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The coffee machine crackles, sending the smell of fresh-brewing beans my way. Jessie and Mac will probably be studying for a while if they’re brewing coffee at 10 p.m.Studying this late on Friday night?I would find this kind of a tragic use of a Friday night, but I’m crying alone in my room to show tunes, so for now, I’ll withhold that judgment.
“What’s level three?” Mac asks.
“Hallmark Channel.”
The scrape of a mug across the counter sets my teeth on edge. Or maybe it’s the fact that Jessie sees right through me and that’s a level of vulnerability I didn’t mean to sign up for.
“Hallmark Channel?”
“Yeah. If she’s on the couch watching Hallmark Channel movies, and has been for hours, we’re on level-three sadness.”
“You do that too,” Mac says. “Is that one of your levels of sadness?”
“Yes, but that’s, like, level five for me.”
That’s true. She watched cheesy Christmas movies for three days when shit hit the fan with her and Mac last year. I take great comfort in fictional stories on a regular basis, whereas if Jessie’s binging movies or TV of any kind, it’s warning bells for me. Only the greatest levels of emotion and distress can knock her off her feet.
My armpits are sweaty and feel warm. I’m desperate to join the conversation, to put in my two cents, but it’s not often you get to hear what people really say about you when they think you’re not there, and I want to know where the rest of this conversation is going more than I want to be part of it.
“And level four is—” Mac says at the same time Jessie says, “Code Red is?—”
“Sondham,” Mac says.
“Sondheim,” she corrects.
There’s a span of silence that feels like hours but is probably only a few seconds. Coffee is poured into mugs; spoons clank against the ceramic, stirring in cream and sugar. Mac takes his coffee black, but Jessie likes her coffee as sweet as dessert.
I wait for more, but if they continue their conversation, I can’t hear it anymore.
Turning off the music completely, I let out a deep exhale. All the muscles I’ve been clenching loosen, and I flop down on my bed. It’s so weird to listen to my best friend talk about me as if I’m not just in the next room. She didn’t say anything bad about me, yet still, I feel weird. I can’t decide if that’s because she was talking about me or because she sees me so clearly, too clearly, it scares me a little. I don’t even think I see myself that clearly.
I scrub my face, crusty from dried, salty tears. Code Red or not,Merrily We Roll Alongis one of my favorite musicals. It’s heartbreaking and hopeful, and it never fails to make me cry.
Last Halloween, I had a threesome with two people I met at a party. The three of us kept it casual for two months and then decided to be exclusive, the three of us, committed to only dating each other. I stayed for nine months and left five days ago. So of course I’m crying to “Not a Day Goes By”—Bernadette Peters is singing it, and I’m not a robot.
“Code Red.” I scoff and swipe open my phone to scroll through social media.
A knock at my door startles me.
“Jade?” Jessie’s voice, hesitant and soft, comes through from the other side.
“It’s open,” I say loud enough for her to hear, and she walks into the room, taking a seat on my bed. My hands flop to my sides, my phone face down on the mattress, and I tilt my head to give her my best “please stop worrying” look. “I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly.
Jessie’s face says enough—she doesn’t need words. Eyebrows raised and eyes chock-full of “I call bullshit.”
“Well. Okay, obviously, I’m not great. I was listening to Sondheim, and your sad scale was creepily accurate.”
With one hand she grips my leg, and with the other she covers her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “You heard that?” she asks, her words muffled.
“I’ve heard worse things through these walls.” I raise my eyebrows at her, and she turns the deepest shade of red I’ve ever seen and hides her face fully in her hands. “Oh, come on—you knew these walls were paper-thin. Plus, good for you. I’ve been saying for years you just needed a good dicking down.”
“Oh my god, Jade,” Jessie says through her hands.
“Oh, stop. You’re not embarrassed by me.”
“We are not here to talk about me.” Jessie points a finger at me, giving me her Stern Librarian Face, but it only lasts for a second before she drops both her finger and the face. “Except that I’m really sorry you heard that. I thought maybe your music was loud enough that you couldn’t hear. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I?—”
“Jessie.” I sit up and put my hand over hers. “It’s fine. Like I said . . . creepily accurate.”
