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Jo is sixteen when she meets her best friend for the first time. It’s at a new year’s party that she hadn’t particularly wanted to go to, and she’s doing what she always does at parties that she doesn’t particularly want to go to. Namely hiding in a corner and avoiding talking to anyone. But then she quite literally bumps into the boy who’ll end up becoming her best friend, and suddenly everything is okay.
He’s easy to talk to and feels like a kindred spirit. He doesn’t judge her eccentricities, for one thing, and he’s open and honest in a way that Jo thinks most people could probably benefit from imitating. A conversation, a dance, and a carriage home is all she needs to conclude that their souls are connected somehow. For all the differences in their lives, they’re both young and out of place in this world. Laurie, or Teddy as she quickly takes to calling him, is apparently as dissatisfied with his place as a man born into elegant society as Jo is with her place as a woman bluntly expected to break into it. Together they can escape that. Together they can be unconfined, undefined, more.
It’s refreshing to finally have someone in her life who can sympathise with the way she feels. She’s used to being an outsider. Her sisters and parents often joke about her rebellious ways, her lack of concern for society’s expectations, and her behaviour that many people would consider outrageous. But she doesn’t think they understand how deep it runs. They look at her rejection of all things feminine and the disdain she shows for the idea of marrying and they see a disaffected child, who refuses to grow up and enjoys shouting her defiance to the world as loud as she can. They don’t see the way that no piece of her fits with anyone’s ideas of what being a woman is. They certainly don’t see the way she doesn’t belong in the adult world, always trailing slightly behind her peers. Things like marriage and the roles society expects her to take on have just never clicked for her, and the allegedly universal experience of first romantic feelings has apparently passed by without paying her a visit. For a long time she had either assumed or just been told by everyone around her - in practice it worked out the same - that she was simply too young. But then Amy had turned twelve and immediately became boy-crazy in a way that still feels entirely alien to her, and she had been forced to finally confront the fact that maybe this is just her. It’s not just that she doesn’t want to fall in love and get married the way Meg and Amy want to, she lacks the capacity in the first place. She’s not refusing to grow up, merely incapable of doing so.
There is a hollowness inside her that she dresses up as rebellion, and nothing she can do can change that.
But at least she has her best friend. This world might not understand them, but at least they understand each other. At least, she thinks in all her ridiculous naive sixteen-year-old glory, they’ll always have this.
_____________
Jo is seventeen when she figures out how her best friend actually feels about her. At least, that’s what she’ll tell herself later. Deep down, she thinks she’s known, or at least suspected, for far longer. Since the day on the beach (“I’d like to see anyone try it.” “I would like to see someone try it as well”). Since the day she gave him that ring that he’s almost never taken off since (“Pretty things should be enjoyed”). Sometimes she thinks she’s known since the day they first met.
But she’s seventeen when the truth becomes unavoidable. It’s one of their quiet days, the ones when the weather is too miserable to go adventuring outside so instead they both curl up in the comfy armchairs in the library of the Laurence house and share books with each other.
They’re only half focused on the books though; their concentration is instead split between the entertainingly ridiculous adventure stories and Jo regaling Laurie with tales of her sisters’ latest escapades. It’s not just for amusement - Jo knows full well how lonely Laurie can get in the big house with no siblings of his own, and it always cheers him to hear about the latest mischief Amy has gotten into or the latest animal Beth has determinedly tried to adopt or even the latest gossip Meg has picked up from her friends. He’s especially glad today to hear about what Beth’s been up to. They’re all glad to know that Beth is okay these days.
“It’s good to hear she’s doing well,” he explains. Then, as if concerned about seeming like he’s nagging, adds, “I know obviously if anything was wrong you’d tell me, but you know. Grandpa worries.”
“It’s okay to worry about her, Teddy. We all do.”
He relaxes immediately. “Thanks, I just don’t want to seem like I’m prying. I know it might seem strange, because she’s not my sister, but I do still get concerned for her sometimes.”
“Not strange at all. It’s only natural: Beth is everyone’s favourite,” says Jo, matter-of-factly. It’s not even meant in a self-deprecating way - if she’s being honest Beth has always been her favourite too, though she’d obviously never say that to her other sisters. She holds no resentment towards the praise and appreciation Beth gets for her kind nature, she considers it well-deserved.
Teddy is apparently just too gallant to accept anything even resembling self-deprecation from her, and immediately cuts in with “She’s most people’s favourite. Much as I love her, I do actually like one of her sisters more.”
“And who, pray tell, gets that honour?” Jo asks as she reads. He really is a sweet boy.
“You, of course,” he replies all serious, and she chuckles as she turns a page, “And I don’t just like you most out of your sisters. You’re my favourite person I know.”
She can’t keep herself from grinning and looks up from the book to tell him she feels much the same about him.
Then she sees the way he’s looking at her, the softness in his eyes and the wild hope written across his whole face, and all her knowledge and education and writerly experience fail her all at once, and all the words are gone.
She can’t.
She can’t do this.
She can’t process any of this. Not here. Not in his house.
He’s still looking at her, and she’s keenly aware that she needs to respond but she doesn’t know how because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Teddy, of all people, should understand that. He should understand her.
A voice in the back of her brain - she thinks it’s the part of her that understands her own particular brand of hollowness best - is screaming at her to play dumb. To not let him know that she’s realised. She’s not even sure yet what it’ll mean if he works it out, but she knows it can’t be good.
She’s an actor, isn’t she? Time to start acting.
It’s like a switch flips and she’s immediately back to her old self like nothing’s wrong. “Why thank you, Teddy,” she beams at him with perhaps a little too much feigned casualness, “You’re my favourite person too. Who else would I steal all those waistcoats and ties from, after all?”
She pretends she doesn’t see the flash of disappointment across his face. For the first time, she starts to hate the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, one of the very things that had once drawn them together.
Still, he recovers fairly painlessly and the rest of the day is spent in easy innocent conversation, as if nothing has changed at all. When she goes home however she sits up in the attic all evening. She tells her family that genius is burning once again and she needs to be alone to write. In reality she just sits on the sofa, hunched over a stack of blank pages, poking and prodding at her own feelings.
She tries to imagine what it would be like if they were to marry, in a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, there’ll be some part of the whole wretched idea that she doesn’t despise. She has to admit, the idea of spending the rest of her life with a guarantee of her most beloved partner in crime by her side has its appeal, especially with Meg and John Brooke engaged and the permanence of her family being called more and more into question every day. Yes, she thinks, all wild desperation, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all.
But then she considers everything else that marriage entails and her optimism vanishes as soon as it appears. As much as she loves Teddy, the thought of that kind of relationship with anyone is about as unappealing as it gets. The concept of kissing her best friend makes her feel uncomfortable at worst and nothing at all at best, which she’s pretty sure isn’t how people are meant to feel about kissing the person they love. And when she tries to imagine anything more between them, her body seizes up in panic, instinctively curling in on herself as if recoiling from an imaginary attacker. Which is what she’s always done the few occasions she’s made herself think about such things in relation to herself, she knows that, it’s been the case ever since Marmee had sat her down when she was several years younger to explain some things about growing up and after listening with mounting discomfort she’d loudly announced that the whole thing sounded horrifying and unpleasant and she didn’t understand why anyone would want to have anything to do with it, and then Meg (who’d decided that as the oldest she should also be present for this conversation, and for god-knows-what reason Marmee had decided to let her) had condescendingly ruffled her hair and said she’d understand when she was older which wasn’t fair because Meg was only a year older than her anyway Meg just didn’t understand, no one ever understood -
But this is is somehow worse because it’s Teddy, her best friend her confidante the one person in the world who’s supposed to understand; she’s not thinking about the hypothetical husband she knows she’s expected to find someday she’s thinking about him and he’s real and that makes it so much worse -
And she doesn’t know why because doesn’t she love him? Isn’t he one of her favourite people in the world? Doesn’t she care for him and want what’s best for him? And if what he wants is her then she should be able to give it to him because it’s Teddy and he’s so so easy to love and even though she’s hollow all the way through she should be able to make an exception for him. But she can’t she can’t do it she’s doing it wrong she’s not trying hard enough she’s not trying hard enough to want him to love him the way he loves her -
She only comes down from the attic when it’s no longer obvious she’s been crying.
For about a week after that she doesn’t speak to Teddy at all. It’ll be years before he gets an explanation as to why.
She doesn’t know how much longer she can play dumb.
_____________
She’s eighteen when playing dumb becomes second nature. It doesn’t happen automatically, of course, it’s a skill imperfectly learned over the year after she discovers her friend’s true feelings. For someone as typically forthright as Jo, it doesn’t exactly come naturally. There’s more than one horrifically awkward conversation where she almost gives the game away, but she’s always just about able to save herself.
It’s not like he doesn’t give her plenty of practice, anyway. That same look in his eyes she saw in the library comes back again and again, and the worst part is she’s not sure if this is a new thing, or if this has been happening the whole time and she was just too oblivious to notice.
With time, a pattern starts to emerge. A cruelly comfortable routine. She’ll see the look in his eyes that’s a bit too raw, or hear the quality in his voice that’s a bit too honest. Guilt will twist inside her once again. She’ll push it to one side, and the affect will go up. Honing said affect is also something that happens with time. All it really involves is making some silly joke or proposing some new youthful adventure; he’ll always quickly perk up and forget about his own heartache. She laughs a little bit harder than normal, acts a little bit more childish and innocent than she actually is (not hard to make convincing when she knows it’s how people see her anyway), and he falls for it every time. She’s had tougher acting parts in the plays she and her sisters put on at home, honestly.
Look. Voice. Guilt. Play dumb. It’s simple really.
On a good day, she’ll actually let herself feel optimistic about the whole thing. Teddy has to get over his feelings for her at some point, after all. There’s plenty more girls out there, and sooner or later he’ll come to his senses and realise that one of them would make a far better wife than she would. He’ll be happy with her, and Jo will be able to breathe easy again.
She’s more than capable of being optimistic about it. She just has to ignore the fact that Teddy shows no sign of interest in any girls other than her. Just has to ignore the fact that overlooking the sorrow in his eyes gets harder and harder every time.
She doesn’t know how much longer she can play dumb.
_____________
She’s nineteen when Meg gets married, and she’s happy for her, of course she is. She’s admittedly never been Mr Brooke’s biggest fan, but it’s obvious to anyone how much the two of them adore each other, how happy Meg is to have this. So she’s happy for her sister, getting to begin the life she’s always wanted. But some selfish, scared part of her still blanches at the thought of losing Meg, of the family breaking up for good. And for all Meg reassures her, that small, selfish part of her still knows that’s what this is. The family breaking up for good.
She tries to explain that to Meg before the wedding, tries to make her see. But for all the love between the two of them, they’re different in a way that blinds them to each other. Well, not entirely. Meg reassures her that she’s not leaving, which briefly makes happiness burst bright in Jo’s chest, but it’s immediately extinguished when Meg offers her second reassurance. That some day soon it’ll be Jo’s “turn”. She puts up a half-hearted argument, but she’s so tired. A thousand lectures from Aunt March and well-meaning comments from her sisters and looks from Laurie weighing down on her. She’s only nineteen and she’s so damned tired.
Teddy is also there at the wedding, which provides her with at least some comfort. No matter how much her life is rapidly changing in a way which feels akin to spinning out of control, with Meg marrying and starting a new life and Amy leaving for Europe now, apparently, at least he’s still a constant. Everything about him is the same as it’s always been. Same easy conversation, same infectious laughter, same good-natured smile, same way of looking at her that leaves the taste of guilt thick in her mouth.
She doesn’t know how much longer she can play dumb.
_____________
She’s twenty when it all crumbles before her eyes. A day seemingly much like any other. She’s walking in the woods with Teddy, grumbling about her frustrations with being stuck at home while her sisters head out to find their place in the world. A common enough interaction between the two of them.
Then Teddy says “You don’t have to stay here, Jo,” in a tone of voice that clearly implies something more, something weightier, is on the horizon. The part of herself that she’s so carefully trained into appeasement and feigned obliviousness takes over. It’s become like instinct.
She does what she always does and plays dumb; she forces a chuckle and makes some crack about running off together to join a pirate ship. He’ll smile at that, she thinks, he’ll smile and laugh and go along with the ridiculous notion, and he’ll forget whatever he was planning to say and they can have one more easy innocent conversation. They can put off adulthood and its complications a moment longer.
And then, for the first time in nearly half a decade of friendship, he doesn’t take the bait.
She turns around to see him shaking his head sorrowfully, that same look in his eyes that she can’t feel but understands immediately.
When she thinks back to this moment in the years to come, she’ll remember panic hitting her like a freight train. But she’ll forget that the very first thing she feels, in the short inhale before he starts to speak, is a white-hot stab of embarrassment. She’s made herself look like an idiot. Of course Teddy, standing there with pain in his eyes and years of unrequited feelings bleeding out of him, doesn’t want to hear her empty words about pirates. He must think she’s being so damned obtuse.
The facade drops immediately. Sparing his feelings be damned, she’s a year more tired than she was at Meg’s wedding and she’s done pretending she doesn’t understand exactly what’s been going on with him.
The rest of the conversation is a blur. Any barriers either of them have collapse and all their feelings pour out into one long stream of I love you and No and I can’t and I’m sorry. She can’t look him in the eye without wanting to cry and she hates herself for that because she knows that by any measure this isn’t her tragedy. It’s his, and she’s just the one who’s letting him down.
So she avoids looking him in the eye as much as possible because it’s the only way to ensure she doesn’t break down completely and instead she tries her very best to explain herself. Surely he deserves that, at least. Some part of her knows it’s pointless, that nothing she can say can ever make up for how much she’s failed him, but she owes it to him to try. To try to make him see how much she really, truly wishes things could be different. How much she wishes she could be the person he wants her to be, and how impossible that is.
It doesn’t work. He doesn’t see. More than that, he tells her to her face that she’s wrong, that she will marry someday and he’ll have to watch. And for a brief moment it doesn’t matter that he’s suffering and she doesn’t have the right, she’s so so angry with him, because after everything she’s done and said and hidden and tried to do for his sake she thinks she at least still deserves his trust, if nothing else. A thousand responses rise up in her - she wants nothing more than to do exactly what she’s been trying so hard not to do when she’s angry. She wants to be mean and petty and say the most awful biting things. But she sees that horrible mournful look in his eyes for what will be the last time for the next three years, and she can’t bring herself to do it. She bites it all back and buries the resentment down deep, letting it fester because it doesn’t deserve an outlet.
And then he’s gone. And it’s her fault. And nothing will ever be okay again.
_____________
And yet, buried under all the shock and hurt and upset and anger and confusion and guilt, guilt buried so deep in the core of who she is she doesn’t think she’d be herself without it anymore, she feels a strange sense of calm. A sense of peace. This is the way it was always going to end, she thinks as he walks away, this is the way that childhood dies.
If nothing else, at least she doesn’t have to play dumb anymore.