NEW_GAME001 by Kendra Fortmeyer

NEW_GAME: STATS

+25 white privilege

+25 upper middle class liberal arts education

+25 use of all of your limbs

+15 straight(-but-just-queer-enough-to-be-hip-in-select-social-circles) privilege

+15 face, normal-to-cuteish

-5 peanut allergy

+30

You have just acquired a new lover. Your lover is disease-free (+5), literate (+5), has gentle hands and an asymmetrical smile (+5, +3). You did not meet cute. You met at a bar. You never thought you would date someone you met at a bar. You were only there for your coworker’s birthday, and you were feeling terribly lonely. All of the salespeople were talking about sales and all of the customer support people were talking about customer support, and you’d only been hired the week before and were the sole person in the office who did your job, which was answering the phone. You came to the party because you didn’t know anyone in this town and your roommate, whom you found on Craigslist, was having a loud fight with her girlfriend in your shared kitchen. You hoped there would be free appetizers at this thing so you could eat something besides the Mentos you found in your purse, which might have just been old gum.

You were leaning against the bar and feeling miserable when the man who would become your lover came over. He said, “You look miserable.” It made your skin crawl a little, the whole awkward Being Humans of Compatible Sexual Orientations In A Bar Together thing, but you liked his straightforwardness. You said, “I always look like this.” A small exchange of honesties. Instead of asking you what you did, he asked, What’s your story? And suddenly, instead of being a temp who answered phones at a plumbing supply company, you were someone who had a story. You thought of this the first time you undressed together, the new narrative of your bare skin in the dark, the warmth of his shoulder between your biting teeth. Writing your stories all over each other’s bodies again and again and again.

-20

You begin to think about points the day you discover his ex-girlfriend on Facebook. They are in 200 pictures together. 200. You ask and he shrugs, says, She’s a photographer. You examine her photos, all 200 of them sunny-haired and glowing, squinting up at the California sky. She has eyes like swimming pools. Sometimes, between three and four in the morning, you wake up gasping and drenched from dreams that you’ve fallen right into her eyes and can’t get out. They are so deep, and the walls so smooth. Even as a child, you never (-10) learned to swim in the deep end.

-15

You have trouble sleeping. Your privileged white upper middle class liberal arts upbringing (+25) has produced, in the adult you, an anxiety you cannot shake. You lie awake at night and feel like your whole body is filled with electricity: light streaming from your cheeks, your fingertips, your breastbone. You cannot understand how your lover sleeps so soundly beside you while you blaze, the rise and fall of his chest as steady and distant as waves crashing onto the shore.

+10

At work, you do a small thing correctly. The boss comes and stands behind you just long enough to make your armpits crawl with sweat, and then he booms, WHAT ARE YOUR CAREER GOALS? You jump, and he bellows, YOU, TEMP, WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS? You think of your straightforward lover and blurt, “Not in this chair.” The boss snorts into his half-caf. He doesn’t know your name and he’s not entirely sure what you do, but he informs you that he LIKES YOUR GUFF and YOU’VE GOT THE RIGHT KIND OF SPUNK. Many vaguely Germanic nouns that don’t mean anything, but imply that you’re all right.

By the end of the day, you’ve got a real cubicle and a scribbled nametag torn from a legal pad announcing that you are the Social Media Brand Ambassador. Your predecessor, a bored-looking older woman named Floris, hands you a list of passwords on a sticky note and heads to the break room.

You log into the company Twitter, make a few plumbing jokes (“Bad plumbing is the DUMPS!”) and gain a handful of followers. A couple of people from accounting saunter over to tell you you’re funny. One of them, a guy named Chris, quotes you back at yourself. “We’re flush with the skills to get the job done,” he quips. You say, “Hashtag, sounds better on the internet.” You try not to notice that he’s attractive. Later you realize that of the group, you remember only his name.

+/- 120

You have had six lovers of any significance in your life. At the time you acquired each of them, you chalked them up as gains, and when they left, you thought you’d lost all of your points, every single one, until the next lover came and filled you up again.

On the night your new lover proposes to you, you stare into the darkness and think about all of the lovers you will never have. All those potential points lost. You total it all up, run your fingers through your points like coins. You wonder if they weigh enough. You wonder what kind of a monster you must be to even wonder this. Your lover sighs and throws his arm across your stomach in the dark, and you count each beat of his pulse, telling yourself, this has value. But in your secret heart, you count each one like a penny: the price of the copper rapidly outstripping the imagined concept of one cent.

-17

Your work Twitter passes 500 followers. You Tweet that the 1,000th follower will get a free toilet plunger. Accounting Chris stops by your cubicle and asks if you want to get coffee later. Your heart jumps. You make a goal in your planner: avoid caffeine.

You send your lover’s ex-girlfriend a Facebook message from the company Facebook account: If you’re the photographer, how are you in so many pictures?

She writes back, Who is this?

You minimize the tab and run to the bathroom, where you sit in the stall and count cinderblocks until your heart lies slow and sluggish once more in your chest.

LOADING

Sometimes you lie awake at night and imagine that someone is holding a gun to your lover’s head and demanding that you recall some minute piece of trivia. Maybe it is a piece of trivia you knew five minutes ago but cannot remember now. The gunman says, What was the name of that girl you sat next to in tenth grade English class, and your lover looks at you mutely, with pleading eyes. Sometimes the gunman is pointing the gun at you, or holding your fingers like twigs in his powerful hands. You guess, Tracy? and bam! there goes your pinky finger. Sometimes, in your mind’s eye you weep and beg. The ring finger. The middle. Most of the time, though, you just leave that barrel on your lover’s temple and say, wait, wait, it started with M. I know it did. And they both stare at you, blankly, waiting.

+10

You want to do something extra virtuous, so you take all of your birth control pill pack at once and spend the rest of the day with debilitating nausea, your body convinced that you are at least eight trimesters sick.

CUT-SCENE

The way your lover proposed was this: he rented a motorboat and took you out on the lake. You knew what was happening from the moment you got in the car. His straightforward grin was crooked with excitement as he insisted that you’d been working so hard, you deserved a day to relax. You didn’t tell him you hated water sports. You were too full of fluttering, of bliss and something that you didn’t want to (-10, denial) acknowledge was dread.

The water was choppy, the wind a roar in your ears as he drove you away from shore. You looked at his hands on the wheel and tried to think about how capable they were, and how safe that made you feel, and then remembered your sex ed teacher in high school exclaiming that safe is sexy! and thinking even at the time, a virgin (+/- 22, depending) that she was hopelessly naïve.

Your lover finally stopped the boat for lunch, and the champagne came out of the little bench locker thing, and the glass with the ring in it, and he was on one knee, and the whole time, you felt like you were in a play. A bad one, a school play where you should have been cast as a tree but somehow got the role of Christopher Columbus, and now everyone was staring at your face and waiting for you to discover America. You said, yes, yes, of course, because that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? The waves slapping the side of the boat. Ring: +500.

-40?

You lay awake at night and wonder if there’s a casual way to notify your lover’s ex-girlfriend that he chose you. At work, you change your profile picture to a photo of your hand with the ring, and then check her profile because you read on the internet that Facebook will suggest someone friend you if you look at their profile several times a day. You’ve become very familiar with her photos over the last few months, the names of her most active friends. She posts lots of articles about traveling cheaply and homesteading. In a way, you are almost friends, in the way that people who read People Magazine are friends with Taylor Swift and Angelina Jolie—that you know where she went to school and what she had for brunch last week and she (despite your best efforts) doesn’t know you exist.

You are a rational (+7) person. You know that you are not really friends, and she has no obligation to check in with you before making major life decisions. But there is still some part of you that feels unequivocally betrayed when you see her new photo: her arms wrapped around a handsome black man with thick-framed hipster glasses and a Fair Isle sweater. They look a little shy, almost embarrassed at the extent of their happiness. LIFE EVENT, the caption announces. IN A RELATIONSHIP.

You have never dated a black guy.

Feeling cold, you make a small legion of fake Twitter accounts with anagrams of your lover’s name. They all follow the ex-girlfriend. When she next logs in, there will be a pile of eggs sitting in her notifications tab, like it’s Easter and somebody forgot to bring the colors.

– 20, + 60

In the break room, everyone oohs and aahs over the ring. Accounting Chris gives you a high-five and doesn’t meet your eyes. He doesn’t ask you to get coffee.

You go shopping after work at the fancy grocery store. You buy only things you can’t pronounce. At home, you spend hours chopping and dicing and peeling. You julienne. You chiffonade. Your lover is amazed. “So, this is every day for the rest of our lives, right?” he asks, his mouth full of vegan bouillabaisse. You look at him, aghast, and realize two seconds too late that he is joking. He says, “What?” and you say, “Nothing,” and he says, taking your hands in his gentle ones, “No, tell me,” and you say, “Nothing,” so harshly that it startles you both. You try to shake it off, pour more wine, but for the rest of the evening, every laugh feels like a question.

But then when you’re doing the dishes, he leans over abruptly and kisses the back of your neck. “You have the most beautiful neck,” he says. “A swan-graceful, beautiful neck.”

Something inside you melts, and you put down the sponge and turn to kiss him, and he tastes like a whole unpronounceable future of things.

+80

Your future in-laws are phenomenal. They drive down to the city to meet you and you all go out for dinner at the fanciest restaurant.  You are not used to eating in the fanciest restaurant, and you feel encumbered by the extra forks, the way people keep offering to grind your pepper. Between courses, you scrutinize your lover’s parents closely, watching for signs of genetic weakness or insanity. Unlike the parents of every single person you know, his parents are still happily married. Absurdly happy. They kiss over dinner, and when his mom gets up to go, as she says, “to the powder room,” his dad reaches over and pinches her on the ass. “Charles,” she cries, blushing. You glance at your lover, and are amazed to find him smiling. “Keep it down, you guys,” he says. “You’ll scare off my fiancée.”

“We would never,” his father says, and his mother, smiling, reaches for your hand. You are not a hand-holder, but you’ve always secretly wanted to be, and you hope you are doing it right.

“Look at this,” she says. “Look at you two.” She squeezes your fingers hard. She says, “We’re so happy he chose you.”

“Welcome to the family,” his father booms.

You look at your plate and flush, and somehow feel like it’ll all work, like all the forks and the pepper are conspiring for your success, this new wealth of warmth and food and detail a sure inheritance. His mother comes back to the table and his father kisses her fingers, and your fiancé kisses your fingers, and you have all the points in the world.

Then his mother says, “So, how soon is too soon to start talking about grandkids?”

-20

The ex-girlfriend has posted a new album: she and her black boyfriend are traveling through Switzerland. There are cafés, brightly colored doors, a pale lump of chèvre in a dish on a dark wood table. You stare a long time at a picture of them on the Alps, climbing. The camera is nested on the ground, and it looks like the two of them are disappearing, limitlessly, into the sky.

ERROR

At the company Christmas party, you drink too much and find yourself at a table with the accountants. You loudly tell Marissa that you don’t know if things will work out with your fiancé. The more you drink, the more true it seems. You tell her that he snores, that his sense of humor is bad, that his family is creepy. “I feel like they’re all sleeping together,” you say, and everyone laughs. When Marissa gets up to get another drink, Accounting Chris slides over next to you. The two of you don’t speak, but your knees crowd under the table. You banter with other people, you laugh at all the jokes, but the part of you that’s speaking feels distant, vestigial. All of your attention is concentrated in the way Accounting Chris’ shoulder brushes against yours, the warm weight of your hips pressing through your clothes. You can feel him looking at you. You lift your hair from your neck, pretending to be warm.

There’s more eggnog, and then more. Somebody calls for tequila shots. Ronnie from tech support is on the table, bellowing the lyrics of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,” and everyone’s cheering, and you glance up and into Chris’ face, and he’s staring at you like you’re worth all the points in the world.

He walks you out, to make sure you get to your car okay, and you feel the weight of this potential disaster hovering silently over your back. It’d be so easy to walk away. To awkwardly blurt, “Thanks,” and climb into your car and then not make eye contact at work next week. Or you could be like one of those bravely honest people in movies, who takes the other person by the hand and says, “I think you’re really cute, and we have a lot of chemistry, but I have a fiancé.” Just thinking the word fiancé sends you into a panic. You reach out for him, and the two of you fall against your car, ravenous and entwined and drenched in streetlight. You’re drunk, you remind yourself fiercely. You cling to that fact like it is a life jacket. Like it will be enough to keep you afloat.

CONTINUE/QUIT?

A few hours later, you leave Chris’ apartment and walk back to your car. You

sit in the driver’s seat, silent. You aren’t able to drive away yet. Driving away will make this thing have happened, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it to have happened. Or at least, not ready to acknowledge that you no longer have a choice in the matter.

You texted your lover hours ago that the party was running late, not to worry, that you were going to wait until you sobered up. You toy with your phone now, anxious and drenched in guilt. Does he know? He must know. Your phone must contain 16 messages outlining how you’re a terrible person, how you’re going to burn in hell and deserve it, too, how he and his really lovely parents never want to see you again, and et cetera. But when you check, the messages tab is empty.

You stare at the screen, at your empty text inbox. Is it possible you haven’t lost any points for this?

Do you really want to not lose any points for this?

His ex-girlfriend’s Facebook page displays a new photo: she and her perfect black boyfriend are standing on a beach in giant puffy coats, wind-whipped but laughing. An ecstatic golden retriever puppy is a blur at their feet, charging for the camera. The caption reads Merry Christmas from us & our new little girl! (98 likes, 34 comments.)

You thumb to the messages tab.

You write that you are a Nigerian prince. You write that you lost your puppy a week ago, and you are so happy she found it, when can you come get it back? But you delete each message before sending it. The night outside the window is one unflinching darkness.

You start to write, how are you in all the photos? but stop. The answer is probably a tripod and a timer, and that is not the answer you want. You want to know how do you get your life to look so perfect? You want to know, did you find a way to get all the points, or just a way to stop counting?

You lean your head against the steering wheel and frost the windshield with your breath. Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten. Your phone is nearly dead, and soon the parking meters will kick back on. But still you sit, staring at the phone as if it can give you an answer. Counting the seconds before this is all right again. Counting, and counting, and counting.

Kendra Fortmeyer is a Pushcart Prize-winning writer with fiction in Best American Nonrequired Reading, One Story, The Toast, Lightspeed, and elsewhere. She’s attended the Clarion SFF Workshop and UT Austin New Writers Project. Her debut novel, Hole in the Middle, was published by Little, Brown in July 2017.