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Once, back when Ken was still just Pajama Guy, I’d gotten drunk at one of Jason’s parties—per my usual—and asked him why he didn’t celebrate holidays or birthdays. The conversation that had followed went something like this:
“I don’t believe in blindly buying things just because of a number on a calendar. Like Valentine’s Day. Who says we all have to uniformly buy heart-shaped bullshit just because it’s February 14? Hallmark made that shit up. It’s corporate brainwashing.”
I rolled my eyes. “How does your girlfriend feel about that?”
Ken shrugged. “Never had one.”
“So, let me get this straight.” I held up one index finger. “You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you don’t gamble, and you don’t believe in holidays, religion, or evidently, commitment. Next, you’re gonna tell me you don’t eat chocolate either.”
“Actually…” Ken peeked at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh my God!” I squealed. “No way! You really are the enemy of fun! What about caffeine?”
“Nope.”
“Sex?” My eyes went wide as soon as I heard my own question. I was just about to apologize when Ken turned to face me, wearing a smirk that said he was anything but offended.
“I’m a fan.”
“Oh, you’re a fan.” I smirked back, arching a brow.
Lifting my almost-empty beer bottle in a toast, I said, “Well then, to sex and cursing, the only two things we have in common.”
Ken smiled and lifted his Gatorade bottle. “Cheers.”
The plastic container met my glass bottle with an unsatisfying thud.
That ancient conversation played over and over in my head as I drove to Gusto’s Trattoria to meet Ken for dinner on February 14. I told myself not to get my hopes up. I reminded myself that we’d only been hanging out for a few weeks and hadn’t done more than awkwardly kiss on his couch—once. I replayed the audio clip of him telling me point blank that he didn’t celebrate holidays, do commitment, or even eat chocolate. I made sure to keep my expectations for the night nice and low.
Or so I thought.
Dinner was fine. The food was delicious. I overindulged and hated myself for it, as usual. And, even though Ken didn’t acknowledge that it was Valentine’s Day, he did at least pick up the check, which I know had to be unpleasant for him.
Things were going about the way I’d expected—until I handed Ken his gift.
I’d made the card myself, remembering how he felt about Hallmark. On the front, I’d drawn a Celtic knot, my favorite thing to doodle, and if you looked closely, hiding inside the intricate design were the letters K, E, and N. I don’t even remember what I’d written on the inside of the card, probably something sarcastic. Then, I’d tucked it into an envelope and taped it to a gift-wrapped All-American Rejects CD. I hadn’t wanted to get him anything expensive, just a little token, and since we’d had a car sing-along to the song “Swing Swing” the week before, I’d thought it would be the perfect gift.
A gift…
That Ken…
Refused…
To fucking…
Open.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his tone almost punitive as he stared at my offering.
“Why not?” I snapped, thrusting the package at him again.
Because you don’t like me like that? Because I’m cool enough to hang out with but not hot enough for you to invite upstairs or break your Valentine’s Day rules over? Because you’re a serial killer, and you don’t want to own anything with my fingerprints on it?
“Because, if I wanted something, I’d buy it for myself.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Maybe I don’t want anything.”
