25. Connor
Jess:
I’m so sorry to bother you this late but I’m so upset and I don’t know who else to talk to.
Henry died.
Connor:
Jess, that’s terrible! I’m so sorry, what can I do? Do you want me to come over?
Jess:
I don’t even know, I can’t stop crying.
Connor:
Okay, I’m grabbing my keys now, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.
Jess:
Are you sure it’s not any trouble? I feel so silly.
Connor:
It’s no trouble at all, don’t feel silly. I’m glad you texted me.
Jess:
I just thought he had so much more time. But I got home from work today and he was just floating at the top of his bowl. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
I’m sitting in my car, ready to start it up when I read the last text. “Wait, is Henry her fish? Jesus, I hope so,” I mutter to myself. I quickly punch out a response to her, turn the keys in the ignition, and head out.
Connor:
I’m on my way.
I knew from Jess’ texts that she was crying, but I’m not quite prepared for the sight that opens the door for me. Her eyes and nose are bright red and her cheeks are puffy. She’s clearly trying to hold it together for me, so she isn’t openly weeping, but the crack in her tiny voice when she says, “Hey,” punches me right in the gut. I can’t fix what’s hurting her and it’s killing me.
“Come here,” I pull her into a tight hug and she softens into my shoulder and cries. She pushes away slightly, but holds my hand as she guides me into her place and shuts the door behind us. We sit next to each other on the couch, and I follow her gaze to a now empty fish tank sitting on the coffee table in front of us. “Losing a pet is tough,” I venture.
“It’s stupid,” she sniffles. “It was a goldfish. Like, I know it’s stupid to be this upset over a fish. But I can’t help it.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I gently stroke her hand with my thumb. If it had been anyone else on the planet, I might have agreed with her. But the fish mattered to Jess, and Jess matters to me. Nothing seems silly about it when I can see how distressed she is.
“No,” she continues. “You’re being nice and I appreciate it.” She squeezes my hand back. “It’s not like he had much of a personality, it’s just…” her voice trails off and I can tell by her expression that she isn’t sure she’s ready to confide in me fully.
So I sit with her in the quiet for a while before asking, “Tell me something about Henry.”
She smiles weakly. “He loved long walks on the beach.”
I grin back at her. Silence engulfs us for a while longer before she speaks again. “Alex never wanted to have pets. Or kids. He said they were too messy, too disruptive. They were just one more thing to clean up after or deal with when you wanted to live your life. And to some people, that’s true, and that’s fine, you know?” She looks back at the tank. “But I think really it was just that he knew I wanted them and that’s why he always said no.”
“You wanted pets? Or kids?” I ask, adding another couple of tally marks in the “Alex is a Piece of Shit” memo that’s ongoing in my brain.
She stares for a moment before answering, “Both.” Shaking herself out of the memory, she goes on. “So when I moved out and got my own place, it was just this dinky little studio and they wouldn’t allow cats or dogs. I was still going back and forth between my apartment and my parents’ house and I was figuring out how to take care of myself again after being told what to do for so long. I thought an independent pet would be perfect, so that’s when I got Henry.”
It’s making more sense now why she’s so upset.
“I did the research, I bought the right tank and the right food. I even got him the SpongeBob pineapple thing to swim around in. When I would come home from work or a meeting with my divorce lawyer or going out for some drinks, he was always there to listen to me. Goldfish are supposed to live so much longer, I just don’t know what I did wrong.” Her voice shakes again.
“Jess, no, don’t do that. You did nothing wrong.”
“You don’t know that!”
The pain in her voice is thick and Chris’ words from our tennis match echo in my head. She takes personal responsibility for everything—and I mean everything that goes wrong in her life.
“You’re right,” I reply softly. “Technically, I don’t. But look at me. You are one of the most thoughtful and caring people I know. I don’t believe for a second that you didn’t do everything you could to make sure Henry was well taken care of. Sometimes these things happen, you know? Especially with fish. I mean, who’s to say what his care was like at the pet store before you got him? Or what if something was always just wrong? How would anyone know? There are so many reasons this could have happened that don’t involve you at all.” She doesn’t look convinced, but at least she lets me say it. “But none of that changes the fact that this sucks. And I’m really sorry.”
Her expression turns a little more resolute, and she nods her head once. “It does suck. Thank you.” With that, she keeps her grip on my hand and leans back on the couch, propping her head on my shoulder. “How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
“How do you know what to say and when to say it? You’re scary good at it.”
I think for a moment. “Just reading people, I guess. It was something my dad always taught me in business.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. But I feel like you were always easy to talk to. I think maybe it’s just you. You know, unless I’m around, making things awkward.”
“You mean making things better,” I correct. I like that she’s still leaning on my shoulder. I decide to rest my cheek on the top of her head. “You know, after Mom died, I remember so many people at the funeral, and even for weeks afterwards, just coming up to us and offering all this well-meaning advice or commentary. Like, ‘she’s in a better place now,’ or ‘at least she’s not suffering.’ I know they meant well, I get it. But all it did was make me feel like I had to politely agree with them. When what I really wanted to say was, ‘I don’t fucking care. My mom is gone and there’s no bright side to it at all.’ I think when someone is dealing with something awful, it’s better to just acknowledge that it’s awful and say you’re sorry they’re dealing with it.”
After a beat, Jess gasps. “Oh my god, please tell me I wasn’t one of those people who said something stupid after your mom died. I was such a wreck when she passed away, I don’t even remember.”
I chuckle. “No, I don’t remember you doing that,” I answer as she breathes a sigh of relief. And it’s the truth; she was like the daughter my mom never had. Jess was as much of a mess as the rest of us were.
We sit together on the couch for several minutes longer, leaning on each other, holding hands, and lost in our own thoughts. And there is something happening in my chest that I can’t quite put my finger on. Not a pain, not panic. It isn’t even altogether bad. I’m sure it’s related to Jess, though, so I decide to stop thinking about it.
“It feels like it’s midnight, how is it only 8:30?” Her voice is still cracking slightly from her earlier crying.
“Well, time doesn’t exactly give a shit when we’re suffering.”
She keeps her head on my shoulder but angles her face towards me. I move to look down at her. “You don’t have to stay,” she tells me. “It means so much that you came over. Thank you so much.”
The way she looks at me makes the weird feeling in my chest pick up.
But again, I’m not going to think about it.
“You’re Irish aren’t you?” I ask.
“What?”
“Do you or do you not have Irish ancestry?”
“I…do…on my dad’s side. A little, I think.”
“Well then, we have to honor those who came before you and mourn Henry’s death properly.”
“Are you saying we need to drink because I’m Irish? Because I think that might be racist.”
“No, if I called you an alcoholic because you’re Irish, that would be racist. But I think we can both agree that an Irish wake definitely has its roots in booze.
She smiles and shrugs at me. “I guess we could have a couple drinks to honor the life of my sweet Henry. But there’s a slight problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have any alcohol here.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not big on drinking alone,” she shrugs.
“Fair enough,” I say and pull out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling us an Uber. We’re going to the Draft.”
“Wait, what? The bar? Connor, no!”
“Trust me, you’ll be so happy we did this.”
“I can’t go out like this!”
“You look great.”
She glares at me.
“Okay,” I amend, “You might want to splash a little cold water on your face, but who even cares? We’re going out to celebrate Henry!”
She bites her lip and looks down at her clothes. I can practically hear her internal monologue, criticizing every inch of her appearance.
“Jess, we could walk out that door right now and you would be the prettiest woman in the bar. But if you need to do anything to make yourself feel better before we leave, you have five minutes,” I hold up my phone and show her the Uber map.
In a flash, she’s running up the stairs, and the sounds coming from her room make me feel like I’m in a cartoon. Doors and drawers crashing and slamming, weird feminine muttering. But whatever she did up there, she comes downstairs looking like a complete knockout. Ripped jeans and a fitted, black, long-sleeved v-neck hug her in all the right places. She’s pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail to reveal silver hoops in her ears, and she’s so focused on putting her boots on by the front door that she doesn’t notice my gawking.
“That was Superman-level clothes-changing there, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
One boot securely fastened, she’s now balancing on one leg, trying to put the other boot on. She grins up at me. “Yeah, well, don’t look upstairs, it looks like a tornado blew through.” She reaches into the front closet and pulls out her coat just as my phone goes off.
“Perfect timing,” I smile. I put my hand on the small of her back as we walk out the front door, trying to revisit the closeness I’d had with her earlier.
She locks up and links her arm in mine as we walk towards our rideshare. “I can’t believe you’re taking the time to do this for me. You’re seriously the best fake boyfriend ever.”
Fake boyfriend.
I hold the car door open for her while she gets in and feel my chest again. This time the feeling is different, though. And I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.