Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (13 page)

“But you're always here,” I say.

“
Here
is a state of mind, son.” He hoists a thumb over his shoulder and points to the back office. “When I'm back there, I'm not here.”

“A
re you sure you know what you're getting into?” Audrey asks me. I bumped into her on my way out of work, and she lured me to one of the picnic tables behind the club restaurant. It wasn't too tough with the armload of food she pinched from the snack cart. She tears a soft pretzel in half and offers me the unbitten part. “Dimitri is fine in small doses, but you'll be working with him eight hours a day. He's going to wear you down like a cheese grater on Camembert.”

“I think Camembert is a soft cheese,” I say.

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“You don't use a cheese grater on soft cheese. It would get all clogged up.”

“Yeah, well maybe Dimitri will get
you
all clogged up.”

“Come on,” I say. “Don't you think I know how to tune him out by now?”

“I've lived with him longer than you've known him, Seth. When it comes to finding ways to annoy, Dimitri is a master.”

“He's not that bad,” I say.

“Say that again in two weeks.”

Audrey stuffs a length of soft pretzel in her mouth and gazes down the hill. From where we're sitting we can see the eighteenth hole from the tee box to the green. Two carts, one of the last foursomes of the night, buzz down the path that runs along the fairway. All I want to do is ask her what she put in her chicken salad to rank it as a chemical weapon, but I'm afraid I'll hurt her feelings.

“So what's up with Kevin?” I say.

“What about him?”

“I don't know. He just seems kind of…mellow.”

“So?” Audrey says.

One of the golfers gets out of his cart and inspects his ball, which is lying on the second cut of rough. I'd use a half swing with my wedge.

Audrey goes on, “I used to go out with Pete Zimmer.”

“The guy who—”

“Yeah, the guy who got busted for stealing the street signs. Kevin is a nice change of pace.”

“You mean from a very fast pace to a sloooooow one?”

Audrey beans me with a length of pretzel. It bounces off my cheek and lands in front of me. I pop it in my mouth.

“Kevin is not slow. He's just…” Audrey pauses. “He's nice. He's interested in things, in making a change. He's a
great kisser, too. I could go on if you like.”

“You can stop there,” I say.

“Anyhow, nice is a good thing.”

“I guess.”

“You guess what?” Audrey says. “What's the matter?”

“You guys just seem pretty different, but it's none of my business.” I take a bite of the Butterfinger Audrey gave me. There's something about that unidentifiable stuff in the center of a Butterfinger that is just so good. It flakes apart in your mouth, but before you know it, it gets all gooey and sticky.

“You can't just leave it at that,” Audrey says.

“What do you mean?”

“You can't just say something provocative like that and then stuff candy in your mouth.”

“Sure I can.” I stuff another piece in my mouth. “Yummy.”

“Seriously,” she says.

I gather the trash from the table and wad it into a tight ball. “I think sometimes it's easier to see something if you're not the one mired down in it.”

“What?”

“I don't know. I guess he's just not the sort of guy I'd picture you with.”

She leans forward. “So what kind of guy would you picture me with?”

I think on it for a second. “Someone who challenges you more.”

Her eyes narrow. “You don't mean
you
, do you?”

“Oh, God, no. I didn't mean—”

“Because you've got a whole boatload of stuff you're mired down in. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be nearly as good a kisser as Kevin.”

I cram more pretzel in my mouth to give me an excuse not to say anything.

We let time go by as the other golfers hit up. Mr. Mancuso, one of the board members, gets out of his cart. He's wearing a huge straw hat and a stretched-tight pink shirt. He pulls a club out, approaches his ball, and takes a few practice swings.

“It must be tough to golf when your belly gets in the way like that,” I say.

Audrey smiles and tucks her foot under herself. She takes a sip of her bottled water.

“Five bucks says he hits that ball long,” I say.

“You've got yourself a bet,” she says almost immediately. “Mr. Mancuso is a great player.”

He takes a few more practice strokes, draws his club back, and strikes. His ball pops into the air, bounces in the center of the green, and rolls off the back edge. Long.

He slams his iron into his bag. I can hear him cursing from here.

“How'd you know he'd do that?” Audrey asks.

“Because we're sitting up here. It's easier to see something if you're not the one mired down in it.”

“Touché.” Audrey looks back down at the green. “Plus, I'll bet Mr. Mancuso is a crappy kisser, too.”

“Nasty,” I say.

“Totally nasty.”

“So what else is going on in your life?” Audrey asks.

For some reason, I want to open up and tell her everything. I want to fill her in about Luz and my father, about tracking them around Albany, about the podcasts, about everything. But I don't.

“Do you work a full forty hours here?” I say to her.

“Changing the subject?”

“Until I get my five bucks.”

“I just gave you
ten
bucks in free food,” Audrey says.

“It was given before I won the bet. That makes it a gift.”

“What if I give you free food tomorrow?”

“Then we'd be even,” I say.

“Same time? Same place?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Audrey takes another bite of her pretzel. “Fair enough.”

The sun dips below the tree line and a shadow reaches across the fairway to touch us. Mr. Mancuso chips back onto the green and putts in. He begins to walk off, but one of his buddies motions for him to go back and replace the flag.

Audrey takes the last bite of her pretzel. She reaches across the table and plucks mine from my hand. “You're not eating this, are you?”

But before I have a chance to tell her I want it, she stuffs it in her mouth.

T
he doorbell has already chimed four or five times before I have a chance to roll out of bed and tear down the steps. I figure it's the UPS guy. My mother ordered all sorts of stuff for Mr. Peepers from some fancy online store. As if Mr. Peepers doesn't already have enough stuff.

The trouble is that the person impatiently ringing the bell is not the UPS guy, and as soon as I fling open the door I wish I had stayed buried under my comforter.

It's Veronica.

Don't get me wrong; she looks great in her pink Hollister tee and white shorts. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which makes her cheekbones seem even higher, like an elf straight out of Tolkien. Even though she's smiling, her tight lip gloss–covered lips hint that it's forced. I want to shrink behind the door and tell her to go away.

“Hey.” She flicks her chin toward my free hand. “How's Benedict doing?”

I look down and realize I'm holding on to the stuffed animal I made in seventh-grade sewing class. His face, scrunched up from too many threads pulled too tight, is coiled into a grimace, and his bare, gangly limbs hang almost to the ground. He was supposed to be a fearsome troll, but he turned out to look more like a deformed Teletubby.

I toss Benedict out of sight.

“I've been trying to get in touch with you,” Veronica says. “We need to talk.”

I so don't want to do this while wearing nothing but sweat shorts. “Well, here I am,” I say. “I'm a captive audience.” Actually, I'm more than a captive audience. After spending most of last night working on my list of reasons why I love her, Veronica has been on my mind for almost twelve hours. Now I'm standing in front of her mostly naked. I remember the claw marks on my shoulder and angle my wound away from her.

“I've been calling and texting and IMing and still I have no idea what to say. I just…” She runs a hand up one of the pillars that flank the porch, and for a second I wonder if all my wishing and list making has paid off. “I don't know,” she goes on. “I feel like I need to apologize for what happened. I should have realized you'd be at the club with your family. I shouldn't have gone.”

I try to decide whether she's here to get back with me or just to apologize, but I can't quite figure it out. Clearly, she's uncomfortable, nervous, but I would be nervous too
if I were knocking on my ex's door after showing up at his family's club with another date. Veronica's eyes meet mine but then shift right back to her hand, which is still moving up and down the pillar. I don't believe in such obvious symbolism so I decide to ignore it.

“You want to come in?” I ask. “My dad's at work and Mom is running errands.”

“How's your mom doing?”

“She's fine,” I say. “I think she's at the chiropractor or something.”

“No, I mean the other thing. Your father. Applebee's. All that.”

I play with the brass knob of the door lock. The deadbolt slides in and out.

“You didn't tell her?” She says it like I'm the bad person, like anyone in his right mind would march right in without all the details and destroy his parents' marriage.

That feeling rises in my chest, the same feeling I had when I found out Dimitri knew. But this time it's much worse. I shrug. “Come on in,” I say. “You want something to drink?”

Veronica glances down at the driveway, empty except for my car and a new phone book wrapped in blue plastic. “Why don't we sit out here on the steps?”

“Let me get a shirt on,” I say. “It'll just take a second.”

“Maybe I should just get going. I've got to be in for my shift a little early this afternoon and—”

“No, don't go.” I step out into the heat and squint
against the sun. I sit on the top step all the way to the left so Veronica, if she chooses to sit down, has to plant herself on the side opposite my claw marks. I pat the spot next to me.

Veronica sits. She places her purse between us like it's some kind of buffer and inhales deeply. “I still love that cologne you wear. That Seth smell.” She says it like it's been longer than eight days since she's been near me. “My stomach was inside out going to the club with Anders the other night. I wanted to tell you beforehand, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. At first, it was just easier not to say anything, but as the party got closer it got harder and harder to tell you. I know it made everything a hundred times worse. After I saw your face at the party, well, I needed to explain, to clear the air. Whatever.”

Veronica leans forward so her knees press into her chest. “Anders and I, we met at work. I didn't like him at first, but we have so much in common. I guess we just hit it off.”

“Seems so.” I pull my knees tight to my chest until I realize I'm mirroring her position exactly.

“One night we got to talking after work and…” She shakes her head and lets her sentence die off.

I don't need it spelled out for me. Veronica hooked up with Anders before she dumped me. A word we learned in Mr. Green's English class back in ninth grade flashes into my mind. It was during the Shakespeare unit and is defined as a man who is being cheated on by his woman.

Cuckold
.

At seventeen, Seth Baumgartner is a cuckold.

Veronica kissed me after she was already cleaning Anders's back molars with her tongue. My fists clench into tight balls, like I have no fingers, no thumb, just a solid mass of flesh and bone at the end of each arm.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask her.

“Like I said—”

“I heard you the first time, but none of this has to do with me: what you didn't like about me, why your feelings for me changed, why you screwed around with me after you hooked up with some other guy. These things you're telling me, it's all about you.”

“I'm trying to—”

“You're trying to make yourself feel better.”

“That's not true.”

“It is true.” Now that I've started, the words come easily. “I don't need to hear you justify what you did. I don't need the whens and wheres of you and that piece of crap, what's his name?”

Veronica leans away, props herself on stiffened arms. “Anders.”

“Yeah, Anders. I don't need to know any of the details. Believe me, Veronica, I heard the important part loud and clear. No matter how much I want to be with you, you don't want to be with me.” I turn away, look at the azaleas so Veronica won't see how close I am to crying. My chest tightens, but I fight back that first sob. “You hook up with me and then dump me the next day. All the while you're boning some guy in the mall parking lot. Couldn't have been clearer if you drew a diagram.”

Veronica gets up and stomps down the steps. She plants her fists on her hips. “Jeez, Seth. I came down here to apologize, and all you can do is be an asshole about everything.”

“I'm the asshole?” I perk up, all thoughts of crying gone. “What do you want me to do, Veronica, rush down the steps after you? Should I tell you it's okay you cheated on me?” I pause to give her a chance to jump in. She doesn't. “Look, it's been a pretty shitty week. Quite possibly the shittiest week of my life. And although you've played a part in all of it, I've got bigger issues to deal with than you and me.”

Veronica's eyes train on my shoulder. “What happened to you? It looks like—”

“None of your business,” I cut in. “And while we're on the topic, why don't you keep your nose out of my family situation? It stopped being your problem the minute you decided to be the daily special at Applebee's.”

“Applebee's doesn't have daily specials.” She's trying to be funny, to break the tension, but I don't let a smile—not even the trace of one—creep onto my face.

Veronica takes another step away. “Wow, Seth, I used to complain that you didn't talk enough, but I think it might have been better that way. I was going to tell you that I don't even like Anders that much, that—”

“That makes it worse,” I say. The tears rise up in my face, threaten to spill. I let them simmer back down before I go on. “You dumped me. You threw away everything we had, and you did it for a guy you don't even care that much
about. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

She stares at me. I stare back.

Her eyes are pinpricks, the whites visible all the way around. I'm guessing mine are the same. We ignore the chirping birds. We ignore the lacy patterns the sunlight makes as it filters through the leaves of the swaying maples. We ignore everything and just stare.

Until the tinny chiming of a bicycle bell breaks the silence.

Da-ding! Da-ding!

“What's going on with you two lovebirds?” It's Dimitri feigning ignorance. If there was any question before why he can't find himself a girlfriend, it's obvious now. He's riding a sparkly pink Schwinn with a banana seat and high, curved handlebars. Pink and silver streamers flutter from the handgrips. His shoulders are hunched and his knees reach his chest with each pump of the pedals of the too-small bike. If it weren't for the orange T-shirt and bright yellow towel and flip-flops, he'd look like a trained bear at the circus.

Veronica and I turn our eyes to Dimitri as he rolls up my driveway and lightly bumps his front tire into the first concrete step. “It's my sister's old bike,” he says. “Mine's got a flat.”

“How's it going?” Veronica asks him coldly.

I exhale a stale breath.

“You know, hanging and banging.” Dimitri leans back on the bike and pops the front tire up onto the lowest step. “Probably too much hanging and not enough banging,
though. I didn't interrupt anything, did I?”

Veronica glances at me, waiting for me to answer.

“I'm not sure,” I say to her. “Is he interrupting anything?”

Veronica waits a beat. “No,” she says. “I was just leaving.” She snatches up her purse and heads down the driveway.

“Need a lift anywhere?” Dimitri calls after her. “There's plenty of room for two on my banana seat.”

Veronica flips a middle finger over her shoulder as she turns down the sidewalk. She lives only four and a half blocks away, so I don't feel too bad about not offering her a ride.

“Yeesh,” Dimitri says. “Some people just don't appreciate ‘old school.'”

I kick the front tire of Audrey's bike. “More like grammar school.”

Dimitri flicks his wrist like he's revving a motorcycle. “She'll be sorry when I get my Harley and I don't let her ride bitch.”

“You're not getting a Harley,” I say. “Your mom would kill you.”

Dimitri shades his eyes with his free hand and squints down the street after Veronica. “Looks like that was shaping up to be an unpleasant conversation anyway.”

“You're not kidding.”

“Why'd she come over?”

I tell Dimitri everything Veronica said and how I responded. As the words pour out, my mind races about all
the things I should have said, all the things I should have done. Dimitri gives surprisingly few editorial comments and seems truly impressed. “Wow, you got right up in her grille, huh? Glad you're finally growing a pair.”

“Yeah,” I say. “A heck of a lot of good it's doing me. I pretty much just destroyed any chance of ever getting back with her.”

“Do you want to?” Dimitri asks.

“Sure I do,” I say without pause.

“Why?”

The question takes me off guard. Dimitri and Audrey have both asked me
if
I want to get back with Veronica, but no one has asked me
why
. I thought all the reasons on my list were answering that.

“She was a total tool to you,” he says. “What kind of insensitive bitch shows up unannounced with a date at a party she knows her ex is going to be at?”

My eyes dart to Dimitri. I hadn't told him about Veronica showing up at the club, and I didn't mention it on the podcast, not yet anyway.

“Audrey told me,” he says.

Instinct tells me to defend Veronica, to tell Dimitri that things are probably just as hard for her as they are for me, but I know that's not true. Even if I wasn't feeling sorry for myself, I know that couldn't possibly be true. She's the dumper; I'm the dumpee. She moved on; I didn't.

“Hey,” Dimitri says. He bumps his front tire into my shin. “Why don't we go swimming before your puppy dog eyes melt out of your head?”

“I'm not going to the club until I have to be at work,” I say.

“Who said anything about the club? I've been talking to Jill, the girl from the pool at the condo complex. You might not have scored a car that day, but I have a chance to score myself. Either way, we'll be in a pool.”

“Go without me,” I say, moving toward the house.

“Just shut up and put on your bathing suit.”