It always happens late at night, sometime between midnight and 3 am. I find myself in front of my screen, one way or another, the blue light illuminating my face amongst the dark room. Tonight, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with the laptop open in front of me on the coffee table, is no different. My fingers, muscle memory, type your name.
J-O-N.
Your voice pops into my head as soon as the name appears on the screen.“It’s Jon. No ‘H.’” You know, my mom still refers to you as Jon-no-H whenever she references a forgotten memory, retells a ridiculous story with you as the star. Even after all these years.
But, with each passing year, I am finding it harder to remember the exact sound of your voice, and on the worst nights, like tonight, I forget the music of your laugh. Shamefully, I refer back to the old videos saved on my desktop in a folder labelled ‘JC’ and, inside that, a folder saved as ‘Don’t Do It.’ In there, I find the one of you half-singing/half-slurring terrible karaoke in front of that crowded restaurant in Miami, full of angry drunk people and spring breakers that want nothing more than for you to wrap it up.
I also find the one of us riding in your old Honda, and I smile as I click play.
The video starts with the camera pointed at the sky. The sun is fully gone at that point, tucking itself neatly behind the horizon, but the clear sky is still streaked with flaming red and orange, a warm pink intermixed. That is your favorite part of dusk, just after the sun disappears.
“I arranged this for you,” your soft voice sounds in the background of the video, and my heart feels as if it’s being tied into a knot and shoved down into the pit of my stomach. That’s your voice. That is how you sound. How do I ever forget?
“You arranged the sunset for me?” I hear myself ask, playfully.
“Just for you,” you say, and the screen pans over to the side of your face. I hold it a little crooked, and the image is mostly your silhouette as you drive. Your cheeks are visibly puffed up because of your smile, and I spot your cute button nose. I loved your profile then. I love it now.
“That’s so nice,” video-me responds, and the video shakes as I giggle and you join. All too fast the image cuts back to the sunset. Then it ends. Tonight, I press the replay button before clicking out of it.
My fingers type: C-A-M-P-B-E-L-L.
Like the soup. Another one of your lines.
Your online profile appears, filling my screen. I inhale sharply at the sight, and then exhale with laughter once I remember the picture you had as your default. It’s just… so stupid.
Like clockwork, I click on the picture so that it is the only thing on my screen.
There you are, in your favorite plaid shirt that is about three times too big, hugging a shoe tightly to your chest, your eyes closed with a closed-lipped smile spread across your intoxicated face. Your shaggy dark hair is unkempt, and although I am the one who took the picture, I can’t remember what the joke was. The comments display next to it, a chorus of laughter emojis from those who were there and question marks from those weren’t. And one heart. From me.
And then I’m clicking on your profile, the one I checked religiously for a year after your accident, in denial, in grief. I should close the computer. I should go to bed.
But I don’t. I scroll and scroll and the years begin to melt into one big blur simply labeled ‘the past.’ I’m entering the past before me. Before we even met each other.
My hands start to shake and I remove my finger from the touchpad. I tell myself it’s time for bed now. But, as if I lose possession over my own body, I find my feet slipping on the slippers that lay under my parent’s coffee table, and my legs push me up off the ground to walk me to the french press sitting on the kitchen counter. I place the laptop on the kitchen table, open. My legs are numb from sitting cross-legged for so long, and I rotate my ankles and grit my teeth in anticipation for the shooting pains that will soon follow. I empty some remaining coffee grounds into the french press container and put on water to boil.
“What are you doing up?” comes a small voice from the entrance of the kitchen, and I almost drop the now-empty coffee bag in my hand. My hand flies to my chest.
“Rosa, you scared me,” I say as my younger sister enters the kitchen. Her curly dark hair is pulled into a sloppy bun that lay lopsided on top of her head.
“You’re making coffee? Oooh, make me some too,” she says before hurrying to the pantry.
My eyes flicker to the time on the stove. 3:18 am. I sigh. “I don’t think you need coffee at this hour. Do you even drink coffee yet?”
She dramatically rolls her eyes at me before opening the pantry doors. “I’m a senior in high school. It’d be weird if I hadn’t started drinking coffee yet.”
“Mom and Dad didn’t let me drink coffee at all in high school,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter. There is quiet for a few seconds as Rosa rummages around. Finally, she emerges with Nutella in her hands.
“Please, tell me more about how hard your life was,” she teases, pouting as she takes her pointer finger and runs it down her cheek, following an invisible tear. She triumphantly holds up the Nutella. “This makes every cup of coffee better!”
I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You take a spoonful of Nutella and dip it in the coffee. The hot liquid makes the Nutella all melty, and the coffee tastes a little more chocolatey! A homemade mocha, if you will.”
“Is that what the kids are drinking these days?”
“Only the cool ones,” Rosa grins.
I rub my eyes and stifle a yawn. “Coffee at 3 am isn’t a great idea, but coffee and Nutella at 3 am sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Well, if you’re having coffee at this hour, I’m having one too. Really, you should be in bed getting your beauty sleep. It’s only four more hours until all the craziness begins,” she says, prancing over to the table in a way that only Rosa could pull off in the middle of the night. I notice then that my laptop is still open, the screen covered with hundreds of your pictures staring out at us.
Rosa stops abruptly, noticing the screen too.
I dart for the laptop but Rosa cuts in front of me, the Nutella jar dropping to the ground with a thud. She snatches the laptop before I get a chance and holds it to her, the screen pressed against her chest. Her arms wrap tightly around it, and neither of us say anything for a few moments.
Finally, Rosa speaks. “Why?”
I don’t remember my hand raising to my mouth, but I begin to chew on my thumbnail regardless. I am unable to look at her in the face.
She squints at me. “Cold feet?”
I shake my head.
“You know, we all really like Jamie.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Me too.”
“So then… why?”
“I can’t explain it.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s just something I have to do from time to time.”
“You’ve done this before? I mean, recently?”
I look away from Rosa and lick my lips. “Every few months or so.”
“Jesus.”
My face grows warm but so does my stomach, the anger and shame and guilt combining together to start a fire inside of me. Finally I find the courage to look at her. She is staring at me as if I have lost my mind, as if the laptop she’s holding is a shield that is protecting her from my crazy. Her eyes are big, matching her wide open mouth, and the fire inside of me escapes.
“You have no idea what that was like, Rosa! It took me years to finally be okay. You were so young. Please. Spare me.” I yank the kitchen chair back from the table and plop down with a grunt. The water starts to boil on the stove, and Rosa slowly walks to shut it off. She sets the laptop down on the counter, and I see your pictures looking back at me. Even from this distance, I can tell you’re laughing in all of them. I turn away.
Rosa carefully pours the boiling water into the french press, and places the cover over the top. She is uncharacteristically quiet. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
“It’s eerie. He actually used to say all the time that he felt like he was going to die young.” The words just leave from my mouth. Forgive me, I don’t even know why I’m saying them.
Rosa doesn’t speak, but brings the french press over to the table. She sets it down gently and looks at me with cautious eyes, pulling the sleeves of her pajamas over her hands so just the tips of her fingers poke out.
I take a deep breath. “After it happened, I felt I was going to die young, too. Romeo and Juliet, right?”
Rosa smiles softly and says, “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You’re ancient now.”
My mouth opens in a gasp but, incredibly, the corners are turned upward. “You’re a little shit,” I say, swatting at her with a laugh.
Rosa takes a step back, barely escaping my swinging hand. She pretends to flip her hair over her shoulder, despite all of it still resting in a knot on the top of her head. “That’s what they call me.”
I watch as Rosa grabs the open laptop from the counter and rests it on her hip, reaching for two spoons and two empty mugs. One mug has multicolored polka dots scattered all over it, and the other says “World’s Best Dad” with a cartoon car, football, and baseball on it. Rosa gave the latter to me for my 26th birthday last year. She loves gifting lame thrift shop mugs that have nothing to do with the recipient.
She brings them all over to the table and takes a seat across from me. She reaches for the Nutella jar that lay on the floor. Then Rosa sits up straight, purses her lips, and starts to type. Her fingers glide effortlessly over the keyboard.
“What are you doing?” I say, reaching for my laptop. She pulls it closer to her and holds up one finger. I raise my hand to my mouth and chew my thumbnail once more as Rosa finishes her typing. She smiles, satisfied, and turns the laptop around so it faces me. The screen no longer shows pictures of you, but instead a private chat between us two. I find it hard to breathe. I don’t ever come here.
The messages above are from almost a decade earlier, filled with smiley faces and red hearts. God, we used terrible grammar, because that was the cool thing to do, right? My face warms, thinking of Rosa seeing these ridiculous messages just a few seconds ago.
In the chat box below, I spot the message Rosa just typed:
It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. I have to say these things to you:
Aware of Rosa’s eyes watching me, I force a smile.
“God, Rosa, you want me to write a sappy note? What, am I in a lifetime movie or something?”
Rosa rolls her eyes. “What you need, my dear sister, is closure.”
I laugh, but Rosa places her elbows on the table and props her head up with her hands. She blinks slowly, and for the first time tonight I can see the exhaustion wearing on her. “I can write it for you if you want. I’ve gotten pretty good at writing. If you don’t believe me, just wait for my Maid of Honor speech tomorrow.” She pauses and looks at the clock. “Well, today. Shit.”
“Have you even started writing it?” I ask skeptically.
“I have an outline,” she protests. When I raise my eyebrows, she points to her temple with her finger and taps it twice. “Up here.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
She shrugs and begins to press the plunger of the french press down.
I look back at the screen and allow my fingers to find the keyboard. They stay there for a moment, unmoving. Rosa tips the french press and begins to fill her mug with the coffee.
My fingers begin to move.
So… I’m getting married tomorrow. I still have trouble believing it. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to this point. Jon, thank you for giving me the ability to love and the knowledge that I can survive life after loss.
Maybe Rosa is right, and closure really is what I need. Where did she ever learn that?
I’m not sure which is more important.
“What did you write?” Rosa asks, grabbing a spoon and dunking a large spoonful of Nutella into her mug.
I love you.
“What did you write?” she asks again, licking the melted Nutella from her spoon. Some smears onto the end of her nose.
Goodbye.
“What did you write?” Rosa asks, this time more impatiently.
I’m getting married tomorrow. I am no longer a teenager head over heels for my first love. That version of me exists with that version of you. It exists in grammatically incorrect chats and blurry pictures documenting adventures we had after sneaking out of our parents’ houses. It exists in the ‘Don’t Do It’ folder on my laptop, full with videos of us trying weed for the first time and drawing obscene pictures in permanent marker on the faces of whichever friends passed out first at house parties.
I send the message, knowing full well it will never be read by you.
“Don’t be so nosy,” I tease, handing Rosa a napkin and gesturing to the mess on her nose. I push my mug across to the table towards her. “Now, please make the bride a homemade mocha.”
I click back to your profile and hover over the ‘Unfriend’ button.
Jon, I have to let you go now.
I swallow and hesitate before pressing the button. The page refreshes, and when it loads again, I see just a glimmer of your profile, the one that hasn’t been updated in over nine years. A very small window into the life that once existed. I am surprised by the weight that lifts from me, the tension that releases. I am realizing now how closely I held you to me all these years.
Rosa hands me the ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug, filled to the brim with coffee with the end of a spoon sticking out.
“Now pull the spoon out and lick the melted Nutella off,” she instructs, grinning with tired eyes.
I snap my laptop shut and, just as I’m about to do as she says, I reach forward and clink my mug with hers. She watches as I remove my spoon from the steaming coffee and enjoy my first ever homemade mocha.
Paige Gardner is a lover of all things fiction. She enjoys writing novels, short stories, and flash fiction. Paige grew up in a small town outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Manchester, UK with her husband. She is a co-founder of Dandelion Revolution Press. When Paige is not writing, she loves teaching English to adults, exploring her new home in the UK, enjoying a drink with close friends, and laughing. You can find more of her writing at paigegardnerwrites.com.
What a lovely piece, Paige. Typically poignant and vivid. I was in the kitchen with the two sister!
This is beautiful, Paige. I laughed out loud in a sigh of relief at, "Now pull the spoon out and lick the melted Nutella off,” she instructed, grinning with tired eyes.