by Jenn Gott
“I have a better idea.” Jane took the phone from Amy, closing the movie. She tapped around until she found Amy’s playlists, and sure enough, there was one that was exactly what Jane was looking for. Late-nineties alternative rock and grunge bands, lots of Goo Goo Dolls and Green Day and the Wallflowers mournfully crooning out their angst to melancholy guitar solos. Jane grinned as she started it up on shuffle. The sounds of their childhood broke free, and Amy was already laughing.
“Now you make me wish I had gone out for ice cream,” Amy said.
“We didn’t always have ice cream.”
“No,” Amy agreed. “But often enough.”
That much was true. Like anything, the girls’ sleepovers were steeped in ritual. Friday nights once a month (the most their parents would allow), almost always at Jane’s house. Initially, it had been the whole pack of them: Jane and Clair and Marie and Keisha. A pile of girls tumbling into a nest of sleeping bags, giggling and shrieking to all hours of the night. Eventually, though, the others stopped coming. They feigned family obligations and stomachaches until it became obvious that it was something more. Jane and Clair never pushed them on it—in truth, everyone was happier with this new arrangement. Even within the group, it had always been Jane and Clair.
Now, Amy let out a contented sigh as she settled deeper against her pillow. “This song was always my favorite.”
Jane smiled. “I know.” She stared at the slanted ceiling, refurbished beams crossing overhead. “It’s the song that you were thinking about as you worked up the nerve to tell me that you liked me.”
“Really?” Amy said. She rolled onto her side, eyes wide and sparkling with curiosity.
“That’s what you told me later. I don’t know if it was playing or not—we listened to so much music during those sleepovers, remember?”
“It happened at a sleepover?”
“Just like any other,” Jane said, still smiling. “Until it wasn’t.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” Amy said. “That is . . . if you don’t mind telling me. I’d understand if it upsets you.”
“It doesn’t upset me,” Jane said, and was surprised to find that it didn’t. Her memories of that night were already saturating the room like thick perfume. Every other time before when someone had tried to get Jane to talk about Clair—her friends, her mother, the grief counselor that her mother paid for—it had been like someone was stabbing Jane with a knife. She didn’t even like to think about it. This night, along with so many others, had been tucked away in the trunk of her mind for more than a year, and now Jane sifted through it, lifting out the memories as if they were old photo albums. Her and Clair. Their honeymoon, their first crappy apartment, their wedding, the summer that they’d lost their virginity. This night—the start of it all.
The memory of it ached inside of her, but in a good way, a muscle stretching out after too much time being babied. Jane moved the phone to the nightstand. Their damp hair mingled on the towel that Amy had spread across the pillows earlier. They lay on their sides, face-to-face, just the narrow gap of the embroidered bedspread between them, their hands tucked up underneath their pillows. Was it a subconscious mimicry of the way they’d been on that other night, that other sleepover, or was this perhaps just a natural expression of their habits? The music continued to wash around them, low enough to talk over. Jane remembered that she had turned it down, last time, reaching to her bedside clock radio and twisting the volume knob back.
Past and present blurred together, the haze of time falling away. Amy’s face, Clair’s face, watching Jane expectantly. It had been up to Jane to start the last time, too.
“Well . . . it doesn’t start very romantically, but we’d been talking about school,” Jane said, and Amy smiled, already charmed. Jane shrugged. “There was some stupid dance coming up, and all week our friends had been gossiping and daydreaming about who would ask them out. I was just going along with it, picking the names of popular guys that everyone else kept insisting were hot, but you always balked whenever people would ask you.”
“Wait . . . I remember this. It was Homecoming! You were insisting that Josh Grobeck was going to ask you.”
“Did I?”
“Don’t you remember? It was . . .” Amy bit her lip. “No, you wouldn’t, I guess. In our world, your parents had just announced the move. This was going to be your last dance here. You didn’t even know if you’d still be enrolled by then.”
Jane fell silent, trying to imagine it. A budding teenager, a fresh new school year, her world abruptly yanked out from under her feet. The weeks leading up to the move, the dance looming uncertainly on the horizon.
She shook the picture out of her head. That wasn’t her life, she told herself firmly. She dipped back into her own thoughts.
“Okay, so do you remember the way that the other girls kept teasing you about it? Insisting that you had to pick someone?”
Amy made a face. “They kept saying that if I didn’t pick, then it meant that I wanted to go out with John Faulkner,” she said, referring to the boy that was universally considered the worst choice in the whole school. Overweight, riddled with acne—he smelled like old socks and was always grabbing at his crotch whenever girls he liked walked by him.
“Well, anyway,” Jane said, “that weekend you slept over at my house. And I was trying to make you feel better, so I admitted that I didn’t like their game any more than you did.” Jane smiled. “You were so surprised. You looked at me as if you were going to fall off the bed, because I had been so vocal about my choices at school. But I told you I only did that so they’d leave me alone. I said that I hated whatever his name was—Josh, I guess?”
Amy nodded.
Jane laughed softly. “See, I don’t even remember that.” She took a deep breath. “What I do remember, is that you asked me what boy I did want to have ask me out.”
A gentle hush fell over the room. One song ended, then another began. In the real world and in memory, both, Jane fell silent, just studying the face across from her. The birthmark underneath Amy’s right eye, the slope of her cheek.
The fullness of Amy’s lips, as she asked, “What did you say?”
“Honestly, I panicked,” Jane said, drawing herself back to the story. “I started babbling about how there were no good boys in our school, how they were all gross and rude, how maybe they would get better once we were in college. Something like that. And I remember, you just . . . it’s like you shrank. Everything about you went still and small, and then it felt as if there was so much more room on the bed between us than there really was.”
Jane could tell this, even in the semidarkness. They’d shut the main lights off already, had changed into their pajamas, watched their movie. Now they were just lying there, the soft glow of Jane’s retro lava lamp casting moving shadows on the walls of her childhood bedroom.
“So you said, ‘Why does everyone keep insisting that we need to find a boy all the time, anyway?’, and later you admitted you were trying to act all cool and independent, like who even needs to get into a relationship? But I didn’t hear it that way. And I didn’t hear what you said next, because all of a sudden my heart was just pounding so loudly in my ears that it’s like someone was playing drums in my room.”
Amy smiled.
“I tried to laugh it off,” Jane said. “I was like, ‘Yeah, and what about if a girl doesn’t even like boys?’ I was ready to act all grossed out if you were, like it was all some kind of joke? But you didn’t, and I guess I didn’t sound very convincing about it being funny. Because first you went all quiet, but then you asked me if I thought there was something wrong with girls like that.”
For the briefest moment, adult Jane shut her eyes, and teenage Jane filled up her senses. This was a moment that had always felt to Jane like it was literally suspended in time. The bedside clock was behind her, but she could see it reflecting in the mirror of her bureau, and Jane was so practiced at reading it backwards that she sometimes couldn
’t even tell that it was flipped. 1:46 am. It was like Jane had stepped outside of herself, trapped them both inside of a drawing. Looking down on her and Clair, lying there with expectation hidden in their faces. Jane knew, even then, that this was a moment that would define everything. Botch it, and she closed the door forever, the one that led to all her secret wishes, all the fantasies that she didn’t dare ever say aloud. But if she got it right . . .
She couldn’t even imagine what getting it right would look like. Did not even dare to think it. Thinking gave it form, and a shape that could be mourned if lost forever.
Jane’s eyes eased open. Barely a moment had passed, Amy still watching, still waiting. Listening. She didn’t know how this story ended, not the details of it anyway. The rain had picked up again, pounding on the steepled roof over their heads. It perfectly mimicked the memory of the flutter of younger Jane’s heart.
For some reason when she spoke again, her voice was softer. Like some things were more naturally said in whispers. Or maybe she was lost in the memory of it, because she had spoken in a whisper then, too. “I told you no, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with girls like that. I said that people should like whoever they like.”
Jane’s hand slid forward underneath the pillow, her fingers instinctively seeking out and hooking with Amy’s. The night in her memory was so strong that it threatened to drown her, and she didn’t know for sure if she was relaying young Clair’s next line or not. “It’s just,” Clair had said, “I don’t want you to think less of me, if I tell you that maybe I’m one of them.”
“I won’t,” Jane said. “Clair . . . I couldn’t ever think less of you.”
Clair licked her lips. Took a deep breath. “Even if . . . even if I say that the girl that I like . . .”
“. . . is you?” Amy whispered. Out loud, in the present.
Jane jerked, as if waking up from a dream. Her fingers unhooked from Amy’s, slithering back to her own safe space underneath the pillows.
“I’m sorry!” Amy was already saying. Jane had pushed herself up onto her elbow, and Amy followed suit. Still facing each other, still inches apart. “I’m sorry,” Amy said again. “I didn’t mean to . . . It’s just, well, you know about my powers and so when you touched my hand, I just, I assumed that you were trying to—”
“It’s okay,” Jane said.
Amy bit her lip. She flopped back onto the bed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She looked at Jane with much the same expression that Clair had, all those years ago. I don’t want you to think less of me. “I don’t tap into people’s memories without their permission, I swear it.”
“I know you don’t,” Jane said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are.”
Amy winced. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” Jane said, and in that moment it became true. The burst of irritation that had sprung up disappeared, blown away as if by a strong breeze. Amy/Clair, Clair/Amy. Jane could never stay angry with either of them. She smiled, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. “Do you want to hear the rest of it?”
“Always,” Amy said quickly. “That is . . . if you’re willing to share.”
“Well . . . you already saw the best part of that day. I was too embarrassed to say anything, and I think you kind of took it as a rejection.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “You mean you didn’t even kiss me?”
Jane shook her head. “Nope. We decided that it was probably for the best if we just went to sleep at that point, so you scrambled out of bed and got into your sleeping bag on the floor, and I turned off the light. I tried to go to sleep, but I just kept kicking myself for being so stupid. It’s not that I didn’t already know that I liked you. It’s not like I was under the illusion that I was straight or something. But you were just so . . .”
“Direct?”
Jane shrugged. “Maybe.” Her fingers traced the edge of her robe until they found the chain that held Clair’s wedding ring. The links were warm from being against her skin. “I just kept lying there, watching hour after hour go by, and I kept telling myself: Jane, get out of this bed; go over to that girl—wake her up if you have to—and tell her how you feel.” Jane dropped the necklace. She looked down at Amy. “I wanted to kiss you so badly.”
Amy gave her a sympathetic smile. “But you didn’t?”
“No,” Jane said. “I didn’t . . . But the next day, I promised myself I would never let another opportunity like that pass me by again. That from now on, if there was ever something that I wanted that badly, that I would just go for it, and to hell with the consequences.”
“So, then you kissed me?”
“Then I kissed you,” Jane agreed with a smile. “More or less.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jane went quiet. She looked at Amy: the subtle waves drying into her dark hair, the familiar angles of her face, the studded silver earrings glinting like a row of stars. The air was buzzing with comfort and nostalgia, and Jane thought about her promise to herself. She’d always lived up to it, ever since that day.
Amy was still waiting for Jane to explain herself. She had the smallest of frowns, crinkling between her eyebrows. Jane watched the skin smooth out as those same eyebrows arched in surprise when Jane leaned over.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” Jane whispered as the last of the space disappeared between them.
* * *
Lip to lip. Breath to breath. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
Time folded in on itself. Jane and Clair. The raw memory of a thousand kisses, but it all started with one. The images tumbled through Jane, disjointed and perfect:
But when I said that I liked you—
—I know. I know, I’m sorry.
Rough bark underneath Jane’s fingers, smooth hair brushing over her shoulder.
Clair? Can we talk about something?
Clair’s crooked smile, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to look too hopeful.
Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear.
The sparkle of the river, the shade of the tree.
The twist of Jane’s stomach.
Jane . . .
Clair . . .
Their first kiss, the spark of contact. Mouths, warm and wet and awkward, trying to find their rhythm. The fear of getting caught, the fear of letting go. They mashed themselves together, driven by pure need and teenage hormones. Clair pushed Jane against the tree, and Jane caught herself against the bark to steady herself. Soft, sweet skin, and the smell of Clair’s body spray, peachy and bright like summer. Jane swam through the memories, pushing them into Clair, letting them guide the two of them along.
Their first kiss, again, more than fifteen years later. The same spark of contact. Mouths versed in what they were doing. The fear of stopping, the fear of what they’d started. Lips as familiar as the beat of Jane’s own heart. Her heart, which was singing, home, home, home!, like the chirrup of a bird in the springtime. Clair. A well of heartbreak and elation burst up from Jane’s chest, an unstoppable tide. Clair, Clair, Clair. The one thing that Jane had dreamed of for a year and a half, the one thing she’d known she could never have again. Jane kissed her as if she was a miracle. She kissed her as if she was the last breath of life that she would ever taste. Clair arched underneath her, a whimper escaping as Jane’s lips trailed down to her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone. Fingers traced familiar pathways up Clair’s legs, across her stomach.
“Jane . . .”
“Clair . . .”
Jane’s hand roved, but Clair’s grip found her wrist. The whole of Clair had stilled underneath her; even Clair’s breath had caught and started up again slower. Jane sat back, blinking, as if coming out of a daze. Clair’s lips were flushed, and Jane’s ached at their absence.
Jane frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not Clair.”
Another blink. This time the daze actually did fall away, and
Jane’s vision cleared for perhaps the first time all evening. Amy’s face, both familiar and not, was looking up at her: flushed cheeks and tossled hair, hurt and sad and longing. Jane let her gaze trail down, the slip of their robes falling open, Jane’s hand tucked underneath the terrycloth. She yelped, jerking her touch back as if she’d awoken to find herself with her hand in the fire. She sat up, turning away, cinching her robe tight. Her whole body seared with embarrassment and lingering desire and anger at the part of herself that was wishing that Amy had never said anything. She buried her face in her hands.
The shift of the bed behind her as Amy sat up. Not Clair, but—spousal instinct painted an exact picture of Amy’s movements, as she reached out, clearly wanting to put a hand on Jane’s shoulder, and then pulled herself back. Amy’s arms wrapped around her own legs instead, her knees drawn to her chest.
“Jane . . . I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m . . . I should apologize to you, I—”
“I wish that I was Clair,” Amy said, and Jane’s breath caught in her chest. Amy sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please try to forget that I said that.”
Jane’s voice came out tiny. “I can’t.”
Time slipped past. Eventually, Jane realized that Amy’s phone was still playing music, all the hits from their early teenage years. She snatched it off the nightstand and swiped at it until it shut up, plunging them into impenetrable silence. Even the rain had stopped. The bed-and-breakfast held its breath.
I wish that I was Clair. The words tumbled through Jane’s head on a terrible loop, Clair’s voice, Amy’s words, until Jane’s mouth soured, her lips twisting in distaste.
Well, you’re not.
“We should get some sleep,” Jane said.
“I’ll take the couch,” Amy said.
“No,” Jane said. She was already on her feet by the time the word was out. She tugged her robe tighter around her body. “I’ll take the couch.”
She was expecting another argument. Clair, Jane was sure, would have argued the point further. Instead, Jane watched the reflection in the bureau as Amy nodded. Jane looked away, fresh shame burning through her as she settled on the stiff cushions of the loveseat. She faced away from the room, faded roses filling her view and the cloying smell of Febreeze assaulting her nose.