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"The problem," Voodoo says, "is that he already gave me a finger."
Cash grunts in lieu of an answer.
She waits.
"He gave you the finger?" Cash shakes his head. "That seems uncharacteristically rude."
"Not the finger, a finger--it's not important."
The point, not that Cash would get it or that she would say it out loud, is that Brian has already made a grand gesture.
Voodoo is not in the business of making grand gestures. But Brian's leaving, and (a) it's her fault and (b) she's just figured out that she doesn't want him to leave.
It's so stupid, but she actually cares that he's moving away and she'll never see him again, and maybe they could have had something if she hadn't been so certain that it couldn't work out.
Maybe he was "transcendual," or maybe he would have been happy pretending to be, if she hadn't been so sure he'd be miserable living without the one thing she could never give him.
And it's too late now, he's given his notice and packed up his car, and all she can think is that maybe he'd have stayed if she had only said something sooner. The very least she can do is come up with a grand gesture on par with the one he made for her back in happier, simpler times.
But once a guy has given you a finger, where can you go from there?
Cash is probably the wrong guy to ask.
*
Theresa ponders the question for a little longer than Voodoo had thought she would. She fights the urge to flee.
"You see my problem," Voodoo says. "I want to do something, but I'm just drawing a total blank."
"I can think of grand romantic gestures," Theresa says slowly, "that I would do for Johnny, or that I wish he would do for me--I'll spare you the details--but I can't think of a grand romantic gesture that you would make for Brian."
"I never said 'romantic,'" she protests.
"No one makes a grand 'hey pal, sorry you're leaving' gesture for someone they're trying to convince not to leave town." Theresa looks concerned. "Have you really thought this through? What he'll think it means, or what you want him to think it means?"
Voodoo's forehead meets the table. "Never mind."
"Maybe you should try Johnny. He knows Brian a little better."
"Or maybe I should just lock myself in my apartment until he's gone," she says.
Theresa rolls her eyes. "If that's what you were going to do, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"I wish we weren't."
Theresa gets up to leave and pats Voodoo's shoulder as she says, "I'll tell Johnny to expect your call."
"Please do nothing of the kind."
But Theresa is already gone.
Damn.
*
"The thing to remember about Brian is, he's basically a woman," Johnny says.
"That's offensive on a couple of levels," she points out.
"Be that as it may, if he's like a girl and you are a girl, it seems like it shouldn't be that hard."
Voodoo stares at him.
"Good point," he says. "I don't know. Have you tried telling him you don't want him to go?"
"It's not that." She hesitates. "I know he's going back to school, I don't want him to not do that. I just want him to know I'm sorry about some things and that I'm going to miss him."
Johnny regards her curiously. "Did you catch feelings for our young Brian?"
"Of course not." She shrugs. "He's a nice guy, I don't want him to go away thinking I'm--oh, never mind." She waves her hands around in front of her face. "This conversation never happened. Bye."
She's almost out the door when he says, "Serendipity."
She turns around. "Huh?"
"He loves that movie." Johnny shakes his head. "Like I said, he's basically--"
"I get it," she says.
*
Thank God for Netflix.
How can she care about anyone who loves this movie?
Terrible.
Painful.
Awful.
She pauses it before the denouement. She can't take it anymore.
Maybe she should just drink NyQuil until he's gone or her teeth turn green, whichever happens first.
No. Gestures aren't grand if they're easy. She can get through this.
She presses Play.
*
He's surprised to see her. Good. Means she'll have the upper hand.
She thrusts a small package wrapped in paper bearing the images of Anna and Elsa from Frozen into his hands. It's all she had on hand, leftover from a niece's birthday two years ago.
His room is pretty bare; everything is packed and ready for tomorrow's departure, so there's a sleeping bag in the corner.
She considers turning around and leaving.
"I didn't see you at the going-away party," he says, looking at the package.
"That's because I wasn't there."
"That would explain it." He starts to tear open the wrapping paper, then abruptly stops.
"I didn't get you anything," he says, "and everything I own is packed except that sleeping bag. You can have that when I'm done with it, if you want?"
"Nah, I'm good," she says. "You already gave me something, anyway."
He nods. "Right, the finger."
"Just open that thing so I can go home," she says, and she's relieved when he laughs.
He resumes ripping open the paper. "I'm gonna miss that," he says.
The look on his face almost justifies the time she spent watching that stupid movie.
Almost.
"Love in the Time of Cholera," he breathes. "Just like--"
"Open the book," she says.
There's a $5 inside with her e-mail address written on it, alongside a message: "I'm sorry."
Brian actually tears up.
"Anyway, sorry things didn't work out, totally my fault, thanks for being cool with my whole thing for a while, have fun in school but I wish you weren't leaving, see ya."
He blocks her path to the door. "Not that I don't appreciate--and, of course, accept--your totally awesome apology, but... you watched Serendipity for me?"
"Pure torture," she says.
"Can I hug you?"
She thinks about it. Weirdly, she thinks she might not mind. They'll probably never see each other again. "Fine. But only because you're leaving."
He waits until mid-hug to say, "You said you didn't want me to leave."
"School is important."
"It's online," he says. "I can do it anywhere."
She withdraws from the hug and smacks him on the arm. "Then why are you leaving everyone?"
"I didn't know you wanted me to stay."
"I didn't say that," she says, breaking eye contact. "I just said I didn't want you to leave."
"Pretty sure that's the same thing," he says.
"Is not."
"Yuh huh."
She sticks out her tongue.
"I'd have to find another place to stay. My parents already have big plans for this room, and, you know, I don't really want to live with them for the rest of my life. Oh, and a part-time job, since I quit and all. It might have been nice to know about you wanting me to stay before I did that, you know."
"I didn't say I wanted you to--" She hesitates. "I guess you could crash on my couch for a while."
"Are you asking me to move in with you?"
"Never mind," she says.
"Too bad. No backsies. I accept."
"Temporarily."
"Til death do us part, I get it," he says.
And she could say: this isn't going to work out, you'll always want more than I can give you, and even if you don't, I'll always worry that you secretly do. It's easier to go our separate ways. Happy trails, or whatever.
Instead, she says, "Your death. Or just until you find a cheaper place."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," he says.
She won't hold him to that, down the road, but for now, it's a nice sentiment.
"Then I guess we have a deal."
"It's kind of like fate," he says. "Or, one might even say--"
"Don't ever say that word in my presence again."