He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

written by siri r.
creative by lauren l.

The wind blew thick plumes of dirt across the cracked grass, kicking up dust, rock, and debris in a thin cloud that staggered across the landscape, muddying the sky. The sun was high, and the heat stuck sweat to Abigail's face in a sheen. Across from her, Joseph pressed the tip of his thumb into the ground, circling the edge of the small hole Abigail had chipped into the earth, loose rocks tumbling to the bottom. He set his heels back into the dirt, steadying himself as his small hands picked apart frail, sun-bleached bones, tossing them down in the dry divot—plucking, plucking, plucking away until the remains were stacked cleanly in the small, laughable grave. There were so many dead things they had buried together. They didn't kill the rabbit. It had been dead long before the pair had stumbled upon the body rotting in the backyard. But it didn’t matter, they had buried the body none the same. No last rites, no eulogy, but it was buried, and there was nothing left for them to do.

Abigail saw her first proper gravestone when she was eight. It was the middle of a school day, and her mother had taken her out early for a doctor's appointment. The name on the headstone was that of a man she had never met. The carefully carved letters bleached white against the sunbeat marble. She sat crouched in the grass, tiny white sneakers flecked with dirt as she picked at the yellow petals of the store-bought bouquet her mother had told her to hold. Tearing at the delicate body and watching the pulled petals settle in rhythmic beats. Passing two phrases back and forth. Back and forth. It was a game one of the girls at school had taught her. He loves me. He loves me not.

Her mother’s words cut cleanly through echoing wind, her head bowed as she wiped a spot of mud off the grave. "He was a close friend of mine."

Abigail continued dropping petals onto the grown-over lawn. He loves me. He loves me not.

"I wish you could've met him." Abigail's mother plucked the wiry yellow roses from her hands, resting the frail flowers in the dark stone vase that melded against the headstone's front, watching a final petal trickle to the ground with the movement. He loves me.

On the drive home, her mother stopped them by a drive-in restaurant. The air was hot and humid, the sky buzzing in the southern spring heat. Abigail sat up front, despite not yet weighing enough for the airbag, and her mother worried her large diet coke like it was a cigarette.

Abigail wanted to know about the man. She didn't understand who or why. She was confused, and Abigail hated being confused. She tried to pry. How did you know him? What happened? Who is he? She knew it was rude to ask, although she didn't have a clue why. She didn't understand why adults were like that about this kind of thing.

Her mother kept her gaze steady on the car in front of them, chewing the top of her plastic red straw like she didn’t know the answer, and Abigail couldn’t help but pick at the mud on the bottom of her sneakers, tossing those words across her brain as the tiny flakes fell onto the gray plastic floor mat. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me—

"He passed away before you were born. It was a motor accident when he was traveling," Abigail's mother offered, breaking up the quiet drum of the gravel under the car's tires. Abigail contended with a rather large flake of mud, watching it drift to the ground. He loves me not.

They were caked in mud up to their ankles. Clothes soaked and then dried in dirty creek water, bleached out by the sun. It was nearly dark, almost past curfew, and they sat against the skyline on the deserted playground swings. Joseph chipped away at the dried dirt crusted on the inner lip of one of the bottle caps he had fished up from the river bed. It was a red Coca-Cola cap.

"I don't think we can be friends anymore." He spoke plainly, worrying the cap in his hands.

Abigail kicked her feet against the pine wood padding at the bottom of the playscape, the rusted metal swing protesting as it shuddered. She didn't know what to say. She wanted to ask why, but she knew the answer. Had heard it spread from friend to friend like wildfire. A girl in their grade didn't like her. Anna. Abigail had found out about it through Mary, who was told by Amber, who heard it from Ginny. Anna said he had to choose one of them. And he had chosen her, instead.

"I'm sorry," Joseph pushed the red tin cap into her hand before pressing off the swings. Abigail traced the rusted silver edge with her finger, the sharp lip nicking against the thin skin, causing small drops of blood to pool and drip into the dirt. He loves me. He loves me not.

The air was cooling, humid but not quite hot, and summer was fading fast. Sixteen going on sixty. She sat under the beat tin roof of Joseph's shed. It wasn't much a shed anymore, more so an overhang used to house scrap metal, rubber tires, and leftover masonry from when the house had been built, close enough to the edge of the property that it didn't become an eye sore. Not that there was an HOA to care. Joseph's arms hung heavily by his sides, back pressed against one of the metal support beams as he nursed the edge of his drink. Abigail picked at the tin frame she was perched on, watching as Joseph eyed the form of a plump squirrel chasing its way up the neighbor's fence and into a thin, pale tree with flat ruby leaves.

"Yeah?" He looked up at her from under his brow. She straightened, propping herself back onto her arms. "Yeah, what?"

"You're watching me." "Wanted to know what the buzz was about," she nodded to the portly squirrel palming the edge of a thick plum.

Joseph let out a chesty huff, "Doesn't that guy sure know it." He used a hand to propel himself off the dusted floor, patting his hands down the front of his jeans before crossing over to the wearing fenceline.

"Sure, those belong to you?" She called out after him. He spun round to face her, keeping his pace as he stepped backward, "Makes them better."

She watched as he plucked a cherry red plum dangling right over the edge of the property line, biting it deep and exposing the fleshy pink skin inside.

"Want a bite?" He pursed his lips in a bemused smile as he chewed.

Maybe Eve had not been such a fool after all.

Life had begun to leak slowly. Drip, drip, dripping down the drain. His words toppled over so cleanly.

I'm sorry.

He wasn't. She knew. He had been with someone else. It was always someone else. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yet he was never sorry enough not to do it. Gone and back again as it pleased him. She hated him. If only that weren't so similar to love. Abigail wanted to scream, to cry, to watch those thick red drops drip into the dirt, blossoming tiny red holes into the ground. Counting. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

He loves me not.

Her mother, soon after, had told her of a young man she had once known. Twenty years before. They had been engaged, and then, one day, they weren't. There are so many things left for me to see. He said. He died a few months later, traveling in India. Abigail thought back to the thick slab of bleached stone and the yellow flower petals, and she wondered if that awful hole in the heart ever closed or if it merely grew softer and more bearable.

The evening sun adorned the sky, bright orange bloodying the countryside. He had the windows down and the music high as they raced past the rolling fields of southern summer flowers. Abigail traced the racer red bottle cap of her soda with her cleanly painted fingernail, eyes fixed on the blue beauties swaying window side. She could feel Joseph's eyes on her as he thrummed along to the beat, tinted glasses reflecting the vibrant summerscape. How many times can someone break your heart before you stop loving them?

She knew they were burning gas with every mile, burning the little between them they had left. All lovely things will die eventually. And well, humanity had already committed the sin. What were a few more? Joseph clasped his free hand around hers, fingers tapping on the wheel one two, one two, to the beat. Abigail fixed her eyes on the skyline, bluebonnets dancing against the sun, loose petals slipping free and passing in the wind. He loves me. He loves me not.

The earth's skin cracked cleanly underneath the tufts of grass, dying and thin under the rainless summer season. Abigail watched the birds overhead, their strained chirps creating a listless symphony that drowned the air in childish ambiance. It reminded her of a before, when she was a small child, sitting under the thick oaks as the katydids sang in time with the coursing creek water. Pretty red bottle caps peeking through the sand.

Poor, foolish, girl. When will you learn. She pulled at the edges of a delicate white funeral arrangement, needlessly preening the petals, watching the smaller, looser ones settle against the crusted earth. She counted as they fell. He loves me. She had hoped that maybe one day, he would tell her. He loves me not. That the last petal would fall, and she could be sure. One. Drip. Two. He loves me. One. Drip. Two. He loves me— one. He loves me, he loves me not.