by Isabel Jolie
Yara stares at me, expecting a response. She’s not wrong. But it hurts, a deep, aching pressure in the middle of my chest. A crushing pain so intense at times it’s like I am below water, struggling to surface for air. Her warm hand covers my frigid one. My eyes sting. Warm tears fall, and I swipe them away.
“Shit, sweetie. I don’t even know what you see in him. He’s boring as fuck. Barely speaks. Sits like a depressed lump.”
“Stop it.” I pull away from her and place both of my hands below my thighs, to warm them and keep away from her. She can’t touch me while saying those things.
“Look, I’m not the one between you guys. If he made you happy, I wouldn’t say a word. But you’re miserable. And you can do so much better! It’s like a Band-Aid. You’ve got to rip that baby off. Let some oxygen surround that sore so it heals.”
“Ewww.”
“But you get the point, right? You’ve got to do something drastic. You said that one day you’d like to return to the Midwest, right?”
“Yeah.” When I moved after college, it was never supposed to be forever. I’m a midwestern girl. I’m not saying I want a cornfield in my back yard, but I always thought I’d have a yard, kids, and a dog. I’m not entirely sure how ten years have gone by so quickly and I’m in the same apartment I moved into a decade ago.
“Sweetie, I don’t want you to move. But moving will give you space. I might not get this whole thing between you and Jason, but I’ve observed it for eons. You two spend so much time together you suffocate out any chance for other possibilities. It’s like an acorn at the bottom of a forest floor. With no sun, how is it ever going to take root?”
Hmmm, am I currently deep in the forest, where few humans ever go? I focus on a spot on the forest decal, toward the floor, and the pain in my core intensifies.
In a soft voice, she says, “You’re thirty-two.”
“I’m aware,” I grit out. Actually, not quite thirty-two. It’s looming. As are my forties.
“Well, shit or get off the pot! No. That doesn’t work for you. You were never on the pot. You’ve gotta get over this guy!”
“But we’re sort of sleeping together now, so I am kind of…”
“Which makes it worse!” Her body springs forward forcefully, and a few heads turn our direction. I bow my head.
Unaware she’s drawing attention from others, she continues. “He’s no closer to treating you as anything more. And what an ass, by the way. I mean, really, if he loves you as a friend, how can he do this to you? Stand up to him. Move on. Go get the life you want.”
She pats me on the head and mutters something about loving me, then excuses herself to go to the bathroom. It seems that’s the conclusion of my scolding for the night, and now we can transition to dinner. Her heart is in a good place, and I do love her for it, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to hear her.
When she leaves, I dig into my tote bag and locate my cell. Jason didn’t call on Monday. He needed space too. He did leave flowers for me at reception. Today, I have six missed calls and three texts from him.
Jason: Want to grab dinner tonight?
Jason: Are we okay?
Jason: Call me. Please.
The last text came through within the last hour. He might have already stopped by my apartment and seen I’m not home. My fingers are hovering over the keyboard, debating responding, when Yara returns to the table. She glances down and pulls my phone away.
“Do not even think about it.”
I nod. It’s the only agreement I can force. But…his texts sound broken. And I know he’s got to be emotional. He’s got to be worried about our friendship, and I don’t want him to worry. I don’t want him to doubt if our friendship is safe when it is. He will always have me in his life. No matter what. He can always depend on me. He doesn’t have many people in his life, and Yara doesn’t understand that. Not only does she have a huge family and a mound of colleagues, she has a whole vibrant world of fellow lesbians who surround her, encourage her, and love her. It’s hard for someone with such an enormous support network to comprehend how devastating it could be to someone like Jason, who has such a small caring group in his life.
Our food comes, and we both eat. I don’t taste much, but Yara says the food is delicious. I might be coming down with a cold. That could explain my chest pain and my inability to focus. I massage my throat, feeling to see if my glands are swollen. As I do so, a wave of nausea hits me. Jason. This is around the time of year he gets his scan. What if he got his results back, and I didn’t answer the phone today?
Everything we have going on between us means nothing if his cancer has returned. And if that’s the case, he needs me. Right now, he needs me. I can overlook what happened Sunday. Everyone has said for years that eventually we’d have sex. That happened, and now we just have to deal with it. Sex is a little thing. If his cancer is back, that’s a big thing. He’ll need me.
Yara’s studying me. She’s not going to like it when I don’t return home with her. But she’ll deal. She’s already texting someone she met recently about meeting up for a drink.
I need to know Jason’s okay.
Chapter 17
Jason
The Night We Stayed In
When did it all begin? When did the pain first surface? So much of my twenties blends together, I can’t pinpoint a beginning.
I’ve thought a lot about it. I don’t think I would’ve made it through everything without Maggie. In college, we stayed in when I needed to. When the risk of flu was super high, or if I wasn’t feeling great, I didn’t have to be alone. She was my friend, always checking in. She got a box of those masks, and if she felt like she might be getting sick, she’d wear one. Make me wear one too. She bought me orange juice. Always read about foods I should be eating. Kale. Good god. She tried to force-feed me so much kale. But she did find some rather delicious smoothie blends.
In college, she picked up the role of caretaker. She’s never really stopped. But for years, she made the decisions for us. If she wanted to go out, and I felt well enough, we went out. She made sure we had plenty of social interaction with groups of people. She’s an extrovert. It’s natural for her.
When we first moved to New York, we still went out together. Sam had recently moved to New York too, and I’d go out with him about once a week. Maggie usually joined us. This was back before his company went public and he made it big. He didn’t socialize a lot, but when he did, we’d go to bars. He’d usually meet folks—well, a girl with friends in tow—and we’d end the night in a group. I’d also go out with classmates, and she’d join us. Maggie discovered Team-in-Training, and sometimes she’d hang with that group, and she’d bring me along. We spent a lot of time together, but she was still more or less the social activities director.
Then our first New Year’s Eve in Manhattan arrived. We’d just come back from our annual trip skiing with the Dukes. I was sitting on her sofa, waiting for her. She opened her bedroom door, and wow. That dress. So short. Tight. Sparkly. Super high heels. It’s almost ten years later, and I still remember her legs that night. Black hose. Something about the way the light hit the curves.
We were supposed to go to a party with Sam and Ollie. Ollie knew a ton of people, and he always gathered a big group of friends. And I knew. If we went out that night as planned, she’d meet some guy. In that dress and those heels, damn. Hot as hell. There was no way tons of guys wouldn’t be hitting on her. Even with me standing beside her, because Ollie would make wisecracks about us just being friends. He’d force out our usual denials. And then every guy there would know she was available.
She wanted to go. She was dressed up on New Year’s Eve. Sitting at home with me wasn’t what she wanted. But I could see what was going to happen, and it scared me. Terrified me. So, I told her I wasn’t feeling well. It probably wasn’t the first time I claimed to not feel well to avoid going out, but it was the first time Maggie really wanted to go out that I feigned being sick. I told her she should
still go out, at least, I think I did. But she refused, like I supposed I knew she would.
New Year’s Eve in New York City. We stayed in that night. We sat in her apartment and watched the ball drop on TV. She kept checking my temperature. Told me not to worry about it, that her feet thanked her for staying in. I don’t know if that’s exactly when things changed between us. But that night, something shifted.
It became easier to stay in, just the two of us. I suppose one of the reasons that night stands out to me is because that night, it wasn’t just that I didn’t feel like going out. I was afraid of losing Maggie. And at the same time, I knew I couldn’t have Maggie. Here’s a little life truth. When you love someone more than life itself, but you can’t be with that person, in every single way, it hurts. On a scale of one to ten? Ten.
Chapter 18
Maggie
Jason lives in a row of identical townhomes on 116th Street. All the town homes have been subdivided into apartments. I step past one of his neighbors who is sitting on the concrete step smoking a cigarette. I don’t know her name, but we both recognize each other and smile. She doesn’t pay any attention as my key twists in the lock.
When I reach Jason’s apartment door, I lightly rap on the heavy wood as I push it open. Jason’s sitting on his sofa, and a sporting game plays on the tube. He’s not alone. Sam’s with him. Two open beers rest on the coffee table.
Sam smiles the moment he sees me and comes around to give me a welcoming hug. “Hey, sweetie. How’re things?”
I look at Jason. If Sam’s here, does that mean his check-up didn’t go well? I step to the front of the coffee table and face him. Jason stands and bends to press a soft kiss to my cheek. When he sits, he pulls me down to sit beside him, squeezed into his corner to give Sam ample room. He rests his hand over mine, and his thumb caresses my knuckles in a slow back and forth. He’s touching me in a way that is confusing as hell.
“Things are good. How about with you?” I ask Sam while watching Jason, studying him. I have an urge to yank my hand out of his and get answers. Check his kitchen counter for papers, any kind of sign as to what’s going on with him, but I continue my conversation with Sam.
“My mom is hoping you guys will come join us skiing this year. We’ve got plenty of room.” We’ve gone with Sam’s family to his house in Aspen for years. Jason hasn’t mentioned it to me this year.
“I’d love to if Jason is up for it.” Jason rubs my back, up and down, and in slow circles. The movement is reminiscent of the massage, and I jump up. It’s too much. I can’t handle it. I came by to see if he’s okay. That’s what I need to do.
When I land in the chair across from the sofa, Jason gives me a questioning glance but doesn’t say anything. He picks up his beer and swallows.
“Did you get your results back?”
“Doctor said all looks good. Results will take a while. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No. I’m good. I just came from dinner.” I avoid looking at Jason and tap my foot until the dull thump fills the void. There’s a tension between us, but Jason, as always, seems oblivious. “And actually, Sam, Jason may have a different girl to invite skiing this year.” I aim for casual and nonchalant as I say it and hope the anger and hurt simmering below the surface remains undetected.
“There’s no one else,” Jason says, wrinkles forming around his eyes, the expression he has when he’s confused about something.
“The girl from the other night? Just a casual hook-up, then?” I ask.
Jason frowns but doesn’t respond. Maybe a little of the venom I’m feeling seeped out.
Sam downs the rest of his beer, glances at his watch, and says, “I’m gonna get out of here. You two take care. Let me know about ski plans.”
“I’ll head out too. I only stopped by because I—” I don’t know how to complete the sentence, so I don’t. I gather my pocketbook and slip on my shoes, and Jason’s fingers wrap around my bicep. His fingers could wrap around my arm and almost touch. I step to follow Sam out the door, but Jason doesn’t let go.
“Stay for a minute.”
Sam’s out the door without looking back. It’s as if he can’t get out of the apartment quickly enough. No question where his loyalties lie. I spin on my heels and rip my arm out of his grasp. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever pulled away from Jason, and the action surprises both of us.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Jason. Why would anything be wrong?” I stick out my chin and push my shoulders back. There’s a surge of annoyance and anger that strengthens me. We both know exactly what’s wrong, so why is he asking?
He shuffles his feet and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “Well, stay for a bit. We can find a show.”
“No. I was out with a friend, and you asked me to come over. You made it sound important. I’m glad everything is okay. But I’m gonna go out and find Yara and continue our night.” In reality, I’ll go home and read or watch TV, but he doesn’t need to know that. I grip the knob, ready to leave.
“Don’t be like this.” His tone is soft, pleading.
“Like what, Jason? Like it hurts that you are sleeping with me and other women? That I’m your fallback. That you ask me over so you aren’t lonely?”
“I can’t lose you.” He’s staring over my shoulder, and I can’t be certain if he’s speaking to me or the wall.
I twist the knob, pull the door open, and with one foot out the door, tell him, “You won’t lose me. We’ll always be friends. But, Jason, you are a recluse. For years, I loved it. It felt like you and I were locked away in our little world. But it’s suffocating. You need to figure out why you never want to do anything outside of your den. Why you find it so hard to open up. Because I need to not be so dependent on you. And that’s going to mean you can’t be so dependent on me.”
“You’re my best friend. What do you mean? Of course, I’m dependent on you. Mags, please. Tell me what I can do to make things better. I need you in my life. What do you want me to do?”
“Love me, be with me, don’t just fuck me like a random…” I take a deep breath and try not to let tears fall. “See a therapist. Talking helps. Go to a therapist. Talk about whatever it is that’s going on in your head. About whatever it is that you keep bottled up.”
If anything, maybe he’ll go see someone who helps him see he’s not being fair to me. This friendship zone we’re in isn’t healthy anymore. Something has to change.
I pull the door behind me and don’t look back. I can’t. I don’t need to, anyway. I know exactly what I would see. His apartment door. And behind that door, I’d bet money he’s standing there, staring at the door, with his hands in his pockets.
Chapter 19
Jason
“Jason, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
The couch Dr. Clemmons has in her office isn’t particularly comfortable. I expected the kind you see in the movies, that you can lie down on and stare at the ceiling. This one is more of a bucket seat contraption and it forces you to either sit back or shift forward.
“Jason. What brings you in here?”
I’m not a moron. I do know I need to speak. Unfortunately, they don’t make pills that fix everything. I need to speak. Maggie will walk out of my life unless I do this. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Well, why don’t we start with you telling me why you decided to schedule the appointment? What prompted that decision?”
“I have a friend who has been trying to get me to come see a therapist for a long time.”
Shit, this couch is uncomfortable. I snatch one of her bright, happy throw pillows and shove it behind my back.
Dr. Clemmons offers a soft smile. A notepad sits on her lap, propped up by her crossed legs, and a pen rests in her still hands. She’s about my age. Which is fine, I suppose. She comes highly recommended. There’s an awkward silence in the room. She decides to do her job and continues asking me questions.
“Why doe
s your friend want you to see a therapist?”
“I don’t know.”
She angles her head inquisitively but doesn’t say anything. No, she wants me to speak.
“They recommended that I see a therapist when I was diagnosed with cancer. And after a close friend passed away.” I add the last part to explain. Not everyone with cancer has to see a therapist. Maybe if I’d gone to the support groups, instead of skipping them with Adam, none of my doctors would have thought to push therapy on me.
“Are you currently undergoing treatment?”
“No. No. I’m in remission.” She jots something down on her pad. Score one point to me; I said something she wants to remember.
“How long have you been in remission?”
“Almost seven years.”
Her eyebrows rise, and she makes another notation. Two points. Ding, ding.
“So, you said a friend has wanted you to see a therapist for a long time. Years, it seems. What changed, for you to come here now?”
Seven years later. I get her point. And I don’t like these open-ended questions. I prefer mathematical questions. I prefer numbers. She doesn’t say anything. Five or ten minutes go by, and she doesn’t say anything, and it’s clear that she’s putting this on me.
“Maggie believes…I don’t know what she believes.”
“Who is Maggie?”
“She’s my friend. My best friend.” Her pen moves across the notepad. Three points for Jason.
“And you said Maggie believes…Maggie believes what?”
Maggie never agreed with Adam and me skipping out on our support group. But Adam bore the brunt of that. He told me some of what she said. Probably not everything.
Dr. Clemmons’s eyebrows raise. “What would you like to talk about today?”
“I need to show Maggie I’m trying so I don’t lose her. You tell me. How do we start?”
