Chapter 27
lovelillibet If you’re going to fight, make sure you fight well. Choose your words with care and compassion. Pause to reflect before you respond. Drink plenty of water. There’s a world of difference between what I like to call an Aware Argument and losing control.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A hand-blown glass tumbler, half full of water, refracting sunlight.
#thinkbeforeyousink #godeep #growtoglow
If Libby had needed a reminder of how far she’d fallen, walking into their apartment would have done the trick. Spending a few days in the lap of luxury made their digs look even sadder, which was no small feat. The sagging secondhand couch, the cracked linoleum, the flickering fluorescent bar on the kitchen ceiling, the faint aroma of microwave ramen: It was a study in how not to flourish. Hashtag losing.
“Did this place get dirtier while we were gone?” Jean brushed off the counter before setting down her bag.
Libby recognized this as an invitation: Let’s talk about a thing we agree on—our shitty apartment—so we can be on the same team. She could say something like, I don’t see how that’s possible. Then Jean would propose they treat themselves to a movie night and a pile of junk food to help forget their troubles. Tomorrow they’d wake up in their lumpy old beds, right back in their lumpy old lives, and everything would return to normal, as if they’d hallucinated the entire Lillibet experience.
But Libby didn’t want to forget. And while Lillibet may have been a figment of their imaginations, the thought of letting the last few days fade into oblivion made her want to collapse on the stained carpet and howl. She was going to hold on, clutching the memory of everything she almost had like a ragged teddy bear.
Libby let the silence grow, watching Jean check the refrigerator and cupboards in case the grocery fairy had swung by during their absence.
“There’s nothing.” Libby let the heaviness of her tone convey the double meaning. No snacks, no job, no love. When that didn’t get a response, she added a sigh.
“Just say it.” Jean still had her back to Libby, peering into the empty cabinet as if she could see through to the other side. “Whatever you’re stewing about, might as well get it off your chest so we can move on.”
She sounded frustrated, like Libby was the immature one, pitching a fit for no reason.
“Is it really that hard to guess why I might be upset right now?”
Jean spun around, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “So we struck out. Shit happens. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”
“That’s it? I’m crushed, Jean.”
“There are other jobs. We’ll find a way.”
Libby couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You think that’s the only thing I care about?”
“It should be. It was a killer opportunity.”
“Hey, thanks for the reminder! That’s exactly what I need to hear right now. Like I could forget we’re back to square zero.” She threw herself onto the couch, covering her eyes with both hands. “Did you not even notice how much I liked him?”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure everybody noticed.”
“What?”
“What do you want me to say, Libby? Congrats on having the hots for someone? Your timing could have been better.”
“It was more than that.”
“Oh come on. You knew him for, what, three days? Give me a break.”
“What is with you right now? Did I ask for the tough-love special? Hey, bestie, think you could kick me while I’m down?”
Jean looked at the ceiling. “You’re trying to make me the bad guy. I’m sick of it.”
“So you brush it off like it has nothing to do with you. Must be nice.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Libby gave her a skeptical look.
“Has it occurred to you that you wouldn’t have met him if it wasn’t for me? I made that happen.” Jean thumped herself in the chest. “I’m the one who got the ball rolling and dragged you along, kicking and screaming. And do you know why? Because you were never going to do it yourself. So, yeah, you’re welcome. Now do me a favor and take some responsibility for your own crap instead of trying to blame all your problems on me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was one of those questions you ask without wanting to know the answer.
Jean rubbed her forehead. “Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”
“It’s not like my day could get much worse.”
“Okay, well for one thing, you have major mommy issues.”
“Uh, yeah.” Libby was mildly relieved to be accused of something she’d admitted to herself ages ago. “I know it’s not a great relationship.”
“I’m talking about the damage it did to you.” Jean twirled a finger next to her head. “Mentally.”
Libby’s heart pounded in her throat as she waited to hear how Jean was going to follow up that doozy.
“My theory is that’s why you need someone like me around. You want to be the kid with a helicopter parent always telling her what to do, since you didn’t get that when you were an actual child. I give you cover.”
That was … a thought that had never crossed Libby’s mind. “I assumed you were going to say I had abandonment issues.”
“That, too. There’s a whole array of things that pile up into a general tendency to choose the path of being chickenshit.” She jabbed a hand at Libby. “You’d rather hide behind someone else than put yourself out there. If you never try, then nothing is your fault.”
“Wow. That C in Intro to Psych is really paying off for you.”
“And what did you get?”
“I got a B, thank you very much.” B-minus, but whatever.
“Then maybe you should apply some of those skills to your life.”
“Why bother? Sounds like you have me all figured out.” Libby crossed her arms, staring at a sticky ring on the coffee table. “It’s kind of amazing you’ve put up with me this long, since I’m such a wreck. Being the poster child for emotional maturity that you are, with your totally healthy family history. When’s the last time you talked to your parents?”
“Now the claws come out,” Jean muttered.
“I thought I was a chicken. Do chickens have claws?”
Jean checked her phone, a little too intently to be faking it as an excuse to look away. “I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere talking about this tonight.”
“Why, are you afraid I’m going to scratch you with my scaly claw?” Libby pawed at the air with three fingers. “I thought you were all about facing up to reality instead of running away like a big baby.”
“Maybe I have someplace more pleasant to be.”
Libby huffed in disbelief. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. Slaughterhouse? Paper mill? Women’s prison?”
“Ha, ha.” She watched Jean shoulder her bag before heading for her bedroom. “Where are you really going?” Libby called after her.
“To work. Because life goes on,” Jean shouted back, before shutting her door.
She emerged from her room a few minutes later, detouring into the bathroom. Libby heard her rummage in the cabinets, then the sound of a zipper closing, before her roommate stepped into the living room.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving.” When my life is in the toilet and I need my best friend. Libby didn’t say that part out loud. She’d never had to tell Jean those things in the past. Jean’s troubles were Libby’s, and vice versa.
A tiny part of Libby had even hoped Jean would have an idea of how to fix this. Or, barring that, they could drown their sorrows together.
“I think we’ve said enough for today.”
If you didn’t know better, it might have sounded like a mature and reasonable response. But Libby was deeply familiar with her roommate’s coping skills, and those words were not part of Jean’s emotional vocabulary. The thought flashed through her mind that Jean was glad to be getting out of there. She might even have picked a fight so she’d have an excuse to bail.
“Must be nice,” Libby said tightly. “To move on when you get bored. No skin in the game.”
“Must be nice to fall apart and let someone else worry about the bills.”
That got Libby right in the guilt gland. “I’ll call around and see if we can pick up some shifts this weekend.” Since there would be no fancy grown-up salary swooping in at the eleventh hour to save them.
“I’m booked. At the resort.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t completely unprecedented; they didn’t always work the same gigs. Only most of the time.
Jean fiddled with the strap of her bag. “Maybe we could use a little space. It might be good for both of us, to not be so tied at the hip.”
It sounded like the worst idea in the world to Libby. Jean could pretend she was being practical, but it still felt like a punishment. You messed up, now I’m leaving. She must have known Libby would take it badly, because Jean kept her eyes on her phone.
“My ride’s here,” she announced, walking out before Libby could say another word.
* * *
Libby tried to smooth the crumpled page, but only succeeded in smearing peanut butter across the bottom half. Her aim had been better several glasses of vodka ago.
“I finally have time to try journaling. Check me out, looking on the bright side!” She tapped the pen against her lips. “Ow.” That part wasn’t going in the gratitude journal. Or whatever this was.
Thinking in full sentences was beyond her, so she switched to making a list. To get the juices flowing.
My best friend hates me.
Didn’t get the job.
Said goodbye to best, hottest, most wonderful man—that didn’t really capture the scale of her loss. She scribbled it out.
Blew chance at first real relationship and will never know love. And I don’t even have a cat.
Okay, so it was more of a Bitch List. That felt on brand for her new life.
A roach stuck its head out from under the refrigerator. Libby couldn’t muster the will to get up and crush it.
“Hey, little buddy. Don’t worry, I’m not coming for you. Why shouldn’t you live? You’re probably happier than I am. Got a family, I bet. Dreams for the future. Hope. You could be a VIP in Roach Town. Part of a great love story. Rocheo and Juliet. Who am I to judge?” She pointed at the roach with the vodka bottle, before pouring herself more.
“I’m not Lillibet, that’s for sure. Freaking Lillibet.” Forgetting her glass, she took a swig straight from the bottle. “She has a lot to answer for. You know what I’m saying?”
The roach sat quietly on her kitchen floor, antennae twitching.
“You’re a really good listener. Has anyone ever told you that?” She wiped her mouth on the neck of her T-shirt. “This is honestly more respect than I’ve gotten from some humans who were supposed to be on my side. And I probably murdered your entire family, so that’s extra noble, you know? It shows real, um, generosity of spirit. And like moral fiber and stuff. Unlike yours truly.”
Picking up her phone, she snapped a picture of her new friend. Possibly also her only friend. “I’m not going to lie, pal. I still find you intensely unpleasant to look at.” Libby made a retching sound in the back of her throat. “I think it’s the legs. But also the body, with the sections. And your face. But that’s a me problem. I’m going to work on it. Not judging people by their appearance. Or insects. Live and let live. Laugh, live, love. I don’t know what the roach version would be. Scurry, scatter, survive.”
Libby poured herself more vodka to go with this deep thought. “Roaches probably don’t put up with that kind of BS. Say what you mean, Sally. Quit talking around the issue! Are we infesting this place or what? That’s why you’re going to take over the world while humans stab each other in the back and then go pffft.” She blew a raspberry.
The roach was stoic. Take all the time you need, he seemed to be saying.
“Maybe words are the problem? We rely too much on all the blah blah blah when we could just rub our legs together.” Libby tried to slide one calf over the other in the way she imagined roaches made tiny roach sounds, but only succeeded in losing her balance. Lying on her back with her legs splayed at an awkward angle, she grabbed her camera with an ironic squeal. “Selfie!”
The only thing missing was that yellow tape they used to outline corpses on TV.
“I know I’ve been talking your ear off—or your little antenna thingies—but if I could ask one favor. Please don’t crawl on me.” Pleading with him seemed easier than getting up. “You probably think I’ve hit rock bottom over here, but that would push me over the edge. A roach in my hair. Or up my nose. Anywhere above the shoulders. What is the opposite of self-care? I never really thought about it until now, but I think that would qualify.”
When Libby glanced at the roach, she was surprised to see it halfway to the stove.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, mildly insulted. Technically she’d asked for space, but in light of recent events it was hard not to feel like she was driving everyone away. “I’m boring you, aren’t I? All this navel-gazing. Me, me, me! But nobody really tells the truth. We want people to see the going-out version, not what we look like at home in our ugly clothes with a shiny forehead and some kind of crust on our chin.” She swiped at her face, hoping it was peanut butter rather than drool. Because that would be so much classier.
“Whatever. Filter this, mofos.” She snapped another selfie, snorting at the result. “Can you imagine Lillibet posting something like this? Here I am with my perfect life, rocking my perfect eye booger. Love, Lillibet.”
But why shouldn’t she post an unflattering picture? Lillibet had already been unmasked in front of the people who mattered. Might as well let all two of her followers in on the secret.
“You know what’s not cowardly, Rocheo? Letting it all hang out. We are down here in the dirt, being our most authentic selves.” She angled the phone to get a picture of her forehead with a roach in the background.
“Hey, fam, check out this gorgeous tablescape.” Libby struggled to her knees, aiming the camera at the cluttered coffee table. “That wadded-up Kleenex is one hundred percent artisanal, bee-tee-dubs. I snotted on it myself. And did you know that potatoes, the main ingredient in potato chips, could also be used for vodka? That makes them a natural pairing for those late nights when you hate yourself enough to make bad choices!” She held her glass next to her face for another selfie. “Cheers!”
Libby swiped through her camera reel. “Guess this is where I live now. Might as well own it.” She toggled to Instagram.
“New post? Don’t mind if I do. Hashtag no more hiding.”
lovelillibet To All the Bots I’ve “Loved” Before,
You know those Welcome, new followers, here are a few things to know about me posts? This is kind of like that, except without the new followers. And it’s more of a de-introduction, which I guess is also known as a goodbye.
RIP, Lillibet. You total phony.
I don’t mean that in the sense of, Oh, I’m just showing you the pretty parts, like standard social media fronting. “Lillibet” legit doesn’t exist, and I’m your basic failing-at-life nobody.
Do you like my apartment? Me neither. But I guess it doesn’t matter, since I’m probably going to have to move now that my roommate hates me and I can’t afford my half of the rent. That’s also why the top of my grid looks like a dystopian wasteland. I can’t take pictures for shit, and my best friend isn’t around to do it for me.
So, yeah, that’s me. A lonely loser. I don’t know if any real humans still follow this account, but just in case, I’m sorry if my pretend life made you feel bad. Trust me, no one could be more inferior to Lillibet than the real me, sitting here with blackheads and cellulite on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned since sometime in the last century. Try not to be jealous!
Something I realized recently is that I mostly care what a few very specific people think about me. Not an online me I perform for strangers, but the living, breathing, dry-shampoo-can’t-save-you-now version.
I wish I’d been myself with them, while I still had the chance.
So screw it. No more lies.
Things are going to look a little different around here from now on.
Sincerely, Libby
Image: Woman with greasy hair talking to massive brown cockroach.
#partyofwon #mybestlie #getreal