There is a piece of paper somewhere on Jessica’s desk which, in between coffee stains and hastily scribbled phone numbers and reminders to buy more milk, has a list of dates on it. She has seen the calendar in Trish’s apartment which has the same dates marked. A bunch of close calls, or as Trish calls them: lunch dates. They collect them like couples collect anniversaries, crossed out numbers and place names a reminder of each other. Jessica can trace their relationship backwards through events she failed to turn up to, unanswered voicemails, the letters she wrote and then threw in the garbage. Jeri is better at keeping promises than she is, but then Jeri is also better at hiding what a fucking trainwreck she is. (Somewhere in the apartment Jessica also has a folder full of things she’s heard, seen, read about Jeri. Just in case.)
She doesn’t pretend that she doesn’t understand why they still agree to the meet ups, why she offers dinner like a peace offering after Trish fixes yet another fuck up she’s made as if only she can fix everything around Jessica then maybe she can fix Jessica, why Trish always says yes. She lies to herself about a lot of things –and that list is longer than the one on her desk – but she doesn’t lie about Trish. There’s a lot of things they don’t say, a lot of things she won’t say, so they do things instead. It doesn’t always work. Jessica knows every arranged lunch date is Trish saying I missed you, Trish doesn’t know that every time she fails to turn up Jessica is saying I’m sorry. There are only so many ways to spin I’m working dead end job after dead end job chasing cheaters and boozehounds and ticket dodgers because I want to do something good in the world, and lie about how helpful your therapist was. There was only so many times Jessica could let Trish pay for both of them at some nice place before the guilt settled nice and deep in her chest and she stopped being able to eat at restaurants.
One time, one of the last times she actually turned up for a lunch date, in the time after Kilgrave but before everything else that she only knows happened because of bills and notices and hospital appointments, she had been drinking for several hours already before finding the coffee house Trish had selected. It was nice, a compromise between Jessica’s mental health and Trish’s need to look after her. She hadn’t eaten in two days. A cut had bled through the sleeve of her shirt and her leather jacket felt too tight and heavy and cold, clinging to her like the feelings she could never wash away with the alcohol. Trish had arrived first, because she had never been late for anything except a period when she was twenty two and then the subsequent appointment at the clinic (Jessica had held her hand when she took the test, when she made the appointment, when she was shaking in the car and in the waiting room and the rest of the night afterwards.). In hindsight, Trish already being there was probably what prevented Jessica from being escorted out. Still able to taste the whiskey she’d thrown back in the morning, Jessica had lurched her way to the table and sat down with enough force to make the chair groan and creak in protest. She had smiled at Trish, the first smile of her own volition in months, and far from the first in a line of lies. Trish ordered them both water, disappointment and sadness marrying into heartache on her face. She would later walk Jessica home and systematically go through her apartment and find all of the alcohol before pouring it down the sink. Jessica bought more the next day.
The first time she didn’t turn up, Jessica walked as far as the street opposite some sandwich bar and watched Trish sit at a table and wait for two hours before leaving. Her phone buzzed in her pocket only twice. After the first hour Trish had simply sat and nursed a drink, calling over a waiter to refill it with something bright and alcoholic in the last half an hour before she tipped less than she usually did and walked away. Once Trish was out of sight, lost in the New York crowd, Jessica’s phone announced another text from her. I’m here if you need me. It’s still on Jessica’s phone, always on her thoughts, on the tip of Trish’s tongue. Echoing in Jessica’s head after nightmares, flashbacks, drinking binges. Sometimes she picks up the phone and listens to Trish tell her about the issues of the day, pie recipes, yoga, that she’s not alone, Jessica with a voice that fails to hide her worry. Sometimes she sees herself in front of the bus.
It’s 6AM on a Wednesday, and the sound of rain, backed up traffic, and pedestrians swearing filters through the window. New York at its finest. She wakes up with a post-it note stuck to her forehead, two more scrunched in her hair, and cup of coffee sludge perilously close to ruining some official crap Jeri has bestowed upon her with a smile that promised it wouldn’t be fun for her no matter if she did the job or not. Jessica Jones at her finest. Her cell phone is charged but her laptop isn’t and after three days she should probably change her jeans. She’s not sure she has other jeans which aren’t currently in a worse state. Fuck it, if anyone asks she’ll say she was on a stake out. Or she’ll throw them through a door. She needs to get more coffee before trying to interact with other people. Or other people need to get less annoying. Piling the papers and notes into a rough mountain of work next to her laptop and then abandoning it she unplugs her phone from the wall and sits back on her bed. Which, oh yay, is covered in bits of the ceiling again.
She’s using gum in lieu of the toothpaste she ran out of yesterday and the toothbrush which has spontaneously disappeared, when she finds the stained piece of paper again and sees today’s date.
Scrabbling for her phone she texts Trish.
Still on for breakfast?
Two minutes later her screen lights up with Trish’s response, emojis and all.
Of course, Jess. : D
When she turns up at Trish’s, caffeinated, reasonably presentable, and holding flowers which she thinks look like the ones Trish tried to grow once, she answers Trish’s smile with an honest one of her own and the flowers get crushed in the ensuing hug. Luckily, the pancakes are stacked on the table in Trish’s kitchen and unharmed.
She thinks they could turn off the light and still easily see from the glow of Trish’s smile.
Definitely Jessica Jones at her finest. And this time, she thinks Trish understands.