Chapter 34 Jessa
JESSA
Bird not speaking to me is agony. Somehow my attempt to keep her safe from outing has rocketed her from my life.
This is not the outcome I wanted. She’s not with me, and she’s not safe, either.
She saw to that. Her kisses have always been powerful, but she used her kiss this time to prove a point.
To make a statement. I got it loud and clear, and I’m not the only one.
If I wasn’t so scared for her, that kiss might have been the biggest turn-on ever.
I know she didn’t say we were broken up, but I have no clue how to climb back up this hill.
I’ve spent the past two days hiding in my room, sneaking down to grab food and pee when I hear my parents leave.
I think Mack is low too, and they’re probably terrified I’m also going downhill…
but I’m sad for a very good reason. The inside of my chest is cracked open and my heart is being slowly pulled out and crushed.
I still love Bird and she doesn’t want to see me.
I pull out the one photo I have of her. Bird in the general store of the mill village, surrounded by peeling white walls showing discolored paint below, sun casting in through the huge wavy glass windows, a spotlight of late afternoon sunshine on her beautiful face, looking up to the wood floors of the second story, hefty beams holding it aloft after a century of age, exposed brick a rough contrast to her smooth skin—velveteen, I remember, my hands aching now in the realization that they may never touch her again.
But at least they got the chance. Love lost, right?
So much better. Why does it feel like my losses are so much worse?
Why does it feel like there’s nowhere left to go?
Other fish, I don’t want them. I want Bird, and without her I’m drowning.
I don’t know how to fix this.
I’m skulking downstairs, trying to slap together a pathetic sandwich from the old pimiento loaf in the fridge (why does Mom buy this crap?) when I cross paths with Mack, who’s also emerged for parent-free sustenance.
We look like horrifying twins, both in wrinkled clothes, ratty hair, puffy-faced and pathetic.
“Bad day?” she murmurs.
I nod and try not to cry as I smear mustard on the bread with a butter knife. She fills an old Smurf jam jar glass with milk, grabs a box of Wheaties, and starts walking away.
“Don’t let it eat you alive,” she says, and is gone before I can think of anything to say.
My cell phone lights up, my heart brightens, my sentence is over.
Then it all bottoms out. ’Cause the caller ID shows who it is: Dade.
It’s weird how alien yet familiar Dade’s place seems. Two whole months away makes me feel like a stranger, but I hope it’s like riding a bicycle or something and this wave will pass and I’ll remember how to feel normal.
At first I think about knocking, but instead walk in as I always did, stepping down the stairs to the rumpus room that we sometimes watch movies in.
He’s laid out on the couch, all in black, staring at the ceiling and smoking inside.
Dade’s parents both smoke, and they’re cool with him smoking, but cigarettes indoors?
His mom would flip. Hopefully she’s out of town for work or he’s getting grounded again.
“Hey,” I say, and flop into the oversized chair that’s been designated as mine from years of hanging out.
“Hey,” he croaks. He’s been smoking a lot, his voice harsh and thick from it. Or maybe he was crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry, but here he is and his face looks just about as crappy as mine.
“Sorry about Kayla.” I rub the palms of my hands on my jeans, they’re cold and sweaty. I’m actually nervous.
“No ‘I told you so’?” He looks rumpled and pathetic. No need.
“It was never about that, Dade. It was about what she was doing to you. But I’m sorry for my part in making things hard.”
He pushes his fists against his eyes, maybe forcing tears back in, maybe trying to get that blinding whiteness that comes from the pressure, seeing spots instead of missing her. I’m familiar with it.
“I tried to reach out to you as soon as I found out.”
“The zines were effective.”
He knows. But he still called me over, asking to “talk.”
“Yeah, not sure if that was my best move.” But I am sure it wasn’t. Because Bird is gone. It was my worst move yet in a string of terrible moves.
“I’d rather know than not,” he says, and sits up, hunching over like this has aged him. “I really thought she and I had something there.”
I think of all the things not giving me solace right now. Other fish in the sea. You’re young and will meet other people. It wasn’t meant to be….
None of these statements will work. I need something good. He needs more than those platitudes. The way music lets you know you’re not alone.
What would Bird do?
I stand up, go to the couch, sit beside him, and give him a hug.
It’s still new to me—hugging—but Bird has proven it to be pretty effective.
The kind of tight, comforting, sweet hugs she would give me.
The kind that let you know you’re not alone and that it’s okay to cry and it’s okay to feel and right now sucks but it won’t always suck and so many other words and meanings all bundled into the simple gesture.
Dade and I have never had a physical relationship.
We don’t hug. We don’t touch. But today, both of us counting our losses, we cling to each other in a desperate way that’s new.
Nothing is said until the cigarette in his hand burns into the filter, stinking chemicals from whatever garbage they put in them.
He puts it out, cursing, and then looks at me with a weird expression. Like hope and excitement.
“Why have we never considered getting together?” He says this shit like he’s asking why we’ve never considered joining chess club. I can’t talk. I’ve got nothing.
He continues, “I mean, we like the same things, we get along, why don’t we just…”
“Dade…”
“Hear me out. I mean, we share a bed when you sleep over, we spend hours on end together….”
“Dade…”
“It just makes sense, right?”
He leans in, a kiss already on his lips, looking for mine. It would be easier, safer. It would be diametrically fucking opposed to who I am. It would be wrong. I turn and his mouth swipes my cheek. Playing back Natalie’s rebuff in Touchstone, I place my hand firmly but kindly on his shoulder.
“Dade, I’m queer.”
“So? Isn’t everyone a little bit?”
“I’m not just a little bit queer.”
“You could still get with girls, I wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t like guys, you know that.”
“But—”
“I don’t like dick!” I finally say.
“You’ve never tried before, you might.” The hope on his face turns my stomach.
I want to yell or get upset, but I’m starting to realize that since Dade and I stopped hanging out, a lot of the self-conscious and angry feelings have also been absent.
I’ve been kinder. I’ve had others being kinder to me.
Maybe Dade and I are actually absolutely wrong for each other even on a platonic level.
“Dade, it’s not gonna happen. Never. And now we do need to talk.”
He collapses back on the couch, my rejection another breakup for him.
“I’m going to die alone,” he groans.
I put my hand on his socked foot, the least sexy place I can think of.
“You aren’t going to die alone. But that’s not what we need to talk about. We need to talk about us, our friendship.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Wanna movie marathon tomorrow? Get things back in gear?”
“No,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I wanted a month ago. Hell, that’s what I wanted an hour ago. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”
“I know, I know. You like girls.”
“No, Dade, it’s not just that. We were good as friends for a while, but something happened.
We started insulting each other more. I thought it was okay to fuck with your relationship.
You always thought it was okay to ignore me in school, in public.
You were afraid to be seen with me.” That statement hits hard, because even though my choice wasn’t as selfish with Bird, it still must have felt similar.
“You literally just thought it was okay to try to hook up with me. None of this is okay.”
“So we fix it,” he says, desperation in his voice.
“Can we? I’ve done some pretty crappy stuff during our friendship, said some worse things. You’re not clean either, but I think the blame game isn’t the one we want to play.”
“So what do we do?”
“We say goodbye. We say it was some really good years followed by a bad one, and we try in our next friendships to be better. At least that’s my plan.”
“There’s nothing to fix it?” he asks, but I can see no tears in his eyes. Just acceptance.
“No. But not all friendships are forever. You get the good memories, let the bad ones fade, and make new friends without forgetting to avoid the crap you did earlier.”
“Jesus, Jessa, did you find Zen or something?”
I stand up, pat him on the foot, and move to the stairs. “As Bush said, ‘Everything Zen,’ Dade.”
He chuckles as I walk out, or maybe he’s laughing-crying. I don’t know. I’m a little surprised that as I’m leaving, I hope the very best for him. No mean or vindictive feelings. But more than that, I hope that with Bird there is a way to turn things around.