F*ck Love(43)

I learn more from Greer in those two minutes than I’ve learned from anyone in the history of ever.

“I’d like for you to teach me everything you know about life,” I say. “Are you willing to do this?”

She spins around and flicks an orange at me. It hits me in the forehead.

“I know nothing about life,” she laughs.

“Okay, but I’m trying to find myself.”

Greer grins. “That, my dear, is the scariest thing you’re ever going to do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you might not like what you find.”





I move in with my small collection of belongings: mostly clothes, and shoes, and photos. My bedroom has a view of the water, and for the first six weeks, I wake up each morning frightened that this new life will be taken from me like the other one I fell in love with. I have nightmares about having to leave Port Townsend and the cannery. Each dream ends with the Range Rover sinking into the water behind the ferry. During the day I work in the gallery, helping Eldine with the books, the sales, and shipping pieces to customers from other states and countries. I like it; it’s peaceful work, and Eldine mostly keeps to herself. Some days Greer meets me for lunch, and other days I carry my sandwich to the harbor where I wander around reading the names of the boats until it’s time to go back. Nights, I work on my art—all of which is terrible. You can’t force it, Greer tells me when I throw a paintbrush across the room. I’m not really good at anything, but I want to be. That’s enough to keep my hands and mind moving between paints, and clays, and words. What I refuse to do is anything that I did before. It takes discipline to accomplish this, as humans are addicted to the familiar. I don’t eat my usual cereal; I don’t drink a soy latte with Splenda. I don’t watch reality TV, or read romance novels to fill my life with all the things I’m missing. I do not text Kit. Except that one time. But mostly I do not text Kit. And then one day he texts me, after the longest stretch we’ve ever gone without speaking. I am taking a walk along the dock, taking pictures of the boats, when his name appears on my screen. I’m nervous to open the text. Silly. Or maybe not, since I don’t want him to know I’m living in the cannery with Greer.

K: You can’t just move to my home and not speak to me anymore.

Why not?

K: So, you really aren’t speaking to me?

No! I didn’t say that.

K: Where are you living?

Ugh. Yuck. It’s none of his business anyway. I don’t have to answer. In fact, I won’t.

I have a roommate. It’s Greer. I rent a room from her.

I bite my nails while I wait for his text bubble to pop up, but it never does. God, it’s like I have no self-control. No will power. I think about texting PSYCH! But I don’t do things like that either. Oh my God, I’m supposed to be doing things differently.

I text: psych

And then: Just kidding. About the psych. Not Greer. I really live with her.

And then: She’s so great. I don’t even care what you think.

And then: Are you mad at me?

I almost have no nails left by the time his bubble pops up, but that’s cool because everyone has fingernails, and I like to be different.

K: You’re manic.

I swear to God, I’m so sad about my nails. I was trying to grow them. I study my hands before typing: No. Not at all

He sends a picture. I recognize it as being part of the bar at Tavern on Hyde. The picture is of a glass of wine sitting on a beverage napkin. I smile.

K: I feel like you need it

Yeah. I wish

K: The good news is everywhere has wine! A friend of mine owns a winery over on Marrowstone. You should go check it out.

He sends me the address, and tells me it’s called Marrowstone Vineyards.


I mention the winery to Greer that night, hoping she’ll want to go with me. I sit on the only available stool in the reading room and watch her paint.

“Who told you about that place?” She puts down her brush. Her voice is defensive.

“Ummm, I just heard there’s wine. And I like wine. Are you okay?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah, sure. It’s just … that place has a lot of memories. My friends and I used to sneak on the property when we were younger, get high, and drink.”

I’ve never actually met any of her friends. Don’t get me wrong—Greer is a popular girl. When you have silver hair, and only wear one color, people will start to notice you. She never has people over, and though she knows everyone, there’s never been someone she’s seemed truly intimate with.

“So…”

“Sure,” she says. “It’ll be fun. Do you want to go tonight?” I wasn’t expecting to go tonight, but I shrug, and Greer goes to her room to get ready.