I'm Thinking of Ending Things (5 page)

Jake readjusts his hands on the wheel, sits up even straighter. I hear my phone beep, indicating a message has been left.

“He told me he knew it seemed weird to talk about this. He may even have apologized, admitting he'd never told anyone else this detail. She swore this talent made her more powerful than money or intelligence or anything else. The fact that she was the best kisser in the world made her the center of the universe, in her words.

“He was looking for me to reply, or to say something. I didn't know what to say. So I told him what came to mind, that kissing involves two people. You can't be a singular person and be the best kisser. It's an action that requires two. ‘So really,' I said, ‘you would only be the best if the other person was also the best, which is impossible.' I told him, ‘It's not like playing the guitar or something, where you're alone and you know you're good at it. It's not a solitary act. There needs to be two best.'

“My answer seemed to bother him. He was visibly upset. He didn't like the idea that alone, you couldn't be the best kisser, that one was reliant on another kisser. And then he said, ‘This is too much to overcome.' He said that would mean we'd always need someone else. But what if there wasn't someone else? What if we are all just alone?

“I didn't know what to say. Then he kind of snapped, as if we'd been in an argument. He said, ‘It's stupid to try to wait the rain out.' He told me to take a right out of the parking lot. It was so strange. He indicated where I should go with various tilts of his head. He was quiet after that.”

“Interesting,” says Jake.

“I'm almost done.”

“Go on.”

“For the remainder of the lesson, Doug was twitchy in his seat and seemed disinterested in anything driving related. He offered some basic advice on driving technique, but mostly he looked out the windshield. This was my first and last driving lesson.

“Since it was still raining, he told me he'd drop me off at my place so I didn't have to wait for the bus. Very little was said. When we reached my house, I pulled up in front and told him I'd keep practicing with my dad. He said that was a good idea. I left him there and ran into the house.

“About a minute later—it wasn't long—I came back outside. He was still there in the car. He'd moved himself into the driver's seat and had the wheel in both hands. The seat was still positioned for me, as was the mirror. He was squished in tight. I signaled for him to lower the window. He slid the seat back first before rolling the window down. It was still normal then not to have power windows.

“Before it had fully reached the bottom, I slid my head into the car and gently placed a hand on his left shoulder. My hair was soaked. I had to make a point. I told him to shut his eyes for a second. My face was close to his. He did. He shut his eyes and sort of leaned toward me. And then . . .”

“What? I can't believe you did this,” says Jake. “What the hell came over you?”

It's the most animated I've ever seen Jake. He's shocked, almost angry.

“I'm not sure. It just felt like I had to.”

“This seems so unlike you. Did you ever see him after that?”

“No, I didn't. That was it.”

“Huh,” says Jake. “Is a second person required for there to be a best kisser? It's interesting. That's the kind of thing that can stay with you, that you can think about and obsess over.”

Jake passes the slow-moving pickup in front of us. It's black, old. We've been following that truck for a while, pretty much for the entire story. I try to see the driver as we go by but can't make him out. There haven't been many cars with us on the road.

“What did you mean when you said all memory is fiction?” I ask.

“A memory is its own thing each time it's recalled. It's not absolute. Stories based on actual events often share more with fiction than fact. Both fictions and memories are recalled and retold. They're both forms of stories. Stories are the way we learn. Stories are how we understand each other. But reality happens only once.”

This is when I'm most attracted to Jake. Right now. When he says things like “Reality happens only once.”

“It's just weird, when you start thinking about it. We go see a movie and understand it's not real. We know it's people acting, reciting lines. It still affects us.”

“So you're saying that it doesn't matter if the story I just told you is made up or if it actually happened?”

“Every story is made up. Even the real ones.”

Another classic Jake line.

“I'll have to think about that.”

“You know that song ‘Unforgettable'?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How much is truly unforgettable?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure. I like the song, though.”

“Nothing. Nothing is unforgettable.”

“What?”

“That's the thing. Part of everything will always be forgettable. No matter how good or remarkable it is. It literally has to be. To be.”

“That is the question?”

“Don't,” says Jake.

I'm not sure what to say right then. I'm not sure how to respond.

For a while he doesn't say anything else. He just plays with his hair, curling a piece at the back of his head around his index finger the way he does, the way I like. And then, after a while, he looks at me.

“What would you say if I told you I'm the smartest human on earth?”

“Pardon?”

“I'm serious. And this is relevant to your story. Just answer.”

I'd guess we've been driving for at least fifty minutes, probably longer. It's getting darker outside. There are no lights on in the car, beyond the dash and radio.

“What would I say?”

“Yeah. Would you laugh? Would you call me a liar? Would you get mad? Or would you just question the rationality of such a bold statement?”

“I guess I would say ‘Pardon?' ”

Jake laughs at this. Not a big laugh, but a small, sincere, ingested, Jake kind of laugh.

“Seriously. I'm saying it. You've heard me clearly. How do you respond?”

“Well, what you're saying is that you're the smartest man on earth?”

“Incorrect. The smartest
human
. And I'm not saying I
am
; I'm wondering how you would respond if I
did
say that. Take your time.”

“Jake, come on.”

“I'm being serious.”

“I guess I'd say you're full of shit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The smartest human on earth? It's ridiculous for so many reasons.”

“What are the reasons?”

I lift my head, which had been resting on my hands, and look around, as if there's an audience present. Blurs of trees pass the window.

“Okay, let me ask you a question. Do you think you're the smartest human alive?”

“That's not an answer. That's a question.”

“And I'm allowed to answer in the form of a question.”

I know I'm opening myself to the obvious
Jeopardy!
joke as I say it, but Jake doesn't make it. Of course he doesn't.

“Why is it impossible that I'm the smartest human on earth beyond just saying that it's crazy?”

“I don't even know where to start.”

“That's the whole point. You just assume it to be too far-fetched to be real. You can't perceive that someone you know, some regular dude sitting beside you in a car, is the smartest person. But why not?”

“Because what do you even mean by smart? Are you more book-smart than me? Maybe. But what about building a fence? Or knowing when to ask someone how they're doing or feeling compassion or knowing how to live with others, to connect with other people? Empathy is a big part of smarts.”

“Of course it is,” he says. “That's all part of my question.”

“Fine. But still, I don't know, I mean, how could there even be a smartest person?”

“There has to be. Whatever algorithm you create, or whatever you decide makes up intelligence, someone has to meet those criteria more than everyone else. Someone has to be the smartest in the world. And what a burden it is. It really is.”

“What does it matter? One smartest person?”

He leans a little toward me. “The most attractive thing in the world is the combination of confidence and self-consciousness. Blended together in the proper amounts. Too much of either and all is lost. And you were right, you know.”

“Right? About what?”

“About the best kisser,” he says. “Thankfully you can't be the best kisser alone. It's not like being the smartest.”

He leans back his way, reasserts both hands on the wheel. I look out my window.

“And anytime you want to have a fence-building contest, just let me know,” he says.

He never let me finish my story. I never kissed Doug after our lesson. Jake assumed. He assumed I kissed Doug. But a kiss needs two people who want to kiss, or it's something else.

Here's what really happened. I went back to the car that time. I leaned in the window and opened my hand, revealing the tiny wrinkled candy wrapper, the one Doug gave me. I uncrumpled it and read it:

My heart, my heart alone with its lapping waves of song, longs to touch this green world of the sunny day. Hello!

I still have the candy wrapper somewhere. I saved it. I don't know why. After reading those lines to Doug, I turned and ran back into my house. I never saw him again.

—He had keys. He wasn't scheduled to be here, but he had keys. He could do whatever he wanted.

—Wasn't there supposed to be some revarnishing done during the break?

—Yes, but that happened right at the start of the holidays. So the varnish would have time to dry. The varnish scent can be pretty strong.

—Toxic?

—Again, I'm not sure. Maybe, if that's all you were breathing.

—Are we going to see any autopsy results?

—I can look into that.

—Was it . . . messy?

—You can imagine.

—I can.

—We shouldn't get into the details right now.

—I hear they found a breathing apparatus, a gas mask, near the body?

—Yes, but it was an old one. It's unclear if it still worked.

—There's so much we don't know about what really happened in there.

—And the only one who could tell us is gone.

J
ake has started talking about aging. I didn't see it coming. It's not a topic we've ever discussed before. “It's just one of those culturally misunderstood things.”

“But you think getting old is good?”

“I do. It is. First of all, it's inevitable. It just seems negative because of our overwhelming obsession with youth.”

“Yeah, I know. They're all positives. But what about your boyish good looks? You can kiss those good-bye. Are you prepared to be fat and bald?”

“Whatever we lose physically as we age is worth it, given what we gain. It's a fair trade-off.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm with you,” I say. “I actually want to be older. I'm happy to age, seriously.”

“I keep hoping for some gray hairs. Some wrinkles. I'd like to have some laugh lines. I guess, more than anything, I want to be myself,” he says. “I want to be. To be me.”

“How so?”

“I want to understand myself and recognize how others see me. I want to be comfortable being myself. How I reach that is
almost less important, right? It means something to get to the next year. It's significant.”

“I think that's why so many people rush into marriage and stay in shitty relationships, regardless of age, because they aren't comfortable being alone.”

I can't say this to Jake and I don't, but maybe it's better to be alone. Why abandon the routine we each master? Why give up the opportunity for many diverse relationships in exchange for one? There's plenty of good with coupling up, I get it, but is it
better
? When single, I tend to focus on how much the company of someone would improve my life, increase my happiness. But does it?

“Do you care if I turn this down a bit?” I ask, adjusting the radio before waiting for his reply. I've turned it down multiple times on this drive; Jake keeps turning it back up. I think he might be a bit deaf. At least some of the time. It's like all absentminded ticks—there sometimes, but other times, not so much.

One night, I had a headache. We were chatting on the phone and he was planning on coming over to hang out. I asked him to bring me a couple of Advil. I wasn't sure he'd remember, even though I'd repeated it. It was one of the bad headaches I've been getting recently. I assumed he'd forget. Jake forgets things. He can be a bit of a scatterbrained professor cliché.

When he arrived at my place, I didn't say anything about the pills. I didn't want him to feel bad if he'd forgotten. He didn't say anything, either. Not at first. We were talking about something else, I can't remember, and he just said out of the blue, “Your pills.”

He pushed a hand into his pocket. He had to straighten out his legs to get his hand in. I watched him.

“Here,” he'd said.

He didn't just pull out two pills from his linty pocket. He handed me a small ball of Kleenex, all wrapped up in itself and sealed with a single piece of tape. The package looked like a large white Hershey's Kiss. I undid the tape. Inside were my pills. Three of them. An extra, in case I needed it.

“Thanks,” I said. I went into the bathroom for water. I didn't say anything to Jake, but to me, the wrapping was significant. Protecting the pills like that. He wouldn't have done that for himself.