by Katie Heaney
“I guess I should watch it, then,” said Ruby. “I liked the first one.”
I nodded and took another bite. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I might as well have brought my various elementary school art projects with me, worn my retainers and zit cream, dressed in my Grinch pajama onesie. All I knew was that I was both tired and high on sugary horchata, and I found that the part of my brain typically dedicated to self-restraint and self-monitoring wasn’t working. So when she asked me about soccer, and college, I told her everything: every tiny, revealing, half-formed feeling. I told her about my dad, and then my mom, and what my mom had said about my dad. Ruby didn’t say much, but she listened, and that was what I needed most. When I felt close enough to empty, I asked how she was feeling about everything, about school and Sweets and Stanford, and she shrugged.
“Honestly, I can’t wait to go,” she said.
My chest twinged, even as I realized this had also been my attitude toward college, for three years running, up until now, when it was actually about to happen. I’d never meant to hurt my friends when I told them I couldn’t wait to be in college, but now, on the other side of it, I saw how it could feel. Ruby must have seen it in my face because she quickly added, “Not that I won’t miss home. Or you.”
I knew it was too early to say what I was about to say, but as soon as I had the thought, it was too late. It was happening.
“Would you still want to do this long distance?” I asked my burrito, too scared to look up. When what felt like a full minute passed, I had to.
“That’s, like, eight months away,” she said softly.
“I know,” I said. “I’m jumping the shark.”
“Jumping the gun,” said Ruby.
“That too,” I said. She laughed.
“You know I like you,” she said. “A lot.”
I blushed, wishing someone—the whole school?—was there to hear that part only, before the implied “but” that followed. “I like you a lot, too,” I said softly.
Was it more than that? Was I falling in love with her? Two days earlier, picking out chocolates at the store, I would have said yes, definitely, I was well on the way. Thinking about her gave me butterflies, and wasn’t that the primary symptom? But now, with the chocolate growing warm in my pocket, knowing Ruby would likely never love me—at least not enduringly, cross-geographically, singularly, and openly—it was harder to summon the feeling. And shouldn’t it be easier to feel butterflies when the person responsible for them is right in front of you?
“I can still come over, right?” Ruby smiled at me and winked, more and more exaggeratedly until I laughed.
“I want you to,” I said. Then I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the box of chocolates. Ruby’s dimples appeared behind the fist propping up her chin. “I may have gotten you dessert.”
The recognition that this was yet another two-month anniversary gift hung between us, as did the recognition that its original meaning had changed. We both understood. We didn’t have to say it.
Ruby lifted the box gently, the red print of her knuckles spread across the bottom of her face like a rash. I wanted to reach over and wipe it off, like ketchup at the corner of her lips. But it didn’t work that way. I watched her open the box and select a milk chocolate caramel, then drop it into her mouth. She groaned softly. “I love See’s,” she said. She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Thank you.” With her free hand she pushed the box back toward me, and I chose the raspberry truffle. I took the smallest bite, worried it would be ruined for me now, tainted by its involvement in an over-the-top, ill-conceived romantic gesture. But it wasn’t. It tasted just as good as it always did. I licked the chocolate off my forefinger and thumb, wishing I had twelve more.
Two days later, Jamie texted me.
I got a letter from Linda Weller.
A pause.
…the controller? she added.
I know that now, thank you, I wrote back. I admit it had taken me a minute to remember, partly because I’d never expected we’d get a response.
What does it say?
I haven’t opened it, Jamie wrote. I’m too nervous.
Seriously?
Meet me at Triple? We can read it together.
You’re not worried they’ll catch on?
It feels lucky to open it there, she wrote. If it’s good news I want to tell Dee and Gaby right away.
OK, I wrote, growing excited in spite of myself. What if Linda Weller really did save the coffee shop? What if there were some grant for small businesses that this opportunity was perfect for, and we reached her just in time? What if Dee and Gaby were so happy they cried, and named drinks after us, and maybe put up a plaque with our names on it, and left us the coffee shop after they retired? I ran upstairs to change out of my winter-break uniform of sweatpants and pit-stained T-shirt and to brush my teeth, and then I flew out the door.
* * *
—
When I walked into Triple Moon, Jamie was already there, seated at the table farthest from the counter, jiggling both knees so hard her iced latte shook. When she saw me she waved jerkily, and I mentally replayed so many moments in which Jamie, mid-grand plan, went haywire. When Jamie had an agenda, her brain stayed measured and sharp, but her body turned radioactive with directionless energy, causing anything from large food spills (see: the jumbo-popcorn incident at the Hillcrest movie theater sophomore year) to minor injury (see: the time she decided to run for class president and leapt triumphantly from the third-to-last stair in front of school and sprained her ankle). (She lost.)
I made a note to grab extra napkins and went to the counter, which Dee reached over to give me a one-armed, brotherly hug.
“You baby dykes get a girlfriend and fall off the face of the earth,” she said, seeming more proud than annoyed. I bristled, wondering if Jamie had heard, and then wondering why I cared.
“She’s not really my girlfriend,” I said, shrugging. I swore I could feel eavesdropping rays extending from Jamie’s ears to the back of my head, the way it looked in cartoons. I lowered my voice, just in case. “It’s more of a casual thing.”
Dee nodded, clearly not believing me. “Sure,” she said. “Isn’t it always.” She started some milk under the steamer, preparing my drink. Gaby appeared from around the corner, and when she saw me she gave me a defeated wave.
“Everything okay?” I asked, even though I knew it was not.
“Everything’s fine,” said Dee.
“You don’t have to baby them,” said Gaby. She stepped in closer to me, blowing wine breath in my face as she spoke. “We’re a little…a lot behind on some payments,” she explained.
My shock was only half feigned; I hadn’t expected either Gaby or Dee to confide in us so frankly, and it was clear from Dee’s expression as she plunked my drink on the counter that she hadn’t either.
“Gab,” she warned. “Quinn has her own shit to deal with.” She filled a mug with black coffee from the drip and set it on the counter, nudging it meaningfully toward Gaby. Just the sight of it seemed to straighten Gaby out.
“She’s right. I’m just having a day.” She looked over my shoulder at Jamie, and my eyes followed. Jamie immediately returned to her phone, texting or pretending to. Then I felt a buzz in my back pocket and realized she was texting me. I pulled it out and read: What’s happening??
I slid my phone back into my jeans. “This is kinda unrelated, and I definitely don’t want to stress you guys out, but we were wondering if we could finally schedule that second Sweets show,” I said quietly.
“What?” said Dee.
I cleared my throat and leaned closer. “Another Sweets show? We could charge more for tickets this time.”
“When?” said Gaby. “We have limited hours over the holidays.”
I
chewed my lip. Probably I should have had a date in mind before I proposed a show. Jamie was going to kill me, for several reasons. “Let me get back to you on that,” I said.
Gaby nodded distractedly and took a big sip of her black coffee. She made a face, and Dee tossed three Splenda packets onto the counter for her. Gaby grimaced gratefully. I grabbed my latte and made a beeline for Jamie, wanting to let them have their moment. It was strange, the things you learned about a person when you loved them, and how you kept that trivia always, even as that person moved in and out of your life. I could only assume I would always know that Jamie wanted her Diet Coke in bottle form, with a straw (but only if it was reusable), and while I’d found these sorts of artifacts endlessly depressing when we first broke up (because Diet Coke was everywhere, the color blue was everywhere, our songs were played everywhere), seeing Dee know Gaby that well, and that specifically, felt reassuring to me.
I sat across from Jamie, who glared at me, her lips tightly pursed.
“I know you saw my text,” she hissed, trying not to move her mouth.
I laughed, like she had to know I would. Her outraged ventriloquist-dummy impression always got me. “I did. I’m sorry. I thought it could wait thirty seconds.”
“So?”
I looked over my shoulder. Gaby had disappeared into the office and Dee leaned against the back counter, reading a paperback until the next customer came in. Which, on a weekday at three-thirty in the afternoon, could take a while.
“Nothing we didn’t already guess,” I said. “Behind on payments.”
“Is Gaby…?”
I nodded. “A little. Dee gave her coffee.”
“I saw.”
Just then I noticed the envelope from the office of Linda Weller on the table between us, turned upside down from Jamie so that I could read it.
“Am I opening this, then?” I asked. Jamie nodded. I could feel her legs jiggling in the seat of my chair as I ripped open the envelope.
“ ‘Dear Jamie,’ ” I read.
As you may know, my husband, Greg, has owned an independently operated plumbing company for seventeen years. From him, and from many other constituents like him, I’ve become deeply familiar with the challenges inherent to running a small business. That’s why, as a city councilmember for San Diego, I voted in favor of a “head tax” for massive corporations like Amazon, which would require those who benefit from such monopolies to give back to the city, allowing its elected officials to address vitally important local issues like small-business grants, affordable housing, and green energy.
As state controller, my role is to assess those areas of government spending that can be trimmed, as well as those that need more attention. The state of California is the sixth-largest economy in the world, and, in recent years, policy decisions at the national level have presented us with a number of challenges. While I wish I could attend to the needs of every business and organization our great state has to offer, my responsibilities are limited to those funded by taxpayer money. I believe that a healthy, equitable economy begins with an accountable government, and it is my honor to serve my constituents in that capacity.
Thank you for your interest in—and dedication to—small business, one of California’s greatest assets.
Sincerely,
Linda Weller
I finished reading and brought the letter close to my face, trying to decide whether the black inked signature was real or stamped. I licked a finger and dragged it across her last name, and the W smeared down the page.
“At least she really signed it?” I said.
Jamie blinked at me. “She didn’t even write the words Triple Moon,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“She didn’t even say coffee shop.”
“I know.”
“That could have been about anything.”
“I’m sorry, Jame.”
She took the letter from me and gave it a once-over, maybe hoping I’d missed a paragraph or two. She even flipped it over, just in case there was a secret message on the back.
“It’s not like I thought she’d send us a check,” she started. “But I expected something more than this.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
“Like, I’m not ‘interested in small business,’ the concept,” said Jamie. Her expression was so adorably disbelieving, and her tone so aggrieved, that I couldn’t help but laugh. For an instant she looked angry, and then she started giggling too. “And who cares about Greg?”
“Not me.”
Jamie picked up the letter again, pinching her fingers at the top, poised to tear it in half.
“Wait—don’t,” I said. “You might want that someday.”
“For what?”
“Maybe in fifteen years you’ll run for office, and you can use it to show people how long you’ve been dedicated to small business.”
Jamie smiled, seemingly in spite of herself, and folded the letter in half, flattening the crease with her teal-painted thumbnail. Then she carefully placed it between the pages of her planner and pushed it aside. “Now what?”
It was obvious she was disappointed, more so than she was willing to talk about with me right now, but she was also determined, and if plan A didn’t work, I knew she’d scramble to find an alternate plan B that didn’t involve any suggestion of mine. Fortunately, I’d planned ahead.
“I may have asked Dee and Gaby if they’d let us do another Sweets show,” I said carefully.
“When, just now?”
“Yeah.”
“Before we even opened the letter,” said Jamie. It wasn’t a question. I realized then what I’d dug myself into.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “But not—I wasn’t—”
“You assumed my idea would fail,” she said.
“No!” I protested. “If anything, I assumed the opposite. If anyone could have gotten the control lady to send us money, it’s you.”
“Controller,” said Jamie.
“It’s just a very menacing title for what it is.”
Jamie’s mouth twitched, out of what, I couldn’t tell. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath: usually a bad sign.
“Did you already promise Ruby?”
“No. I swear. I don’t know if they’ll even be able to do it.”
“Too busy recording the next album? Gimme Glucose?”
“I know you’re joking, but that is a perfect title for them.”
Jamie allowed herself a brief moment of smugness, then turned stony-faced once more.
“Anyway, you’re the true Sweets fan here,” I continued. “Remember?”
“Not so much anymore.” Jamie’s eyes dropped when she said this, and my stomach flipped. This was no longer about a benefit concert, or Triple Moon. She was leading me somewhere I hadn’t planned to go, and in fact had been avoiding for months, but I couldn’t not follow her there now, and it seemed like she knew that.
“Because of me?” I asked.
Jamie looked at me but did not answer.
“You broke up with me,” I said. “I’m not sure what right you think you have to be mad about this.”
“You basically didn’t give me a choice,” she said softly, her eyes darting to the counter to make sure Dee wasn’t looking our way. Mine followed, but Dee was still deep in her book.
“Are you suggesting I asked you to dump me?”
“Indirectly.” Jamie shrugged. “Yeah.”
I thought I might pass out, even hoped I would, so I could wake up hours from now, in a hospital, on some soothing IV drip with endless Jell-O on a tray at my side, this conversation forgotten and everyone I knew just relieved to see me alive. A dizzying wave did pass over me, as if summoned, but I didn’t fall. I was still there and so was Jamie and it was my turn to say something but
my mouth was too dry and I couldn’t think. Jamie suddenly stood up and went to get me a glass of water from the dispenser by the milk and sugar. She returned and placed it in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Drink this. Take a breath.”
As much as I wanted to refuse, cover my mouth or make a scene if I had to—anything to avoid doing what Jamie told me to do—I took the glass and drank, because I didn’t want to feel like this anymore and I knew Jamie was right. Since I’d known her, she’d seen me through a half dozen panic attacks and even more low-grade anxious episodes, and by now she was as close to an expert in Quinn Ryan freak-outs as someone without a therapist’s license could be.
“Put your forehead on the table and breathe,” Jamie instructed. I hesitated, and she gave me her signature just do as I say look. I lowered my head to the table and was instantly comforted by the cool, hard Formica.
“I’m going to touch the back of your neck, okay?” Jamie’s voice came to me from above, and I could feel her leaning closer to me. I knew we might look crazy, and if Dee saw us she might call over to ask what was wrong. I knew that to let Jamie touch me that way was to give in to a kind of intimacy we hadn’t shared since we broke up. I didn’t know if that was allowed. I didn’t know if Ruby would care. I knew that once Jamie offered, it was the only thing I wanted.
“Okay,” I said, and Jamie’s palm was smooth and cool and firm, reminding me I was alive, in a safe place, with someone I loved.
I do still love her, I thought. Maybe I always will. Maybe the love would change shape and maybe someday it would be much smaller, a marble I rolled around in my mind when I was old and hadn’t seen her in years. I didn’t know if I believed in God or destiny, but knowing Jamie, having this exact person in my life at this exact time, felt like more than lucky coincidence.
“Tell me what you meant,” I said. Jamie’s hand tensed on my neck and then lifted. I sat up again, faintly surprised the sun was still out.
Jamie cleared her throat and took a sip of watered-down coffee, all the while avoiding my eyes. She was silent for what felt like ten full minutes, and just as I was about to prod her, she looked at me and spoke.
