5. Jo

Playlist: Port of Call | Beirut

It takes exactly two weeks for Nic to pack and be ready to move out. On moving day, she and Josh come over after work, Nellie and Tyler joining us later that night to help. We ordered pizza and packed up every trace of my sister from the apartment. All her knick-knacks and the touches that made this apartment feel like ours for the past few years are packed into boxes and labeled. We load up the U-Haul, Nic gives me a squeezing hug, and then she's gone.

All I can think about is the last time I felt this lonely in this apartment. The last time it was so quiet I could hear the pitter-patter of my upstairs neighbors’ dog’s paws on the floor.

I know I’m not losing Nic, but I am losing the relationship that we had as roommates, the relationship we cultivated by sharing space, just the two of us.

I wake the next morning to knocking on the front door. When I shuffle through the apartment and open the door, I find Hunter standing on the rainbow doormat holding a plastic container and wearing an obnoxiously big smile.

“Mornin’, roomie!” she says, her voice far too chipper for 7:44 am, and I fight the urge to slam the door in her face.

“Fhgbajrda,” I grumble back, holding the door open so she can get in. “Let me get your keys so I can go back to sleep.”

Hunter pouts. Like sticking out her lower lip, pouts . “You’re not going to help me move in?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Do you need me to?”

“I don’t need you to, but I thought it would be some good roomie bonding time!”

I stare at her. “I’ve seen you naked, Hunter. I think we’re plenty bonded.”

The plastic container falls to the ground as her mouth drops open in shock.

And I feel bad, so of course I end up helping her move in.

A few weeks later, and there’s a record player set up in the living room, with vinyls of every genre and generation. Taylor Swift, Fleetwood Mac, The Four Seasons, Olivia Rodrigo, Dolly Parton…speaking of Dolly Parton, there’s a cross-stitched pop-art pillow with her face that smiles at me now from the couch. It’s a little disturbing.

Hunter set up her computer in the spare room, which I’ve always used as a library, to utilize as a home office. There’s a large amount of glittery and pink mugs scattered around the kitchen, as well as magnets from cities all over the American south stuck to the refrigerator. My personal favorite is the one from Savannah that proudly declares the city’s apparent support of Dolly Parton for US president.

It’s a little disconcerting how quickly she’s comfortable in the apartment. I haven’t adjusted to the changes as quickly as her.

At first, things seemed like they were fine, but lately, she’s been leaving her dishes in the sink for days at a time. She forgets her keys, and one morning, I woke up to find a spoiled gallon of milk that she’d left on the counter overnight.

One Tuesday after work, I come home to Hunter sitting on the ground outside the door, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Do you have a keychain you could use or something? So you don’t lose your keys?” I ask, turning the key in the lock.

She shrugs as she gets to her feet. “Nah, they'll turn up.”

My eye twitches. “I think I have a lanyard or something you can use if that would be helpful.”

She looks at me questioningly as I push open the door. “Helpful for what?”

“Helpful for keeping track of your keys.”

Hunter’s face falls in such a dramatic way that, before I saw it, I thought it was only an expression that could be captured in animation.

“Oh.” Her voice is quiet and eyes are focused on the floor. “Sorry. Didn’t think about how it must inconvenience you. The lanyard might be helpful.”

I stare at her as she shuffles into the apartment. “What just happened? Did I say something wrong?”

I’m so confused. Her sunshine is nowhere to be found, and instead it feels like there’s a dark, heavy cloud covering her beams of light.

She continues down the hallway towards her room without looking back at me. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, listen.” I close the door and follow her. “I’m one of eight children and only date women. You can’t possibly think I’m going to fall for the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit you’re trying to pull—”

Hunter sniffs loudly and looks up at me, eyes watery, and I freeze.

I awkwardly pat her shoulder. “Lighten up, buttercup.”

She bursts into tears.

I retract my hand like I’ve been burned. “Oh god, oh shit, oh god, what do I do?” I ask.

I’ve never been especially good at physical touch or comfort, except with Nic. Maybe it’s both our prickliness canceling each other out, but otherwise, I’m not good at saying the right things, at giving people what they need.

“Hunter,” I hiss, wringing my hands. “Hunter, what do I do?”

The only answer I get is continued sobs into her hands.

What would Hunter do ?

Suddenly, I find myself taking three steps forward and wrapping my arms around her, the same way she did for me the night she visited the apartment.

I feel her stiffen for a moment, but then her arms wrap around my middle and she softens into the hug.

“I’m sorry I said the wrong thing,” I tell her quietly, after letting her cry for a few minutes. She smells like magnolia and the air right after it rains, fresh and soft.

She sniffs. “I’m sorry that I’m such a big baby,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my neck. I can’t control the shiver that wracks my body.

“You can talk to me, too, you know. I don’t want to make you cry.”

Hunter pulls away and wipes at her eyes with her hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a shitty roommate. I’m trying to be better but it’s always so hard when getting used to a new environment. Nothing feels normal yet. I still feel like I’m out of place, just a fish out of water flopping around.”

That’s surprising. From my vantage point, Hunter seems like she’s adjusted to the move and new space effortlessly.

“I have ADHD,” she continues. “I was diagnosed a year after we met, which was pretty lucky. Way too many women go under the radar for way too long.”

“Izzy and Leo have ADHD,” I blurt out. “My youngest siblings.”

She meets my eyes, her own puffy and red-rimmed. “Really? It’s comforting to know you have experience with it. Maybe I should have told you sooner, but I like to think I have it under control. I mean, I own my own business.” She picks at her cuticles, and I remember her doing that as a teenager too. The nights we spent at the beach and she’d open up about being scared to ever come out, picking at her nail beds until she’d bleed.

“But it’s been hard lately. My brain feels like it’s being pulled in ten-billion different directions but I don’t know where any of those directions lead to.” She takes a deep breath. “So I…I don’t know. I try to push back and block out the noise and obviously that’s not working and it’s impacting you as well as me, and I’m really sorry.”

I feel awful. I hadn’t realized that Hunter has ADHD, but it makes so much sense. I should have tried to be understanding, tried to work with her brain instead of just calling her out. I know what it’s like to have a brain that functions differently than what’s considered the norm.

“I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I was frustrated you kept losing your keys and I should have gotten all the facts before saying anything.”

“Another part of ADHD that nobody really talks about is the rejection sensitivity and emotional dysregulation that comes along with it. Sometimes it’s debilitating. Like when you offered to help me with my keys, you weren’t rejecting me or doing anything cruel. But my brain still hyperfocused on the fact I was fucking up. That I wasn’t good enough.”

Hunter’s voice grows quieter with each word until it’s barely above a whisper, her eyes fixated on her hands. “Criticism is especially hard for me, and that doesn’t mean I should be exempt from criticism or anything like that…it’s just something I’m constantly working on.”

I think about the time when, that summer, Hunter had cried because her friends had gone to a movie she’d been excited to see without her. I didn’t understand, considering she wasn’t home for the summer. But she had been devastated, and said it felt like they’d taken a knife to her heart. I wonder if she’d felt like she was overreacting then, and couldn’t figure out why she felt this way. After all, she wasn’t diagnosed yet.

“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “That sounds difficult.”

“It is, but it’s not always a negative thing, you know? I’m me because of ADHD, not in spite of it. But it for sure makes things more difficult. Because my brain sucks at making dopamine, organization and being on time are uphill battles. It’s embarrassing; it always seems easy for everyone else.”

“I have Major Depressive Disorder, so my brain sucks at making serotonin.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, but I want to. I can see how harshly she’s judging herself and I want her to know I’m not. “And my Type 1 Diabetes means my pancreas sucks at making insulin. I have to take medication to help those organs do things that seem easy for everyone else, too. I’m not trying to invalidate your experience…but I can relate to the way you feel.”

She exhales heavily, staring down as she picks at her sparkly pink nail polish. “I try so hard. And then I forget to try because I’m exhausted from trying all the time. God, that probably sounds ridiculous…”

“It doesn’t,” I assure her. “I understand.”

She looks up again, eyes puffy and soft. “I don’t like that.” I stare at her, not understanding. “I don’t like that you understand what it’s like to judge yourself too harshly.”

“Ah. I think everyone does, in one way or another.”

“I still don’t like it.”

We sit in silence for a beat, and though it’s awkward, it reminds me of the quiet hours spent together that summer—the touches, the glances, the knowing smiles.

Why the fuck am I longing for that? Why do I want her to look at me with that same twinkle in her eye that was there just before she’d kiss me?

I’ll unpack that with Alena another day.

“Is there anything I can do to make things easier?” I ask instead.

She’s still picking at her nails. I want to take her hands in mine, rub my thumbs over her skin and tell her it’s okay to feel however she’s feeling.

“If I forget to do something, could you remind me? Maybe we can make up a chore chart or routine or something?”

I smile softly at her. “Yeah. I’m happy to do that. It’s gonna work out, Hunter. You’re not a bad person, or a bad roommate, and we’ll figure out a way to make things easier.”

She smiles at me, and her mouth is all wobbly and crooked, lips puffy and the tip of her nose red.

“Thank you,” she says, lowering her hands. “You didn’t have to be so nice, but I appreciate that you were.”

Maybe I’m a shitty person for what I say next, but at least I can acknowledge it.

“I’ve seen your tits, Hun. I can’t not be nice to you.”

Her responding blush and gasp make it all worth it.

“Oh my god ,” she whines. “You gotta stop that.”

“Stop what?” I ask innocently.

“You know what.”

“Do not.”

She narrows her eyes. “I know what you’re doing, Giovanna Quinn. Don’t forget that I’ve seen you just as naked.” Her eyes trail down my body and I awkwardly shift. “I remember how your eyes darkened whenever you were turned on, and that one freckle on your inner thigh…”

Oh, god. Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission.

“I remember what you taste like when—”

“Okay!” I interrupt, taking a step back from her. “I get it. I played dirty.”

She smirks. “You always were a dirty girl.”

I slap my hands over my face. “I get it. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

She chuckles and takes two steps toward me, placing a hand on my shoulder as she presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks, Jo,” she whispers, her warm breath tickling my ear.

And then, as suddenly and chaotically as she reappeared in my life, she’s gone, her bedroom door closing as I stare in bewilderment.