He Didn't Want Jessica: He Wanted Jessica, If
On the woman who didn't know she was starving until she finally fed herself
You cannot bury yourself deep enough to stay lost. You can try, but it's not natural.
The Exhibit
None of the poetry at the exhibit specifically spoke to me. It was my first time attending one, invited by my new friend Eric, the first friend I made in university since attending my first class, three years ago.
"You really should come tonight," he texted me earlier that day. "You wanna be a writer, right?"
"Right," I replied, reluctantly. I wanted to go to the exhibit, of course I wanted to go, but I was afraid. It was easy to call myself a writer when I was alone in my bedroom, but I knew this room wouldn't be the same. This room was filled with writers, raw and real.
They would sniff out an imposter. They would see it in my eyes.
But of course, that didn't happen.
The First Texts
We returned to Eric's place after the exhibit, sitting down to play a game of cards with a few of his friends. As I placed my phone on the table, I noticed two message notifications, received ten minutes apart, from a number I hadn't yet saved, though by now I quickly recognized it as Michael.
"How about we go to a show tomorrow? You'd like the band."
"We can get milkshakes after?"
Turning my phone over on the table, I considered what excuse I would make up this time, how I would turn him down, for the fourth time now. If the third time was supposed to be the charm, I decided the fourth time warranted the truth. If you've ever found yourself gently, repeatedly turning someone down and still wondering why they won't take the hint, our piece on healthy boundaries is worth reading.
"I'm honestly not ready for anything right now, you seem nice, but it's not the right time for me." Send.
He replied quickly. "If you're like me, and you love to love, you'll practice levity to save you from tumult."
Levity? I wondered for a moment, before typing the word into my search bar.
Levity: The treatment of a serious matter with humour or lack of due respect.
Maybe he was right, but I wasn't sure. So I turned him down again.
He still texted me "good morning."
I turned him down again.
He still called me nicknames, like "little poet," or "dreamer."
I turned him down again.
And then he stopped asking.
And then, we had dinner.
The Bracelet
It was awkward at first, it felt like a job interview. Though I surprised myself when he asked me to tell him about myself, vague and open-ended, and I rambled without end. I told him about the book I was writing, the self-help memoir about navigating love, loss, and identity in your twenties. I told him about the summer courses I had enrolled in to pursue my English minor. I told him about my love for fashion, for music, for reading and writing. I laid all my cards on the table, every single one, even the ones I didn't know were hiding up my sleeve.
"Wait, I just remembered," he said, interrupting me. He dug his hand into his pants pocket, drawing out a closed fist around a silver chain bracelet, black and red felt hearts between the links. "I couldn't put it on myself." He handed me the bracelet. "If you're gonna be my girl, you have to be able to put this on me."
I fumbled with the bracelet, the lightness in my hand heavier than all the cards I had laid combined. He asked me all the right questions, he just wasn't listening.
I held the bracelet around his wrist, hoping I could make the ends meet. Pulling tight, I closed the clasp while the chain cut a crease around his wrist.
The Jacket
On our third date he took me to a live show, after meeting first at a bakery on College. The venue was just down the street.
The conversation was easy and the pastries were delicious. I liked the idea of a quiet start to a night that would end loud.
Stepping out of the bakery and into the cold, Michael offered me his jacket. I told him I had my own, and he needed one jacket more than I needed two. He insisted and I declined once or twice more, until he dressed me in his jacket and zipped it all the way.
I felt a little silly. My jacket underneath was long, leather and brown, while Michael's, on top, was a short black puffer.
But I was really, really warm.
He pulled the hood over my head and smiled, not noticing the mismatch in my outfit.
For a while, he wanted all of me. At least, it really felt like it. The attention was consuming enough that I mistook his grip for warmth.
The Writing
I sent him my writing the way you show someone something you love about yourself, hoping they'll help you love it more. I was proud of my work. The creative nonfiction I had written was personal for me. It didn't end on a resolution, which was why I liked it. It ended in the uncomfortable in between. I felt it was some of my best writing.
"I think it's done," I texted Michael. "Idk if I like it yet, I'm too wrapped up in it to judge it properly."
"Lol ok I'm reading," he replied.
As I sat at the edge of my bed, I placed my phone face down against the mattress; I didn't want to see any of his feedback until it all came in.
The first ding was the loudest. The next few rang in quick succession. But then they got slower, each ding of my phone feeling more deliberate than the last. By the sixth one, part of me wished I had just read them as they came in.
I flipped my phone.
"Babe it's good writing but I don't see where the tension and resolution is in the story."
"It's too matter-of-fact."
"It's more like an account than a story."
"Is the story about your gender identity, or your relationship with the hairdresser or what?"
"The ending seems kind of irrelevant to the rest of the story."
"You gotta make it FICTION."
I stared at the screen. I typed out "but it's not fiction, it's creative nonfiction," before erasing the message completely, instead sending "yeah I see your point."
While the cursor blinked at the end of my closing sentence, my index finger hovered over the delete button; teetering.
I would not make it fiction. I couldn't. It wasn't.
Jessica, If
Whenever I showed myself to Michael, he handed me back a refracted version he preferred. I was never "Jessica" to him. I was "Jessica, if," "Jessica, but," or "Jessica, and."
When I showed him a guitar solo I had been practicing for months, he said, "you shouldn't be able to play that well, for how good you actually are."
Jessica, if she couldn't play guitar.
When Michael met Eric, it came the moment we said our goodbyes. "I can't believe you're friends with a guy like that. He's just like, a lot, you know?"
Jessica, but she isn't friends with Eric.
When I wore jeans on our second date, he told me to wear something soft next time so he could "feel me good."
Jessica, but she only wears soft clothes.
When he ran his hands through my hair, whining, "but, it's so pretty," after every Pinterest haircut I showed him.
Jessica, if she never cuts her hair.
When he was irritated I didn't want children immediately, when we negotiated my due date to line up with my graduation.
Jessica, if she was a mother. Jessica, but without the future she wanted. Jessica, but she never gets to change.
After an unexpected conversation with my aunt, I texted Michael. "I figured it out! I wanna be a teacher! That way I can write on the side, and teach English to support me! I'm gonna apply to teachers college after university!"
He responded quickly, "So you'll be in school for how much longer?"
I stared at the screen, knowing why he asked. I confidently typed out "four more years," making the unspoken trade official the moment I pressed send.
The Jeans
My hand hesitated over the thrift store hanger. In the past, I wouldn't have given the pair of jeans a second look. But they were unlike anything I had seen before. The waist looked a little big and the inseam a little long, but the cargo pockets and the zipper details were too rich for me to pass up. It shocked me that there was a time I would have.
I thought of Michael. Of course I did. But something was different this time. Something quiet and unfamiliar, buried far beneath the missing him. The distance between us felt less like something taken from me, and more like something given back.
I tossed the jeans in my cart without holding them up to my waist, without finding a fitting room to first try them on. I looked at them myself. I didn't ask someone else what they saw.
The people in the room didn't matter. The room itself didn't matter. When the denim hit the metal frame, I felt raw. I felt real.
