Shauna wakes up to a breathing that isn’t hers. Even without opening her eyes, she knows who it is. Who it always is, during sleepovers and rides back home and study hall. Jackie. She’s memorized the way she breathes, because it’s the only thing to focus on in the otherwise quiet cabin. It’s a sharp, quick inhale, then a shaky exhale, like she’s just finished running across the soccer field.
“You’re awake,” Jackie whispers. Shauna says nothing, keeps her eyes shut. The fire crackles nearby. She can feel the warmth of Jackie’s hand hovering over her arm like she wants to touch her. She won’t. “I know you’re awake.”
Shauna relents, opening her eyes. Jackie’s curled up beside her, blanket up to her chin, flushed. Snow dusts her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. Shauna knows that, beneath the blanket, she’s in the same clothes she froze in. The varsity jacket, the striped shirt, the jeans she took from Shauna. She’s memorized every article of clothing.
Jackie’s hand goes to move the strand of hair hanging in front of Shauna’s eyes. It’s soft. Gentle. Her hand is cold. Too much.
Shauna flinches, and Jackie relents instantly.
“I’m sorry,” Jackie says, in a voice opposite to the one she used in the hallways, powerful and dramatic. Just like her. Now, she speaks in a whisper, almost bashful. “I didn’t mean-”
“You always mean it,” Shauna snaps, though it lacks fire. “You just don’t like what it means.”
Jackie doesn’t answer. The wind hisses outside.
“I loved you.” It comes out of Shauna’s mouth faster than she can think.
Jackie doesn’t ask what that means. Maybe she knows. Maybe she’s known for a long time, even when she’d braid Shauna’s hair and say, “You’d look so pretty if you tried.” That was always the problem– Jackie could be so kind, only to spoil the moment with an off-hand comment that always ached Shauna between her ribs. Shauna would still follow her despite it all.
Jackie leans in, like she’ll kiss her. Or say something truly cruel. Or both. Shauna doesn’t move.
“You hurt me,” Jackie says hollowly. It’s more haunting and painful than anything else she could’ve said.
“You hurt me first.”
The silence after is long. Then Jackie shifts close, so close, until her forehead rests against Shauna’s. She’s trembling- maybe from the frost that clings to her skin, maybe from the closeness of the hearth.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Shauna admits.
“Yes, you do. You always have.”
And maybe that’s what hurts Shauna the most. That this- the closeness, the wanting- now only exists in this dreamlike state, before she truly opens her eyes and finds the space where Jackie slept empty.
Jackie doesn’t kiss her. Not ever. But she stays here, legs tangled with Shauna’s, hand rubbing her back.
And maybe that’s worse.