by Emma Mills
Finally, at four thirty, I went upstairs to his apartment and knocked lightly on the door. No one answered.
That sealed it for me. Jamie had already left. He probably thought we were meeting there. He was probably there already. Or maybe not, but the idea of Jamie sitting at a booth alone waiting for me, wondering where I was, propelled me back downstairs and outside.
I walked to the bus stop. It was a little chilly, the sky overcast. I hadn’t worn a jacket, just a sweatshirt, and I pulled my hands in the sleeves.
I took the bus downtown, and by the time I approached the strip mall where Sushi Boss was located, heavy clouds had gathered.
I pulled open the door, stepped inside. A quick scan of the place revealed that Jamie wasn’t there.
If he was, he had left. Or maybe he hadn’t come in the first place.
I had come all the way down there, though. I ordered a roll, even though I didn’t want it.
I sat by the window and scrolled on my phone, refreshing the same three apps over and over despite knowing that I should stop, that we were getting short on data this month, then switching over to this dumb woodblock version of Tetris. I kept getting the urge to check my phone for messages, which made absolutely no sense, because I was literally looking right at it. No texts came through.
I poked at my food, stomach uneasy, ate a little despite my better judgment, and asked for a box.
It was raining when I left. I pulled up my hood and headed back to the bus stop clutching my leftovers, but it was Sunday evening, and the next one wasn’t for almost half an hour.
It was stupid to come here.
I thought about calling Mom, but I had made a big deal about missing dinner because I had plans, and anyway, she was all the way uptown at Dan’s and it would take just as long to get down here. I was embarrassed, and annoyed, and sad, and I knew deep down that I deserved something like this, for sure, at minimum, but I thought that Jamie was being genuine the night before. Jamie was always genuine—it was like the number one Jamie quality, it was among the things I liked best. He wouldn’t stand me up.
Except he did. And I was too obtuse to even accept that it was happening. I went forward with the not-date brainstorming session all on my own, despite all evidence that I was being stood up.
By the time I reached the Eastman, I was drenched in rain. No one was back yet, thankfully, to see my pathetic return. I was fumbling with the key to our apartment when my phone buzzed.
It was Jamie.
Papa’s in the hospital
I blinked.
Before I could reply, four messages came back quickly:
He had a mini stroke today
He’s doing a lot better now
But he has to stay there for a couple days
Gram’s still there but she just sent me home
The next message came through as I was on my way back to the elevator:
I should’ve texted you sooner, I totally forgot
Don’t worry about that, I sent as I pressed the 7 button on the door panel.
Jamie swung open the door to their apartment just after I knocked. He still had his coat on.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded. Then his lips twitched in that way that people’s lips do when they’re trying not to cry. Or at least, in that way that Jamie’s lips twitch when he’s trying not to cry. I had seen it before—it was the same look he had when we were little kids and he accidentally let go of his balloon at the zoo, all of us with our faces turned upward, watching the red balloon float off into the sky—
“Come upstairs,” I said. “Rose will be home soon. She can take care of us.”
He blinked at me. “Why are you all wet?”
“I forgot my umbrella.”
The balloon look flickered again. “Did you go to Sushi Boss?”
I just held out a hand. “Come upstairs.”
53.
ROSE WASN’T HOME YET WHEN we got up there. Our room was a disaster area, but at least my side was manageable, so Jamie sat on the bed. I pulled out some sweats from the laundry.
“Be right back.”
I changed in the bathroom, and when I came back in, Jamie was still sitting on the edge of my bed, coat on, looking lost in thought.
“Take off your jacket, stay a while,” I said, and stretched out on Sidney’s bed.
“Cold,” he replied.
“Get under the covers, then.”
He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged out of his coat, toed off his shoes, stretched out on my bed, and pulled up the sheets.
Our beds were close—there was a narrow nightstand in between, where Sidney would stack books and leave her glasses. I’d keep my phone there.
When we first moved to the Eastman, Sidney was only three. She’d get scared at night by the traffic sounds and the elevator, so she’d sleep in my mom’s room a lot of the time. Eventually she started staying in her own bed, but she would still get scared every now and then, in the dark of the room at night. She would want Rose to sing to her so she would know Rose was there. She would want to hold my hand across the space between our beds. I remember forcing myself to stay awake until she fell asleep, until I felt her little hand slacken in mine.
I thought about reaching across the space for Jamie’s hand, but I didn’t. Instead I just looked over at him, his head resting on my pillow. His eyes were shut.
I wanted to know what happened, how it happened, where they were, if Papa was going to be okay, but I didn’t want to make him recount anything he didn’t want to in this moment. I had never seen him look more tired.
He opened his eyes while I was looking at him, blinked at me.
“I should’ve texted you earlier,” he said, voice croaky.
“Jamie, you had actual real-life important stuff going on. It’s seriously no big deal.”
He nodded, then shivered.
I stood, and moved over to my bed. I was going to pull up one of the blankets that had fallen on the floor and lay it over him. That was my intention. It was definitely my original plan. But I didn’t reach for the blanket. I just stood there, at the edge of the bed, until Jamie scooted over a bit and held open the covers.
I got in.
54.
I TOLD MYSELF THAT CUDDLING Jamie was a necessary accommodation to fit two people into a twin bed. Space conservation is what it was. It was efficient. If I was going to lie here next to him, actively cuddling him was just common sense.
And anyway, maybe it was making him feel better? Was that thinking too much of myself, of my, like, comforting abilities?
He was bigger than me, but he hunched down, pressing his face into my neck. I ran my fingers through his hair absently. It was really soft, way softer than anyone’s hair had a right to be.
“Feels nice,” he murmured after a while.
“Mm,” I replied, because it did; everything in this moment felt a lot nicer than it should have, given the circumstances. Maybe that whole pause-the-battle-scene-or-apocalypse trope where the protagonists drop everything to make out wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
This wasn’t a battle scene though. Jamie was upset, he was stressed, and I shouldn’t have liked the feeling of his arms wrapped around my waist so much, his breath on my skin, but I did.
He adjusted slightly after a bit, and I could feel his lips brush up against my neck, almost a kiss.
I tightened my grip in his hair unconsciously.
“Sorry,” he whispered, pulling back a little.
There was a hush to it, to everything. Like when we stood in front of Acton, the dark and unknowable and irrepressible space just beyond us.
Try it. Just reach out your hand.
I lifted my other hand to his face, traced the line of his jaw with my fingertips, feather light. His eyes flickered shut. And then he dipped his head again, pressing his mouth to my collarbone purposefully this time, lips parting with each kiss he placed there.
My skin felt too tight, like it might
burst, but in the best possible way. When he shifted to kiss my neck, I thought I might combust. Just spontaneously erupt in flames. Could he feel that? Could he tell? Was he feeling it too? He moved up and we were face-to-face now, close, closer than we’d been in so long, my eyes almost blurry with it, and this was it—lips almost brushing—almost—
Then the front door opened.
Jamie startled, sat up quickly, and shifted off the bed just as Rose appeared in the doorway to our room. I was still lying in the exact same spot, now suddenly bereft as Jamie moved toward the dresser, his back turned to the door.
Rose looked between us. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I said. Jamie didn’t turn around.
“I, uh.” Rose contemplated us for just a moment. “Forgot something. In the car. I will be back in … ten minutes.” Her eyes flicked to me. “Fifteen? Fifteen minutes.”
“Okay.”
She disappeared, and the front door opened and closed again, and Jamie and I were alone. Again.
I didn’t know what I wanted. Except that’s a lie—I did. I wanted Jamie to cross back over, get in bed, kiss me everywhere and anywhere he wanted, and give me the liberty to do the same. But I didn’t know how to express that. And I knew realistically we couldn’t accomplish that in the ten to fifteen minutes before Rose returned, but I wanted it anyway. Wanted him.
He just stood there, scratched the back of his neck, rubbed at one eye.
I felt suddenly stupid, still being in bed. Still being a part of something that didn’t get far enough to actually be anything, but was definitely still … something. I stood too, leaving the warmth of the covers behind.
He looked back my way. Not at me specifically, but in my general direction.
And then, finally, he crossed back over. He was coming closer, and closer, he reached out—
And grabbed something on the shelf behind my head.
We both stared down at it: the jar packed with little tinfoil squares.
When his eyes flicked back up to me, there was an odd expression on his face. “You still save the wrappers?”
There it was, all at once. Eight-year-old Jamie, lamenting that Grammy wouldn’t let him have gum. He didn’t care about the candy; he just wanted the wrappers to “build something.”
Something like what? Rose had asked skeptically.
Like a space suit, he had replied with a grin. One of those shiny metal ones.
We were allowed to have gum (or at least, my dad let us have gum when we were with him), so I always asked for the kind with foil wrappers, so I could save them and give them to Jamie.
I kept doing it, even as we got older, even into junior high, despite the fact that the space suit never materialized. I remember presenting him with a bunch of them on the playground in fifth grade. And in sixth grade, dropping a handful of folded rectangles onto his desk in social studies, him grinning up at me. Still working on it, he said.
Seventh grade. It’s gonna be Mars-ready.
Eighth grade. Almost there.
And then I stopped. It stopped, we stopped, but I didn’t stop saving them. I just stopped giving them. And if that wasn’t me in a nutshell.
I told myself it was out of habit. It was a habit that had become mine. It was my thing now. But seeing the jar in Jamie’s hand, all those neatly folded rectangles packed in on each other, shiny and incriminating, I knew that I was really only fooling myself into thinking that they were anything other than a way I could tell Jamie I loved him without saying it out loud. And I never stopped collecting them because I never stopped loving him, and the idea of me convincing myself I had would be laughable if it weren’t so pathetically sad.
You still save the wrappers? hung between us, a question I was meant to answer.
The word caught in my throat a bit, but escaped nonetheless: “Yeah.”
Jamie held my gaze. “Why?”
I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, or something other than absolutely read to hell.
“Just … got in the habit.”
He looked at me another moment more.
Then he reached past me to the shelf. Stuck the jar of wrappers back up there.
“You can have them,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He just smiled a little. “Nah. I couldn’t take your collection.”
It’s your collection, I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
55.
JAMIE LEFT BEFORE ROSE CAME back. He said he wanted to call Gram and see if she needed anything.
“Let me know if we can help at all,” I said, standing in the doorway. Jamie paused in the hallway. He had his coat back on. I wondered if he was planning on going back to the hospital, despite Gram sending him home.
“Thanks.” He nodded. “Thank you.” And then he was gone.
Rose came in a few minutes later. I was on the couch, some cooking show playing on the TV.
Your mystery ingredients? Scallops! And … Honey! Dew! Melon! Chefs, you have FIFTEEN MINUTES!
Rose took off her jacket, stuck it in the coat closet, kicked off her shoes. Sat down on the chair across from the couch and regarded the TV.
“Ugh, scallop gazpacho? That sounds gross.”
It was quiet for a few minutes.
The flavor palate is … unconventional.
Thank you, chef.
I’m not saying it’s a good thing.
“Jamie’s grandpa had a stroke,” I said eventually.
Rose looked over at me sharply. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. Jamie said he was doing all right, but he has to stay in the hospital for a couple days. It was a … mini one, apparently.” A pause. “I didn’t know they, like, came in sizes. It’s like they shrunk a regular stroke in the wash.”
“Jesus, Nina, is there ever one second where you’re not working on your stand-up act?” Rose looked exasperated.
“I’m not trying to be funny, I’m just—” I shook my head.
“What’s going on with you guys?” she said.
“Nothing. I was keeping him company. We were waiting for you, actually.”
“That’s funny, ’cause he seems to have cleared out now that I’m here.”
Chefs, the entrée challenge today involves everyone’s favorite cruciferous vegetable … BOK CHOOOOOY!
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Just … be honest with me.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. “How about, were you having sex with Jamie just now?”
“Agh! No! Geez! I don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“If you can’t talk about sex with me, who can you talk about it with?”
“No one. Ever.”
“Wow, not one single person? Not even whoever you’re having sex with?”
“No, we’ll communicate solely through pictogram.”
Rose rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. The chefs were bringing up their bok choy entrées for judging when she spoke again.
“Just saying, there were … pictogram vibes in the room when I walked in.”
I’ve never had a vegetable with such a … meaty mouthfeel before.
“Just … be responsible, is all I’m getting at,” she said.
“There’s literally nothing to be responsible about.”
“The Conrad family motto,” she muttered. I didn’t reply.
56.
JAMIE MISSED CLASS ON MONDAY. I had texted him that morning: Everything okay?
He sent back a thumbs-up emoji a few hours later, but that was it.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Wondering how Papa was doing. Replaying everything about last night over and over again in my mind, to the point where when Joydeep asked, “Where’s Jamie?” as he slid into his seat before radio class started, it was almost a shock to hear his name out loud—like I had somehow summoned it—and a relief to be able to talk about him.
I told them what had happened with Papa.
“Shit,�
� Joydeep said. “Is there … like can we do anything? To help? Should I text him? I’m gonna text him.”
I looked over at Sasha as Joydeep pulled out his phone. I knew it was astronomically unimportant compared to what was going on with Jamie, but I couldn’t help but bring it up. “Look, about the whole thing with my dad … I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Sasha replied.
“But—”
“It’ll keep,” she said with a small smile.
Jamie was back in class on Wednesday and was the first one in the student gallery when I arrived for a Sounds of the Nineties meeting that afternoon.
“How’s Papa doing?”
“Okay. He’s back home now, which is good.”
“Good. That’s good. Just … let me know if you need anything.”
“Yeah, thanks.” When he spoke next, he was trying very hard to sound casual, which I knew as someone who often tried very hard to sound casual. “Hey, so. About the other day.” A pause. “Sorry if I … made it weird. I shouldn’t have…” He trailed off, shook his head.
“Nah, it’s…” I couldn’t say it was nothing because it wasn’t nothing to me. Just the idea of kissing Jamie felt sufficient to light me on fire.
But Jamie didn’t want that—he was saying so now. He thought it was a mistake.
I swallowed, and tried to convey the vibe of someone whose heart was not plummeting to the floor. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, like my heart was exactly where it should have been, like this didn’t hurt at all.
But I couldn’t leave it at that. I didn’t want it to be like it was before. I didn’t want to drift apart again, not if I could help it. “We’re … friends, right?”
A complicated series of emotions broadcast across the Jamietron, and then he nodded, a brief jerk of the head.
“Good,” I said, and I couldn’t stop it from tumbling out, something about Jamie sitting there and the quiet of the student gallery and the memory of the warmth coursing through me that night in my room, in my bed—“I’ll always be your friend. I’ll always … want to be your friend.” I swallowed. “Just … so you know.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said. There was something indecipherable happening behind his eyes. “Okay.”