You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(87)

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Heaven is this bed. It’s a place on earth. You’re asleep and I’m awake. Buzzing. I’m too happy, too proud. I did it, Vail. I proved the cynics wrong and I saved us and I can’t sleep. I need to do a victory lap. Strut my stuff and mark your place with my scent.

Gingerly, in honor of our new best friends, I leave our nest to go into your shared “living” space. Oof. You and Cynthia are effing slobs, but you always have good snacks in the fridge, even if I do have to check the expiration dates. I wonder if I’ll move into your place or if you’ll move into mine, or if we’ll go and find a new place together. What a thing it is, Vail. To plant my bare ass on your couch and eat the rest of your Tasti D-Lite with a melted, dented spatula. Who does that? Who saves fake ice cream in the fridge?

Girls.

God, I love you. And it’s another first. No more Gently, Joseph. Tonight, you wanted to be the big spoon—you really fucking love me—and I am buying you a new spatula tomorrow. I don’t have to worry anymore. You needed to meet someone from my past who isn’t a dick like Mooney, and I gave that to you. I’m still hungry so I get off your icky sofa and open the freezer. It’s an igloo. You and Cynthia don’t fucking defrost it the way you need to with old appliances, and again I have to laugh.

Girls.

The Lean Cuisines are expired—that’s a long fucking time to hold on to powder-based Alfredo—but there’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the back. No lid. The word CYNTHIA scribbled on the label and a fork stuck in the Phish Food, or rather the frostbite that used to be Phish Food.

Girls.

I take my second dessert to the six-by-six cell you call a living room—we will get our own place—and I kick back on your sofa. We’ll get something better, softer. Pigeons are fucking in the air shaft, and one of Cynthia’s shoes is stuck in the cushions. I pull it out. Gum on the heel.

Girls.

And there’s more in this old couch. Errant quarters and half-smoked cigarettes and receipts and you have a junk drawer in your kitchen. Do you really need a junk fucking sofa?!

Girls.

The ice cream is gonna take a century to become semi-edible, so I collect the coins and the butts and the receipts and the crumbs. I like doing things for you, and one day, when we have kids, we will have a cleaning lady. Or maybe we won’t need one. Maybe you’ll stop being a Miss Lonely/Miss Piggy when we live together. Better yet, I’ll do the cleaning. It’s addictive, especially when you’re naked. I love the idea of you waking up tomorrow and realizing what I did for you. It keeps me going as I scrub your kitchen floors and line up Cynthia’s shoes by her bedroom door and stack the Vogues and the Time Outs on your sad, wobbly coffee table. You don’t own a screwdriver, but I tighten the legs with a butter knife, and that’s when I realize the cushions were the tip of the iceberg. There is a literal field of junk under the fucking sofa.

Girls.

I grab your broom—I am surprised you own a broom—and I sweep up the tampons and the maxi pads and the coupons. I can already hear you gasping come morning. Oh, Cusack, you are such a prince! Your floor is my next project. A sea of Village Voices, which is insane. It’s free, Vail. They print a new one every fucking week, and time passes. Events come and go. I go to dispose of obsolete Voices and why is there a bra in your microwave?

Girls.

Back to the sofa, where I’m on Skittle patrol. So much candy. Too much candy. And what’s that in the back corner? Is it an electric bill? A phone bill? I reach. I strain. I get there. And here’s my prize in the box of Cracker Jacks. It’s pictures. The envelope is heavy and of course I have to have a look. Of course I want to see you. I open the envelope and see…

Dick.

Okay. That’s not what I was expecting. It’s fine. My heart needs to slow the fuck down. You don’t like Dick. He third-wheeled on our first dinner date, and he’s your barista. You knew him from the Beanery before we met. So yeah, he went to your birthday. So what? I’m the one who told him about the party, and he thought I was going and he is that horndog who would show up to hit on your friends and bogart the disposable camera to shoot his own fucking face. Whatever. I won’t get my boxers in a twist. It’s one stupid photo and I toss it aside so I can see you in the next one except that’s not what I see.

Again, it’s not you. Again, it’s him. Dick.

I’m sweating. Is it from all my hard, selfless labor? Or is it from the sight of Dick, camped out on the steps of the colosseum at Botanica? There’s something I don’t like. No Schlitz by his side playing wingman. There’s a fresh drink to his left, his I’m so important messenger bag with his laptop to his right. His legs are spread and his tongue is hanging out of his mouth and he’s winking at the camera. You are my girlfriend, not his, and who took this fucking picture? Did you take this picture? Why didn’t he call me. Yo, Goldbitch, get your ass over here. My heart thumps. I was in heaven. I was your spoon. We’re still there. Nothing has changed. I am your spoon. So he didn’t mention going to your party. So what? He’s a guy. Guys are stupid and forgetful. Guys are not Jeremy. Even Jeremy isn’t Jeremy.

These are pictures of the past. And we have a future.

I know what to do. Close the envelope, put it where it belongs, finish off that Phrostbitten Phish Food, and go back to bed. I do it. I close the envelope.