,” but I miss you, Vail. The best night of our lives led to the worst night of our lives, and I could kill that prick all over again for rolling up to Jones Fucking Beach. What? Even the sharks didn’t want him?

I climb the stairs in SoHo, and I knock on my door as if it isn’t mine. A habit that began a day or so ago, as if I have to make sure you’re not masturbating over your IM fucking chat history. “All good, Vail?”

“You can come in.”

No shit, Sherlock, and I come in with my cupcakes. That’s all you want. Cupcakes. You don’t thank me for the loot. You grab it. You tear off the best part, the top part with all the frosting, and toss it on the table. Most people prefer the frosting. Most people confront death and want to fucking live and hello…It’s not like you killed him and are scouring the papers paranoid about being caught. You have no idea, Vail, no fucking clue what this is like for me.