You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(122)
And just like that you stop the war. You let go of the dog tags and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Your crying is even better the fiftieth time around. At long last, you released it, the invisible weight of his cruelty, his torture. You need me now, and I am here.
“I’m not mad at you, Vail. Sometimes we need to say things out loud in order to realize…. Okay, sure, I’m human. None of that felt good. But I know you didn’t mean it and it’s not about me and you’re right. We are the same. Cut from the same cloth. So I know how it feels, you try to go low…” Even when he fucks…I never loved you…“And you and me aren’t like that…I mean, I know you didn’t mean a word of it. We’re good.”
I’m not a doormat and I’m not hungry for abuse or whatever. There is no logic in love, Vail. I love you, you’re it, the end. You found me, the exterminator who killed the cockroach and yep…I’m still here. You cross your legs and the hairs on my arms stand up a little bit. “I got a message from him a few days before they found him. Can I…Can we talk about that?”
This is good, a little more conversation, a little less you fucking strangling me. “Of course. Do you maybe wanna order some take-out?”
You’re on your feet. Mood swing. Are you a lawyer again? I hope not. Conversations are better when both people are on the sofa. “Say, Joe. Do you like Cormac McCarthy?”
I spread my legs a little. I like where this is going. “Child of God is my favorite.”
“Cormac McCarthy was Dick’s favorite author. Did you know that?”
Oh, bullshit; he jumped on that bandwagon after some girl blew him at a matinee of All the Pretty Horses but people die and us leftovers sit around and talk about them. No way around that. “Well, I’m not surprised. Dick had his problems, but the guy had good taste.”
“Mm-hmm. On our first date, we went to his bookstore…” I choke up a little; I mean, seriously, Vail…Let it go. “And he showed me a McCarthy book and went on about how the guy never uses commas or semicolons…” You’re not touching me but I am choking. “And he said that’s why he never uses punctuation…” I might choke to death and your hands are on your lap. “And the funny thing is that I got this really weird IM from Dick before he passed. We IM a lot and I knew something was off but I couldn’t put my finger on it…But while you were rambling on, I was thinking about IMing with you and IMing with him. You are all about the punctuation but Dick…He never used commas and semicolons. And his last message to me, well, there were a lot of commas, Joe. A lot of semicolons. Even a bracket or whatever you call it.”
You are pathetic—how many times did you read that shit—and I am pathetic—how did I fuck up when I wrote that shit? I open my mouth but you punch me in the mouth. I can take it. I am Big. Strong and silent. You ram your fist into my rib cage—it really is a cage, it is broken—and this is love. Carrie hit Big, and he forgave her. I close my eyes. No pain, no gain. You pummel me and you knew that wasn’t him saying all that shit and I am a sicko who went on his computer to try to make you hate yourself and no…No. That was him, not me. I fucked up, royally. Cyrano failure DEFCON fucking dumbass and I don’t choose to go limp. I just do.
You smack me. “How dare you?”
I am not a whipping post—I’m a punching bag—but I’m still in the ring. I won’t cry Uncle Angus. I won’t fight back. An ass-kicking from the girl you love is good for the soul and I like to see you stand up for your fucking self. I like to feel you grow stronger by the second. Chomp on me. Smother me. Take my breath away. I’ll just find more. I am strong enough to bear the messy, violent, zigzagging, shape-shifting, truth-spinning, self-loathing midtown Megastore hellfire that is your love. It will get warm again. Nice.
You slap my face. Eeng. “Stop smiling, you sicko. Say something. Own up to it.”
“I’m sorry.”
You’re stunned. You didn’t see that coming and maybe you did mess up my brain because I didn’t either…Did I confess?! I did. No going back now and I take your wrists in my hands. Gently, Joseph.
“Vail, you’re right. What I wrote was awful but that’s all I did. I went on his computer when he passed out because I hate the way he talks about you, and that’s the kinda shit he says to me. Before you even say it…There is no excuse. I would take it all back if I could because if you love someone, you don’t want them to hurt, ever. And I hurt you, Vail…” I am bleeding and cracked and polymorphously pulsating with pain. “And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. But you need to calm down. Yes, I went on his computer. No, I did not kill him.”
I loosen my grip on your wrists. You slap me. “I hate you, Joe. I hate you.”
It’s not the end of When Harry Met Sally. You’re not weepy Meg Ryan speaking my language. We’re not in the schoolyard where love means hate and hate means love. You hate me. You’re up, lighting a yellow Fantasia. The bottom fell out. Fuck that. I dropped it. What started as a game of war became the real thing. You just can’t let him go. That’s how it is with first love. You are my first, but I am not, never will be yours. And here I am bleeding internally with a vacuum where my lungs used to be while you ash in a cold cup of coffee. I fell for you, I killed for you and it might’ve been a heartbreaking work of staggering stupidity. Your words that couldn’t touch me ring true now, in the wake of my failure.