Work Text:
Graduation rolls around.
Nicole doesn’t attend the actual ceremony. Nobody’s there to watch her walk on stage, so what’s the point? Most people would holler instead of clap, anyway.
She’d much rather take down shots of straight liquor with Emily (preferably Jecka, but obviously, the goody two shoes wasn’t gonna skip out on her graduation) by her side, equally as shitfaced. One last fuck you to that hell hole of a school. Then before Nicole knows it, summer’s over faster than it started, and nobody really wants to drink and smoke and pop xans and do stupid shit with her anymore.
It feels like everyone’s got their shit together now. Or maybe they’re just pretending to. Most of the kids she knows are eighteen, freshly graduated, grappling with a foreign sense of responsibility and figuring out what exactly they’re going to do with the rest of their lives. A lot of them already know. College and jobs and life on their own and life in general looms over them, and they’ve gotta prepare.
Nicole’s not really been doing a lot of preparing.
Really, she’s on the verge of becoming one of those corny, washed up losers that calls someone they haven’t spoken to in months in the middle of something important and ask them to hang out for “old time’s sake”, just to get a little crackly pause and a sigh and a sorry, I would love to, but I’m busy right now.
She’d never go that low, of course. But—point is, everyone’s busy, and everyone knows what they want to do, except for herself.
Even Jecka. (Of course, Jecka.)
Nicole’s not dumb; she figured this would happen. It’s not like Jecka didn’t tell her that after summer, she was cutting the bullshit. No parties, no drugs, no petty crime, and maybe a cigarette only every other week, and actually they might not be able to see each other for a long time because college is important, okay, Nicole? If I actually want to be someone, I have to take this shit seriously.
(The dig at her wasn’t lost on her there.)
And, like, you don’t really need college to be someone, because a lot of famous, smart people didn’t even go to college, but sure, if picking college in a state thousands of miles away over your best friend and leaving her to rot in this miserable, pedophile infested filled town makes you happy, then yeah, fucking go for it, Jecka.
And go for it she did.
Nicole really wishes she could feel, at the very least, happy for Jecka for getting into her dream school. UCLA, all the way in fucking California. It ain’t an Ivy League but it’s still as Ivy League adjacent as a college can get. It’s not that she isn’t happy. Well, she’s not, but she is, but not really, but—all that matters is that she's proud, okay? Jecka never really mentioned college around her besides the occasional desperate reminder that no, she couldn’t skip class this time because she actually gives a fuck about school, but the one time she did, there were specks of glitter in her eyes and a look of confident determination Nicole had never really seen in her, not when it came to anything academic related. There wasn’t a doubt in either of their minds that she’d get in. Even if a quiet part of Nicole selfishly hoped that she didn’t go. So really, she is proud, and as happy as she can be, even if the words I’m proud of you never actually came out of Nicole’s mouth.
Maybe if they had, Jecka wouldn’t have looked at her like that and slammed the door closed as she left.
But, regardless, Nicole’s glad Jecka went for it. No, really, she is. Follow your dreams, or whatever. Jecka’s smart and she deserves this opportunity. Don’t let the unemployed suicidal bitch hold you back.
So what if they didn’t say goodbye? Maybe it’s better that way. Goodbye is permanent.
—
“You don’t go to school, the least you could do is help pay some bills around here!”
Nicole can’t keep smoking and shredding guitar in her room all day, as it turns out. The moment she turned eighteen was the moment she no longer became her mother’s responsibility, and in turn, no longer became of any importance to her unless she contributed something financially.
Her morbidly obese, basement dwelling pedophile of a brother has never had a job in his twenty something years of life, and he’s still allowed to order enough meals to feed twenty people for a day on his mommy’s card without moving a single fat leg from his greasy, semen covered gaming chair, but—right. Nicole’s the one who needs to get a job.
Unfortunately for her she knows her own mother, and she knows her well. It’s either do what she says or get kicked out, and Nicole doesn’t think she can actually survive on her own.
So, y’know, maybe she should look at the brighter side of things. Make light of a dark situation. A job might help her find her sense of purpose, or whatever the fuck that is.
(“Everyone has something they wanna do in this world, Nicole. A reason for their life.”
“You really believe in that shit?”
“I mean, yeah. Having a purpose is what makes people people. Otherwise we’d all just be walking around looking dumb, confused, and miserable. Like, my purpose is to get really rich and be independent and not have to marry some guy for alimony checks.”
“…I thought you said you wanted to do that?”
“If it’s an option, I’d rather not.”)
Her first thought is the Burger King near the school—they’d hire anyone, because they’re always hiring—but she quickly scratches that out. No shot she’d have smelly freshmen that look like they haven’t hit puberty yet hit on her in a Burger King uniform during their lunch periods. And what about flipping patties that aren’t even real meat would even trigger that life changing discovery?
Nicole thinks about a few more places. Hot Topic—maybe, but she’d find the people that go there fucking lame. Abercrombie—she would not be caught dead working there, even if they do have really cute jeans. FYE—absolutely not.
The music shop a few blocks down?
….Sure, actually. Nicole really fucking hates pretentious music nerds, but if she tunes them out and acts like she knows what they’re talking about, it can’t possibly be that bad.
—
Four months pass. Work is a bore, and a chore. Nicole doesn’t feel any less suicidal but hey, she has a pretty steady income now, even if she has to give half her fucking paycheck to satisfy her skank of a mother when she knows she’s just spending Nicole’s hard earned money on booze. It’s still enough to get herself some nice clothes and a new stash of pills with some pocket change to spare.
It’s kind of nice, even if hasn’t found that sense of purpose yet.
Even if Jecka hasn’t reached out to her yet.
Maybe she’s changed her number and forgot Nicole’s. Maybe she’s just been really busy. Busy with school, busy making new friends, busy having fun, busy living her life.
Nicole doesn’t need to come back in and ruin it. She doesn’t need to be that friend that interrupts your life at the worst times for old times sake.
And if Jecka called, and Nicole answered, what would they even say? Would they talk like they used to—about everything and nothing? Would they sit in silence, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing? Would Jecka ask her why she hasn’t called, and would Nicole give her a truthful answer?
Would Jecka tell her she missed her?
She doesn’t know, because Jecka hasn’t called yet, and Nicole doesn’t think she ever will.
—
Maybe Nicole should get a therapist instead of dialing what is basically a fucking booty call, but that’s simply just not her style.
Nicole doesn’t confront problems. She deflects until they get worse.
Mom’s not home—otherwise she’d throw a temper tantrum if she saw Emily’s trashy ass walk through the door—and her brother doesn’t give a fuck. He can’t hear anything over the underage anime girls moaning in his ear, anyway.
So they can do whatever the hell they want.
Nicole’s not horny. She doesn’t crave sex. She just wants a distraction.
And fuck it—the mix of percs and Emily’s bony fingers down her pants is distracting, all right.
—
They don’t talk about how it becomes a thing.
(Even when Emily comes back to this shithole just for her.)
—
“So… Jecka? What’s up with you guys?”
“None of your business,” Nicole snarls. “And pass me my underwear.”
—
Christmas.
There’s no decorated tree, and there certainly aren’t any presents. Nicole’s mom is busy working—or maybe she’s just out drinking, like Nicole would love to be—and God knows what that tub of lard is doing in the basement.
This is how Christmas is every year. Except, it’s never felt this lonely.
Last Christmas she had people to spend it with. People she’d considered friends. Jecka and Emily and even Ari, even if it was a bit awkward. They all got high and Emily drove them to McDonalds. Then they almost crashed, shared a forty piece nugget with four large fries, and went to sleep over at Jecka’s house because her parents were gone on a trip.
Nicole would never admit it, but it was the best Christmas she’s ever had.
(Emily’s not here this year. Friends with benefits don’t spend Christmas together, not when one of them has a girlfriend, no matter how close they might’ve been last year.)
She had a shift today, but obviously, fuck that. Who wants to work on fucking Christmas? It’s not like she’s doing anything special besides popping as many pills as she can right before reaching the lethal amount, but still. Nobody wants to talk about The Beatles with some middle aged man who looks like he touches little girls on Christmas Day.
Though, maybe work would have been a better distraction than this.
The ceiling swirls above her. All sorts of shapes and colors and even some faces come into view, and go as quickly as they came. Box dye red and wild platinum blonde and black hair covered in red splatters and then finally, honey blonde. Soft. Hazy, like a fond distant memory, or a pleasant dream. Her face lingers like the specks that linger in her vision, even as Nicole blinks. Her chest feels tight, constricting, as her heart beats like it’s trying to free itself from inside her rib cage, so she focuses on that feeling instead of thoughts of soft blonde curls.
“Am I dying?”
Nicole mutters aloud. No one answers. Her voice is scratchy from misuse, and to her own ears, it sounds like she’s under water.
I really miss her.
…Maybe if I say her name three times—
—
Purpose. The way Jecka described it was vague—so much for her intelligence. If a sense of purpose is what makes people people, then was Nicole a person?
She had a face and a brain and skin and all the things that would make her, by definition, a human being. But she had always felt more like something lost, aimlessly wandering, wondering what it should do to make everything better but not quite caring enough to make anything happen. It was corny, but true.
She had no purpose.
She just liked to get fucked up and fuck with people and be a really horrible, selfish person and not be proud of her best friend because it’s all she knows how to do.
Was her purpose just to make herself and other people as miserable as possible? If so, then hey, Nicole already excels at it.
—
Summer, then winter, then spring. It all goes by so quick. Nicole gets promoted at work—she’s not exactly sure to what, but all she knows is that her fifteen bucks an hour has been upped to nineteen, and she’s the happiest bitch on earth for maybe ten minutes before she has to actually start her shift.
All around, life’s not so bad.
Every day she contemplates sending a hey, this still ur nmbr? to Jecka, see if maybe she’d get a response. But she doesn’t, because Nicole is nothing but a coward when it comes to the things she really wants but knows she can’t have.
—
Nicole wonders what life with a little sibling would be like. She knows she would fucking hate it, for the most part—some overly dependent little shit bothering you all day because they don’t know how to cook or do their homework and want you to play with them—but the thought of having a little sister doesn’t sound so bad.
Nicole would raise her. Dress her in the best clothes, do her hair every morning, hell, make her lunch, and fight her bullies at school if she were shy. The thought of raising a human being gives her fucking goosebumps, truthfully, but she’d like to think she’d do a much better job than her whore of a mom. She’d fist fight that bitch before letting her raise another kid.
What, so they could end up like Nicole? Or a mini version of her pedo brother? Not happening.
(Maybe she might even add a little sticky note in their lunch box. She’d always wanted her mom to do that for her.)
—
Summer is around the corner and Nicole can’t really believe it’s been an entire year since graduation. She’s almost nineteen, now. Still working at that music shop, still depressed, and still every little bit lost as she was three hundred and sixty five days ago.
Nicole figured the “finding a purpose” thing started getting old a while ago. Why think about what you’d be good at doing for the rest of your life when you’ve never really been good at anything?
She’s starting to think the suicidal thoughts and self hatred are simply a part of her now. An old friend with painful memories that pops up once in a while to let you know they’re still here, as much as you want them to go away.
—
The last time she and Emily had sex was a month ago. Fucking Emily put a foot down before she did. The bitch didn’t even have standards.
“Nicole, you’re going through some shit. And this is like, hot or whatever, but I just don’t think it’s what you need or what I want.”
“You don’t want a depressed bitch who cuts herself in your bed? Isn’t that your kink?”
“Nicole. I’m fucking serious.”
“When are you ever serious about fucking anything? Like, actually? Did you grow a conscience, Emily? Or did the addys mixed with coke fuck with your scrambled brain so hard it made you fucking normal? And what the fuck would you know about what I need?”
“Stop freaking the fuck out, Nicole, you sound like a crackwhore. You’ll fucking live.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Nicole had been a little over the top, but Emily wasn’t a sensitive bitch—no, she could be equally as cruel. And what they had worked just fine. Emily had a girlfriend, sure, but that had never been a issue for someone like her. Maybe Emily wasn’t who Nicole needed, but wasn’t that what friends with benefits was for, anyway?
—
She finds another way to, as a totally qualified online therapist on MySpace put it, cope with her emotions that doesn’t involve slicing her wrists or fucking people until she’s numb.
Baking.
Nicole’s taking this to the grave.
—
Unknown Number
hey
Nicole
wht
Unknown Number
?? is that how you greet someone you haven’t talked to in a year?
Nicole
u could be anyone bitch ur not special
Unknown Number
someone woke up with piss in their mouth
i don’t even know why i bothered looking for ur number
ur an asshole as always
Nicole
fuck you
Unknown Number
it’s jecka, dumbass. i h8 you.
Nicole
Typing…
Oh. Fuck. What the fuck was she supposed to say?
Oh my god hey, sorry I was an asshole. It’s been a long time. Really missed you, can we call? I want to hear your voice and I don’t think I ever got over you.
Well, yeah, if she was a normal person. Or some mushy hearted loser. Of course, Nicole’s never been one to show her emotions normally or honestly, and today’s a weird day.
It’s the day they fought over fucking college. Nicole hates that she remembers the date like it’s an anniversary.
(It seems Jecka did, too.)
Nicole
sup bitch
Jecka
are u on something?
Nicole
addys
bit of whipits
and i drank
mom’s shit
Jecka
okay so ur still an addict
and u somehow haven’t died
but anyway
i heard u got a job?
Nicole
who tf told u that
Jecka
kelly
said she saw u at that one store that’s always full of middle aged music nerds when she went over for christmas
lol can’t believe ur working
Nicole
hahahaha yeah so crazy right
can’t believe the suicidal drug addict has a job cuz we all thought she wouldn’t turn out to be shit
Jecka
okay bitch i didn’t say that
Nicole
k
Nicole took a deep breath. Don’t be weird, and don’t project onto other people for shit that has nothing to do with them.
Nicole
so u got a new phone or wht?
Jecka
yeah
old one broke
some frat boy stepped on it at a party cuz he was too busy looking around with his dick
Nicole
lol
Of course—men are men no matter where you go.
Nicole
got a bf?
Jecka
you sound like a 30 year old man tryna fuck on myspace
Nicole
did it work?
Jecka
no, try again xx
Nicole
what if i sent you an unsolicited pic of my dick
Jecka
been there, saw that
Nicole
[Image]
Jecka
BITCH
YOU BAKE?
Nicole
did that work
can i get in your pants now
Jecka
only if you make me a three layer chocolate cake with vanilla frosting and mail it to my ucla dorm
Nicole
fatass
Jecka
ty ;)
—
It’s like they had never stopped talking. They pick back up right from where they left off a year ago and it’s like nothing had ever changed.
Like Jecka wasn’t thousands of miles and an expensive plane ride away.
They never talked about their year long break, only filled in the important bits in each other’s lives that they had missed—like Jecka discovering she actually liked girls, and Nicole’s mom taking half of her bi-weekly paycheck—because what did any of it matter if they were here now?
They don’t call during the day, just text whenever they can. Jecka’s busy with school, and Nicole’s at work, even if the store is empty about seventy percent of the time. She took on longer shifts because she didn’t do anything anyway, might as well make some more money. But at night, it’s like Nicole’s world is lit up again. Jecka’s laughter rings in her ears as Nicole plays off how much she hates her job for the dramatics, and her heart buzzes in her chest when Jecka’s voice starts to mellow out as sleep starts to catch up with her.
It’s all so… sudden. One week she’s on autopilot, doing everything she can to avoid thinking about her. And the next she’s hearing the voice of the one person in the world who could make her just a little bit less suicidal every single night.
It’s a Christmas fucking miracle.
(Simultaneously a bit too late and a bit too early on that, Jecka.)
—
…Can your purpose revolve around one person?
—
“Nicole,” Jecka murmurs, voice soft and thick with sleep. Nicole can imagine her face—eyes closed, blonde curls all messy and ruffled as she lays face down on her pillow.
The image makes Nicole smile. She just hopes Jecka can’t hear it in her voice. “Mm?”
“I wanna see you.”
Nicole snorts. “Unless you have enough money for a plane ticket at this time of year, I don’t see that happening, Jecka. It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
Jecka grumbles over the phone, a little bit more awake. “The correct response was I wanna see you, too, dickhead. Jeez.”
“Sorry, sorry. I want to see you too.” Nicole pauses. “Please never make me say anything as corny as that again.”
Jecka giggles. Nicole closes her eyes, and as she imagines that the voice she hears over the phone is really right in front of her, a sense of serenity washes over her like a warm blanket, something she hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Okay. Goodnight, Nicole.”
“Night.”
(Jecka wants to see her?
Nicole thinks she can make that happen.)
—
So, apparently, moving to an entirely different state on the other side of the country, leasing an apartment, paying for your own water, electric, heat, and internet bills, and buying just a week’s worth of groceries can’t be done as easily as she thought—not with the amount of money she has saved up under the floorboard near her closet.
But Nicole is nothing if not determined and stubborn. It’s basically the defining traits of her entire personality.
And when she knows she can do something, it’s the only thing she ever thinks about.
—
Christmas passes. Nicole doesn’t wonder why Jecka doesn’t visit—her parents are never home for the holidays, so there would be no point. Instead, they spend the day on the phone, talking about everything and nothing until there is only silence that fills the air because they’ve run out of things to talk about.
It’s nice, sitting in silence with Jecka.
—
Spring, 2011.
—
Summer, 2011.
Nicole turns 21. Her mother leaves a note that tells her to keep the whole paycheck with a bottle of cheap wine on the table.
Thanks, mom.
—
Emily knocks on her door one day and for some reason, Nicole lets her in.
(“This is the last time we ever do this,” Nicole says, snuffing out her cigarette on the already chipped blue wallpaper. She could give less of a fuck about the state of this room—she won’t be living in it soon enough. It’ll be left behind.
It’s tied to some of the worst memories of her life, anyway.
“Why? You finally growing a concious or whatever the fuck?”
“Conscience, Emily. And, no, unlike you I was fortunately born with one of those.”
“HAH—”)
—
Fall, 2011.
—
Winter, 2011, 2012.
—
Spring, 2012.
The keys are finally hers.
—
Nicole’s not quite sure what to do once her suitcases full of clothes and things she didn’t really need but had to keep are on the bare wooden floor of her new apartment. Her apartment. She could sit, relax, bask in the fact that this was all due to her own hard work. Fuck everyone else, she did this shit on her own.
(The only credit she’d ever give her mother was making her hate living there enough he to give her that final push to leave.)
Or she could pop a few xans and get fucked up for the hell of it, because of course she brought her stash.
Getting high, alone, in her own apartment that only she has the keys to. Nicole shook with jitters, jumping up and down in glee. She’s never really felt this happy before.
BUMP.
Oh, right. She lives on the fourth floor.
Nicole sits back down, pulling out the new iPhone 4s she decided to treat herself to the day she landed in LA.
(Obviously she got the cheapest one with the least gigabytes. Who do you take her for?)
Typing in Jecka’s number, she sends a text.
Unknown Number
sup bitch
Jecka
nicole?
Unknown Number
u know it whore
Jecka
did u get a new phone? why didnt u tell me
Nicole
surprise <3
Jecka
lol dumbass
are u home?
Nicole
Typing…
Yeah. She is.
—
Nicole sleeps on the bare floor for about two weeks—the most support her body was afforded being a pillow and blanket she’d bought from the dollar store near her apartment—before her back decides enough is enough and getting a mattress is essential if she wants to keep the little sanity she has left.
She’s just finished ordering a twin mattress (no frame) for her apartment when she spots a head of honey blonde walk past the furniture store.
…No way they’d run into each other that quickly.
Nicole follows the blonde, noting the girl’s clothes. Her hair is long, loose curls cascading down her shoulders, and she’s wearing a long sleeved pink polo, fitted with a familiar pair of light blue jeans and brown belt.
A few years may have passed but her style is still the exact same.
“Jecka?”
She half expects the girl not to turn around—Nicole’s sure there’s a lot of blonde, blue jean wearing girls in LA—but then she does, and they both just kind of stand there for a moment.
“Nicole?”
Her voice is incredulous and high pitched, but that’s Jecka, all right. Nicole wants to laugh because, really, she looks the exact same she did three years ago, even if the bags under her eyes are a little more noticeable—but then Jecka’s dropping whatever’s in her hands like it’s a sack of coal and running at Nicole, throwing her arms around her shoulders.
“Jecka—”
“You bitch!” Every single person with working ears in a 50 mile radius would be able to hear her, but Nicole didn’t give a fuck. To her, Jecka was the only person in the streets of California. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me you were in LA?!”
Her hands grip the back of Nicole’s head—soft yet firm, like she’ll disappear if she can’t feel every inch of Nicole against her—as her face buries itself into her neck, pulling them both closer. The warmth of her breath quells Nicole’s racing heart until it’s nothing but a soft thud, thud, thud against her rib cage.
“…Would you be even more mad if I told you I moved here two weeks ago?”
“You’re literally so lucky I don’t have my pocket knife on me right now, Nicole.”
—
“So did you like, grow ten inches over three years? I thought most girls stopped growing at 16.”
They’re sitting on Nicole’s hardwood floor—or, well, Jecka is sitting and Nicole is sprawled out on her back with a cig in her mouth—because she hasn’t really gotten around to getting chairs or even a sofa yet. There’s a lot of things Nicole was used to having that she hadn’t realized she actually needed to buy.
But Jecka doesn’t seem to mind. Her first words were “nice place” the moment she walked through the door, and Nicole thinks she probably meant them.
“I don’t know, I literally got the most random fucking growth spurt after the summer of ‘09. I went from, like, 5’8 to 6’0. And everyone already thought I was tall.”
Nicole doesn’t know when Jecka’s hands found their place in her hair, but they’re there, and they’re really nice. And soft. Her eyes slip shut.
She’s so tired.
“Your ass needs to be in a basketball court.”
“Maybe I should be the one in UCLA right now,” Nicole muses, eyes snapping back open. Jecka’s already looking down at her, and Nicole can’t look away. “Who knows, maybe I could’ve gotten a scholarship if I gave a shit about sports and was actually athletic.”
Jecka snorts. “You? Athletic? My grandma would run a mile faster than you.”
“Just think about it. My name on a jersey.”
Jecka hums, thinking about it. “I’d support your pro basketball journey. My campus allows recreational use of the basketball court in the afternoon, maybe you could swing by.”
“Only if you play against me,” Nicole grins, blowing a kiss at Jecka’s roll of her eyes.
—
She should’ve known shit wouldn’t be sweet for long.
Life is only good to her for a short moment, and then it sweeps the rug from under her and drops it on her face.
Her savings are completely drained and it’s only the beginning of the week. If Nicole doesn’t find a job by the end of the month, everything will be gone. All of her hard work, gone, just like that.
Except finding a job isn’t as easy in California as it was in Virginia, especially not in LA, and she can’t just walk to the nearest fast food place and ask if they’re hiring. Because even if a sign outside the door says We’re Hiring! in big, bold letters, they are most definitely not.
Nicole learned that the hard way.
—
“Hi. I’d like to work here.”
Nicole swallows back her nerves as a woman with all sorts of piercings and tattoos stares back at her, the friendly smile on her face shifting to confusion.
“Are you a licensed tattoo artist?” She inquires, fucking obviously because this is a tattoo shop, and Nicole knows her chances of scoring a job have dropped to almost zero. No, of course not, but she wasn’t going to claim that she was and fuck up even further. God knows where that sort of bullshitting has got her.
“Um, no, actually. But you guys don’t happen to need, like, a janitor or something?”
She hoped the desperation in her voice was enough to get her point across but not enough to garner her any sort of pity. Fuck that.
The woman sighs. No, Nicole, they don’t need a fucking janitor. Are you dumb?
“I’m really sorry but the artists do the cleaning around here…”
Nicole’s already ushering a yeah I figured okay sorry, bye and turning on her heel to walk out the door—
But someone grabs onto her wrist.
Nicole snaps her wrist away, eyes wide, voice as calm as she can get it with the way her heart is beating. “Literally do not do that ever again. Please.”
It’s not a beg, it’s a warning.
The tattooed woman quickly seems to realize that and holds her hands up in surrender and apology. She seems genuine, so Nicole lets it go, even as she swallows back the sharp venom on her tongue. “Oh my god I am so sorry—I was just going to tell you that we’re actually looking for people to intern and hire as artists. So while we’re not hiring any janitors, we could intern you for about a month, and you’d be set.”
Nicole blinks. “How much for an hour?”
“16.50. But you get paid commission for every piece you work on, too, and that money’s all yours.”
Nicole could smile right now.
“When do we start?”
—
Interns don’t make any money, so Nicole still has to find something else to do to make sure she can pay her bills on time.
(It’s not something she wants to turn to, but money is money.)
—
The bills are paid on time and so is the rent.
Turns out, even though she’s freakishly tall for a woman and not freshly eighteen, the height thing is a kink for some guys who are willing to pay extra.
—
(She may despise her body afterwards but that’s never exactly been anything new.)
—
It’s the fourth summer since high school graduation, Nicole realizes, on the day of her birthday.
She also realizes that it’s her birthday, only when Jecka invites herself into her apartment with a load of grocery bags, sunglasses resting on her head.
“When’s the last time you had a nice, home cooked meal, Nicole?”
She opens up the cabinets and the fridge like she’s lived here all her life. Nicole takes a peek at some of the things she’s bought—rice, potatoes, pasta, lettuce, tomatoes, garlic, seasonings, and a pack of cigarettes, among a bunch of other things.
“Like, McDonalds is nice and all, but only every once in a while. You have enough McChicken wrappers in your garbage can to feed a family over the course of three weeks.”
Probably because that’s how long she’s been eating them.
“You can bake but I don’t see you putting those skills to use,” Jecka tuts. Nicole only watches her. How confidently she moves in Nicole’s tiny, cramped kitchen, how she moves like she’s memorized every inch of Nicole’s space when really, she’s been here less than five times.
It’s enchanting.
And really, really domestic.
“Did you bring chocolate cake mix?”
Jecka freezes, as if caught, a small guilty smile splitting her lips. “Maybe. But we can make it together, and then we’ll share! I even brought you twenty two candles.”
Really fucking domestic.
And Nicole wouldn’t trade this for anything.
—
A few addys, a wish, and a quarter of a three layer chocolate cake with vanilla frosting later, and this might be the best Nicole’s ever felt in a long, long time. She might hate her body and be struggling financially in a foreign place she’s not quite used to yet, but she doesn’t really want to kill herself right now.
Ain’t that progress.
Then, a memory fills her mind.
“Jecka.”
They’re both sprawled out on the floor, pinkies curled together. It brings Nicole back to a day in the summer five years ago, when they were in this exact position after Nicole had tried to swallow an entire bottle of xanax.
(Why? She doesn’t even really remember.)
Jecka doesn’t give her a verbal response but she squeezes Nicole’s pinky to let her know she’s listening.
“What’s your purpose?”
Jecka doesn’t miss a beat. Of course she knows who she wants to be. What she wants to do. She’s always known herself better than Nicole. “To help people.”
Nicole would find it corny if the words weren’t coming out of Jecka’s mouth.
“Depressed people. Suicidal people. Numb people. Lost people. Hurt people. Just… People. I know I want to help them in any way that I can.”
“Sounds a lot like me.”
Jecka laughs. “Yeah, well, maybe you had a bit of influence in that.”
A surge of something warm shoots through Nicole’s chest just then. She thinks it’s maybe heartburn, until her eyes dart to her right and—
Jecka’s already looking at her.
The words spill by themselves. “I missed you a lot,” Nicole murmurs. Maybe five years ago she would’ve bitten her tongue until it bled for saying something like that—exposing herself, slowly peeling away the layers of her skin until there was nothing left but her raw and real self to someone who might just use it against her—but Jecka’s someone she trusts.
Someone she loves.
Maybe she can afford to be a little bit vulnerable.
Jecka sits up and shifts closer. Their pinkies are still linked, and warm gold eyes stare down at her. Jecka’s hand cups her cheek, but she doesn’t move any closer. Her thumb simply strokes along the pronounced curve of Nicole’s cheekbone.
Waiting.
“Hot hands,” Nicole blurts, like she’s a fifteen year old virgin again.
Jecka giggles, girly and sweet. It feels like they’re both kids again, getting fucked up and doing stupid shit for the hell of it.
Nicole doesn’t think she can wait any longer.
Her hands reach up to tangle in the soft mane of Jecka’s hair. She doesn’t even need to pull—Jecka meets her halfway. Always has. There’s a sort of hunger that threatens to bubble over the surface the moment their lips meet but Nicole doesn’t let it, not yet.
Jecka isn’t Emily. She’s who Nicole’s very soul has craved the company of ever since that summer night, the night that caused a rift between them.
“You taste like chocolate cake,” Jecka says in between kisses.
Her heart has been full for a while now.
—
She gets her first tattoo a month after her twenty second birthday.
It’s after she completes her first real piece. It was $300, and the client tipped her double, so hey, fuck it—why not celebrate with a piece on her own skin?
The tattoo is done by Jocelyn, the same woman who had hired her. Someone she had a lot to thank for, and doesn’t mind dropping a hundred dollars on. It’s not huge. Just a detailed, blue decaying flower by her left ear—truly representative of herself, she thinks.
It’s beautiful. It’s permanent. Nicole loves it.
—
Her mom shows up on her doorstep in the middle of the fall. Claims her brother got arrested so she sold the house. Then she got diagnosed with liver failure. Her hair has turned mostly grey in the span of four years, so Nicole believes her—she doesn’t even care to keep up with the fake blonde anymore.
Nicole asks her about Lynn. Her mom croaks a laugh and looks away.
She looks tired. Sad. Old. It’s the first time in a long time that Nicole has had a good look at her mother. It’s obvious she’s been through a lot, her face littered with wrinkles she can no longer hide that age her at least twenty years.
Nicole doesn’t let her in.
—
She’s starting to think that she’ll never find her purpose. That maybe, for the rest of her life, she’ll just kind of always be a wandering soul.
But she doesn’t mind the life she lives, or if the next ten years of her life are as shitty as the previous.
As long as she has Jecka in it.