Aha! The cunt!

“I mean, I know it was a mistake, and we’d only been with each other, so I get it. Still hurts though. I was looking for a reason to run away after that. So, I packed up and moved here.”

I hesitate. “So, you love Della, but you’re still not over your ex?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Just taking it slower this time. I was in a relationship for five years.”

“Gotcha.”

“Don’t do that,” he says, looking at me.

“Do what?”

“Be all formal and weird. Just say what you’re thinking.”

“Okay…”

I’ve never been called out on my use of conversational words. But, I suppose they’re a bit of a copout if you really think about it.

“Do you speak Parseltongue?” I ask.

“What?” His face screws up.

I shake my head. “Never mind. I think she’s super into you. And you’re only half in. And that sounds like someone, namely Della, is going to get hurt.”

“I like her a lot. She’s funny, and she doesn’t take herself too seriously. She has a good heart.”

I agree with all of those things. But I don’t want to marry Della, or live with her. In fact, I really want her to go home and stop eating my popcorn.

“If you weren’t so hung up on…?”

“Greer,” he says.

“Ew, seriously?”

He nods.

“If you weren’t so hung up on Greer, would you feel differently about Della?”

“Don’t know. I think that the right girl can wipe away the memories of the wrong girl.”

Wow. Okay.

“Sure.” But I don’t think that. If that were true, there wouldn’t be so many humans pining for their long, lost love. We didn’t always want what was right. We wanted what we couldn’t have.

“You’re hopeful and positive,” I tell him. “But don’t break one girl’s heart because you’re trying to heal yourself of another one.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “But something tells me that won’t be my problem. I see a whole different shit storm in my future.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You have a commemorative Greer tattoo, don’t you?”

His eyes grow wide, and he scratches a spot on his cheek while making a face.

“Ha!” I laugh. “Let me see it. After that guess, I deserve it.”

He shakes his head. “No way. No one said I had one. You’re making stuff up.”

He’s smiling, and I know I’ve caught him.

“I’ll just ask Della,” I say. “She’s obviously seen it.”

Kit shakes his head. “No, no she hasn’t.”

I cock my head. “That’s impossible. You’ve … you guys have…”

“It’s in white ink. You can only see it in black light.”

“Oh.” I wait a few minutes as we trudge along the path, the warm air pushing up my nose, making me want to scream.

“What’s it of?”

“It says…” He stops. I wonder if he’s reconsidering telling me. “It says, ‘Don’t fear the animals.’”

And then Della finds us. She’s half asleep and slurring. “I got scared,” she says, running her fingers through her hair. Her eyes are sleepy, still drunk.

“I kind of want my own bed,” she says, looking at me. “Do you mind if I go home tonight, Helena?”

She wants Kit in her bed, and in her, but I nod. They don’t even come back inside. I walk them straight to Kit’s car where he helps Della in, and then jogs around to the driver’s side.

“Night, Helena.”

“Hey, night. And thanks for dinner.”

“Sorry I’m such a lousy cook.” He grins.

“You’re an excellent liar, though. It makes up for it.”

“You’re pretty … excellent.”

I feel so lonely when they’re gone.

There are definite, solid lines in life that should never be crossed. Developing a crush on your best friend’s boyfriend is one of them. Showing up to his job frequently and drinking his fruity cocktails is another. I don’t like him as much as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but hell if that boy didn’t look at me and tell me I was pretty … excellent. Excellent, which is above normal. Like I’m better than regular girls. Not your basic bitch. Finger-licking excellent. I realize I’m vulnerable and most days I feel like a worthless human—someone a guy can cheat on, and call it a mistake. I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.’ I sign up for another class, and this time I try something a little different: clay. I like the feel of the cool, wet clay between my fingers. Clay is about numbers and proportion that you can control with your palms. I’m better at clay than I am at drawing. My hands feel less clumsy. I make coffee cups, vases, plates, then serving platters. All of them lacking symmetry, but I am so proud of them I throw out the cheap set I bought from Wal-Mart and place my handmade dinnerware in my kitchen cabinets. I paint everything white and splatter them with black paint. I am fighting the Pottery Barn taste that, according to my dream, is set to emerge in ten years. The carefully placed Chinese pots and decorative, stained knots give me hives. All a dream. All a dream, I tell myself. I focus on creating my style out of mess and mixed color. A Pottery Barn girl is for Neil, not Kit. Kit’s girl is color and texture.