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In. Out. I’ll be fine. It’s three hours. Only three hours. I’ll live. Probably.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the sunshade and drag the bullet of nude lipstick across my bottom lip before pressing it to my top lip and picking a flake of mascara from my cheek. I’m late. As always. Well, I’m late now. I was perfectly on time when I arrived twenty minutes ago. But then I watched Tori and Cat go in and I stayed put. Then Andre, then Robbie. I’m still in my car.
Either you haven’t come, or you are already inside. I hope it’s the former. You are never the type to flake out on plans, but maybe this time is the exception. Maybe this time you’re filming late into the night, or you have plans with your parents, or you’ve actually said no to Tori Valentine for once in your life.
I snap the sunshade closed and finally unbuckle my seatbelt. It has creased my dress. Of course, it has. I pluck the keys from the ignition, throw them in my bag, and get out of the car. Twenty-four minutes later than I should have. The door slams behind me, and dry California heat envelops me. Ten seconds without air conditioning and I’m already close to sweating. Ten years in New York does that to a person.
You’re not here. Thank God. It’s not like it’ll be the first time I’ve seen you since we broke up. We were -both at Tori and Cat’s engagement party, and wedding, and Robbie’s twenty-fifth birthday. I don’t remember speaking to you, but we were there.
Actually, I’m certain we didn’t speak. I made sure of it. It had been three, almost four, years, which should have been more than enough time to develop a sense of decency, for things to be civil. But, still, I haven’t uttered a word to you since that last phone call what, six years ago? Seven. Seven years ago. Almost. And, if I play my cards right, I’ll never utter a word to you again.
The table is set for six. Either you were meant to come and pulled out last minute, or you’ve managed to be even later than I am. You’re not in the bathroom, I know that. The only other empty chair, the one facing me because of course it is, is empty. No jacket on the back. No sipped-on glass of complimentary lemon water. Nothing. Just an empty space beside Robbie and in front of me. Thank. God.
“Jade! You’re late!” Tori, even after all these years, is so good at getting on my nerves. At grinding against the grain. Getting under my skin. I roll my eyes at her and sit down in my seat next to Andre, who waves at me and offers ever-so-slightly awkward pleasantries. He isn’t into small talk, and neither am I. But I haven’t seen him since the last time I saw you, and even without the strained relationship, it’s weird. A little off.
“God, I know. I forgot how bad traffic is here.” You used to make fun of me for how quickly I accustomed to New York and its walking and its subways and general polar opposition to Los Angeles. How I’m used to the cold and anything above eighty degrees feels like I’m suffocating and how even being in a car now makes me anxious half the time. “And I borrowed my mom’s car. She still drives stick for some reason.”
There’s a silence after, as though we’re sitting in the fact it’s been two-and-a-half years since we’ve all been together, and we’re not even all together now. And that it’s been ten years since we graduated high school, which is a weight that’s been hanging over my head for months now. Since I got my first Slap email alert in a decade, letting me know that Tori had added me, as well as the other thirty-nine people in our graduating class, to a group chat informing us that it would be our ten-year reunion this year. As if my lower back pain and introduction to motherly roles hadn’t told me already. Or the fact that I turned twenty-eight back in July.
Your absence, while soothing, is obvious. Palpable. I can feel it crawling over me, hovering over my head. It’s stuck between my teeth and sits heavy in my gut and holds me by the shoulders, grip piercing my skin. But I’m glad. I’d rather the discomfort of you not being here than the devastation of your presence.
Menus still sit on placemats and we don’t have silverware and drinks have been limited to the lemon water. No waiter has plagued us for our orders. I’ve been here five minutes. My order of shrimp pasta should already be in the kitchen. Your absence doesn’t exist. Your lateness, however, does.
“Is B—” I stop, take a breath. I should be able to say your name out loud again. I should never have not been able to say it. It’s just a name and I’m a grown fucking woman. I pretend to cough to cover myself, but there’s no way in hell, heaven or earth that any person at the table believes me. I tip my head toward the empty chair. “Is he coming?”
A chorus of cleared throats. I take it as a yes. Someone switch seats with me? I almost ask as though we’re in high school again and I made everyone move around in Sikowitz’s class after every time we broke up. I almost expect someone to offer. But they don’t because we’re adults, and I keep my mouth shut and prepare myself for your arrival. Which is imminent, apparently. I’m going to need a glass of wine, more likely several, to get through the evening.
Conversations pick up again, but I fixate on the chair. Dark wood with beige cushioning. Subtle spiralled floral design. I cross my legs and uncross them, lay my hands flat against the cool leather of the menu and stare at the cover. Giuletta’s. The place down the street from Tori’s parents’ place that we could never get into when we were younger because there was a dress code and asked for ID at the door. Not one of us had one because we were always too busy with each other and school to care about anything else. It’s not as nice as I thought it would be. Not like Maestro’s. I’m pretty sure only Cat, and therefore Tori, would be able to afford dinner there.
You show up forty minutes late. Flustered, windswept, so damn perfect. Your hair is shorter than it was before, scruff lines your chin and canopies your top lip. But you are the same. That easy smile you can pull out of nowhere on full display, at Tori and Cat and the others first. Then at me. Your eyes search for a second, glaze over with realisation about the seating arrangement. But your smile never falters. You sit down and give your profuse apologies. Filming ran over and we know how the traffic on the 10 is at this time. Tori doesn’t yell at you. She never yells at you. Figures.
“Hey,” you say. To me. And only me. Your eyes are straight on me and on nobody else. Nobody else is watching, are having their own conversations again. That I’m not a part of. We’re not part of. Conversations we’ve never been part of. Because we have our own. Or we used to, anyway.
I stare back at you for an unbelievable amount of time. An embarrassing amount of time. “Hi,” I say in return, my voice so thick that I almost choke on it. This is supposed to be okay. Why in God’s name isn’t this okay? It’s been almost seven years. I am over you. Well past over you. “How’ve you been?” Stupid question. I don’t care how you’ve been. Not really. And, from what I’ve seen from your SplashFace – yes, I checked your SplashFace before I got on my flight here. I’m sure you’ve checked mine since we last spoke, too – you’re doing well enough. That soap you were on was cancelled and you were in a couple of Netflix teen movies. You’re probably in the thick of filming the first season of your new show. Pilot season was tough for you this year, but you got picked up. By HBO, too.
“Good.” You nod, your lips pressed together in a pale, almost smile. “I’ve been good.”
“Good.” You don’t ask me so I figure I should let you know anyway. “I’ve been good, too, by the way.” Toeing the line between kind-of friendly banter and passive-aggressiveness like I do best. Like we do best. Did best. God.
Finally, the waiter comes, and we order, and that silence consumes us again. Us being you and me, of course. Everyone else has paired off and are talking about everything they’ve done since we were all last together. And we don’t want to know — well, I don’t want to know. I don’t know what you want, I don’t think I ever have.
And I have my first glass of Merlot. And a second and a third. Maybe even a fourth, I stopped counting. Because counting how much I’ve had to drink isn’t normal. My joints get loose, and my jaw gets sloppy, and everything gets softer around the edges. Like watercolour bleeding into canvas and the sun sinking into the horizon in the rain. You’re different, sharper. More in focus than anyone or anything else in the room. Like it used to be. Not like it should be now. Why is it like this now?
Dinner slogs on and Robbie tells me about his new project twice and Cat gets recognised by a group of teenage girls halfway through our main course. And I’m drunk. Or tipsy. Somewhere in between. Not enough to cause issues or embarrass myself, but sobriety is slipping through my fingers like sand. I can’t get my grip on it. Not that I’m trying very hard. In fact, I’m not trying at all.
Despite you sitting directly in front of me, I think I’ve looked at you maybe six times since you sat down. Instead, I stare at Tori, trying my very hardest not to look at her the way I looked at her in junior year. Though, I’m definitely looking at her the way I did in junior year. And I can feel you burn into my cheek. You haven’t spoken. You’re silent and stoic as always.
We pay the cheque and I’m fumbling for the Uber app. There is no way in hell I can drive back to my mother’s house like this. Or anywhere.
“Do you need a ride?” you ask because somehow, you’re even more polite than you were when we were twenty-one. We’re standing outside the restaurant. Cat and Tori are already on their way home to relieve the babysitter. Andre and Robbie are making plans to meet up next weekend. And we’re just standing here like idiots.
“You’re sober enough to drive?” I say because I am the worst. Part of me wants to agree, the other half is already clawing me away from you. The half I never listen to.
“I have a five o’clock call time. I’m not drinking.” On a Saturday? HBO is working you hard.
My fingers tap the back of my phone. I should say no. I know I should. But when have I ever did what I’m supposed to? “Sure. Thanks.”
Your car is nicer than the beat-up truck you had last time I checked. I should have known. That truck was older than God. I get in the passenger side and you stare at me until I put on my seatbelt. And I’m sixteen again and you’re telling me about the play you’re working on and I have butterflies for the first time in my life. I’m holding your hand and smiling and you’re looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
Except I’m not, and you’re not. We’re not. I’m sitting as close to the door as I can manage, and your jaw is set and facing forward. We are not sixteen anymore. Not even close.
“How long are you in town for?” We’re five miles out from my mom’s house. Have spent the last ten in silence. We could have lasted another twenty minutes. Traffic is rough.
“Just for the weekend. Opening night is two weeks away, I can’t really afford to stay any longer.” Slipping in the fact that I’m doing well isn’t something I like to do. But I feel like I have to, around you. You are doing more than great, and it’s well documented. Only teenagers on Broadway Twitter know who I am. Eurydice in Hadestown is a big deal to exactly fifteen people, but it’s consistent and it’s good and I’m proud, at least.
“Yeah, Cat told me you got a big role, congrats.” You still talk about me with Cat. I mean, I still talk about you with Cat, too. But it’s different. She’s my best friend; you talk about exes with your best friend. You’re just keeping up with me. Do you ask or does she bring me up? I can’t tell which I’d prefer. Which makes me more comfortable. I shouldn’t feel any type of way about that, but I do. And I hate it. I thought I’d washed my hands of you.
Who am I kidding? You’re still under nails and stain my fingers. I could never wash my hands of you. You’re Beck. Once upon a time, my Beck. We didn’t live happily ever after.
“Thanks.” I’m blushing. I can feel it, see it in the wing mirror. Scarlet burns up my neck and along my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose. And it’s you and not the red wine. There is a clear, and distinct difference. My focus is on my reflection in the wing mirror and not on you. I don’t want to focus on you. I want you to blur so severely I won’t even recognise you. We are still on the freeway. Stopped behind an Escalade on the freeway. And I feel like I should congratulate you too. “She told me about your show, too. HBO, huh?” That’s as close to congratulations as you’re ever going to get from me.
You laugh, breathy and low. God, that laugh. I don’t miss it, I promise. It’s just…God. I should have just ordered an Uber.
“Yeah. Not going to lie, I’m really excited about it. It’s only eight episodes, but I think we’re getting a second season.” You should be excited. That is a huge fucking deal.
“Wow.” I can’t manage anything else. I’m proud of you, I am. I just do not fucking know how to tell you that without making things awkward. Would it make things awkward? “That’s… That’s so great!”
You nod, then I nod. Act like we bumped into one another in Whole Foods. We start moving again. We get to my mom’s house in fifteen minutes.
“Er… I get off around noon tomorrow. I can pick you up to get your car on the way home if you want. We could maybe… catch up?” Are you asking me out? No, you’re not. There is no way you are.
“Um, yeah. Thanks. That sounds good.” It sounds awful and irresponsible and like it’s going to end horribly, but when has that stopped us before? It has never stopped us before. Everything we’ve ever done was awful and irresponsible and meant to end horribly.
You drop me off and I wave goodbye and prepare myself for the terrible decisions I will make around noon tomorrow. Will, not might. Somehow, we manage to bring out both the best and worst in each other.
You knock on the door like a true gentleman. My mom answers the door because of course she does. She excuses herself for a moment and bustles into the living room, looking close to scandalised.
“Jade, Beck is here,” she says in an almost-whisper, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Did you know he was coming” – then she gasps, raises her voice a decibel – “you two aren’t…” She trails off with a raised eyebrow, disappointment colouring her voice like this is something she should have an opinion on.
“God, Mom. No, we aren’t. We’re just catching up. It’s not a big deal.” Okay, it might be a big deal. I haven’t decided yet. She says nothing as I grab my bag and leave the house.
“Your mom’s car is already here,” you say when I get into the car. Observant as always.
“Yeah. She and my stepdad went and picked it up this morning.” And yet I’m still in your car. Still sitting here while you pull out of the driveway and start down the road. I don’t ask where we’re going. I should, but I don’t. Don’t want to, don’t need to.
I haven’t been in a car with you since we were nineteen, which is kind of scary to think about. We dated for two whole years without being in a car together. I spent the summers of my sophomore and junior years back in New York working on stage productions. You came to visit for two weeks both years, but no one drives in New York. I visited for Christmas and Thanksgiving, but we hung out in the RV. I drove myself there, and I drove myself home. We were already crumbling but refused to see it. Because I promised you that I wouldn’t leave you, and I went and did just that. And you let me.
I sit close to the door like I did last night. Not because I don’t feel safe around you – I do. It’s just… Things are different, as obvious as that might be. As they should be. Things should be very different from the last time I was in a car with you. Nine years ago. God.
It takes ten minutes for the silence to get to you. You never liked it, hated stewing. That doesn’t seem to have changed. Little about you has, but you are so damn different it kind of hurts. I wish it didn’t.
“You seem chipper after last night,” you say. You mean to ask why I’m not hungover, but politeness cloaks the words. Moulds them into something palatable.
“I don’t do hangovers,” I say. That isn’t something you’d ever know, but I say it as though it’s something you should know. I’m glad you don’t. You don’t need to know everything about me anymore. “And you don’t seem tired. Five AM was over seven hours ago.” You know how long you’ve been awake. Lord knows why I felt the need to remind you.
You shrug. You’re used to this. “I take a lot of naps.” And you’re still you.
I still have no idea where we’re going. You show no signs of telling me, either. We just drive and we drive, and we drive until the highway turns into residential areas and we stop outside a house. It’s moderately sized, small for LA but I’m sure it still costs an arm and a leg in rent. I assume it’s your house. No, it’s definitely your house. It makes perfect sense that you aren’t living in the RV anymore, but I’ve never known you when you haven’t. The RV is so tied to My Beck, to our relationship that it feels almost wrong, but nothing so strong, for you to not live there anymore. Which is ridiculous, I know. I’m just not used to things changing, I guess. We back into the driveway and you take the keys from the ignition.
I don’t move. I stare at you, at a loss for words. A loss for everything. You’ve brought me to your house. Your home. What the hell am I supposed to do? What the ever-loving fuck do you do when your ex-boyfriend brings you to his house? Beck, what the hell are we doing?
“Is everything okay?” you ask as though this is the most normal thing in the world. As though me being here is at all normal.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and nod. “Yeah,” I say, all breath no word.
Interior design has never been your strong suit, but your home is lovely. I tell you so. And I don’t mean it sarcastically. For once in my life, I’m being one hundred per cent genuine. Clean lines and dark wood and white walls. Neat, tasteful.
We walk through to the kitchen and you offer me something to drink, one hand wrapped around the refrigerator door. I shake my head no and watch you grab a bottle of water and walk to the back door. We’re sitting outside, I guess. In the sun, in the heat. Not in the well air-conditioned inside. All right.
Your back garden is large, tidy. Divided into three sections. Patio with matching furniture and a barbeque. A paved area with a basketball hoop. God knows when you started playing basketball. And a vegetable garden. Like you always talked about. You actually did. God.
We were supposed to do this together; we were supposed to do everything together. In our big house with our cat and our fish and our maybe-children who we hadn’t decided upon yet. Back when I would come home to California after college – when I called California home. It feels like a lifetime ago. Seven years is practically a lifetime.
“You did it,” I say. Vague but you know what I’m talking about. You’re surprised I’m surprised. Your brow furrows for a second and you scratch the back of your neck with your right hand. This was your dream, not ours. But those were so interwoven that I could never tell the difference. I didn’t want to tell the difference. Oh, to be seventeen and so in love I couldn’t see straight. “You planted your vegetable garden.”
“Yeah.” You brighten, straighten your back. You’re proud of it. That’s so cute. In a very platonic, I’m-very-much-not-still-in-love-with-you way. “I moved in just over a year ago and my dad helped me out.” I was meant to help you out. Not that I could from the other side of the country. But I was meant to. Was, past tense, keyword. “This is my first place with a yard.”
I’ve never had a yard of my own, and I probably never will. Unless the planter box filled with dying oregano and my fire escape counts a yard. It doesn’t, but it’s all I’ll ever have.
You walk closer, and I follow you. There are neat rows of plants, each helmed by a small sign with a picture of what’s growing behind it. Bell peppers, carrots, tomatoes, strawberries. Each section is small, and it doesn’t look like you get much yield, but you still did it. You accomplished the thing you’ve been talking about since I’ve known you. You planted the vegetable garden.
You crouch down in front of the small bush of strawberries and pick a few, place them in the palm of your other hand. Stand, and then offer me one. I take it; I can hardly refuse. You eat one first, and I follow suit. It’s underripe and a little bitter, but it is a strawberry. I’ll give you that.
“I don’t think they’re quite ready,” you say. Honesty has always been what you’re best at. You’re a great actor, but you can’t lie for shit. Ironic. I nod in agreement, though I’m not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never been polite. “We can go inside… if you want. It’s kind of hot out here.”
By kind of you mean it’s unbearable and we’re at risk of melting into puddles. “Yeah, sure.”
We sit on the overstuffed cloth couch in your living room and do not watch TV. Don’t even turn it on. Silence, silence and more silence. It stretches and twists and holds us tight. Chokes us and pushes us and pressing us together. We’re a metre apart, then a foot and then less. And I stop. You stop. We’re sixteen again and we’re sitting in the back of your truck and you’re telling me you love for the first time. My hair is purple and you’re looking at me so hard I can’t breathe, and I don’t want to be anyone but here. And we’re not sixteen, but the feelings are still there.
I’m not sure who goes first. Who jumps in the deep end head-first and doesn’t care that we’ll both end up drowning. But the other kisses back and I’m on fire. I’m hot and I’m cold and I’m making the worst decision I’ve ever made. You taste of spearmint and unripe strawberries and nostalgia. I pull away, shake my head. Search your face for something telling me we’re being stupid. That going back to this is unproductive and one of us is going to get hurt. Both of us will end up hurt. I wait for you to take this back. You don’t. I don’t understand you at all.
There was a time when you were the only thing to make sense to me. The only thing I understood. Now I can’t even beg to fathom you at all. You’re there, and that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. You exist, and so do I, and so does everyone else on earth. But no longer do you exist just for me, nor I, you. I kiss you again.
I kiss you hard and I kiss you deep. Breathe you in until I’m flooded in you. I’m in your lap and your hands are in my hair and we aren’t sixteen. We’re twenty-eight and we’re pretending we’re not.
Your sheets are white and cold and covered in you. The woodsy cologne and expensive shampoo and you. You’re in the shower and I’m just sitting here staring at my hands. At my pale knuckles and month-old manicure and the freckle at the base of my thumb that you used to kiss when I got upset. Mostly with you for something stupid. Sorry.
I won’t lie to you, I’m thinking of leaving. I’ll order an Uber, really this time, and I’ll go home. I don’t need to be here. I used Tori’s dinner invite as an excuse to spend time with my family and instead I’m sitting in my ex-boyfriend’s bed debating whether or not to leave.
I slip out of bed and get dressed. Comb through my hair with my fingers and hope that my makeup isn’t smeared beyond repair. Order a ride home. Five minutes. Out of your bedroom and then your house.
“Did Tori give you my number?” I’ve changed my number four times since we broke up. You don’t have my number. Or you shouldn’t, anyway.
It’s three hours later. Either you take really long showers or Tori took a lot of convincing to give my number out. I’ll need to yell at her for that. She should know that you shouldn’t go around giving out people’s phone numbers. And I need to yell at you for asking for it.
“You left,” you say. And not in a way that makes me feel good about myself. I’m not quite sure that I’ve hurt your feelings – you wouldn’t allow me to affect you that much after so long – but you aren’t happy with me. Shocker. I wouldn’t be happy if you snuck out while I was in the shower either.
I nod as if you can see me then clear my throat. “Yeah, I did.” You don’t need confirmation. You want an explanation. “Beck, today was a mistake. You know that meeting up was a bad idea.”
A bad idea and the reason for the tension in my jaw and why I can’t look my mother in the eye. I’m not going to explain to you why it’s a bad idea; you know. I know you know. And saying it out loud hurts too much. Just like leaving you here and making that last phone call hurt too much. You’re salt in a wound I won’t leave alone, even after this long. I can’t do this anymore.
“I’m sorry.” You don’t have to apologise, and neither do I. Nothing about this was intentional. We were only meant to catch up. We were never going to just catch up. “I – I didn’t… I just wanted to show you my vegetable garden.”
“I know. I’m sorry too.”
This is where we hang up and never speak again. But we don’t. Of course we don’t. Because we’re self-destructive and obsessed with the past and all too comfortable bathing in the familiarity of each other. Your breaths are heavy, mingling with the slight static of the call. We wait a moment for the other to click off. Neither of us does.
“You still there?” I ask after what feels like an hour but can’t have been more than ninety seconds.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
More charged silence. My heart charges against my ribcage. This has to end.
“Do you want to go get coffee tomorrow afternoon? I get off around noon.”
“Yeah. Pick me up. I’m staying at my mom’s house.” I hang up first.
Fuck.
JetBrew is just as I remember. It reeks of burned coffee and too-sweet baked goods and second-hand smoke. The coffee is bad. Awful, really. But it tastes of early morning music classes and doing homework in the passenger seat of your truck on the way to school and late nights learning lines for Sikowtiz’s ridiculous one-act plays.
You’ve got a cappuccino with way too much sugar and a blueberry muffin. I’ve got my black coffee and an almond croissant.
“My flight is at five.” I can’t have you thinking I’ll be sticking around here. Because I won’t be. In eleven hours, I’ll be on the other side of the country. The way it should be.
“Okay. I’m guessing you have a ride.”
I nod. Yes, of course I have a ride. Stop offering to bring me places. I’ll only say yes and do something we’ll both regret. Again.
“Listen,” you say, fiddling with the muffin wrapper. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. That’s not why I invited you over.”
“It’s fine, really. That’s not why I came over, either.” It’s not why I went with you, but it wasn’t like I was opposed to it. It was very much a mutual decision. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Even though you are and will continue to. God knows I am.
You nod and take a long drink of your coffee. I still haven’t touched mine past the initial sip. I can’t bring myself to drink it.
I don’t know what else to say. I’m not sure there is anything else to say. We weren’t supposed to sit opposite one another on Friday, and we weren’t supposed to meet up and sleep together yesterday, and we weren’t supposed to get coffee today. None of this was meant to happen, and it was stupid of us to even consider any of it. We were meant to be, but not forever. And that’s okay. I’m trying really hard for that to be okay. We had a good run, but it’s in the past. Years ago. This isn’t healthy anymore.
“Uh… I should get going. I need to pack, and I told my mom I’d run some errands with her before I leave.” None of this is true but I can’t take this anymore. “Sorry.” That isn’t true, either. I’m not sorry at all, even though I want to be. I want to be sorry so badly.
“Yeah, that’s okay. I– I’ll give you a ride home.”
“No. My mom’s on her way already.” Even more lies. I hate this. But it is necessary. We can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.
I get up and I leave, and my head is spinning, behind my eyes burning. And exhale for what feels like the first time since I laid eyes on you fifteen years ago.