(Originally Published by AC|DC)

April came over after she’d texted heyyy it’s been too long!! ;). And even though it had only been about a month, I had hearted the message, and then there we were, both of us standing a little outside my doorway, her on the doormat and me on the threshold. We hugged long and she put her hand in my hair, and then we sat on the floor for about twenty minutes and we talked about nothing and we laughed and we almost cuddled and then she said, “I have a girlfriend,” and I said back, “Okay,” and then she asked, “Do you still have your gummies?” and I almost asked, “When was the last time we were sober when we hung out?” but instead said, “Um, yeah,” and then we both went over to the closet and I opened it and we both looked into the dark, narrow space that had one old board game and a dusty blanket and a cashews tin full of weed. 

So I grabbed the tin and I popped it open; I handed her a gummy and then she looked at me with raised eyebrows and a little smile and she said, “We haven’t gone over 10 milligrams ever. You want to try what it feels like to do more?” And the prospect scared me but I said, “Sure,” and we both took two gummies instead of one, meaning that now, we had double the amount and there was no stopping our chewing, swallowing, and grimacing, because it would always taste bad. 

Then we went back to the couch and we looked at the ads passing over the screen and she said, “Do you know that TVs cost so much less now because they let ads run on them?” And I said, “Wow.” And then she reached for my hand and I said, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” And she said, “Oh right,” and put her hand right back by her side, but still in the middle of the couch between us. I sat on my hand because it shook and got all sweaty and even though I was glad my roommates were still on vacation together, I wished they were here with their dinner making and Taylor Swift songs and dates with boys. 

“You’re the man of the house when we’re gone,” one had said, and then the other had said, “That’s actually upholding the patriarchy. Just because she’s a man doesn’t mean she has more power over the apartment than us,” and then I’d said, “You’re going to miss your plane.”

April said, “What are you thinking about?” And I said, “Oh nothing, just tired.” She said, “It takes like forty minutes to hit, what do you mean you’re tired?” And she reached for my hand again and grabbed it. “You have a girlfriend,” I said.

Then she just smiled and let go of my hand, but she scooted closer, and I was glued to the seat cushions and couldn’t move so I just stared at the ads going across the TV screen. “I Saw the TV Glow,” I said when I saw an ad for the movie. “I’ve always wanted to see it.” She didn’t say anything, so I kept talking. “It’s like, about being trans, I think.” 

April looked at the TV and at the ad and then she shrugged and then looked at me, and her eyes scrunched up when she asked, “Would you want to watch that because you just like—because like—you’re not like, Jaylee anymore?” 

And my throat closed up real tight and I said, “I just have never watched it before and I’ve heard good things about it and A24 produced it and I like their movies.” 

She sighed and she set her head on my shoulder and she asked, “Can I still call you Jaylee?” 

And it was too comfortable for me to shrug away, but I knew she’d blame me for it later.

“I like Jasper better.” 

“Okay,” she said.

***

When we were in bed, she said, “I’ve had sex with a lot of guys, but I’ve never heard them make sounds like that. Like, Jaylee sounds, not Jasper sounds.” 

I stared at my ceiling and I wondered what kind of gelato that my roommates were eating. In Italy, there were like a thousand flavors, from what I’d heard. I wanted a mint chocolate chip one. Did they have that flavor? Could they bring it back from Italy? The gelato would get all melted in the suitcase and then it would not be gelato anymore, just a bunch of lukewarm sticky soup. 

“Was what we did okay?” 

“Hm?” 

“You have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, I have a girlfriend,” and she laughed a little. “But she doesn’t, mm,” and she smacked her lips together, her voice sounding dry and cracked, “She doesn’t kiss like you do.” 

I stared at the ceiling some more. As a kid, I used to have these old, glow-in-the-dark, stick-on stars plastered onto the ceiling in all these pretty constellations, and I’d trace my eyes over each one and name them before going to bed. Maybe I could buy some more. Would I get charged more rent if I plastered stars all over my ceiling like that? Would I get my security deposit back? 

“I said,” she cuddled herself into the sweaty crook of my arm. “That she doesn’t kiss like you. Or fuck like you.” 

The ceiling felt far away, and my tongue felt way too big for my mouth. My lips were all cracked from kissing and I didn’t have enough saliva and my mouth felt so utterly separate from the rest of me and it all made me not want to talk for the rest of my life. Eventually, after she kept saying the same iteration of that stupid shit over and over, I found it in myself to say, “So do you think you’re bi, then?” 

I couldn’t see her face because it was all so dark, but I could hear her sniff.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m still a lesbian.” 

I wanted to say the obvious, but instead I just asked her, “Why don’t you break up with your girlfriend?” 

And she said, “Oh, you know. She’s really good for me. I think I love her.” 

Something in me cried, but I couldn’t talk or think well enough to know exactly how I could cry or tell her to fuck off and get out of my bed or to never text me again or to stop having sex with me when I was drunk or high, for her to stop gasping, “Jaylee” at the wrong moments, for her to stop making jokes and wrapping me safe in her arms and smelling like sleep, for her to stop bringing up her girlfriend and for her to stop saying she doesn’t remember these types of things in the morning, for her to stop being one of my only friends. 

Instead, I kept looking at the ceiling and I said, “I want gelato.” 

“Weird but fair.” 

“Do you think DoorDash would deliver gelato at two in the morning?” 

“Probably not.” 

That’s when I actually started crying, and I cried so hard that it made snot get all clogged in my nose and it made me cough like I was going to throw up and so I had to sit up and it all made my whole body shake and it probably made her feel awkward, because it got to the point where she peeled herself off of me, pulled on her underwear and buckled her bra, stepped into her leggings, slid into her sweater, sat on the bed, how she sat there and I was still sitting naked, sobbing and covering my chest, wishing more than anything that I was anyone else, anywhere else, and then she set her hand on my knee, her fingers cold and acrylic nails sharp.

She asked, “Are you okay?” and I said, “No,” and she said, “Sorry,” and I thought about saying, “No you’re not,” but then I actually said, “Stop.” 

April cleared her throat and took her hand away from my knee, the nails scraping bits of my bare skin. 

“Um, stop what?” 

I tried to figure out how to tell her to stop being herself without sounding more mean. I wiped my eyes and tried to look up, even though I knew she wouldn’t be able to see the way I looked at her; she would just be seeing my shadowy, naked outline. “I think I need to be alone right now,” was all I could really say, and my throat was so tight and dry that it sounded like I was choking when I said it. 

She said, “Are you going to be safe?” and I hated that she asked that, because it meant that she remembered that one time when, a few hours after she’d fucked me and left, she had to come back over with bandages and petroleum jelly and tape up my arms.

I said, “Yeah.” And then I said, “Are you going to be safe?” And she said, “I think so.” I said, “Okay,” back—and even though I wanted to be alone, even though I wanted her to leave, every bit of me also screamed for her to not leave me alone in this dark, starless, empty apartment. I told her, “Okay,” even though I knew it wasn’t safe for her to drive.

I didn’t even get up when she walked out of the room, holding the wall for support; I just listened to the way her shoes scuffled as she pushed them on and said, “Love you Jasper,” and how she said the “s” all long and annoying. She used to do that with “Jaylee,” stretching out the “y” forever or sometimes calling me “Gaylee.”

I wish I’d said, “I love you” back and I wish I’d watched her open the door, I wish I’d watched her stumble down the stairs and walk to her car and I wish I’d heard the beep of it unlocking and the way the engine started and I wish I’d listened to the way the tires crunched away from my apartment forever.