You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(48)

I’m cruising now—track number 9 is “Thank You,” the Dido song from Sliding Doors, the movie you mentioned the day we met, the day you were so nervous you claimed to be an Anglophile—and Dick is wrong. This mixtape is the perfect trap. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m on fire. Yes.

Track number 10 is “I’m on Fire.” Bruce Fucking Springsteen.

I remember everything when it comes to you. It’s effortless evolution, a new second nature. I know what you like, what you want. You moved to the city because of Woody Allen movies, and you love Hannah and Her Sisters even if you think you need to say you prefer Manhattan. On this day, love is the thing with feathers and soon it will be spring and yes. Yes!

Track number 11 is “I’m in Love Again.” Bobby Short. As featured in Hannah.

Then the hairs on the back of my neck come alive like a bunch of Peter Framptons—I need to add him to my mixtape—and then holy shit. Holy Saint Motherfucking Valentine.

It’s you. Dick looks at me. Stay cool. I am cool. Am I cool?

“Hey. Vail.”

“Hey.”

You can barely look at me—you are ashamed, you’re in love—and you put your eyes on a safe place, a sexless place, you put your eyes on Dick. “Could I get an extra shot?”

Dick says he can do that, and you sneeze. I knock over the napkin dispenser when I reach for a napkin for you, and you laugh at me. “Aw,” you say. “I’m cool. I have a tissue.”

There was something bad in your voice. Something cold. Snide.

I should have fucking called you. I WRECKED LOVE DAY.

“Hey, well, here we are. I mean happy Valentine’s Day!”

You look at me like I’m the nut who thinks Pop Rocks and penises go together. “You too.”

You too is not I love you (I should add more U2), and I have to save this. Fix it. I feel your pain. I didn’t chase you. I didn’t call to see that you got home safe, and there is no going back. But it’s not fair, Vail. You didn’t do everything right either, and you leave me no choice. I need to get my power back. Hide the fucking mixtape and pull my heart off the counter and spit you out, the same way you spit me out but WHY DIDN’T I FUCKING CALL YOU? WHY?

“Yo, Dick. Can I get a to-go cup?”

You are huffy. Sniffling. “Well, someone has places to be….”

“Nothing major,” I say. “Gotta meet up with someone….”

It feels bad to fuck with you, but that’s the rule of women, of bodies. No pain, no gain, and Dick approves. He delivers your latte. Ceramic cup. As in Joe is going places and you’re just sitting around. You avoid my eyes the same way you did in the bathroom, and I know, Vail. I’m in pain too. But did I spit you out? Did I burn your private parts?

“So, what’s shaking, V?” Reducing your name to a single letter. Casually cruel in the way where you’d sound crazy if you acted offended. “How you been?”

You nod at your latte. “Good. Great, actually.”

Actually doesn’t feel good and Dick would tell me to neg you but I want to fucking hold you. “Cool,” I say. “You have a good rest of the weekend?”

You look at me again. The horror. “It’s Thursday, Joe.”

“Right. So…Are you having a good week?”

You blow your nose into that filthy Kleenex. “You first.”

Dick lifts his chin—You got this—and you cross your legs—I got this. I shrug off the inquiry, and you’re on the edge of your seat. Literally. Dick is right. Love is war. This is war. You’re nervous. Wondering if I took some other girl out to Old Man Johnson’s farm, and I can’t resist. You’re too cute. I throw you a bone. “So, how’s Cynthia? She seemed pretty wrecked the other night….”

I did good. I broke the ice and you’re a babbling brook, sounding off on Cynthia. Relaxed. Dick catches my eye again—Well done, son—and laughing about Cynthia is a way for us to talk without, you know, talking. You talk fast as an overheated Red Corvette. I want to hold your hand, calm you. You blame Valentine’s Day for Cynthia’s antics. It always makes her crazy and it’s a stupid holiday, even worse than New Year’s Eve and now you’re on a new tangent.

“See, Joe, there’s a reason we don’t do holidays on Sex…. Never mind. I forgot. You don’t watch my show.”

You pop an Andes fucking candy. Nine a.m. You’re a monster. A lovesick little monster. “Anyway,” you say. “I have to help a friend at work and help get pinks out.”

“Cool. Are pinks a Valentine’s Day thing?”

Dead eyes. Sad eyes. “No. But then again, you don’t exactly know much about my job.”

I don’t know what went wrong, but you are standing. No. You don’t get to leave me again. You scrunch up your Andes candy wrapper into a little ball and grab my paper cup. You pour your coffee out of your ceramic cup into my paper cup and the quicksand is sucking me in and WHAT THE FUCK ARE PINKS. I look at Dick—he’s no help—and I want to take you home. I should’ve taken you home.

I throw it out there. Gently, Joseph. “So what are you up to later?”

You look at me like I am crazy, like you aren’t making me fucking crazy. “It’s Thursday. I told you. I’m working.”