JO
Charlotte's chair was empty.
"She's at a thing with her girlfriend," Valentina continued, like that explained everything. "It's good, right? She's finally putting herself out there."
"I mean, it had to happen eventually. She couldn't spend every weekend on your couch forever."
"She didn't spend every weekend on my couch."
"Basically every weekend. You two were attached at the hip."
Were. Past tense. Like the shift had already happened. Like Charlotte was already gone.
"Val," Jo said, "can we talk about something else?"
"I'm just saying..."
"Please."
Valentina gave her a look, the concerned older sister look that Jo hated, but she dropped it. The conversation moved on to Lucy's school play, to Grandpa's doctor's appointment, to the leak in Grandma's kitchen that needed fixing.
But Jo couldn't focus. She kept glancing at Charlotte's chair.
A decade of Sunday dinners, and Charlotte had never missed one. Blizzards, deadlines, a stomach bug that should've kept her home in bed. She'd always shown up.
Now she was at a firefighter barbecue with Bianca. Meeting Bianca's people. Being introduced as... what? A date? A girlfriend? More than that?
Jo's stomach clenched.
She pulled out her phone and texted: we missed you
Attached the photo she'd snapped of the table. Made sure Charlotte's empty chair was visible in the corner, even though she didn't entirely know why that mattered.
The response came a few minutes later.
Charlotte: I'm sorry.
Jo: don't be sorry! have fun! we just wanted you to know we're thinking about you
Charlotte: I know. I'm thinking about you too.
That message made Jo's chest ache. I'm thinking about you too. Like Charlotte was far away. Like the distance wasn't just Queens to Brooklyn.
After dinner, Jo helped Grandma Ruth clean up. It was their ritual. Jo washed, Grandma dried, and they talked about nothing and everything.
"You're quiet tonight," Grandma said.
"I'm always quiet."
"No, you're not. You're the loud one. Charlotte's the quiet one." Grandma took a dish from Jo's hands. "Where is she in that head of yours?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you've been staring at her chair all night like you expected it to grow legs and walk away."
"I haven't been staring."
"Josephina."
Jo scrubbed at a pot that was already clean. "It's just weird. Her not being here. We always do Sunday dinner together."
"She's allowed to have other plans."
"I know."
"She's allowed to date someone."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Jo looked at her grandmother. Ruth's eyes were sharp, seeing too much.
"What are you asking?" Jo said.
"I'm asking if you know why Charlotte's absence bothers you so much."
"Because she's my friend. Because I miss her when she's not around. That's normal."
"Is it?"
"Grandma." Jo set down the pot. "What are you actually asking?"
Ruth was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed.
"When I was your age," she said, "I was very good at not looking at things I didn't want to see.
I could convince myself of anything. That I wasn't jealous when my best friend got married.
That I didn't mind being passed over for promotions.
That certain feelings were just friendship, nothing more. "
"What feelings?"
"The kind that make you stare at an empty chair all night." Grandma dried a glass, set it in the cupboard. "The kind that make you check your phone every five minutes. The kind that make you feel sick when someone you love is spending time with someone else."
Jo's heart was beating too fast. "I don't—that's not—Charlotte is my friend."
"Yes."
"My best friend."
"Yes."
"We're not—I'm not..." Jo couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't know how to finish it. "I like men. I've dated men."
"Have you?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've known you for twenty-nine years, and I've never seen you look at a man the way you look at Charlotte."
Jo's hands were shaking. She gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.
"That's not... I don't look at her any different than anyone else."
"You track her through a room without knowing you're doing it," Grandma said gently. "You hear her laugh from the kitchen and turn your head. When she leaves, you keep looking at the door."
"That's not..."
"It's okay, bubeleh." Grandma touched her shoulder. "It's okay to not know. It took me a while too."
"Took you a while to what?"
Ruth's smile deepened, the lines around her eyes creasing, and she looked past Jo for a moment like she was seeing someone else.
"I stepped out with a lovely lady or two before your grandpa," she said. "Different times, different rules. But the feelings were the same."
Jo stared at her. "You—what?"
"Linda Potters." Ruth's smile deepened. "Beautiful girl. Worked at the bakery two blocks over. I thought about her constantly. Dreamed about her. Made excuses to buy bread I didn't need, just to see her."
"Grandma."
"I never did anything about it. Too scared, too confused.
Eventually she moved away and I met your grandfather and that was that.
" Ruth squeezed Jo's shoulder. "But I remember the feeling.
The way my heart raced when she walked into a room.
The way I felt sick when she talked about the boys she liked. "
Jo couldn't speak. Grandma Ruth, who made challah every Friday and complained about the neighbor's cat and had been married to Grandpa for fifty-two years. Grandma Ruth, who had loved a girl named Linda Potters.
"Some people know who they are right away," Ruth continued. "Others take longer. There's no wrong timeline, as long as you're honest with yourself eventually."
"I don't... I can't..." Jo's voice cracked. "She's dating someone. She's happy. Even if I—which I'm not saying I do—it doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?"
"She's with Bianca."
"Is she?"
"She skipped Sunday dinner to be with her!"
"And how did that make you feel?"
The question sat between them. Jo couldn't answer it. Couldn't put words to the hollow feeling behind her ribs, the wrongness of Charlotte's empty chair, staring at her phone all night waiting for messages that felt too sparse and too careful.
"I need to go," Jo said.
"Jo—"
"I'm fine. I just—I need to think."
Ruth searched her face. Then she nodded.
"Okay. But Jo?" She caught Jo's hand as she turned to leave. "Whatever you're feeling, it's okay. You're still you. You're still my granddaughter. Nothing changes that."
Jo hugged her, tight and fierce and desperate, and then she left.
She walked home instead of taking the subway.
The night air bit through her jacket, sharp with the smell of exhaust and frying oil from the Dominican place on the corner. It was a long walk across Brooklyn to her apartment, but she needed the time. Needed the space to process what her grandmother had said. What it might mean.
The way I felt sick when she talked about the boys she liked.
Jo thought about Charlotte talking about Bianca. The firefighter with the muscles. The woman who was "interesting" and "easy to talk to." The woman Charlotte was out with right now.
She felt sick.
She'd told herself it was just adjustment. Just getting used to sharing Charlotte's time. Just normal friendship stuff.
But it wasn't. She knew it wasn't. She'd known for weeks that it wasn't right, and she'd refused to look at it.
I've never seen you look at a man the way you look at Charlotte.
Did she look at Charlotte differently? She thought about it, really thought about it, for the first time.
Charlotte's laugh, full-bodied when she was amused rather than performing. Her eyes going sharp when she was about to deliver a verbal kill shot. How she looked in that blue dress, the one that made her eyes darker.
How Jo felt when Charlotte walked into a room. Like everything was better. Like the world had snapped into focus.
Oh.
Jo stopped walking. Stood in the middle of the sidewalk, foot traffic flowing around her, and let the realization hit.
She was in love with Charlotte.
She was in love with her best friend.
She was...
Oh god.
Jo's legs went weak. She found a bench, sat down hard, pressed her hands to her face.
This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be... she wasn't...
But the more she thought about it, the more everything made sense. The feeling sick when Charlotte talked about Bianca. The empty ache of Charlotte's missing chair. Moping around for weeks, snapping at people, unable to focus on anything but Charlotte's sparse texts.
She was jealous. Not friend-jealous. Jealous jealous.
And the dates with men. Trevor from the coffee shop, and whatshisname before that, and all the others who'd faded into nothing.
She'd never felt anything with them. Had thought she was just picky. Just not ready. Just waiting for the right person.
But it was more than that. She could see it now, laid out like a circuit board with all the broken connections finally visible.
Trevor had been fine. Nice smile, steady hands, bought her coffee without asking how she took it.
She'd kissed him and felt nothing. Not revulsion, not discomfort.
Just... nothing. Like pressing a button that wasn't connected to anything.
Every man she'd dated had been pleasant enough in the moment and instantly forgettable after.
She'd blamed herself. Told herself she wasn't trying hard enough, wasn't open enough, wasn't giving them a fair chance.
She'd never once considered that the wiring wasn't broken.
It was connected to Charlotte's laugh across a dinner table.
To the press of Charlotte's shoulder against hers on the couch.
To the way Charlotte said Josephina like she was unwrapping something precious.
Twenty-nine years old, and she'd never understood why everyone made such a fuss about desire. Now, sitting on a bench in Brooklyn with her whole world rearranging itself, she understood. She'd been feeling it for years. She just hadn't known what to call it.
Maybe the right person had been right in front of her the whole time.
Jo pulled out her phone. Scrolled through her photos. There were hundreds of Charlotte. Charlotte at Sunday dinner. Charlotte on the couch watching their show. Charlotte at that work thing last month, wearing a suit that made Jo's stomach do backflips.
Made Jo's stomach do backflips.
She'd noticed that. Had thought it was weird, had brushed it aside, had refused to examine why Charlotte in a suit made her feel dizzy.
She opened their text thread. Read back through the messages. Love you, Lottie. Always, Lottie. Night, Lottie.
She'd said those things casually. Easily. Because she loved Charlotte and it was fine to say so.
But she loved Charlotte.
She loved Charlotte.
Not just friend-love. Not just family-love. The other kind. The kind that made you stare at empty chairs and feel sick when they dated someone else.
Jo put her head in her hands and breathed.
Her grandmother had known. Probably everyone had known. Everyone except Jo, too oblivious to see what was right in front of her.
But it was too late. Charlotte was with Bianca. Charlotte was moving on, finding someone new, building a life that didn't revolve around Friday nights on the couch.
And Jo had wasted years not knowing what she felt.
She stood up. Started walking again. A bus rumbled past, close enough that the gust pulled at her hair. The city blurred around her, traffic and neon and strangers she didn't see.
It didn't matter. Even if she told Charlotte, which she couldn't, which she wouldn't, Charlotte was happy. Charlotte had found someone. Charlotte deserved better than Jo's messy, confused feelings showing up now, when it was too late.
She would be a good friend. She would be happy for Charlotte. She would shove these feelings down into the same place she'd been keeping them for years, apparently, without even knowing they were there.
She would not ruin the best thing in her life because she was finally too stupid to keep ignoring the obvious.
Her phone buzzed.
Charlotte: Are you okay?
Jo stared at the message. How did Charlotte always know?
Jo: fine. just walking home. long day.
Charlotte: You didn't take the subway?
Jo: felt like walking.
A pause. Then:
Charlotte: Do you want company?
Yes, Jo thought. Always. Forever. I want you next to me for the rest of my life.
She typed: i'm almost home. but thanks.
Charlotte: Okay. Friday still?
Jo: friday still.
Charlotte:
There it was. The heart emoji Jo had been waiting for all day.
It meant nothing. It was just Charlotte being Charlotte.
But Jo stared at it anyway, standing on a sidewalk in Brooklyn, finally understanding what she'd been feeling all along.