Chapter 1 #3
I launch the sentence at Jack like a missile.
I’m trying to give him a piece of information, but also I’m pissed—pissed that he came early, pissed that the storm dumped so much snow, pissed that I told Jack to stay.
Pissed about the terse, awkward silence last night as we moved around each other like strangers, about the wide berth he gave me as we unpacked groceries, staying as far away from me as possible in a cabin that’s a mere 30 feet across.
I’m pissed that he volunteered to sleep on the couch, which isn’t much more than an old lumpy cushion on a shitty frame and isn’t nearly long enough for him, and pissed that I accepted his terms, making me look like the bad guy taking the bed.
This place is full of memories of us, of that time when I thought anything was possible because he loved me, when the world was our oyster.
But they all sat stale in the air last night, suffocating me.
I didn’t want to be the one who broke the silence, and apparently he didn’t either. That, or he didn’t mind it.
But I will not go another day in brutal silence, so I’m being the bigger person and talking first. About normal things that normal people talk about. Like coffee.
“I know you love coffee in the morning and that I used to always—” I bite back the sentence.
When Jack and I lived together, in our little bungalow in Albuquerque, or here in the cabin, I was always awake first, and I always made the coffee.
I loved the routine of grinding the beans, heating the water, knowing I was doing something that would make Jack smile at me as he wandered in the kitchen, stretching and mussing his hair. “But I don’t have any.”
“Ok-ay.” He says it in two slow syllables.
As proof that things change, he was awake first this morning.
Either that, or he never slept. When I woke to diffused morning light through the cabin and peeked over my covers, he was sitting ramrod straight on the couch.
“No worries. I brought some. Do you want any? Did you forget yours?”
I shake my head and finish making the bed, pulling the corners tight. “No, I don’t drink caffeine anymore.”
“Wait, what?” Jack springs from the couch.
Last night he ducked into the bathroom to change for bed and came out looking delectably soft in flannel PJ pants and a thin white undershirt.
The shirt is tight enough to show the bulk of his chest and stomach, which is just another thing to piss me off.
He’s softer than he used to be, and my fingers want to investigate.
“The Tess I knew wouldn’t speak to anyone without her morning coffee, not even me. ”
“I’m not that Tess anymore.” I wince at my own bitter tone and draw in a slow breath. I’ve been pulling at memories of Jack since he walked in yesterday, working through a constant comparison of then and now, and I can’t blame him for doing the same.
“I, um, started anti-depressants a couple of years ago,” I tell him more calmly, using the words I’ve practiced with my therapist, determined to talk as openly about mental health as I would a headache or a cold.
“One side effect is that my body doesn’t tolerate caffeine anymore.
Or alcohol. Which kind of sucks, but it’s been worth it. ”
“Anti-depressants? Were you okay?” His eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
I hate that he looks like he cares, and that I care that he cares. I don’t know what to do. This is worse than the time a Republican talking head demanded I justify universal healthcare, like it’s a concept that needs justification.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Mostly. Having a slow motion breakdown about my job and the dumpster fire state of the world, but also okay.
“It’s a little hard to explain, but being a woman of a certain age is, um, rough.
Peri-menopause is kind of like a second puberty, and sometimes I feel like my body is betraying me, and whether or not it was that or just everything, I realized I was feeling kind of…
grey? Like the world had become less sharp.
It scared me a little. So I talked to my doctor, and then another doctor.
It’s hard to get anyone to pay attention, but finally—”
I clear my throat and my runaway mouth. I usually keep a lot more to myself. Almost everything, actually. But I’ve always lacked a filter when it comes to Jack. I guess some things never change.
But if it throws him off, Jack doesn’t let it show. He just slides his lower lip through his teeth as he blinks and nods. Something I loved about him was the way he listened so openly, like nothing would surprise him.
“But it’s better now?” he asks.
A laugh bubbles up, surprising me. Like “better” is a static destination.
“I’m still aging and gaining weight and struggling with brain fog, and the world is absolute shit and I’m pretty sure I’ve wasted my one precious life.
But with meds, I’m more resilient. I can face it each day. So yeah, I guess I’m better.”
And just like that, a hefty weight of anxiety lifts off my shoulders. Just saying it out loud, to someone other than my therapist, lightens my body. Hearing myself share those words, those fears, feels so good I could cry.
Sharing things with strangers is easy, and for a flash I tell myself that’s what this is.
Jack is a stranger to me now, as anonymous as a woman in a restaurant bathroom who shares too many details of her life as our eyes make contact in the mirror.
He’s no one to me except the man I share a property with, so it’s low stakes to unload on him like this.
But I make a living by telling the truth. Even when it’s ugly and hard. And the truth is I’ve never felt as open with anyone as I did with Jack, and old habits die hard. It’s just another thing to piss me off this morning.
“Good.” Jack nods again, still watching me. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
His gaze drifts down my body, over my worn T-shirt, hoodie, and sweats.
Maybe he’s looking for evidence of the weight gain and aging—not that he’d have to look far—and I let him.
This is the body I’m living in, the body giving me life, I tell myself.
And I’ll repeat those mantras to myself as many times as it takes to love myself the way I deserve.
Finally, Jack shakes his shoulders and loosens his stance, looking back at my face. “What do you drink now? In the morning? If you’re not doing coffee anymore?”
“Um, peppermint tea with a little honey.”
He nods again, then turns to start brewing his coffee as I stare out the window, marveling that I’ve done most of the talking.
The Jack I knew was loud, bombastic. He was the life of every party, the guy everyone loved being around.
When he approached me that first night, he sauntered up with a pick up line so cheesy I couldn’t help but laugh.
I was in a phase my sister called “Trying too hard,” where I thought if I looked the part of a confident radical, I’d feel it too.
But beneath the nose ring and flippant attitude, I was shy and tense, sure I’d be called out as an imposter any minute.
But Jack seemed to know just the way to help me open up. Half corny jokes, half patient listening, until we were in a corner booth closing out the bar then leaving together, hand in hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Here.” He’s right in front me, holding out a yellow mug. It’s been in the cabin since we unpacked a box of thrift store dishes our very first time here. “Hopefully I got the tea to honey ratio right.”
“Oh.” The peppermint steam wafts over my face. “Thanks.”
“You look great,” he blurts, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.
The move does every favor for his biceps, but I only allow myself a glimpse.
“I mean, what you said about your body betraying you. You’re obviously the expert on your own experience, but from where I’m standing, I don’t see any betrayal. Just—”
Jack’s gaze takes another pass. When he did this a minute ago it felt like a fact-finding mission, but this is more like a vacation—he slows down in some places, eyes lingering at the flare of my hip or the zipper of my hoodie. He blinks rapidly and looks back to my face.
“You’re aging beautifully, Tessa.”
And it’s so dumb that I’m almost crying, but lately I cry at toilet paper commercials and Hallmark movies and the way my cat stretches in the morning, so. “Thank you.”
He cracks a smile. “You look great on TV, too. All buttoned up, telling assholes what’s what.”
My eyes go wide. “You’ve seen me on TV?”
I mean, I knew he would, probably. But hearing it from him sets me even further off balance.
He’s had a way to watch me, but I haven’t been granted the same.
I’ve had to rely on Google searches every few months when I’m lonely and thinking about the specific grip on my body that no one else has mastered.
Reading articles about climate protests and community organizing in New Mexico that mention his name but never, ever give a curious woman the gift of a damn picture.
Though now I’m almost grateful, because if I’d watch him age over time maybe I wouldn’t notice how masterfully he’s done it.
Jack was handsome when we met, but the way he looks now—wiser, calmer, but still with his steel cut jaw and uneven smile—it’s like he was made by the universe to hit his peak in his 40s. Unless the 50s have even more to offer.
Not that it’s my business to wonder.
With a little chuckle, Jack returns to the kitchen counter and starts the machinations for his normal coffee. One sip of my tea confirms the honey ratio is perfect.
“Tess, my granny is a cable news fanatic. The first time she saw you there talking about revolutionary movements, she managed to finally learn how to use her cell phone to call me immediately.”
“She’s still—”