You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(79)

“Because intellectually and physically I am at my peak. Thirty-five.”

“Ha. Okay, but the real thing is…When you say there is no way I am twenty-five…I just…What do you mean by that? Do you mean I seem older? Younger?”

I don’t know. “I don’t know.”

“Right…. That’s the thing, Joe. You can’t…Don’t mirror me. I know you’re into me. And when you say things just because I said them, as if you want to match me, I’m trying to say…I am so twenty-five. You are so not seventeen. Do you get what I mean?”

We’re not in McDonald’s. We’re in heaven. I can’t help it. I have to say it again. “I love you.”

“Me too, babe.”

I said it first like three days ago and you haven’t said it, not the words, but me too means you love me so much that you’re afraid to jinx it.

“So are you still good for tonight? The comedy club?”

I must do something funny with my face, because you laugh. “Oh, come on. One night at Caroline’s won’t kill you.”

“Unless I have a heart attack and die from pretending to laugh.”

“Dubs is actually pretty funny.”

I remember that picture of you and Dubs, the way he made you laugh. But it’s okay. Cynthia’s with him, and you are with me. You sip my strawberry shake.

“All right,” I say. “I’m in.”

“And if Dick and Schlitz or any of your friends wanna come, Cyn can get a bigger table.”

Friends. Dick and Schlitz are not my friends, and they’re not yours either. Dick referred to you as an old maid and told me I should bail because all older girls do is get older. Schlitz…I forgot he exists. “Nah,” I say. “Honestly, I’m taking a little break from those guys.”

You chew on my straw. “Oh, okay, well, if there’s anyone else, then…”

There is always a little crack in the ceiling of heaven, a little room for Satan to slip in. I can literally feel you thinking that the business guys to our left who belong at Cosi are normal just because there are four of them. You want me to be more like that. Crewed up. Walking in slow motion with my bros. Fuck it. I need to give you what you want. Or at least a version of it.

“It’s a shame my buddy Jeremy moved to San Fran. He loves stand-up.”

“Oh yeah! Jeremy. You have to show me his blog.”

I can’t do that—it’s like him, it doesn’t exist—and I dip a fry in BBQ. “I’ll find it. He’s coming to visit soon.”

You light up and smile. “Yay! When? I am just dying to meet someone from your world who isn’t the man we do not speak of, you know?”

It’s the sugar and the chemicals and the human feces in the food. I am high on you, on bad things, and I can’t help it. I have to make you happy. “Actually, I think he’s coming soon. And he’s bringing his girlfriend.”

And now you are on fire. You want more. You cannot wait to meet Jeremy and his girlfriend. You are the opposite of unsettled Carrie Bradshaw, so content to be at a little plastic table sharing a little plastic meal with your one true love, better than Big, me.

“Ooh,” you say. “Before I forget. Would you ever work at The View?”

I am a man. No. “Of course. I love that show.”

You frown because I am lying, but this is the good kind of lie. “I mean, it’s not a great job and you don’t need to lie. This guy I know works there and he says there might be a PA gig. It’s not a lot of money, but someone like you…” Don’t call me an assistant. “Well, we know the ladies of The View will see your potential.”

You are my girlfriend, my human resource. You have to work, and I have to race back to hell. You give me a little kiss. Sweet and sour strawberries. “Caroline’s at eight.”

“You do know you’re sending me from one hell to another….”

You gasp. Sarcasm and sex appeal. “Ah yes, but you do know that I know you would only run from one hell to another for meeeeeee.”

See, there it is. You don’t need to say the words. You love me.

“This is true, my dear.”

I watch you disappear into the throngs of people who are not you, and I’m not back in hell for two minutes when Petra calls me out. Buzzkill. “You’re late, Joe.”

Poor Petra. She needs to get laid. Held. Loved. “Sorry.”

“I need you to set up the SpongeBob display.”

Hell finds new ways to be terrible, and I am dragging a giant cardboard fucking cartoon character to the front of the store. I miss Mr. Mooney, but you’re right. I deserve better. I have potential. Within weeks, I might be Barbara Walters’s right-hand man, and I won’t let Satan win. I won’t tear SpongeBob in half and set this place on fire, and I won’t jump on the table and pound my chest and tell everyone in hell that I love you.

Hours later, we’re settled into a wobbly, tiny table at Caroline’s Comedy Club of Horrors. I’m the (unofficial) opening act and you’re busting a gut laughing at my SpongeBob hell schtick. You are all over me, and I like it. Gentle and warm. Showy.

“The thing is, though, my dear boyfriend, we are supposed to be in hell in our twenties.”