Valentine’s

VALENTINE’S

“There’s something different,” Oskar says, his eyes catching on mine. It’s early the next morning, and he’s rolling up the sleeves of his flannel while the espresso machine whirs behind him.

“My hair,” I say. “I cut it.”

He doesn’t say anything to this, just grunts and begins to steam milk.

“A compliment is common courtesy,” I say, delighted by my own audacity.

“Do you care what I think?” he asks, wiping a hand on his shoulder rag.

“No, not really.”

He grunts again. “Latte?”

“With honey.”

He taps the cup on the counter and pours the milk. Concentration wrinkles appear on his forehead.

“The cut looks good,” he says, still focused on the latte. “But it’s not the hair. It’s something else.”

“Oh,” I say.

He puts a lid on the cup and slides it toward me.

I hand him cash and wait for him to meet my eye again, but he doesn’t. A customer comes in behind me.

“Morning, Ed,” Oskar says. “Usual?”

I walk out to my car, considering the possibility that Oskar was flirting with me. Stranger things have happened.

I sink into the front seat and remove the lid from my latte to sip at the foam.

There’s a perfect heart. He made a heart with the milk.

He was flirting with me!

I’m smug in this belief until I get to school, where there are hearts all over the fucking place. Pink and red streamers. Paper roses. Everywhere.

Valentine’s Day is Friday.

I’d forgotten.

I’m not thrilled to be reminded in this manner.

The halls are unceremoniously undecorated in my wake. Tape unsticks. Streamers rip. A cardboard cupid gets decapitated.

Several students and a custodian bear witness to this mysterious instantaneous destruction.

“Looks like they, uh, need to use better adhesive,” I mumble as I do my best to pretend my subconscious is not wreaking havoc on the hard work of the student council.

I take shelter in my classroom, locking the door while I interrogate my emotional state.

I’ve always fancied myself a gold medalist in mental gymnastics. If there’s something that’s difficult to process, I’ve typically got no problem split leaping right over it. But that’s not going to work anymore, at least not if my avoidance manifests itself in very public supernatural tantrums.

I sit at my desk, running the sleek, blunt ends of my hair through my fingers. I close my eyes.

I grant myself permission to think about Sam.

I think about our first Valentine’s Day together. We decided to stay in and order Chinese food. He said it’d be romantic to spend it at home, where we were most comfortable, but I wondered if he’d waited too long to get a reservation. I wasn’t disappointed. Not really. I liked to be home with him.

After we finished eating, I went to dive into the box of chocolates he got me, but he insisted we have fortune cookies.

When I cracked open the first cookie, I realized why.

He’d written the fortunes. They said things like I love your smile and You’re the funniest person I know.

“How’d you do that?” I asked him, amazed.

“There’s this thing called the Internets,” he said, grinning. “You can get anything on there.”

I saved the fortunes. I still have them. They’re in an envelope in a folder. Also in that folder are my passport, birth certificate, and Social Security card. It makes me sad that I ever chose to store those fortunes alongside the most crucial pieces of evidence of my identity, to think that I once considered them of equal importance.

I don’t anymore. I really don’t.

“I bet I’m still the funniest person he knows,” I say.

I breathe into the thought. It’s the sweetest peach. When I open my eyes, I find a small crystal bowl of gummy peach rings there on my desk right in front of me.

I pop one into my mouth.

Now that I’m thinking about it, Valentine’s Day doesn’t scare me.

---

—I spend the week planning my solo Valentine’s Day. I decide to make myself beet salad, mushroom risotto and a chocolate layer cake. I decide to wear my comfiest pajamas and watch the Anne Boleyn documentary that’s been in my queue for months.

I stop in the Good Mug every morning, interested to see if Oskar is consistent with his latte art. He is.

On Thursday, he asks, “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

I inspect him for the slightest hint of emotion, for the anticipative twitch of an eyebrow, a nervous slip of the fingers, something, anything. Any microscopic clue to his motivations.

I get nothing.

I decide to be honest.

“Yes,” I say.

Still nothing.

“I’m making dinner.”

Nada.

“How about you?”

“Alone?” he asks, sweeping some coffee grounds off of the counter with the heel of his hand.

“Sorry?”

“You’ll be alone?”

There’s no pity in his tone. Only mild curiosity.

“There something wrong with a person choosing to spend Valentine’s Day in their own company?”

He looks up at me, his eyes so blue I’m defenseless against them. They demoralize me. Hold my exhale hostage.

My insides pickle as I wait for him to speak.

Is he going to ask me out?

“Sophie,” he says. “I didn’t know if she ever let you be alone.”

Seconds pass, flat and colorless. I listen to the slow clap of my heart.

Oskar does not relent. I seem to have unwittingly entered a good old-fashioned staring contest. His eyes are merciless.

The understanding expands, and with it my embarrassment, occupying every last crevice of my existence.

Oskar was never flirting with me. He doesn’t give a shit if I spend Valentine’s Day sobbing into a self-bought Whitman’s Sampler repeatedly viewing The Notebook or having an orgy with street magicians I met on Craigslist. His interest in me is purely related to my association with Sophie.

He’s engulfed in his vendetta. I see it now. It hangs around him, a red agony.

“Sophie is my friend. My best friend,” I say. I’ve never said it out loud before.

I travel back to the moment I met her, across the street in Simple Spirits. I remember how gorgeous she looked, how I was in awe of her. If someone had told me then that she’d become my closest friend, I’m not sure I would have believed them. I definitely wouldn’t have believed the rest.

But . . . who knows?

Maybe the hardest thing for me to believe would have been that Sophie would want to be my friend. That she would take a special interest in me, take me under her wing. Maybe that was the most severe bend in my reality. After that, it was easy to believe in magic, to accept that ghosts are real and to play with cute spider accomplices.

“She’s no one’s friend,” he says.

I look down at the ring she made for me, the pale pink stone with its starry glint. I think of the things she’s given me, the things she’s shown me. I can’t listen to anyone speak badly about her.

Also.

I have to believe in her. I have to believe she’s good and right. Because I’m like her.

Because the coffee cup that was just on the counter is now floating into my outstretched hand.

Oskar goes rigid. His jaw unhinges just a little, just enough that I don’t need to squint, I don’t need a microscope to confirm his dismay.

The cup arrives in my hand. I summon a lid.

“You know, all Sophie does is try to help people, and you and everyone else in this town just want to blame her for anything that goes wrong. It wasn’t her fault that Helen left.”

He winces when I say Helen’s name.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I say. I decide I don’t feel like paying. I turn to leave.

“She’s a plague on this town!” he shouts, thick, ugly veins swarming his neck.

Really? A plague?

I sip my coffee and give him a sweet church smile.

“Then move,” I say.

I step out onto Main Street and walk to my car with my shoulders back, my head up, a regal posture. But on the drive over to school, my confidence begins to pill like a cheap sweater.

The embarrassment spiral beckons.

Doubt waits there, too.

I know Oskar has a major chip on his shoulder when it comes to Sophie. I know this. Still, for him to be so adamant in his animosity . . . is there something I’m missing? Some part of the story that Sophie may have left out? I have known her to be not particularly forthcoming with the whole truth, and she does tend to be deliberate in her edits. Case in point: the ghosts.

I guess if I thought someone had kidnapped my spouse, and then, when I confronted them about it, they threatened to wear my teeth as a necklace, I’d also be pretty miffed.

Maybe that is the whole story.

My intuition yawns, awakening briefly from its endless slumber to deliver a message before rolling over and going back to bed.

That’s not what’s bothering you, Sherlock.

Right.

My insecurity returns like a villain in a sequel. The same but worse.

I’m not upset about Oskar’s grudge against Sophie. I’m concerned with his perception of me.

I shouldn’t have told him that I’m spending Valentine’s Day by myself. And I definitely shouldn’t have done the floaty-cup thing.

I’ve opened myself up to judgment and maybe worse. I’ve made myself vulnerable.

I try to take a deep breath, calm myself down, but it’s like there’s cellophane over my lips.

Am I ashamed to be associated with her? With Sophie? Am I embarrassed by this newfound power?

I mean, I was sad before, but at least I was normal.

Spite-floating hot beverages in a local café is not normal.

Have I made a mistake?

I pull into the school parking lot and sit in my car, take a few minutes to compose myself.

When I open the door and step out into the brutal February wind, there’s Jill. We make eye contact. She turns to Rebecca Deacon, an uppity AP history teacher. She whispers something in her ear. Rebecca looks at me. Now we’re making eye contact.

Is it too much to ask never to have to make eye contact with any other living being ever again?

I offer a weak smile that goes unreciprocated. They huddle together and scramble away from me.

This is how it is to be like Sophie. To be different. To be feared.

I put my head down and hurry to my classroom. The day crawls by, the clock mocking me from above the door. After school, I force myself to go to the grocery store to get the ingredients for my Valentine’s Day dinner tomorrow night.

As I stand beyond the automatic doors sanitizing my hands before selecting a basket, I realize something. It seems to fall out of the sky and strike me with the force and precision of a ballistic missile.

None of this has been by choice.

Sam and I didn’t break up. He dumped me. And if he hadn’t done that, there’s no way I’d be out here proclaiming how wonderful it is to make risotto for one. I’ve spent the past few weeks convincing myself that I’m becoming empowered, but I know that if someone, if anyone, wanted me, I wouldn’t be here.

Maybe independence is just the flag we wave to distract from the pain of being alone.

And if everyone’s afraid of me, alone is all I’ll ever be.

I’m tempted to abandon my list and instead purchase multiple frozen pizzas, a bag of cherry Twizzlers and an enormous jug of Arizona iced tea, but I suspect that will only make me feel worse.

I stick to the list. Then I stop at the pet store to get Ralph some live crickets as a special treat.

I leave them out on the stairs, so he doesn’t see. I planned on surprising him tomorrow morning, but then end up crying as I put the groceries away and, for a while after, sitting on the couch, catching what seems like a disproportionate amount of snot with my bare hands.

This of course upsets Ralph, who lies on his back and flails his legs around for the duration of my sob session.

Afterward, I feel too guilty to let his gift wait until tomorrow.

“I got you something,” I say, wiping my hands on my pants.

He perks up.

“Wait here,” I say.

I take a few steps toward the front door. I spin around quickly, catching him right behind me.

“I said, wait.”

He looks up at me with so many eager eyes.

“Okay, okay,” I tell him. I open the door and get the crickets.

When he sees them, he squeaks with excitement.

“Not all at once,” I say.

At least I’m not totally alone. At least I’ve got Ralph.

But as I watch him hunt one of the crickets, as I watch him devour it, slurp up its juices, a chill slithers up my back and wraps itself around my neck.

---

—I embrace the next morning with all the enthusiasm of a goat entering Jurassic Park.

I do my best to rally, to put on a decent outfit and use concealer on the zit that has appeared on my forehead, the approximate size of a demoted planet.

I go to the Starbucks drive-through in Aster for coffee. Whatever I get, it’s 50 percent caramel and I’m not complaining.

The day is benevolent and moves quickly. When I get home, I take out all of my ingredients and spread them across the counter. I watch several YouTube videos on how to cook beets for the salad. It’s more involved than I had anticipated. Salads are always too involved.

“No, this is good,” I say, scrubbing the beets. “Cooking is relaxing.”

Roughly ninety minutes later, my kitchen is a catastrophe. I’m dripping sweat. My purple beet-stained fingers are covered in Band-Aids, but I have a lovely three-course meal prepared and a sense of accomplishment.

I’ve never understood why people take pictures of their food, but . . . here I am. I grab my phone and snap a few photos to commemorate the occasion.

For your pathetic moments scrapbook?a malevolent voice asks me.

I tell it to fuck off.

I set the table and pour myself a glass of Pellegrino.

“Still or sparkling?” I ask Ralph.

He doesn’t get the joke.

“Crickets later,” I tell him.

He rubs his front legs together.

I sit down to dinner. I put on some Icelandic folk music, then change my mind and play Fiona Apple.

I admire the salad for a moment before attacking it with my fork.

“It’s good!” I tell Ralph a few bites in.

He’s pleased to hear it.

He’s not eating with me. He’s saving his appetite for the crickets.

I’m enjoying my risotto when the malevolent voice returns.

I wonder what Sam and Shannon are up to right now,it wheezes.

Probably not listening to “Criminal” while grating an obscene amount of Parmesan cheese onto their food and contemplating the texture of mushrooms.

The thought of them together gets me. It renders my food tasteless. It zaps the color from the room, the world.

I carry my plate into the kitchen and scoop whatever’s left into Tupperware.

I stand over the kitchen sink, staring at the Everest of dirty dishes that awaits me, and begin to chant.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.

“You’re good, you’re good, you’re good.”

I refocus my energy on decorating the chocolate cake with raspberries and cream. When I’m done, I put it down on the coffee table. The whole cake. I don’t bother to slice it. I’m honest with myself about what’s about to go down. I get a glass of milk and a fork.

I get the remaining crickets for Ralph. They died overnight, but Ralph seems happy to munch on their corpses.

I settle in to watch the Boleyn documentary.

I’m about to take my first bite of cake when I hear my phone chime.

I look over at Ralph. He’s busy with the crickets. He doesn’t even notice as I hurry into the kitchen, where I left my phone charging on the counter.

I want so badly for it to be him.

I hate that I want it to be Sam. That I want him to rescue me from this sad Valentine’s Day. From myself.

It’s not him. It’s Nadia.

Hey, girl, happy V day!!!There’s an excess of heart emojis.

I resent them.

Same to you, I reply. She and I text every once in a while. Most of the time, I’m happy to hear from her. Not right now, though. Not today.

Whatcha up to?

I step out of the kitchen. I look over at the chocolate cake on the coffee table, then at Ralph sucking on a cricket. I sigh.

She’s texting me only because she knew I’d be around. I’m probably the only single person she knows.

Hanging at home, I type. You?

Same!she replies.

It’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one.

Another text. I bought myself so much chocolate LOL.

My resentment begins to fade.

I made myself cake, I say. I send her a picture.

OMG!! Amazing!

Ralph does a little burp. It appears he’s vomited up some cricket guts. Now he’s eating the vomit.

I take my phone into the bedroom, sit on the window bench and stare out at the empty street.

What’s new with u?Nadia asks. Miss u!

I guess it is kind of nice not to be totally alone tonight. To be catching up with a friend.

Not much, I tell her. How about you?

Just started dating someone! Really excited about him!!

Nope. Never mind. No, thanks. I can’t handle hearing about someone else’s happiness. I know it’s shameful, but I just can’t.

Remember I told u about the hot history teacher Mr. Collins? He’s out of town right now, but we’ve been hanging out a lot & I was thinking of u because remember that psychic we went to on your bday?

I watch the little ellipses as she types another message. Is there anything more dread inducing in this world than those fucking ellipses?

That psychic said I was going to meet the love of my life and his name wasn’t going to be his name, and Ben’s real name is Winston but his dad is also Winston, so they call him by his middle name, Benjamin. Weird right?

I can’t.

There’s more, she types.

Of course there’s more.

He’s from Miami and says he’ll probably move back there when he’s finished with his master’s. But he said he’s also got family in San Diego and it’s nice there, too.

She’s still typing.

It’s exactly what that psychic said to me. That I’m going to move somewhere warm like California or Florida. There are other warm places but she wasn’t like u might move to New Mexico or whatever.

I press my head against the window, smoosh my forehead into the cool glass.

Crazy right??? Imagine if I end up with him & that psychic was right about everything.

I let the phone fall from my hand. I close my eyes.

Nadia either doesn’t remember what the psychic said to me or doesn’t care.

Imagine if the psychic was right. Right about everything. About my bleak, ambiguous fate.

I sense a darkness.That’s what the psychic said to me all those months ago.

I didn’t need her to tell me. I sensed it then. I sense it now.

How could I not?

I sit in its palm.

I open my eyes, and there’s nothing but black.

At first, I think I’m being dramatic, projecting the absolute dark, manifesting my fears.

But then it moves.

It’s moving.

I back away from the window. My view outside is completely obstructed.

Obstructed by a swarm of spiders.

Layers upon layers of them crawling over one another.

To witness it, the sheer number of them, atrophies my muscles. I stand petrified in the middle of my bedroom.

“Sss . . . sss . . . sssss,” I stutter. “Sssstop! Stop it!”

The spiders disperse with unnatural speed.

My view is returned.

I slump down to the floor. I rock there, holding my knees close to my chest.