Julie Halpern - The F- It List

“Come here,” he commanded.

I hesitated, and a ding sounded from the kitchen.

“Cookies are ready.” Leo bounded off the couch into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the floor. When he returned, he carried a plate of steaming chocolate-chip cookies.

My face must have objected.

“What?” he demanded. “They’re just the fridge kind. It’s not like I broke a fucking egg. Don’t eat them then.” He looked put out.

Guilty as a bitch, I tried to hide my discomfort with his post-sex baking effort. “No. Cookies are good.” Apparently, that was enough for him, and he squeezed up to me on the couch, barely giving me enough room to digest.

Ten minutes into Basket Case 3, I left to use the bathroom and when I returned found a nice, spacious seat on the opposite end of the couch. Leo seemed focused enough on the movie not to notice. When it ended, I collected my DVDs and told him, “Thank you for having me over.” It sounded ridiculously formal after what we did, but I didn’t want to get all sappy and relationshippy. The smell of fresh-baked cookies hovered around us.

Leo stood to walk me out, but I stopped him. “No, you stay on the couch. I can find my way out. Eat your cookies.”

He looked at me quizzically but didn’t make a move to rise again. “Thanks for coming,” he said in a way that acknowledged the weirdness of the situation, the weirdness of me. “Hope we can do this again sometime.”

I nodded, not knowing which part he was referring to.

“See you in school!” I waved overly enthusiastically and bolted out the door.

As I drove home, I berated myself for showing so much vulnerability during sex. It should have been no big deal. Except that it was a big deal. And sex with Leo was an even bigger deal. And the actual sex with Leo was most definitely the biggest deal of all. I mean… cookies.

Instead of doing something to make me forget the shit of my life, I had added something to make it a trillion times more complicated.

I knew then I had to end whatever it was I had with Leo.

SATURDAY BECCA FELT somewhat better than she had been feeling, but not enough to leave the house. We spent the day together, camped in front of the TV, this time for a Buffy marathon.

“Maybe I should have my Make-A-Wish about Joss Whedon. Like, meet him or something.”

“Screw that. You have cancer. Up the ante and wish for him to create a show about a badass bounty hunter and make you the star.”

“Yes! Opposite Jamie Bamber!” she cooed.

“Speaking of muscular men, what’s going on with you and homeschool boy?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. Yes, I can. I have total cancer brain—but he sent me flowers! Like, a bouquet he picked from his garden. With a note. It’s over there.”

I hopped off the blue chair and walked over to a wonky, paint-dappled vase filled with wild-looking flowers, although not necessarily wildflowers. “Where’s the note?” I asked, not finding it tucked into the bouquet.

“Oh. I hid it under my mattress. Mom and Helen are nosing around my room way too much. I think they suspect I’m smoking pot, which I’m totally not. I wish I were. It’s supposed to work miracles on nausea. Maybe you can score me some!”

“Score you some? Who talks like that?”

“I do. Now get me some pot.”

“Where am I going to get pot? You’re the one who was all toking it up with Davis. Maybe you can call him in the army to score you some.”

“What about Leo? Could he get me some pot?”

“Leo doesn’t smoke pot. I don’t think.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t get a quarter. Or a gram. However they measure it. Ask him. For me?”

“We’ll see. Isn’t it legal now for medicinal purposes? Can’t you just get a prescription?”

“Can you really see my mom going to Walgreens to pick me up some joints?”

“Duly noted. Now where’s that note?”

She accepted my weak commitment to getting her pot, and dug Caleb’s note out from under her mattress. Inside a blue envelope was a neatly printed note.

“He totally wants to bone the cancer right out of you,” I told Becca.

“You got that from the note? I thought it was much sweeter and homeschooly than that.”

“What did he mean when he said he might have something to help you deal with the pain? Do you think he meant pot? Is he growing marijuana in his little homeschool garden?”

“There is no way. He’s not like that.”

“Ah, but Leo is.”

“You know what I mean.” I brushed off the insinuation that somehow Leo was pottier than Caleb. “But do you think that’s what Caleb might have meant?”

“It’s pot or his penis.”

“I’d take either.”

“Should we throw a rock through his window and find out?” I asked.

“I believe it was at his window. And no, not while my mom is home. I prefer this to remain a secret homeschool affair.”

“That sounds pretty hot,” I acknowledged.

“Speaking of hot,” Becca transitioned, “tell me about your evening with Mr. Army Jacket.”

I hadn’t yet told Becca about my night with Leo. Parts of it felt too good to share with her, as though I’d be rubbing my ecstasy in her cancerous face. And other parts of it, where I looked like a dumping skag, seemed too stupid to burden her with when she was dealing with something so much bigger. Still, I knew how much Becca loved anything sordid, and it was a somewhat momentous occasion for me.

“Well, if you must know, I guess I kind of crossed something off my Fuck-It List. If I had one.”

“Spill!” Becca’s eyes were voyeuristically wide, which would have been creepy if we didn’t already know every last perverse detail about each other’s lives. That’s what best friends were for, and we pushed that to the limit.

“So, yes. We had sex,” I pronounced with a cheeky smile.

“I knew it! It’s almost like I could psychically feel you doing it last night while I was in bed!”

“My god, Becca, contain yourself.”

“Okay, not really, but I had a feeling.”

“Could it be possible that having cancer has turned you into an even bigger perv?”

“Yes. It’s a common side effect. Go on. How was it?”

That always seemed to be the question you heard after someone had sex. It was weird to me, like there was some sex scale that everyone was supposed to be measuring their experience by. People were so different in what they liked and knew and felt. Was that just the generically polite thing to ask after sex, like saying, “I’m so sorry for your loss” after someone died?

“I guess it was good. I mean, it was definitely good. Bordering on amazing?” I was at a loss for words. So much of what I experienced last night with Leo was purely tactile, not emotional or analytical. Was that how you knew when sex was good? Or was there more to it than that?

“So what part of it was on your list? Did you do something freaky?” She waggled what was left of her eyebrows.

“I am so renting you a male prostitute just to get you to shut up.”

“Come on. Humor me. You’ve seen my list. What was it?”

“I had an orgasm,” I declared. “With him.”

“Ooh la la.” Becca smiled, satisfied that she nudged the truth out of me.

“Yeah, but there’s a problem.”

“You’re in love with him. I knew it! You know, you’ve proven that the endorphins released during an orgasm—”

“No, that’s not it. I just feel like it’s too much for me right now. Does it mean we have to start calling each other and sending cutesy texts? Go to stupid dances and exchange birthday presents and shit? I don’t need that. I have my mom and my brothers to take care of and school and work and you…” I trailed off. I didn’t want Becca to think I blamed her for anything, didn’t need her to worry about me when she had to take care of herself.

Instead of worrying, though, Becca exploded. “What are you fucking talking about? Leo sounds like a great guy, and I don’t just mean in bed. Don’t put the blame on me just because you’re scared to get close to him.”

“First of all, how do you know that he’s such a great guy? And second, I’m not scared of anything.”

“He’s a great guy because he’s done nothing dickish since you started frisking each other. He carried me through the hall while I puked, for fuck’s sake. And you are too scared of things. Do I have to remind you of Ronald McDonald?”

That fast-food clown scared the crap out of me with his red mouth and huge feet. But he wasn’t real. “Just because he hasn’t done anything dickish doesn’t mean he’s a great guy.”

“He is, though, isn’t he?” She calmed a bit, watching me lose the argument.

“Yeah. He’s nice. A lot nicer than I am.” I chewed a cuticle.

“That’s not too difficult an accomplishment, Alex.” I smacked her leg. “Ow! Cancer leg!”

“Always with the cancer. And was that a cancer fart you just made?” I waved my hand in front of my face.

Becca rolled up in hysterics. “It’s not my fault! It’s the meds!”

We didn’t mention Leo for the rest of the day, but that night I reviewed what was said and still came to the conclusion that I needed some space from him. Everything we did together just felt too good. Sooner or later, that would turn to shit as all good things did. I’d rather put an end to it myself than watch it unravel or blow up in my face.