Julie Halpern: The F- It List

“That’s a good look for you.” Leo reached for my face, and it took me a melty second to realize he was talking about my fake blood. He touched a dangling bit of flesh, but none of my own. I smelled cigarettes on his hand.

“Thanks. It’s not real, in case you were worried,” I told him.

“Worry about you? I’m sure you can handle yourself,” Leo quipped. I didn’t know if he thought that was a good or bad thing.

“Did you guys go to any panels?” asked Brian. The conversation turned lighthearted, or as lighthearted as one can get when talking about Deathbox 4. I tried to stop myself from staring at Leo. Had he really said he loved me once? Where would we be now if his brother hadn’t died? If Becca didn’t have cancer? If my dad hadn’t died? Would he have stayed a distant object of my imagination? Tragedy is what brought us together. And then pushed us apart.

Where were we now?

I’ve heard countless people say bad things happen in threes. That never made sense to me. Shit happened all the time; how could anybody determine where the pattern of three ended and the next one began? Maybe Leo’s brother dying had nothing to do with my first two bad things. Maybe Becca was going to die. Or my mom. Or one of my brothers. Or both. If both of them died, did that count as one or two bad things?

No, I didn’t believe in the “cycle of three bad things” any more than I believed in love at first sight and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Love was never going to be something you could find in the split-second glance of judgment we make on people we don’t know, and if people seemed like they were up to no good, chances are they were. My dad taught me that.

Just because three horrible things happened, that didn’t mean more weren’t to come. Better to protect yourself than kick yourself later for being an asshole. Now, that was something I believed in.

“Can someone help me up?” Becca asked, and before I could reach for her, Brian extended his hand. While they made with the niceties, Leo and I looked at each other, on the verge of words. I must have opened my mouth five times while trying to think of something to say. We looked like two fish in an aquarium.

I studied Leo’s face, the straight lips, the too-sweet freckles, his translucent eyelashes. In that moment I hated myself for not trying to be there for him.

Fish mouth again.

Brian broke the underwater moment. “You guys want to come to the screening of Reanimator with us?”

“I’m sure they’re busy,” Leo informed him.

“Yeah,” I agreed out of obligation. “We can’t. I promised Becca’s mom I’d bring her home for dinner. She’s hardcore about making her eat her vegetables.” I looked at Becca, whose mom told her to stay out as long as she wanted.

“Yeah.” She presented her best disappointed face, always the actress. “Maybe another time?” she asked.

“Sure.” Brian smiled, googly eyed. If he only knew Becca was attached to a homeschool beefcake.

Not knowing how to say good-bye, nor really wanting to, I blurted, “Want to get coffee sometime?” at Leo, a line direct from the list of top asshole-isms.

“Maybe,” Leo answered, kind of sounding like an asshole himself.

“That would be great,” Becca pushed. That he would maybe want to get coffee with me? I felt like I was morphing into one gigantic asshole as we spoke. Like, literally a human-sized hole in an ass.

“Better get in line so we can get seats. Nice meeting you guys.” Brian winked. I always said never trust a winker.

Or anyone else for that matter.

Leo and Brian walked away, and Becca and I headed for my car. “What happened?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” I played dumb. Or maybe I just was.

“That was your big chance to charm Leo back into your evil clutches, and you totally choked.”

“I didn’t choke. He didn’t want to see me. Or watch Reanimator with me. Or drink hot caffeinated beverages with me.” I stomped ahead of Becca, who called after me, “Slow down!”

I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I need to sit down,” she said. We plopped down on a parking block, so Becca could rest.

“I fucked this up, didn’t I? Not just today, but, like, forever.”

“Possibly not. Leo did say maybe. He could have flat-out said no and called you a twat.”

“Leo has never used the word ‘twat’,” I guessed.

“Well, more people should.”

“Do you think I’m a twat?”

“Not all the time.” I flicked Becca’s arm. “Watch it. I bruise easily. What I meant was, maybe you are a twat sometimes, but Leo already knew that. Maybe he understands. I mean, you just lost your dad, and then his brother goes and dies. People deal with death in all sorts of weird ways.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed, Davis Humper.”

“Did you seriously just use the word ‘hump’?”

“Don’t forget Davis.”

“Wish I could.”

That night, as I replayed every detail of my debacle with Leo, my phone buzzed on my nightstand. It was a text. From Leo.

Yes to coffee. Tomorrow?

Fuckbaskets. What made him change his mind? Was this his opportunity to tell me off? To make up? To introduce me to his fiancée?

I didn’t want to wait and give him a chance to change his mind.

Have to work tomorrow.

After work

OK. 7:30 @ Brew Town?

OK

I waited for more texts, felt like I should say something else but lacked the words to express anything. What would I express if I had? I wished my mom had homeschooled me, so I had the gall to write sappy love notes like Caleb. But Leo wasn’t the sappy love-note type. I didn’t think. Whether or not he was, I wasn’t. I couldn’t even handle those three little words.

I handled liking the guy who said them even less.

I WAS A JANGLY BALL of stress all day at Cellar. Too many hunks of turkey and plops of mayonnaise missed their bread, and my feet were surrounded by casualties.

“Are you on the rag or something?” accused Doug. “You’re surlier than ever today.”

“Maybe. Want me to pull out my bloody tampon and show you?” That shut him up. Guys seemed much better equipped at handling the hypothetically hormonal aspect of menstruation than the actual act.

My shift ended at seven. Brew Town was only two stores away, and I used the extra half hour to change out of my subby shirt and into one that didn’t smell quite as much like roast beef. At 7:25, I ascended the stairs and walked out the door of Cellar. There, two doors down, leaning against the storefront with a cigarette in his hand, was Leo.

He wore a heavy black down jacket and a black winter hat over his buzzed hair. He looked around nonchalantly, either not in a rush to find me or really just taking in the sights. When our eyes met, he brought the cigarette to his lips, took a long drag, blew out the smoke, then stamped out the rest of the cigarette with his shoe. It could have been a calculated move to show me that he was smoking again, that I had no influence over him. Or maybe he started smoking again because of other reasons. Because the world was oh-so-far from revolving around me.

I approached Leo, and he eased himself out of his window lean.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he repeated. He held the door open for me with his back, hands in his pockets. Without taking off his coat, he slid into a table near the window.

“What do you want?” I asked, standing next to him. He looked at me, almost annoyed. “Coffee?” I pushed.

“Oh. Large. Black.”

I didn’t bother asking him which brew. I guessed that wasn’t something he cared much about. At the counter, I ordered him a medium roast and hoped it was the right choice. I selected a mocha for myself. When the barista asked for the name on my order, I told him, “Ash,” the name of Bruce Campbell’s character in the Evil Dead movies. I thought maybe it would soften the situation. I waited by the counter for the drinks, and when the barista called, “Ash,” I looked over at Leo for approval. He watched passersby at the window. I was pissed at myself for bothering.