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Dear Beck,
I promise I don’t miss you. I don’t. Honestly. Hand on my heart, scout’s honour. I. Don’t. Miss. You.
I shut the door behind me and yell out two! You’ll be out in a second. Three! It takes at least five seconds to get across the living room. Six! There’s a thud, so I pause. Just for a moment. Until I hear you’re okay. I need you to be okay. You seem to be, and the commotion quietens down. So I continue. Eight! I can feel you on the other side of the door, mind reeling. A mirror image of me. The handle twitches. You’ll be right out. But the door doesn’t open. Nine! I need you to open the door. I need you to. Ten! But you don’t.
I grab the door handle and nearly throw open the door to demand What the hell is wrong with you? Come on. Bring me home. But I don’t. I drop my hands and stare at the red wooden panelling for a moment. You’re on the other side of it. Breaths heavy. Heart pounding. You’re waiting. I’m waiting. But neither of us is patient. And I leave.
I’m tired of the fighting, too. Do you think that I enjoy yelling at you? The tiptoeing on eggshells and making everyone around us uncomfortable because we can never seem to get along? I don’t. It’s humiliating. I want to get along with you. I love you. But it’s hard to when we don’t listen to each other anymore. It wasn’t intentional. It could never be intentional. You were always there, and I was always there, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I thought, in the very unlikely event we’d ever break up, I would be able to breathe again. But I feel like I’m drowning. Like breathing was a luxury reserved for us and not me.
It’s dramatic, I know. But I’m dramatic as all hell. You know that, especially. You’ve seen it on full display.
I drove us to Tori’s house in my car. We’ve been at my house because my mom was working late and my brother was at his dad’s. We were supposed to get something to eat and then come home and watch The Scissoring. We didn’t. You arrived at my house and we decided we wanted Chinese food, then we fought and went to Tori’s house and now we’re broken up.
You change your relationship status on The Slap first.
Single. Yup.
Did you know that when someone else ends your relationship on The Slap, you get a condolence email? Because you do. Very sorry that your relationship is over. Do you also want to share with your followers? No, I don’t want to share with my followers that my boyfriend just broke up with me and announced it to the world before I could even drive home.Yes, I will share. If I don’t address it, people will talk. And we can’t have that, can we?
Yeah, yeah. Beck and I broke up. Can we talk about something else now… like how annoying Tori is?
I wait an hour before I posted my confirmation. Personally, it isn’t my first priority to yell from the rooftops when I break up with my boyfriend who I’ve dated for over three years. But, obviously, we are not the same in that way.
You show up at Cat’s mom’s boss’ house. You weren’t supposed to. Didn’t you have a date? Or plans with Andre? Or something? I was supposed to have a date, too, by the way. But Cat asked me to dogsit with her, and you know how it is with Cat. You can’t say no to her or she’ll cry and then you feel bad and everyone loses. So, I had to cancel. I wouldn’t have been here. I shouldn’t have been here. I should have been at dinner with Jeremy from my screenwriting class, and I never would have seen you. But that’s not how it worked. I’m not that lucky. And it was because of Cat. It was Cat’s fault.
And, you ask about it, too. When everyone else has left. Both of us have hung back, stand outside the apartment building and drum our fingers on the chalky walls. I need to process what just happened and you’ve always lingered like a cold sore. Now, two’s a crowd. You asked when we were inside, when you first arrived. I ignored you then, hoped you’d drop it. You don’t, and you ask again.
“What, are you keeping tabs on me?” I say in reply, trying to seem more interested in my cuticles than in you. The task is difficult, but I think I manage. You don’t seem to notice. “Stalker.” I tack the word on at the end for good measure, no more than a mutter under my breath. I don’t think you hear me, but it’s more gratifying than anything. Not in the way it is to insult Tori or Robbie, but it’s rewarding either way.
“You mentioned it in your last Slap update.” Mentioned it is putting it lightly. You’re so damn polite. You put your hands in your pockets and lean back on your heels. You’re staring at the sky. The lightless, starless sky. You used to say I reminded you of the night sky. Called me infinite and unfathomable and impossibly beautiful in the most startling way. You’ve always been poetic. And I used to melt and kiss you on the corner of your mouth and promise myself I’d keep you around forever. That hasn’t exactly gone according to plan. “I’m not keeping tabs on you. We’re still friends, right? I’m allowed to know things about you.”
My stomach tightens, and I almost walk away. I should walk away. I have nothing keeping me there with you. You aren’t keeping me there with you. Instead, I shake my head and clench my teeth and look at anything but you.
“Friends is a strong word,” I say, crossing my arms. To protect myself, it feels. From what? You? It’s ridiculous. But maybe. You’d never do anything to hurt me. Except not open the door. But that was an anomaly. I don’t need to protect myself from you. “I wouldn’t call us that.” I wish I could call us that. But I also wish that we didn’t have to only have to call ourselves that. But mutual friends who know way too much about each other and will still hang out like nothing happened doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
“Okay,” you say, because you’re so supportive and understanding and infuriating, it makes me want to throw something. Why did you ask if you aren’t looking for an argument? Why are you still here if you don’t want to fight? What else could you possibly want from me? “Then we aren’t friends.” And you just go with it. Gone are the days where I can get a rise out of you. Not that I still want you. I just like the thought that I could. But that’s no longer an ability I possess.
“No, we aren’t.” Admitting so physically hurts.
Neither of us move. I want to move. We don’t say anything, either. I want you to say something. Standing there in the cold and the silence with my freshly broken-up-with boyfriend is much more appealing than anything else I could ever do with my time.
You and Tori were supposed to play Walter and Nancy. I’m almost sure of it. Sikowitz always had a sick fascination with the two of you. Would pair you up as though you had even an ounce of chemistry together. You don’t, by the way. You’re like siblings. And she has the talent of a tablespoon. She couldn’t have chemistry with anyone.
But, of course, that isn’t what happened. Not even close. Nothing ever happens the way it’s supposed to. Sikowitz had the brilliant idea to have us choose our roles from a box. Parts in a play that goes toward our grade chosen by sheer dumb luck. And I’m stuck playing Tori’s wife and you’re my son.
And you hold my costume as though I’m what anchors you to the ground. Ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the feeling that I’m crumbling the second your hands leave my apron. I shoo you away and shake out a breath and almost forget what I’m doing. And you need to stop that . The being there. I can’t take it. I can’t take it. I can’t take it.
You’re distracting me. I can’t focus because you’re constantly around with your stupid face and your stupid hair… You’re a distraction and it’s costing me. Sikowitz is questioning my talent as an actor because of you. Not because Tori and I can’t pretend to be in love for one performance. We’re perfectly capable. I’m not the issue here. For once in her life, Tori isn’t the issue here. You are.
“You need to go to Nozu tonight,” you tell me, as though it’s any of your business. It’s not. You waited outside the Black Box while Sikowtiz called me untalented. And you told me you aren’t keeping tabs on me. That’s getting harder and harder to believe.
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with you.” I walk past you, but you follow. I used to think it was cute when you did that. Now, it’s just irritating. Everything about you I used to think was cute is irritating. “I don’t want to go, so I’m not going.”
You sigh. So disappointed in me. The sound stiffens my spine and puts my teeth on edge. “Why not?”
I stop hard in the middle of the hallway. You almost walk right into me. We miss one another by inches.
“I don’t see how going to get sushi with Tori is going to make me a better actor.” I turn to face you and am so angry it’s embarrassing. I feel like I’m shaking. “And I don’t see why you care so much.”
You open your mouth then close it again; at an utter loss for words. You don’t speak much, keep yourself to yourself, but I’ve never seen you speechless before. Except maybe in the janitor’s closet the day we broke up. It’s an odd sight. You shake your head and grab me by the wrist when I move to walk away. Your fingers burn my skin. “This feels an awful lot like self-sabotage to me.”
I roll my eyes because god that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Self-sabotage? No. This isn’t what’s happening. What’s happening is that I don’t want to go on a fake date with Tori Vega.
“Still don’t know why you care.”
You shrug, but you know. You’re certain about why you care. “You’re talented and you shouldn’t waste it.”
I scoff. Laugh, even. You’re so off-base it’s laughable. “I’m not wasting my talents, don’t worry. Leave me alone.”
I don’t actually want you to leave me alone, but if you don’t then we’ll have to spend more time with each other and that’s the most deliciously awful thing I could imagine.
You still have the necklace. Carry it around with you like some sort of comfort blanket. Even now. What are you trying to do to me? You can’t just sit next to me and talk to me like we’re friends. Like we don’t have the history we do. Sick and twisted and unnecessary.
I still have mine too, I’ll admit it. But I don’t carry it around in my pocket. Why the hell do you carry it around in your pocket?
“I like it,” you say because you’re the fucking worst. Still know how to get under my skin. You shouldn’t. It’s been months. “It's a cool necklace.”
I want to scream. I want to shout until you can’t bear it anymore. Until I can’t bear it anymore. You are infuriating. And you know it. You’re doing this on purpose. Everything you do is on purpose.
“I know it’s a cool necklace. I fucking made it. Why are you still carrying it around?”
“It’s just a piece of jewellery, Jade.” Don’t say my name like that. The way you did before. We are in after. You need to remember that. I need to remember that. Don’t say my name at all. “I don’t see how it’s a big deal.” You run your hand through your hair. It’s your favourite activity, basically your personality at this point.
I want to explode at you. Tell you how this is a huge deal and you must have an extraordinarily thick skull not to realise that. Until I realise you’re laughing. Amused. Like this is the funniest thing to ever happen to you. I’m not sure why you think arguing with your ex-girlfriend in a department store is funny, but I’ll let you have it. It turns out I can’t read you the way I always thought I could. I’ve never been able to read you the way I thought I could. Then why can you still read me like everything is the same? Normal?
Because I thought we were happy. I had no idea you weren’t happy with our relationship, as you so graciously proclaimed to a bunch of strangers at the taping of a potential web show. You’re really compassionate, announcing it to the world like that. But you weren’t happy, and I had no idea. It would have been nice to know. But we can’t read each other anymore. I can’t read you. Maybe we couldn’t at all.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You don’t change, do you?” You’re so cryptic. It’s exhausting. No one likes it. Stop.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You’ve even got me sounding like Cat. God, I hate you. No, I don’t. How could I ever hate you when you’re you?
“Nothing, nothing. I like it.”
You aren’t allowed to like things about me anymore. Just like how I’m not allowed to like things about you anymore. That’s how this works. I swear you don’t know how to be broken up with someone.
I get now why your parents don’t like me. They thought I was bad news and that I’d hurt you. And, they were right. Of course they were right. I hurt you badly. You hurt me badly too. Not that it’s a competition or anything. It’s just that I’m not the only one to blame here,
I bump into them after the showing of your movie. The Blonde Squad. I guess it turned out pretty well. I still don’t know why I was the dumb one, though. You won’t tell me. I’ve never known you to be rude.
“Jade,” your mom says stiffly when she sees me. She looks between your dad and me as though asking him what the hell to say to me. I get it. What do you say to your son’s ex-girlfriend? Or, better yet, what do you say to your ex-boyfriend’s parents? I want the ground to swallow me whole.
“Mr and Mrs Oliver, hey!” I don’t really like them either, by the way. They were never nice to me. No, I wasn’t nice to them either, but that’s beside the point. I open my mouth to say something further, but then close it again. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to them. Hey, so sorry that I broke up with your son in front of all our friends and then stormed off and pouted for three days. They don’t seem to know what to say either. Yet, neither of us can bring ourselves to walk away.
“You were really good in the film,” your dad says. He always liked me more than your mom did. Not that it was very much.
“Thanks… Thank you.” I scan the room for an escape route and find my mom. I don’t even say goodbye before walking away. It was rude, but I’ve been worse to them.
In a weird way, I kind of miss being around your parents. I miss your mom’s Saturday waffles and your dad’s curries and the disapproving looks they’d give us when we left the comfort of their kitchen for the RV. It used to make me mad, the looks, but looking back it’s funny. They thought we were being sinful when all we were doing was watching Saturday Night Live reruns from the nineties and staying up to three in the morning writing shitty horror scripts for class.
And, I think that I might miss you. Yes, as my boyfriend, but we’re past that. I miss just having you around. I might have jumped the gun when I said we aren’t friends. And we aren’t. Friends, as I said before, is a strong word. But it doesn’t have to be. I’m not opposed to it.
I thought I was over you. But then I had a dream: we went grocery shopping together, and you snuck Oreos into the cart like you always used to. And I was wrong. I’m not over you. I still miss you. And everything hurts a little.
Cat didn’t hang up. Tori didn’t hang up. And you’re in her living room, giving her a pep-talk. Or something. I don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re there. The Platinum Music Awards start in like an hour; you should be on your way here. You promised you’d be here to see me perform, no matter how selfish I’m being. Because we’re friends now. You need to leave to go get ready. I want you here.
Neither of you says anything for a moment, staring at each other in the most indecipherable way. My stomach drops to my toes when I realise what’s going on. You’re going to kiss her. You promised, over and over and over, that you didn’t like her like that. You swore. And what? You just lied to me? Were you just waiting it out until we inevitably imploded to get with her? Or are you just bored? Because you could have died of boredom before you resorted to her.
Tori is the one to stop it. Tori — who is awful, and I have been awful to — stops it. Shakes her head and puts her hand on your shoulder, pushes you away. And you have the nerve to get annoyed. Who raised you?
“Why can’t we kiss?” you ask as if this is your first day on earth. Tori doesn’t have to kiss you if she doesn’t want to. And she shouldn’t want to because she's my friend and you’re my ex-boyfriend. That’s how these things work. You should know that.
“Because of Jade,” she says, and I almost stop breathing. Right now, I have more respect for Tori Vega than I have for you. You have reached a new low.
I sit next to you in the audience because it was supposed to be Tori’s seat — you were supposed to sit together — and it’s the only seat available. I’m still fuming at you, and you can tell. You acknowledge me with a nod and nothing more. Smart. Because if you had tried to speak to me, I might have started yelling, which would have been quite unfortunate. I already gave up the opening spot. If I caused more of a scene, I’d get a lifetime ban.
And then you smile at me. Smile at me the way you smiled at me when we were fourteen and didn’t understand our feelings towards each other and everything was so much simpler, better. And I smile back like a fool. You’ve just hurt me, worse than I thought you capable, yet you’re still able to do that. That can’t be allowed.
I can’t tell if I was telling the truth when I said I wasn’t mad. I had really thought I was mad on the car ride over. Furious, actually. But I don’t think I am. I can see that you and Tori aren’t messing around. That you aren’t, and probably never will, date. And I don’t think I’m even allowed to be mad if that isn’t the case. How long have we been broken up? Eight months, three weeks and two days? That’s long enough that I should be over you and you should be over me and we should be able to move on to other people if that’s what we want. I’m not ready yet, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t. I hope you’re not ready, though. But I’m begging you, if you do move on, don’t let it be with Tori. Please.
“You’re really okay with this?” you ask, hands in your pockets and that look. God. I can’t anymore — wouldn’t — but, if we were still together, that look would make me fall apart. But we aren’t, so it doesn’t.
And the answer is no. I’m not mad, but I’m not close to okay with this.
I nod, not able to stop the smile from pulling at my lips. It’s embarrassing. “Yes, I’m okay.” My heart picks up and my breaths catch in my throat and I need you to break eye contact before—
The nurse interrupts and I remember that we’re in the middle of a vet’s office on a Saturday night and how stupid I probably look. But you never cared about things like that. I doubt you would now.
I may have written a song about you. And I like it. A lot. I think I’m going to sing it at the Full Moon Jam next month. I just wanted to let you know because it would be embarrassing if you didn’t know. You can’t convince me not to. I’m doing it. I just wanted to let you know.
I should tell you this in person. But I won’t, because when it comes to you I’m a coward, apparently. It’s embarrassing and something I need to get over. It’s a work in progress.
I just want you to know that this wasn’t my plan. It kind of just happened. I sweat I didn’t want to do it. Not really. And it wasn’t even that good. If anything, it was an accident. We ran out of gas and were stuck there — stranded, really. And bored. So, so bored.
Sure, it was my idea. I might have initiated it. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. If I’m honest with you (which, let’s be real, is a terrible idea, but here we are) I haven’t been able to think clearly since we broke up. It’s a gross realisation to come to, but we’re being honest with each other, right? I feel like I’ve been walking through fog since I shut Tori’s door. Like I’ve been on autopilot for the last nine — almost ten, now — months. I really hope you’ve felt the same because otherwise that’s mortifying. I may actually die of embarrassment if you’ve been totally fine, and this hasn’t fazed you at all. Let’s be real, though, it’s fazed you plenty. Even if I can’t read you, I know you pretty well. And I know when you’re not holding up. You’ve barely held up for months.
God, what if Moose already told you? That would be bad. Terrible, even. I should have been the one to tell you. I’m trying to be the one to tell you. But it’s really hard. You’re kind of hard to break bad news to. Is this bad news? I can’t tell. I just know that I kind of really fucked up.
If Moose told you first, I’m sorry. It should have been me to tell you. I guess that I’m sorry it happened, too.
I lied. I miss you a lot. More than anything. I think I still love you, too. I thought that kissing Moose would help me get over you. I was wrong. It’s made everything worse. I don’t know if you feel the same way. I really fucking hope you do because I think I’m ready to be your girlfriend again. If that’s all right with you.
Love, always,
Jade.
Jade parked her car two blocks away from Beck’s house. She gave herself two blocks to psych herself out and decide against doing this. Against leaving the letters in the Olivers’ mailbox. She shouldn’t, she knew that. But she had to. Beck had to know.
Her legs carried her to the end of his driveway, and she stopped, right in the middle of the street. Was this a good idea? That thought hadn’t crossed her mind until right now. It probably wasn’t; this could blow up in her face and Beck wouldn’t like her anymore. Or she could have her boyfriend back. And she thought that was worth the risk.
Jade walked to the RV and almost knocked, but decided against it. She didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing. She placed the thick envelope under the faded welcome mat that she’d picked out when they were fifteen and left again. She’d text him to look when she got home.
Beck: i got your letter. and i agree [delivered; 01:23]