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“Can I have the rest of your stir-fry?” I ask. “I’ll buy you lunch and dinner tomorrow.”
Jessie narrows her eyes at me but nods while shoveling a forkful of noodles into her mouth.
I take the container out of the fridge, plus a cold Diet Coke, and pile the food onto a plate, joining Jessie at the table. She waits for me to continue, her eyes drifting between me and her plate expectantly. Her curiosity is palpable, but when it’s just me and her and the topic of my mom hanging in the air between us, I feel uneasy.
It’s my own fault Jessie doesn’t fully grasp the situation with my mom or what it means that she’s in a relationship. Every time I try to talk about it, I get so uncomfortable I have trouble finishing my sentences or explaining the full story. It’s like I’ve never baked a cake, but I’m so intimidated by the process that I give up before I make it all the way through combining the ingredients. Telling Jessie the whole story would mean opening a door to a closet I don’t want anyone to see inside. So, instead of talking about it, Jessie and I stew in silence, shoveling noodles and vegetables into our mouths.
“You know, not talking about it doesn’t mean it’s not real,” Jessie says, so gently and quietly I almost don’t catch it. She’s not looking at me, and I appreciate her so much in this moment—her willingness to say such a brutally honest thing with such genuine kindness.
But Jessie is wrong. Not talking about it is exactly how I keep reality at bay. If I don’t acknowledge my mom’s behavior with anyone else, it’s easier to manage. It’s too scary, too big a thing to say out loud, much less to let someone else see. It’s safer where it exists right now: with me, and me alone.
“So what are you doing tonight?” I ask, knowing Jessie will follow my redirection. “Wait, let me guess. Studying?”
Jessie smirks and rolls her eyes at me, but she also nods, her mouth still full of food.
“Where’s Mac?” I ask.
“A study group,” she says, still chewing.
“You weren’t invited? Et tu, Brute?”
“I know . . . we’ll probably break up.”
“As long as we keep the apartment and he continues to pay for it, that’s fine.”
“That’s entirely reasonable.”
“Okay, well, since you’ve been betrayed, let me be your study buddy.”
Jessie narrows her eyes at me. She knows my offer comes with strings.
“Are you trying to do my makeup?”
“Pleeaaasseeeeee? I’ll quiz you while I do it, like we’ve done a million times.”
Jessie scrunches her nose.
I’ve asked her to be my makeup model so many times over the past few years. She gets a break over the summer, when we don’t live near each other, but she’s the only person I’ve felt comfortable asking to practice on. It’s kind of an intimate thing, putting makeup on someone else. It requires a level of trust I don’t share with just anyone.
“I’ll agree, contingent on you not making me into some weird character again. It took me ages to get that purple makeup off my face last time. You can do something pretty or artsy.”
“Deal! I just need to post something. It’s been too long.”
“Oh noooo. Whatever will your twenty followers do?”
“Your sarcasm isn’t welcome here. And for the record, it’s twentythousand.”
“Yes, yes. We all know how internet-famous you are.”
“You’re the only one not impressed with my internet fame.”
“That’s because I know you for real,” she says.
“You should be more impressed because of that. You’re friends with a celebrity. Basically. And when you get featured on my page, you always get, like, a hundred more followers.”
“Followers who are deeply disappointed that all I post about is whatever book I was just reading, a new fountain pen ink, or my boyfriend. And come to think of it, I think they just like my boyfriend posts, because Mac is . . . well—” She shrugs and raises her eyebrows like I know the rest of the sentence.
“A sexy motherfucker?”
