Julie Halpern - The F- It List

“You’re not ditching me. You are performing a good deed.”

“What? I can’t hear you. The phone is breaking up.” I crackled and fizzed into the phone.

“Be nice!” she yelled, and I hung up.

As instructed, I parked on the street in front of Leo’s home. The house itself looked sad, the way the drapes hung, the newspapers piled on the driveway. I gathered the papers up and carried them to the door with me. Leo answered soon after I rang the bell.

I had never seen Leo with stubble. He seemed like one of those guys who didn’t grow hair quickly, and there wasn’t much on his face. Still, he looked older, worn. I stopped myself from touching his rusty shadow, not knowing if he wanted to be touched. He answered the question for me by wrapping his long arms around me and my backpack and holding on for what felt like minutes. I awkwardly clung to the random parts of his shirt I could reach in his tight grip. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered in my ear.

“Me, too,” I said because I felt like I should. At a loss for anything to say, I told him, “I brought cookies.”

He finally relinquished his grip and with a weary smile said, “Thanks. That’s pretty thoughtful actually.”

“You sound surprised.” I had no right to be offended, but I played the part.

“No, it’s sweet.” He held my head in his hands and kissed my forehead, a painfully tender gesture.

“It’s not. Really. I made them last weekend for the janitor for Becca’s Fuck-It List,” I blurted.

“Well, that part’s sweet, I guess. So you brought me week-old janitor cookies?” He hadn’t let go of my head yet, but leaned away to talk. We had never been this close except when we were that close.

“I brought DVDs, too. I didn’t know what you’d feel like doing.”

“Let’s go to my room,” he suggested, and took my hand. He led me upstairs, past even more family photos lining the walls. His parents obviously adored his brother, and the photos of Jason seemed to outnumber Leo three to one. Maybe it was just that Leo wasn’t a part of anything, like Jason was. Fewer photographic opportunities.

Leo’s bedroom was a mess. Not just a guy, throw-dirty-socks-on-the-floor mess, but scraps of paper, books, clothes, and even some car parts were everywhere. The single window was covered with taped-on cardboard.

“What happened?” I pointed at the window as I dropped my backpack on his bed.

“I guess I’m not so good at expressing my feelings,” he said mockingly.

“Looks to me like you’re quite good.”

“My mom would have preferred a nice journal entry. Or if it were my brother, shooting a gun at an appropriate target.”

“Do you want to talk? About your brother?” I said straight from the dead-relative handbook.

“No.” He sat on his bed and pulled me down next to him. It was forceful but not painful. I could feel his need for closeness in the way he grasped my arm. I was glad he didn’t want to talk because neither did I. If we talked, I might have said too much, told him about my dad just to make him feel better about his brother. Told him about Becca so we could both feel alive. But I thought that would change things between us. The more I said, the more we became something together, and I couldn’t do that. So instead of talking, I kissed him. At first, his reciprocation was hesitant. I wondered if a cuddle was all he craved, that maybe sex wasn’t the appropriate way for him to grieve. But soon he was on top of me, aggressively removing my clothes, sucking on my shoulder, squeezing my hips. I let him because I knew it could help, because I wanted the same thing. When we were together, inside and out, there was no death, no cancer, no past, no future. If his parents had been home, I cringed at the thought of what they’d have heard. We came together, so close we hardly moved. When we finished, we stayed wrapped around each other for five minutes. Ten minutes. I slept. I awakened. I slept some more. Only when my leg started tingling did I move. Leo snorted awake and repositioned himself to remain optimally close. I backed myself against him, and he encircled his arms around my stomach. I felt his breathing even again and assumed he was asleep. Then, in a faint voice, his mouth right up to my ear, he told me, “I love you, Alex.”

I jerked upright immediately, as though hit with a jolt of electricity.

“I have to go,” I said, already hunting for my clothes.

“What? No. Stay,” he pleaded, but I moved fast and was soon tying my shoelaces. “What the hell, Alex?” Leo sat up, the blanket covering his lower half. “Because I said I loved you? I thought girls love that shit.”

“You’ve known me, like, a month. And if you really loved me you’d know that I’m not a normal girl.”

“Which is exactly why I feel that way about you.”

“You’re confused. You’re grieving. You just had a massive orgasm. You didn’t mean it.”

“I’ve been thinking it awhile, Alex. Why is it such a big deal? I didn’t expect you to say it back. I knew you wouldn’t. But you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Fuck you. I’m a bitch because I don’t want you to be in love with me? Well, then you’re an asshole for being in love with a bitch.” I stood up and slung on my backpack.

“You know what, Alex? You’re a pussy. You put up this tough girl act, but you can’t handle anything,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I can’t handle anything? I didn’t break my fucking bedroom window, did I? I’m handling, Leo. A lot. My dad. Becca. Now you? How much more am I supposed to handle?” My voice cracked, my cue to leave. No way was I going to let Leo see me cry. I turned away from him and dug the cookies out of my backpack. “Here.” I threw them onto his bed, not looking at where they landed, and stormed out of his room.

“Alex!” Leo yelled from his room. I didn’t look back. He didn’t follow. I didn’t hesitate to start my car and drive away.

Becca had asked me to be nice. Instead, I was a monster.

MONDAY CAME WITH NO contact from or with Leo. Becca implored that I call him on Sunday, but I had nothing to say. Everything I already said was asinine, and everything I’d say next would probably be worse. Becca started chemo again and was so exhausted and sick from the drugs, the only news I heard from her was a text that said, “Take my head. Please.”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny or completely delirious, and when I texted her back, “Where should I take it?” she didn’t respond. I was done reading her mom’s sugarcoated anecdotes about Becca in the hospital. The last one I read freaked me out big-time.

Becca is sicker than I had imagined, but I pray each morning and night that God will see her through. He spoke to me, told me to take care of myself, too, so yesterday I had a facial and manicure….

Did Becca’s mom actually believe God spoke to her? And what was he saying? Go to a spa. It all seemed so backward, talking to God for help, preening, when her daughter was wasting away in her single bed.

I had no interest discussing any of this with the stage-crew lunch table. They didn’t know Becca’s mom at all, and what I really couldn’t stop thinking about was Leo. But seeing as I never told the lunch table about Leo, any talk about him would most certainly be followed by a diatribe from Brandon about the dangers of secret lovers. I could hear his voice proselytizing, “If you couldn’t tell us about him, then there must be something wrong with him.”

Problem was, there was nothing wrong with Leo. I just couldn’t deal with him—or everything that came with him before and after the death of his brother—plus be there for Becca and my family.