Dirty Headlines

In love. Fuck me.

With Judith Penelope Humphry from Brooklyn.

Who I’d met on a shitty rainy day after another fight with my father.

Who had stolen my wallet and my cash and my condoms and my heart.

Who’d sneaked into every fiber of my skin, one layer at a time, with her music and contagious laugh and daily moods and dirty Chucks.

I was in love, despite not wanting or agreeing to be.

So I’d pushed her away. If I disappeared, I didn’t have to make a decision. It would be made for me.

A decision to take a chance on someone.

A decision to live again.

A decision to give up LBC, and everything I’d worked for, because power wasn’t enough. Especially if you have no one to share it with.

That’s how I found myself doing the whole flowers-and-chocolate routine when I came to her house that evening. Did people do that anymore? Every romantic idea I had—and granted, I didn’t have many—was taken from stupid rom coms Camille made me watch when I was a teen. Lily had never bothered. She knew sitting me down in front of a Kate Hudson movie was a task akin to getting me to fuck a food grinder.

Maybe chocolate and flowers were a ‘90s thing. Judith was young. Perhaps to a point it made people feel uncomfortable. Ask me if I gave a fuck.

Célian, do you give a fuck?

Not even a half. Not even a quarter. Minus three fucks, and still counting.

I rang the doorbell several times, pacing back and forth. The door remained unanswered, much like my text messages. I’d tried to keep them curt and sane, but those were two traits I’d parted ways with for the past few hours, while dealing with an oil spill, a dying network, and a broken heart. I decided to shoot her one last message before I left.

Célian: We need to talk.

Célian: In a nutshell, I did not put my dick inside my ex-fiancée.

Célian: And she is still very much an ex.

Célian: Her grandmother died. We were close. I didn’t want to lay out all the shit in a text message. Which is fucking ironic, because PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE.

Célian: Also—if you did catch the party, that was her cousin. The family was obligated to go. I left early.

Célian: And alone.

Célian: Why am I explaining myself to your message box? Let’s make it awkward for both of us. I’m coming over.

Célian: Open the door.

Célian: I’ll kick it down.

Célian: It’s a dodgy neighborhood, Chucks. Going doorless for a night isn’t ideal, but you asked for it.

I heard the click of the door opening a second after the last text. I looked up. Chucks had on a Sonic Youth hoodie and short shorts. She stared at me through a crack narrower than an ant’s anus.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the flowers—they looked about as wilted as me—and the red chocolate box with the pink cellophane in her direction. “For your stubborn ass, which I would very much like to eat again in the near future.”

“Is this a joke?” She blinked slowly.

I looked around me. Was it? Because it felt serious on an existential level to me. “About the ass or the apology? Never mind. No, in both cases.”

“Well, I don’t accept your apology, and I will not grace the ass comment with a response. Anything else?” she asked, but she was already pushing her door closed.

I spotted her father shuffling behind her. He shook his head when he saw me through the slit in the door.

“Célian,” he scolded. “You’re lucky I’m too sick to kick your ass. Wait. I’d never be too sick to kick your ass.”

“Sir, I’m trying to explain.”

He walked off to the couch, not sparing me another look. I went back to staring at my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever she was. Fuck.

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for everything that’s happened in the last three days.” I tried a different tactic.

For the record, my BA was in pre-law and my masters was in international relations. I was supposed to be good with words. In fact, I knew I was. That did not stop me from shitting all over this encounter.

“Yet there is zero way to explain why you went MIA and brushed me off when the entire world knew you were with your ex,” she countered. “You know, Célian, Milton was wrong about a lot of things. One thing he was right about, though—royalty and plebeians don’t mix. It’s probably very nice to be sitting there on the throne, like you do.”

Did it look like I was having a good fucking time? What gave it away, the fact that I felt like hell, or smelled like it? My teeth ground together.

She swung the door open all the way, parking a hand on her hip. “Actually, I do have something to say, so listen carefully. When my mother died, she said the heart was a lonely hunter. I thought she meant I was incapable of falling in love. Because I never did. I liked Milton, a lot, and some guys in high school, too…” She trailed off.