The last time Trish saw Jessica: the crux of Spring-Summer, dewy and bright and chilled. She had red hair, Jessica had flashbacks. Dinner, a pasta dish she hasn’t eaten since and nice wine. Talking and laughing and “remember that time—“. Kissing in the dark on the balcony, against the kitchen counter, in bed, clothes coming away with the last flashes of true sobriety. Jessica rolling them over, “I need—I need—“, words melting into moans, hands holding onto Trish like she was an anchor. Whispered assurances through huffed breathes hot on her neck, her chest; “I’m fine. Just, just let me.” Open eyes meeting Jessica’s gaze, wondering why she was staring down at her like this was the first time she had seen her, like it was the last time she would see her. Jessica’s nails cutting into her shoulders, her own hands tangled in the sheets. The rush of heat, tasting herself on Jessica’s lips, tasting Jessica.
Waking up alone. Showering fifteen minutes longer than usual and not being able to wash away the worry. Going to work, knowing she wouldn’t call but still holding her breath greeting every new caller. Wondering if she did something wrong, wondering if Jessica was safe, writing fifteen texts and deleting ten. Sending the remaining five over half an hour and compulsively checking her cellphone even longer because old habits die hard but memories die harder and all she can think about is Jessica. Jessica in the hospital. Jessica at the docks, at the edge. Jessica drunker than a dog and vomiting on herself, apartment walls pockmarked with fist-sized dents, knuckles bleeding, lip bitten swollen and red, talking about purple men and pain, asking Trish to stay. Jessica getting into fights and drinking straight vodka at 10AM.
Six months of what ifs, of what if it happens again, of never seeing Jessica and seeing her everywhere. A phone bill that gave her a headache. Information dripping through the grapevine because Trish can’t just let her go; sending one or two people Jessica’s way and outlining a feature for her next show on guilt. No explanations. Until now.
Tonight: Jessica showing up on her balcony like a ghost, all of her hopes and regrets looking at her with a dead eyed stare and slapping her in the face with a nightmare they’ve both had a hundred times over.
“I needed breathing room.”
Anger still broils in the pit of her stomach – at Jessica, at herself – as the words ring inside her head. Why didn’t you tell me gets stuck in her throat and a scoff comes out. A hundred old arguments fill her ears and she bites her tongue when she thinks that she should have seen this coming.
“He’s back.”
Jessica says it like I’m sorry and suddenly the New York winter gets so much colder. Trish sees the pale wan of exhaustion and alcoholism in Jessica’s face, dark eyes ringed by darker circles, clothes hanging looser than she remembered them the last time. Rehab mantras ring in her head, how to deal with relapses. Passages from books on PTSD. The nights they spent on Jessica’s apartment floor, ignoring the neighbours’ banging and holding hands until the shaking stopped. It all quietens when she sees the hurt flash on Jessica’s face at the question of flashbacks and nightmares. When she sees the guilt; the fidgeting, just how much darker Jessica’s eyes have gotten. As she remembers Everything That Happened (and not for the first time this day), she also remembers countless other things. How when Jessica wasn’t punching assholes and saving kids from being hit by cars she was hiding in the shadows. Late night confessions over empty glasses, into pillows, about not being good enough. She doesn’t remember to stop the words falling out her mouth, though, reassurances that have piled up inside of her since the last time she saw her face (the time she left), and they hit Jessica like friendly fire. Jessica who can take on twelve men and win but flinches from one compliment.
Arms wrapped around herself because she can’t wrap them around Jessica, she knows she’s going to get the money she’s asking for. She’d give her life for Jessica and she wouldn’t even have to ask. But it doesn’t hurt any less to see Jessica only a few feet away from her when the last six months still hangs between them, a canyon of missed calls and heartache.
She won’t let it get any wider.