Long Division Page 26

  But because kissing Gus is what I want now, I obviously can’t be your girlfriend any longer. I am so so sorry. Please know that our relationship has always been wonderful and that I think you are one of the kindest, sweetest, charmingest people in the universe. I am so enormously proud of you and everything you’ve done and how you’ve handled it so well. I apparently have not.

  Perhaps I should say, “I hope we can be friends going forward.” Perhaps I should say, “I never meant to hurt you like this.” Perhaps I should say, “You will always have a very special place in my heart.” Perhaps I should say, “It’s not you; it’s me.”

  It’s me. It’s me. It’s me.

  Take care of yourself, David. You are almost done.

  Love,

  Annie Harper

  28

  Today I’m calling my book Miss Harper Can Do It after my e-mail address. And by “do it” I mean, I can break your heart in revolting, terrible ways. Ways that are so evil that when you will tell your future girlfriends about them over shared ice cream sundaes, the girlfriends will be so sick and disgusted by my evilness, they won’t eat another bite of the ice cream. Then she’ll put her hand tenderly on your wrist and you can have the rest of the sundae all to yourself. Even the cherry. If you even like those. Remember this.

  So tonight I watched a particularly satisfying segment on the local news. It was a story about a program at Purdy, the local women’s prison, where long-term inmates train dogs for the blind. Since a prisoner has heaps of free time, she can devote nearly all of it to raising and training a puppy. Helping an eager Labrador become the useful citizen she never was. Most of the inmates in the program were convicted of nonviolent crimes: theft, fraud, and larceny. Embarrassing acts of desperation. And though I was feeling so thoroughly terrible for being such a deceiver myself, the story cheered me up slightly. I started to think about second chances, rehabilitation, and soft, wet puppy tongues. I started to think that a jumpsuit, a leash, and a confident command voice were all that stood between me and clear, spotless happiness. The women seemed so pleased with themselves. They smiled politely during their interviews. The inmates spoke about how hard it is to give up the dogs when it’s time, but how grateful they are to be doing this job. The segment was still going when my phone rang. It was David. I picked up.

  “So what are you up to tonight, babe?” His voice was more playful than usual.

  “Not much. Watching a show about lady prisons.” And then I asked how he was doing and he asked how I was doing. We were both something like “fine” or “fairly well,” and so I guess it was nice to have an even-keeled, reasonably positive status report on both sides. And as he rattled off some story about someone getting promoted, I wondered what the conversation would have been like if I had actually sent that fucked-up e-mail about the cotton candy kiss.159 Would he be shouting What the hell is wrong with you, Annie? or You disgusting, loathsome bitch! or How could you do this to me when I’m over here? And though I kind of wanted to hear those things from David—I wanted him to be so disgusted with me that the idea of ever being my boyfriend again would become instantaneously and irrevocably appalling—I knew deep down in the gaping pit of my ugly heart that his nonugly heart would never ever ever lash out like that. But if he could say them and he could think of me as this huge nasty-ass sinner, then maybe he wouldn’t be so wounded. Much easier to get over an evil subhuman beast than it is a troubled but mostly kind soul whose needs you couldn’t fulfill. Right? But instead of verbally reminding me of all the varieties of filth that I really, truly am, David told me about how one of his sisters, Shannon, just got engaged. He had recently spoken to her on the phone and heard how incredibly excited she was about marrying her longtime boyfriend, Bruno.

  “Yeah, Annie, it was so interesting. Shannon said to me, ‘Sometimes when I’m alone and I think of Bruno and how we’ll be sharing everything forever, the thought brings me so much joy that my body literally tingles with love.’ ”

  “Literally tingles, huh?” I said, pronouncing each syllable in literally with an exaggerated staccato.

  “And Annie, to hear Shannon talk like this, I realized something that I’ve probably kind of known for a while now.”

  “That Bruno is a really cool guy?” I asked.

  “No.” And he paused. “That you’re not tingling anymore.”

  “Me? What? What do you mean? Literally tingling?”

  “You’ve lost it, Annie. You don’t tingle.” And he said it strong and fast: a true accusation. I am shocked. David was supposed to be distracted by guns and raids and car bombs. His mind was supposed to be completely engrossed in the horrible war game his career has tossed him into. He wasn’t supposed to be noticing my fading interest in our relationship. He wasn’t supposed to notice the gradual drain in my enthusiasm and the way I looked for lame excuses to be angry with him.160 And he isn’t supposed to use gross baby words like “tingle” to call me out on my well-guarded apathy. It seems ridiculous now, as I write this, but I always assumed that the war has been numbing his romantic sensors. It seems ridiculous now that I actually believed I could go on faking it until his feet were back planted safely on U.S. land. I have been so so so unfair.

  And as he waited for my reply, my defense, my confession, I still wanted to deny it. I still wanted to smother him in sweet lies and tender compliments and faux heartfelt apologies. But then I remembered the laws-of-your-heart permission slip he gave me last summer. (And then I remembered Gus.) Maybe I was mistaken in thinking David didn’t actually want me to take the offer seriously—it was a hastily scribbled note that followed a note about doughnuts. We’ve never even talked about it. But here he is, very well aware of my lack of tingling: my desire to escape. Not that I believe in that sort of physiological reaction to love, but I get it.

  “David,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Silence. Silence. Silence.

  “You want to break up with me, don’t you?” Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?

  “I think so.” Annie Harper, BIG FAT WUSS.

  “You think so?” He doesn’t say it in a mean way. He says it like he’s wet and cold and his words are partially muffled by rain. And then I say I’m sorry about fifty times in a row. And then he says I knew it about fifty times in a row. We never get to the long, articulate discussion about the effects of the W.A.R. on our romantic connection—on how it sneakily revealed that said connection wasn’t as substantial as we originally believed. I never told him that I had fallen in love with someone else. He did not accuse me of it. As far as breakups go, it wasn’t heated or bittersweet or an eloquent breed of sad. It was just plain old, mundane, stuttering-fool sad. It was the breakup that 3,457,938,724 couples have already had. And after we hung up and I sat at the foot of my bed and cried into my shirtsleeves for several minutes, I realized something horribly revolting (but at this point, unsurprising) about myself.

  I wanted the circus breakup instead.

  I spent the rest of the evening composing a laundry list of people I needed to tell about my monumental failure. In no particular order, I needed to get in touch with:Loretta Schumacher

  Joyce and Greg Harper (soon-to-be-shamed parents of Annie Harper)

  Annie Harper I (via ouija board)

  Helen Harper (via chicken ouija board)

  Michelle Carter

  Charese Atkins

  The Stitch’n’ Bitch Knitting Wives Who Are Not Mean or Losers

  Gus????!!?!?!

  29

  Today I’m calling my pathetic use of electronic space Confession-Booth Graffiti Artist, and I’ve been hibernating in my house for almost a week. I bought a portable AC unit, and I’ve been sitting in front of it basking in the way I can waste resources and waste time and waste my life away. David has not attempted to contact me. I have made only two ventures into the outside world of Happy Meals and Happy Hours and Happy Reminders of nonevil humans. The first time I went to my parents’ house unannounced. They were hanging a paintin
g of a country cottage inside the downstairs bathroom, and my mom was saying “Now more to the left, Greg” when I surprised them by peeking my head through the door. They smiled instantly because they love unexpected visits. But it only took a quick second for them both to notice that I was distraught. Before there was a breath of space for them to ask, I spat it out.

  “David and I broke up.” My dad, who was straddling the toilet and holding the painting against the wall, quickly maneuvered out of his stance and set the painting down inside the tub. My mother did not chastise him about the moisture in the tub potentially damaging the frame. Instead she said something like Oh, Annie and hugged me. And this time, I really really wanted it. This was the hug she was trying to give me back when David left. At the time, it meant nothing. It was a hug of ceremony and hope. And hope, in my opinion, isn’t very well represented by an embrace. Hope is a fist thrust into the air. A stack of preaddressed, stamped envelopes. A knitting circle or an upbeat blog. I guess flag-waving was the thing to do after all. The day David left and my mom had me over for quiche, the hugging wasn’t quite right. Nothing bad had happened, no one had suffered, no one had died, L.O.V.E. was still robust and still intact. But now, with loss behind us, and failure stuck to the heels of my shoes—a glaring white and obvious toilet paper train—the hug was so in order. This hug (her strong arms around my shoulders and my father’s heavy hand resting in the middle of my tired, evil back), this hug was fucking loaded.

  We settled into the living room, and I told them honestly and frankly about the demise of the David Peterson/Annie Harper union. And somehow, they didn’t hate me for it. They said things like You did the right thing and No use in keeping up a charade and War does strange things to people. I was scared my mother would accuse me of making a mistake, that she would ask me how sure I was and if I’d thought it out for long. But no, they totally got it. I considered throwing in the whole secret-love-for-Gus thing, but I abstained. For some reason I thought they’d find it foolish and immature. That admitting I was in love with Gus would discredit the valid reasons I had for ending things with David. And my parents really knew Gus as my best friend. Would they fi nd the desire to involve myself romantically with him completely absurd? Would they think I’d lost all sensibility? And plus, it was an embarrassing thing to admit to them. It was like telling them who I wanted to ask me to “couples skate” at the roller rink in seventh grade. It made me feel so young.

  The three of us drank coffee, and after a few cups the caffeine was surging and urging me into a boldness I couldn’t repress.

  “So,” I said. “Do you think I’ve ruined my life?” My mom scoffed and set her cup down on a coaster. My dad verbalized the scoff with an awesome, paternal authority that was just the thing I wanted to hear.

  “God no, Annie. You are so young!”

  After two days of solitude and dry armpits, I went to visit Loretta. On the way over I realized that I had finally gone to my parents first. When something real161 actually happened, I sought them right away and with little hesitation. Thank goodness for this nonstained chamber of my heart.

  “So I’m a big failure, Loretta. David and I broke up. He knew I wanted to do it. He said so. And then it was done. It’s over. I totally suck at everything.”

  “My my my, Annie.” Loretta shuffled over to my side and joined me on her bed. “You do not totally suck at everything. Maybe you did become a lousy girlfriend to that young man, but you’ve been a wonderful friend to me.” She placed a hand on my thigh. “That’s all I care about.”

  “Phew,” I said and smiled. “You’ve been a wonderful friend too.” We exchanged knowing looks. The shared grin of the world’s two greatest deceivers. If we’d have been holding martini glasses or champagne flutes or teacups, we’d have clinked them together at this moment. But instead Loretta took my hand and we smiled for several more moments. And though her hand was a very different texture than mine—older and rougher—the temperature of our palms was exactly the same.

  Again, I wanted to talk about Gus. I wanted to get all sixth grade and ask Loretta So, do you think he likes me? I mean like like likes me? Do you think he’ll ask me to couples skate with him? Do you think he’s ready to move on after Gina? Do you think I’m permanently stuck in the “ just friends” category? Did you see how dreamy his new haircut is? GAG. Please kill me. Loretta and I are close, but not close enough for me to put her through this quite yet. One thing at a time, Miss Harper. One thing. One thing.

  So those are the only people I’ve told. Back to the AC unit. Do you think I can chill my cheeks into a dignified, ice-queen blue?

  30 162

  My mother, Loretta, and Gus have each called several times to express their concern over my homebody-ness. I tell them I’m fine and that I’m just taking some alone time to reflect and read and relax. I haven’t spilled the beans about David to Gus because I simply feel weird about it. It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll launch into some loose-lipped love confessional. I’ve become quite skilled at keeping that in. My fear is of him judging me. The last thing I want in this universe and every single alternate universe is for Gus to think I am a bad person. For Gus to see what mess I’ve dragged David through and how capable I am of delivering blows below the belt. Additionally, because I’ve been secretly in love with Gus for much of this year, I’ve been withholding discussions about my relationship with David. He probably has no idea that things were going so miserably. Is he going to be angry with me for not confiding in him, my supposed best platonic friend? I am such a hopeless ruiner. Ruining everything. I could ruin already ruined ancient ruins, I’m so ruintastic.

  I am flipping through an L.L.Bean catalog163 when Gus calls me again. I’ve made far too many excuses not to see him, and he’s had enough of it. He says he’s coming over, he’s bringing food, and we’re going to grill it, eat it, and relax. No mention of long, serious discussions about my recent hermit tendencies, so I don’t argue. Instead, I hang up. I take a shower, braid my wet hair into a single French braid, and get out the portable vacuum. I pull the cushions out from the sofa, and there are enough crumbs inside to keep a flock of pigeons happy for an entire morning. As I vacuum, I try to tell myself that it’s not Gus coming over that’s making me feel better. My back loosens and my eyes seem to open wider. I tell myself it’s the crumbs. The way they zoom straight into the vacuum and disappear forever. Good-bye mess! Good-bye millions of specks of emotional gobbledygook! So long! When I turn the vacuum off, I hear the doorbell.

  “Hi Annie,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say, and he plows through me to the kitchen.

  I pour us each a glass of white wine164 while Gus forages through my assortment of vinegars and spices. He mixes a marinade in a clear glass bowl. He’s chopping up chunks of a sirloin tip steak when he says, “So what’s going on, Annie?”

  “Stuff,” I say. “Things.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it? It’s not about Our Brother Alden, is it?” He drops a handful of the meat chunks into the marinade, and I watch the fatty edges of them stick to the clear sides of the bowl. He starts rinsing a red bell pepper.

  “No. Well. Yeah. Well. Not really,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about it now at least. I mean, probably. Eventually. Yeah. I will want to. I’m just kind of in this place where I need to figure out what I really want and what I really feel and what I should really expect from the universe.” I take a drink of my wine, hoping I don’t sound too cryptic or psychotic or boring. Gus turns around from the counter to look at me. I say: “I didn’t articulate that very well. Sorry.”

  “No, I get it,” he says. He guts the red pepper and begins to chop it into squares.

  “What’s on the menu?” I ask.

  “Shish kebabs.”

  “Great. I have metal skewers.” I stand up and yank open a drawer, pull out the bundle of sharp sticks. Gus turns around and they’re at chest level, like I’m about to stab him in the heart with my collection of tiny dagg
ers. I imagine a cartoon image of the human heart, blood squirting playfully from ten new orifices.

  “Yikes,” he says, and we both pick up our heads and look at each other’s eyes and laugh exactly two snorting chuckles. I return to my chair and my wine and Gus continues to chop and clean and prep in silence. I watch the whole time, trying not to stare at his back for too long at once. In case he turns around. The onion takes its turn. A zucchini. Cherry tomatoes. Finally, he pulls a plastic sack of loose white mushrooms from his shopping bag. He holds it in his hands and stares at it for a long time. He dumps the mushrooms in the colander and gives them a gentle rinse with the spray gun. (I think of telling him that it’s better for the mushrooms to wipe them clean with a wet cloth.) He takes a dish towel from the oven rack, folds it into fourths, turns, and places it on the kitchen table in front of me. He takes the colander of mushrooms and places it on top of the towel.

  “You want me to destem these?” I reach my hand out to snag the biggest mushroom off the top of the pile. He grabs my hand to stop it.

  “No. Not yet.” Gus sits down across from me and folds his hands on the table. He exhales. Stands up to retrieve his wine glass from the counter. He sits again and takes a huge, loud gulp. I watch his Adam’s apple dip down his neck and bob back up. I bite my lip.

  Silence. Silence. Silence.

  “Annie,” he finally says. “This might not be the best time for this, but there’s something I need to explain.” I don’t say anything. I start flexing my butt muscles on my chair and I nod. Gus continues. “Well. Um. Gosh. I don’t. Maybe. Never mind. Annie?”