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This is where it started. Under the bleachers, you approached her while her head was buried in a book. You don’t remember which book it was, but that detail doesn’t matter. Like it was nothing, she told you off. Her words cut deep.
Take a glass half full and drown in it then.
Yet, there she was, standing with you on stage after she was the first person to endorse you. Stood and flashed her ass to the entire eleventh grade, with you.
Stole Gil’s car. Made you buttons—and kissed every one of them. Snuck out of detention. Tried her best to make sure that people didn’t hate you.
For you. Everything she did. Does . That can’t just go ignored. And it doesn’t.
She didn’t let you drown, no matter how full the glass was and how much it overflowed.
You thought that this was normal friendship stuff. This was how friendships worked. You’ve never had any friends, not in the first fifteen years of your life. Not really, not like this. And just like that, that wasn’t how it was anymore. So suddenly, Olivia Valdovinos held your hand and didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.
At the Frosty Palace, your hand brushed hers on the seat of the booth, under the table. You were sitting beside her, and Nancy, who was off the clock but still in her uniform, was on the other side of you. Then Cynthia was next to Nancy, and Hazel on the other side of Olivia. Chatter of winter break plans floated through the somewhat empty Frosty Palace. Slow day.
“I’ll have to come here as much as I can,” Olivia said. “To see all of you, but most of break, I’ll be with my family. Now that Richie is back—” She shook her head, her curls slightly bouncing. “I can’t stay away from you for too long. I might go insane.”
Everyone laughed, even you—a light giggle that leaped from your tongue.
“What about you, Jane? Not seeing us every day, how will you survive?” she teased, and nudged your shoulder with her own. “Won’t you miss me?” On the light blue leather of the booth, pinkies touched, then linked. As if it was normal. Right.
Feeling your cheeks heat up, you bowed your head and stared at your hands. How your pinkies fitted so well together. You imagined what it would be like if it was her whole hand. Her whole hand captured by yours, embraced by yours. But you already knew what that felt like—she held your hand at the fall carnival. That was different… somehow.
“Of course I’ll miss my Pinks. I love you guys, but break is only a week, and we can still hang out.”
“I would like that,” Hazel chimed in. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had a sleepover, all together.”
Sleepover. You lifted your gaze, and Olivia was the first in your view. With no effort at all, her just existing, being, sweeping locks of her hair over her shoulder, your breath hitched like it was stuck in your throat and couldn’t properly be expelled. Her hair had gotten a little longer since the fall, before Thanksgiving. What you would give to run your hand through it…
This didn’t make any sense. She was your best friend, just your best friend. Nothing else beyond that. And friends… they didn’t think of each other like that, in that way. When she smiled, it warmed you from the inside out. This warmth sat in your stomach, crawled through every vein in your body. Blood boiled to a simmer that rose to your cheeks—flush.
When she looked at you, touched your shoulder and her thumb brushed along the material of your dress. Every time she was at your side during the days that were sour. You’re enough.
You’re Jane.
Her little chuckle when those words came out of her mouth.
How you wished then that she tucked your hair behind your ear. Just a little. Only a little.
Olivia squeezed your pinkie, and you were brought back to Nancy’s hand waving in front of your face.
“Hello, Earth to Jane,” Nancy said, retracting her hand. “Did you hear anything I said?”
“I—” You glanced around the table, at each of the Pink Ladies. Hazel and Olivia’s genuine concern, Nancy’s very clear annoyance that she might have to repeat everything. You couldn’t read Cynthia, her head tilted to the side. But her eyes seemed focused, studying you almost, for a moment before she blinked it away. “No.”
“Where was that head of yours, huh?” It was no longer just pinkies, but full hands clasped together. Olivia moved them to her lap, and keeping your composure after spacing out became harder to do. “You’re always running, Janey. Slow down for a second.”
Janey.
Nancy groaned and crossed her arms over the table. “Sleepover. My house instead of yours.”
“O-okay? Are you asking or…?”
“Yes, I’m asking!”
“You know you didn’t have to ask. I’ve always wondered why none of you ever offered to do a Pink Ladies sleepover not…” You paused, feeling Olivia’s fingers spread yours apart so hers could fit in between. You opened your mouth to at least try to say something. Nothing came out. You couldn’t finish what you were saying because Olivia caught your tongue or zippered your lips shut.
Hazel adjusted her glasses. “Not… what?”
You cleared your throat. “I… um…”
Sweat built up in the cracks of your palms, even the one Olivia was holding. That meant that she would feel it. That meant that she would know you were nervous—because your hands were always sweaty when you were nervous or flustered. That meant that Olivia would ask you if something was wrong. That meant that Olivia would be more concerned than she already was. Maybe ask more questions than you could handle.
Your grip on Olivia’s hand tightened, uncomfortably tightened, and you started feeling the pressure of the Pinks’ eyes on you. Waiting. Waiting for anything to leave your mouth. One word. The slightest noise. A single breath.
Olivia’s other hand found yours, now enveloped, like a hug. And for a moment, you eased, finally exhaled. “Jane? Are you—?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine. I just need to, um…” You gestured to Nancy and Cynthia to leave the booth. Once they did, a bit confused as to why they had to, your hand slipped out of Olivia’s, and you slid out of the booth like it was fire under you. You needed to get out. You needed to be alone. Breathe. Fucking breathe.
You rushed to the bathroom. Turned on the faucet of one of the sinks and let the water run. Your hands rested at either side of the sink, grasping at the white. If nails could dig into porcelain, make a dent, yours would.
What the hell was wrong with you? Your eyes met the matching ones in the mirror. Your face was all red, eyes close to watering. You sniffled. “Fuck.”
“Jane?” It was Cynthia.
You jumped and twisted the knobs of the faucet to stop the cold water from flowing. You dried your eyes.
You didn’t even hear the door open.
“I’m okay,” you reassured her. “I just—”
She leaned back against the bathroom door. “You like Olivia, don’t you?”
You did. Do. When those words crept to your ears, reality set in. Truth set in. It was out there. Cynthia knew—just by how you looked at her. There was no more escaping it. There was no more not knowing what this was. What your feelings were. What they meant.
After your talk with Cynthia, you went back to the booth, sat next to Olivia like you weren’t just telling Cynthia how your whole heart would swell at the sight of her barely minutes ago. She leaned close to you to whisper into your ear: “Are you okay?”
You nodded.
You wish you don’t have to hide from her.
Almost midnight, and you are lying in your bed, tucked in, lights off. All you can think about is her. Your mind simply won’t shut itself off even though it needs to because the tiredness in your body is reaching your eyes, and they are starting to ache. You try to rub them awake with your knuckles, but it doesn’t soothe the sleep that’s bound to catch them.
Rain pounds against the roof, and although this usually lulls you to sleep, tonight, it’s ineffective, as you toss and turn. Pull the comfort close, then shove it away, then pull it close again. Scream into your pillow. Cry. So much crying. Out of frustration. Pain—internal pain. Pain that makes it seem like your chest is tight or your stomach is upset, but it’s just the result of every single thought passing through your brain that you’re struggling to piece together because of how fast they’re going.
On your stomach, you bury your face in your pillow, hugging it—the same position you sleep in when you have cramps. The pressure to your stomach makes it better, relieves the spasms that plague you. You wonder if the pressure of your forehead pushed in the pillow would do the same—flip that thinking switch, turn it off. Like Olivia said: slow down.
You laugh. Slow down? Jane Facciano, slow down? That’s too much like a fantasy.
Jane Facciano doesn’t slow down. Not in her head. Not in her body.
Unfortunately.
Not when Olivia is stuck in the webs. Not when you can’t stop thinking about kissing—
Shut up. Just shut up.
Shut up.
As if your brain is listening, it goes quiet, except for the tapping of glass. Tapping that isn’t inside your brain at all, but outside of it. At your window.
Slow, you fold the comforter over, put on your glasses, and approach the window. Lights still off, darkness encasing your bedroom. No shadows linger on the carpet floor or the pink walls, until you pull open the curtain, and bits of the street lights shine through. On the other side of the window is Olivia, soaked—her hair, her clothes, her skin, her face.
“God, Olivia.” You wave your hand down, signaling for her to duck, before pushing the window open. You help her climb in, then close the window so rain doesn’t get in and dampen the cushion of the window seat.
When you turn, she's standing in front of you, a victim of the downpour. But still, beautiful. So damn beautiful.
In her wet clothes, she shivers, and seeing her chin and lips quiver, you guide her to your bathroom without a word. Shut the door. Lights on.
You grab a towel from the closet and wrap it around her shoulders. She tugs the towel at the corners, seeking more of it so her elbows are under it too. With your hands on her arms, you check over her—her face, her body—to make sure that she’s okay. Physically anyway. And besides being soaked from head to toe, she seems like she is.
“I’m going to get you dry clothes, okay? Wait here.” You turn to leave the bathroom, but her fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you. You go back to where you once were, your hands on her arms. You stroke them. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice a low hum in the quiet of the bathroom.
Olivia, oddly, avoids your eyes, staring down at the cream tile floor. You’ve never seen her like this. So frail and broken. A cat shoved into a corner with no possible way to flee. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers.
“Liv, I…” You pause, a long beat as you gather your words. “I’m here. You’re not alone, I promise. You need to get out of these wet clothes before you get sick. I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be gone…” You wipe away drops of water trailing down her cheeks from the rain, water dripping from her hair. “...only for a second. Well, um, not literally a second.”
She laughs, then nods, giving you permission to go now.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back,” you say.
But you don’t go. You lose yourself in her. The softness and vulnerability of the moment. The way her eyes finally meet yours. How her eyes are less brown under these lights. More blue. Or is it green? A combination of the two maybe. Either way, they’re—
They truly are something special. Just like she is.
You know that if you were to place your hand over your heart, it would be pounding, fast. If you leave, fetch her new clothes like you said you will, it might even out. Not be as fast as you imagine it is. Thumping, like when Fran used to jump from one stair to the next a few years ago instead of walking up them. If she touches you, your wrist, any spot that radiates a pulse, will she feel it, too?
“I’ll be back,” you repeat with a heavy breath, and this time, you do go, the door left open behind you so she can see you.
She can see you turn on one of your lamps, the one closest to your bed. She can see you at your dresser, browsing through each drawer. She can see you venturing into your closet, hear you humming to yourself. She can see you as you settle on pajama shorts and a long-sleeve button-up. Baby blue, no pattern. You give them to her, and she can’t see you anymore.
No, I… What makes you think that I do? She’s my best friend. I can’t—
You surrendered. Is it that obvious?
Yes, but even if it wasn't, it just makes sense.
What Cynthia said holds weight within your body.
You’re practically attached at the hip. Wherever we are, you’re always next to each other.
When Olivia quit the Pink Ladies, it was like you were going through a divorce.
I know you’ve been having Pink Ladies sleepovers without us. Is it even a Pink Ladies sleepover if it’s only you and Olivia?
For the first time, you released every bit of your feelings for her. Said the scary parts out loud.
You wanted to be close to her. Always.
You couldn’t stand being away from her, and you truly thought that winter break was going to kill you if you couldn’t see her at least once during that week.
You liked when she held your hand. You liked when it was just you and her, alone.
Her abandoning her Pink Ladies jacket at your house felt like a break-up. The worst break-up that hit you hard, harder than you expected it to.
That night, you wore her jacket to bed. Sobbed into your pillow. All because you thought you lost the most amazing person you had ever met.
Your mom came into your room, hearing your sobs from down the hall, and she didn’t understand. She tried her best to comfort you, but it couldn’t stop the crack from forming in your chest where your heart resided.
And when Olivia chose you, chose the Pink Ladies instead of getting married, you never felt more relieved. You wanted to cry right then and there, but kept it together, for her. That was what she needed.
That is what she needs after walking through the rain, climbing up the wall garden and to your bedroom. You’ll do that, mute your aching just for a moment. Whatever she needs.
I like Olivia. Maybe I even… love… her.
You sit on your bed, your legs crossed like a soft pretzel, and you brush Olivia’s hair. Untangle it of the knots that came because of the rain. You’re gentle with her, slowly moving the brush from the top of her head to the tips that end below her shoulders.
“Do you want to talk?”
Olivia lowers her head, and you adjust to her movements, her posture. “Richie wants to ask you to… to… go with him.”
You stop.
“We had a fight. It woke my little cousins. He’s never—” She sniffles and brings her knees to her chest. “He’s never yelled at me like that before. We don’t… yell at each other. He was so angry, Janey.”
You’re not sure you comprehend it. How an argument started from Richie wanting to try again with you. If anything, you’re flattered that he does. But… Richie is history. You have your eyes on someone else now, someone you can’t have. You have to pay the price for it.
Falling for a girl. Falling for your best friend.
You shake your head and continue brushing her hair. It’s not dripping anymore—just damp.
“I said something that I shouldn’t have. It was stupid, and I wasn’t thinking. If I kept my mouth shut—” Olivia hiccups. “Girls aren’t allowed to have what they want. They have to take what they’re given and accept it. I didn’t… couldn’t accept it because what I want is too strong.”
You finish up the last strands of her hair and set your brush down. All nice and smooth, like it should be. You know it’ll be soft once it dries, even if she doesn’t tend to it, pin it up, style it. “Your voice is just as important as his, if not more important.” You comb your fingers through her hair. “It’s important to me. You’re…”
You’re important to me.
Olivia looks over her shoulder at you, tears brimming her eyes. “I wish everyone was like you, Jane. I think life would be better if they were.”
Your hand finds her back and lingers for a moment, before rubbing it up and down, hoping to calm her pending tears, the sadness that rules over her. “I think life would be better if everyone was like you.”
“What? No, Jane, you don’t have to say that to—”
“I’m not. I mean it.”
She sharply turns and hugs you, her arms around your neck. Despite the change in position, your hands still rest on her back. And your stomach, well, your stomach feels fuzzy.
And you, you feel alive.
As she buries her nose in your hair.
How her fingers play with the baby curls on your neck.
How this feels so… right, and it’s a hug. Just a hug. You’ve hugged her plenty of times before. But this hug, here, carries every single ounce of love that feels like home.
“It upsets me when people don’t see it, don’t see you outside of… of your body and your looks. You have a beautiful brain inside that head of yours, Liv. And a beautiful heart. One of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen. If people don’t see that, see who you truly are, it’s their loss,” you say. “I see you. I always have.” You pull away, only a little, enough to see her face and the tears present on her cheeks. “Olivia, you’re allowed to want things, even if the world says you can’t have them.”
You already know. There are so many things you would beg to have, but the world isn’t kind. The world can give you a home one day and betray you the next. The world can give you love one day and rip it out of your arms the next. The pain it drops on you is too much to bear. The feelings you have for Olivia, the tugging it does of your limbs, is too much.
It’s all too much, and there’s nothing you can do to escape it. Even when the world says it’s not right. Even when the world says it’s bad. Even when the world won’t let you love her because loving her causes the tide to travel in the wrong direction.
But the wrong direction is the right direction. For you, this is what’s right. You and Olivia. This want to be with her, more than a friend would. And if you come crashing, you’ll crash together.
If she wants this, too. If she wants…
What if she doesn’t? What if all of this is just you?
Yet, you wipe her tears away with your thumbs as if it’s not. As if it is the both of you. She is in this, too. When she relaxes into your touch, you start to wonder… unless she’s yearning for comfort, any kind of comfort, and she’s not seeing your actions as something romantic.
Until her hand connects with yours, keeping you there on her cheek. “I’m so glad you asked me to be your campaign manager.” Your eyes drift down to her lips as she speaks. “And that I chose you.”
“I am, too.”
You don’t mean to do it again. You don’t mean to lean in. You catch your body acting before your mind can approve. You don’t try to stop yourself, because she reciprocates. She looks at your lips, too. She leans in, too.
Is that why she and Richie fought? Because of you? Did her hand on yours, her soft breaths on your skin, her stolen glances of your lips force her to brave the rain? All the times she held your hand, asked to come over and stay the night, called you during weekends to say hi or that she misses you…
You exhale and nuzzle your nose against hers. “Can I kiss you? Is that okay?” you whisper.
Olivia nods, and the feeling you’ve only dreamed of, the feeling you thought you would never get to feel cascades through you, a sudden wave of warmth. A kiss. Her kiss. Her lips on yours. And everything you wanted, everything you thought you couldn’t have, falls into place.