Epilogue Nick
EPILOGUE: NICK
October
T he wine rep standing on the other side of the bar frowns as Jasmine sets down her wine glass. His face falls further as she steps back, her face chalky.
“You okay?” I reach for her, but she sidesteps my grasp as she rushes past me, pushing through the back door of the bar.
“Yup,” she warbles. She sounds anything but okay.
“Sorry,” I tell the rep – I’ve already forgotten his name – and follow after her. “Be right back. I’m sure it’s not your wine,” I say over my shoulder when I catch a glimpse of panic on his face.
It could be the wine. It tasted fine to me, though. But then, I’m not the one trying to expand our wine list. I was happy with the merlot we already had. Or as Jazz likes to call it, “bar rail fruit fly attractant”.
Light escapes underneath the door of the Employees’ Only bathroom.
“Jasmine?” I knock but can barely hear her response over the buzz and clank of the fan which hasn’t been replaced since the Industrial Revolution.
After a few moments, the door opens. In the harsh light of the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, Jasmine looks washed out, her eyes are red, and she dabs at her mouth with a brown paper towel.
“You’re sick,” I say, lifting my hand to her forehead, but in another deke move that would get her a walk-on spot on the Maple Leafs, she avoids me.
“Yeah,” she says. “No. I don’t know.” She plasters herself to the wall. We’ve been together long enough now for me to know she wants space because she’s upset about being sick or feels embarrassed for puking or a combination of both and not because she’s upset with me.
“Do you want to go upstairs and lie down? I can finish the tasting.”
She shakes her head, but she’s pressing her lips together and her color has gotten worse. I’m about to put my foot down about it when she says, “I think I’m going to go home actually. My home.”
“Oh.” Maybe I need to rethink if she’s upset with me.
The last time she slept at her house was in August.
“Okay,” I say, once I realize that I haven’t said anything for an awkward amount of time.
“I’m probably just tired. Maybe burnt out a little?”
Fatigue could be a factor. I did wake her up after my shift so she could sit on my face for a bit. Even though she doesn’t take bar shifts – we tried that, and she got way too flustered – she’s still forced to be on my schedule.
Jasmine was the missing piece we didn’t know we needed at Moonbar; she’s got a binder for every possible situation; she’s improved our marketing tenfold when it was previously zero. Gone are the days of forgetting to reorder vermouth or restock napkins with our logos on them. She even found a way to promote Underground Karaoke while still adhering to the number rule of Underground Karaoke: no one talks about Underground Karaoke.
We sell merch now, too, and she got us all T-shirts for us to wear on shift. Rocco was most excited about the fact that she got our names embroidered on them. She blessed Moonbar with all her Jasmine-iest qualities, and we’re thriving, but I can see how all that work could burn her out.
“Do people usually barf when they’re burnt out?”
This gets me in trouble. She scowls and pushes me toward the door. “Tyrone is waiting. Go taste his wines. I wrote down our needs in the notebook on the bar.” She points a stern finger at me. “Do not go over budget.”
I hold up my hands in placation. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Don’t go under budget either.” Then she gives me one final push out the door.
Turns out Tyrone is pretty chatty, so he doesn’t leave until Rocco arrives and it’s time to start opening. The bar fills up fast since it’s a Thursday and Underground Karaoke is loud and fun but impossible to sneak away from to call or even text Jasmine to ask how she’s doing. At two in the morning, I text her, knowing she won’t see it until the morning. Then, I text Jade, because she’s always up now.
Me: how is she?
Lil’ sis: qué?
Me: your sister
Lil’ sis: ????
Lil’ sis: why what’d you do?
Me: NOTHING!!!
Me: she was sick today. threw up and went home.
She doesn’t respond until I’m out of the shower and in a bed that feels far too spacious.
Lil’ sis: just checked on her. she’s snoring.
Me: take a vid. we can use it for blackmail later
Lil’ sis: dude you are diabolical
She sends me the video, which is just a black screen since Jasmine’s room is pitch black from her blackout curtains, but over the whoosh of her sound machine – a tool I got her hooked on – her breaths come in soft snorts.
She snores delicately. Because of course she does.
I fall asleep to the lullaby of her snores, rather than think about if Jasmine is okay, why she never told her sister she was sick. Or why she hasn’t reached out to me once since she left.
“Remember Yasmin?” Jasmine sets down her fork with intention, not hard, not softly, but with far more concentration and precision than the action usually deserves. She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, even though she’s barely touched her lunch.
I stuff my fork into my mouth, my fork laden with leafy greens and sweet potatoes and whatever other root vegetables she’s stocked my tiny kitchen with. But even after I’ve masticated longer than necessary, I can’t recall a single instance of meeting Yasmin. Best case scenario, this is a friend I’ve forgotten about. Worst case scenario, she’s an ex I’ve forgotten about, though that seems unlikely. Even for me.
“No,” I say around a mouthful so large Jasmine shakes her head huffing fondly. I hope. She smooths the already smooth red and white checked tablecloth that covers my kitchen table. I’ve never once owned a tablecloth before but one afternoon I came upstairs scrounging for a snack and there it was, along with her and the table set for two. Now we eat lunch together every day. Except for yesterday, when she stayed home claiming continued illness – and wouldn’t let me come over at all to help – and the day before, when we were so busy we never even had lunch.
“You met her the first time we went to your parents’,” she says shyly. “In the pool house?”
“Oh, Yasmin.” Fuck yeah, I remember Yasmin.
I grin and I’m not even trying to make her blush but she does. Those are the best blushes, when they’re unplanned. “Yeah. Love Yasmin. How’s she doing?”
She shrugs. “Fine, I guess. I was just thinking…”
I place my fork down and reach across the table for her hand. “Thinking about what exactly?”
My hope is always that she’s thinking about sex. Specifically, with me, though I’m not picky. But based on her inability to meet my eyes and the fact that ever since she got sick a few days ago something has been just a little bit off, my hopes are not currently high.
She mulls over her words quietly, her lips pursing, her brow crinkling until I want to reach across the table and smooth her out. Or maybe take her to the bed and keep her there until every muscle and nerve is relaxed, incapable of a single fold.
“I was thinking that –”
Rocco chooses this moment to fly up the stairs in three loud leaps. They kick the door once with their boot and don’t wait for a response before they open it. “Beer delivery is here.” They’re breathless, hunched in the doorway hands on their knees.
I keep Jasmine’s hand in mine as I turn to face them. “And you couldn’t be the one to intake that because…?”
They straighten, flashing a notebook at me, like I’m supposed to know its contents. “Cuz me and Jasmine are talking about the new cocktail menu.”
She squeezes my hand. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“We can talk about it now,” I insist, but she smiles, pulls her hand away, and takes my empty plate to the counter along with her full one.
“Show me the menu,” she says to Rocco.
So, I guess we can’t.
Roberta, the beer delivery woman, spends most of the delivery talking about how October in the city is the perfect time of year. Cool without being cold, warm without the sticky, stuffy humidity. While I agree, I’m not a great conversation partner. My attention is stuck halfway up the stairs. Only when she asks after Ed do I pull my attention back to her. I’m always happy to share how he kicked chemo’s ass and impressed his doctors with his recovery from surgery.
Finally, I sign off for Roberta on the dotted line and make my way slowly back up the stairs. My parents were ecstatic to learn that Jasmine and me were back together, or together for real, at least. Mom’s scream nearly broke my laptop speaker when we FaceTimed them. Dad is happy but he’s made his concerns about the intertwining of our professional and personal relationships abundantly clear.
And I get it, but goddamn would it kill him to be supportive for once?
I’ve tried not to let it bother me, and Jasmine and I have worked hard to create boundaries since the beginning, ones that will “create longevity for all levels of our partnership”, according to Jazz. That’s why we haven’t moved in together; though, I don’t think she’s ready to officially leave Jade anyway. That’s why we keep our finances separate. It’s why we haven’t even thought of words like fiancée or marriage license. But if she wanted to, I’d marry her in a fucking second.
For a guy who’d never really done commitment before, I feel like I’m kind of fucking killing it. Maybe that’s why this sudden, subtle distance from her feels like a gap I can’t help but mind. Things feel wrong, off, like the way Jade looks when she’s forced to use a microfiber cloth: uncomfortable but suffering through it. I want to fix it for Jasmine, whatever concerns, worries, or god forbid, doubts she might have.
But what if I can’t fix this.
As I reach the top of the stairs, Jasmine and Rocco’s hushed voices drift through my apartment door, slightly ajar. It’s all a jumble of high-pitched hissing until Rocco’s whispered screech breaks through, “Aren’t you on birth control?”
I stop at the top of the stairs, my last few steps quiet. I don’t strain to hear what she and Rocco are talking about on the other side. I don’t even hold my breath to hide my arrival. But I don’t not do those things, either.
Yes. Yes, Jasmine is on birth control. She’s had an IUD since I’ve known her. I can’t hear her response through the ringing in my ears but I assume that’s what she says.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. This is not what we need right now. It’s not what we want; at least, not what I want. If I was ever going to consider the possibility of offspring, it would be with Jasmine, but I never got the sense she wanted them, either.
While it’s certainly not the worst thing about a potential pregnancy situation, the fact that my father may now be able to employ his favorite saying, “I told you so”, doesn’t make it better.
“You guys haven’t discussed this before?” Rocco asks, and while it's uncommon I’m surprised to hear judgment lacing their words.
Jasmine says something inaudible and then with a tremble in her voice, “Please don’t tell Nick.”
“Of course not, sweetie,” Rocco responds.
A claustrophobic panic closes my airways like anaphylaxis. I nudge the door open with my foot. “Don’t tell me what?”
If my heart wasn’t hammering in my throat, I’d laugh at their twin faces of shock and shame. Rocco is frozen, the same look of horror on their face as when they unwittingly muttered shut up into a live mic during Underground Karaoke when a patron would not, in fact, stop talking.
Jasmine on the other hand almost seems relieved. She shakes out her hands and opens the door wider. “Come in and I’ll tell you.”
“You’re pregnant,” I say, testing the word. If I say it enough times maybe it won’t feel so bad.
“No.” She hugs herself. “Thank god,” she mutters.
“But I heard you – ”
“You were eavesdropping?” Rocco asks, aghast.
“Yeah, and I heard you colluding with my girlfriend to keep secrets from me.” I chuck my thumb over my shoulder. “Scram.”
They roll their eyes as we switch places, and I close the door behind them.
I’m mad. Or maybe sad. I’m hurt. It takes everything in me to turn and face her with a neutral expression.
“It’s not what it sounds like.” She takes my hands, but stays at arm’s length until I pull her into me, trapping her hands between my back and the door.
“Okay. What is it then?”
Her sigh presses her chest against mine. “I thought I was pregnant. The wine tasted absolutely awful and made me sick immediately. When I went home, I started Googling and I came across all these stories about women who’d gotten pregnant with IUDs and I panicked.”
“Cuz you don’t want to have a baby with me?” I ask, even though I am so fucking relieved.
She sighs again, kisses me hard and quick. “I don’t want to have a baby at all.”
“Great, neither do I.”
She smiles, kissing me again, slower, softer. “Yeah, but I didn’t know that. I’m not pregnant. I took a test. I think my stomach reacted poorly to drinking the wine on an empty stomach. But once I realized all that, I was so worried because we’d never talked about kids. And…” She looks away suddenly, biting her lip, her eyes welling with tears.
“Hey.” I cup her chin. “Don’t cry.”
“I didn’t want you to leave me,” she says in the quietest voice. “Because I didn’t want to give you a baby.” Her eyes are bright as the tears fall. “If I ever did want to have a baby, it would be with you though.”
I lean my head back against the door, laughing as she speaks my own thoughts back to me. I squeeze her closer to me.
“Me too. And I’m sorry we hadn’t discussed it sooner. Or that you felt like it was even an option that I would leave you because of that. Even if you were pregnant, we would deal with it together,” I say. I want her to know she’s never alone, especially in this. “We’d deal with it, whatever that looks like for us.”
She flushes, pressing her temple to my cheek to avoid looking me in the eye.
“Wait.” I lean into her, rubbing my stubbly chin into her neck until she squeals. “Why were you asking about Yasmin earlier?”
She huffs a quiet laugh into my shoulder. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.” Her hands slip beneath the back of my button-up plaid, a futile attempt at distraction.
“Now you have to tell me,” I whisper, my voice huskier. I won’t be distracted, but I am still just a man.
She glides her nails up and down my back, a tingle more than a scratch, before slipping her fingers beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs. I suck her skin in retaliation.
“Nick.” She pushes me away, trying and failing to catch a glimpse of the spot on her shoulder.
“I didn’t leave a mark.” I press my thumb over the spot, because I wish I did.
She sighs, crossing her arms over chest. “I was sad because I thought about how I couldn’t even keep a role play character alive, so I’d probably be a terrible mother to a baby I didn’t even want, and then you’d leave me,” she says, stern and matter of fact.
I wait for her to crack a smile. Because this has to be a joke. “Jazz.”
“I know.”
“That’s…”
“I know…”
“You raised your sister,” I remind her. “You don’t want a baby. And you’re not even pregnant.” I throw my hands up in the air.
She lifts her chin, unwilling to break. “I never said it made any sense.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking the time, before placing it on the table beside my door where I put all my mail. “Well, if you’re feeling sad, there’s only one way to make you feel better.” I stroll past her toward the bed, unbuttoning my shirt as I go.
“What’s that?” she asks, her voice rightfully suspicious.
I sprawl on the bed, my legs spread wide, leaning back on my hands. Her gaze lands on the exposed skin and hair of my stomach and chest as she slowly follows me.
“We’ll have to resurrect Yasmin.” When she gets close enough, I hold out my hand. She takes it for balance and sets one knee on the mattress, then the other. She hikes up her long skirt until her thighs are exposed.
“You’re right.” She splays her hand over my stomach, up to my chest.
I hold her hand over my heart, pressing my skin to her skin to mine. “Should I be someone else, too?” I ask. It only seems fair that if she has a sex role play character, so should I.
She pauses, midway through pulling her hair out of its bun. She leans over me, her hair falling around us, a silky shroud. “Absolutely not,” she says, resolute, against my lips.
“Why not?” I whisper.
She pulls her shirt over her head, unhooks her bra, holds her breasts in her hands, nipples peeking between her fingers. As she grinds against the growing bulge in my pants, I raise my hips to meet her. My mouth waters to taste her where she teases me, her fingers plucking and pulling, caressing where I want to suck her most.
“Why not?” I ask again, my voice hoarse, my dick hard, my heart thumping. She could break me into a thousand jagged pieces and I’d still get hot for her, love her.
She smiles, softly, running her hands through my hair. “Because in every possible plot, you’ll always be my Nick.”
THE END