Chapter Nine

Loncey

I should be showering and getting my ass to the gym, but I'm still in bed. Hell, I should already be at the gym considering it's eight-thirty, but I'm still in bed. Still in bed messaging an Irish woman who is asking me about feet pics. Still in bed and smiling like a goddamn fool.

If you want one, you only have to ask.> I type back with a winking face emoji. I wait for a few seconds to see if Maeve is online and typing a response but there's nothing, so I finally get up. I plug my phone in to charge on the other side of the room, which I should have done last night, but instead I stayed up late messaging Maeve and then scrolling way too far back in her videos to find ones I'd not seen before. There were a lot more dancing videos than I expected, and I smiled my way through each one. She's a good mover – natural rhythm and loose hips – and in one she even threw in a perfect pirouette that made my eyes widen and my heart skip a beat.

Really, I've got to get a grip on this. My interest in Maeve isn't necessarily one of sexual attraction. Yes, okay, I admit, I thought about her in that scene with Miko and Harley, and yes, watching her videos last night made blood flood to my dick, but I didn't put my hand on it, I didn't touch myself. I didn't even really want to. I just wanted to keep watching her. I wanted to watch her smile and laugh and hear her sing-song accent tell jokes and talk about this amazing lip gloss she'd just discovered.

Leaving my phone on the counter charging, I step in my small shower and wash my body, waking up a little more and feeling more determination enter my conscience. I've done this before. I've set boundaries about how I use my phone and create content online. I've made sure that I put my phone to bed and not the other way around. I've made sure that the first thing I do each day is meditate, set intentions and check in with how my body is feeling, not scrolling my notifications to see if @MaeBae has followed me back and definitely not lying in bed waiting for a reply to my message.

I do all these things in the shower. I set my intentions. I do some deep Ayurvedic breathing. And I do a body scan, noting that my hips and lower back are hurting, likely from the scene with Miko and Harley, a scene I've promised them both I will edit today. But first, I need to get my bag ready for the gym.

And yet, once dressed, I don't reach for my bag or the clothes I need. I reach for my phone and before I know it, I'm reading the reply I was hoping for.

Feck off. Just give me an answer. A friend says she can charge $10.>

Lucky them!> I type back before my better judgment can stop me. I typically do normal ones for $5. I'll charge more for a custom request.>

Three dots appear telling me Maeve's replying but a message doesn't come through. The dots start and stop several times before a reply lands. And yes, I wait the whole damn time.

How many do you do?>

I smile to myself. If you're trying to find out how much I earn, just ask me. I'm an open book.>

Her next reply is much quicker. Oh, you know what a book is? Cute.>

I laugh out loud at that, one loud and big "Ha!" What's the last book you read, Maeve?>

Are you implying I don't read? Because I'm blonde? And I thought you were a feminist.>

No, I'm genuinely curious. We could start a book club.>

I don't think so. I prefer to discuss literature with people who are fully dressed.>

I think about it for two seconds before I do it. I snap a quick selfie of me, giving the camera my smoothest half-smile, half-pout. I send it. Fully clothed today.>

And yet nine times out of ten that T-shirt just magically disappears when you're in front of a camera.>

I'm about to make a comment about her checking out my content again but stop myself.

Someone took their sassy pill today.> I write instead.

Someone could just log off and ignore me.>

Someone might do that.>

Go on then.>

Have a good day, Maeve.>

Day is already mostly over. Remember I'm way ahead of you. In so many ways.>

I can practically feel the bite in that message, and yet it still has me smiling to myself.

I'm also smiling to myself when I take another photo, this time of my naked feet on the wooden floor beneath me.

This one's for free.> Is the message I attach to the photo.

I get exactly what I expect in response, a vomiting emoji and a scathing response. You're ripping your fans off.>

Talk later, Maeve.>

Don't count on it.>

I don't count on anything but the stars.>

Another vomiting emoji.

I debate about what I want to do next, but I feel like Maeve is a big girl and can handle it. I send her a kissing emoji, and then add. Seriously though, have a good day.>

I don't expect a reply. I really don't. I am moving to find my bag when I feel my device vibrate and a reply come in. Much to my surprise, it's a photo. There's Maeve, looking perfectly made up with her long flowing blonde hair tucked over one shoulder, a smart suit jacket on over what looks like a tight black tank top and jeans, and she's sitting at a table on high bar stools. And she's not alone. Next to her is a young and beautiful Black woman with a beaming smile and thick twists in her hair, and while she's dressed more casually than Maeve, her face also has make-up on it. Their heads are touching as they smile at the camera, glasses of wine in their hands.

I'm drinking wine with my best friend. How could it not be a good day?>

I don't reply. I like the photo and close the app. And still I smile. I keep on fucking smiling as I pack my bag, put on socks and shoes and finally, an hour later than I should, leave my cabin, and head to the gym.

*****

When I get back from the gym two and a half hours later, I park my car in the driveway and let myself into the main house. My mom's car is gone and I know from a message she sent earlier that she came home for a change of clothes and a quick sleep in the early hours of the morning following the birth of a healthy baby, but that she's now returned to the family to help them adjust to their new addition. I look forward to her updates and hopefully some photos later.

Once inside, I'm instantly aware of how quiet the house is. Normally, at this time of day, my sister would be awake and the TV would be on in the lounge or some music would be coming from her room. She might even be in the kitchen where she would be baking some diabetes-friendly sweet treats that my mother and I would devour at the end of the day.

But there's no TV on, and the kitchen is tellingly empty and clean. I look in the fridge to see if the overnight oatmeal I made her is still there, and my stomach lurches when I see it still in its jar on the shelf.

"Shit," I say to myself.

I wash my hands, thoroughly but quickly. I grab the oatmeal and a spoon, and I pour my sister a glass of orange juice. I had planned to make myself a coffee and grab a banana, berries and yogurt, but this is more important.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I'm upstairs and knocking on my sister's door in no time, balancing the juice and oatmeal precariously with one arm. When no answer comes, I gently open the door and let some of the light from the corridor fill the room. As I expect, Jessica's still in bed, her pajamas on, and she's rolled over on one side, her back to me.

Shit, she needs to get up and do her physio.

I put the oatmeal and juice down on the top of a tall sideboard on my left and I walk to Jessica's bed which is on the opposite wall, pushed into the corner. It's a queen size bed and it only makes Jessica's petite form seem smaller and more fragile when she barely takes up a third of the space.

"Jessica," I say gently but with enough volume to wake her. Sitting down on the bed, I hope the movement jolts her awake, and for a second I think it's worked as she starts to roll over. But then I see her face and realize she was awake all along.

"Jess—" I begin, but can't even finish her name. I can only stare at her face.

"Did I say you could come in?" She sniffs. Her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are wet with tears.

"I knocked…"

"And I didn't respond. That normally means you aren't invited to come in." I find my ears pricking up as she speaks. She sounds a little breathless, like she always does. I am eager to assess if it sounds worse than normal.

"I'm sorry. I got worried. It's nearly lunchtime and you haven't had your oatmeal or done your morning physio."

"Jesus." She shifts in bed, and I can tell she's readying herself to push up to sitting. I itch to help her, to lift her myself, but I don't. I know how much she hates that. "I'll get to it, okay? It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"What's your CGM saying?" I ask and watch carefully as she reaches for her phone and opens the app.

"Fine. Yes, I need to eat something," she says before tossing her phone to one side. She sniffs and I see then her eyes are red and puffy.

"But you… you've been crying."

Jessica narrows her eyes on me. "Are we playing the State the Obvious Game? If so, you smell weird – like toilet cleaner – and you really have no understanding of what privacy means."

I ignore her digs, make a mental note never to use the gym shower gel again, and inch a little closer to her now she's finally sitting up in bed, her back leaning against her pillows.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She blinks, her pupils fixed on me. "Is that a trick question?"

My eyes search around her as if to find more information because I'm confused. Very confused.

"It's not a trick question. You've been crying. I'm asking what's wrong."

"Everything!" Jessica says loudly, or as loudly as she can. She coughs after the exertion and I wait, watching to see if it gets worse, but after clearing her throat a few times, she's talking again. "Look at me, Loncey. Look at me. I'm twenty-six and I live at home with my mother and my brother. I don't have any friends apart from Taylor, who I'm fairly certain only hangs around with me because of guilt or pity or because it gives her good karma or something. Most of my CF friends are now all living busy lives because of their modulators, working, getting married, starting families. And the others like me who can't take modulators, we can never hang out together in person because it's too fucking risky. I don't work. I still haven't finished school. All I do is sit at home all day, every day. And when I do try and go out and do something a bit different, or rather a bit more normal, I get sick. Really sick."

"Jess—" I say when I think she's finished, but I quickly learn she hasn't.

"Tell me honestly, can you imagine being my age and living the life I lead? I know that when you were twenty-six you were taking care of me a lot of the time, and helping Mom pay the bills and working your ass off, but don't you see how I wish, wish so fucking hard that that was my reality over… this." She gestures at her small frame tucked under the covers. "Don't you see that?"

I nod. I see it.

"Jessica, I'm sorry, I wish it was different. Every day, I wish it was different. That's why I try to help you as much as I can. I try to make life as easy as possible for you—"

"I don't want easy!" Jessica practically yells, her voice going hoarse on the final syllable. "I'm not afraid of hard things. Lord knows I've lived a life of hard things. I'm used to dealing with difficult shit. I just wish some of those hard things would get me more than… this."

A little stunned by her outburst and this direction of the conversation, I pull my shoulders back. I recall my therapist telling me about how most fights between loved ones happen because someone tries to offer a solution to somebody's problem, when in reality they just want to be listened to. "Like… like what, Jessica?"

My question makes her face soften, the frown that was fixed on her forehead melting a little. "Like my own place," she says, and a small smile appears on her lips but disappears as new tears come to her eyes. "Like a job. Like a social life. Like a… like a relationship. You know, someone to love. Somebody who I can take care of just as much as they take care of me."

I nod at my sister. I can see just how much she wants all those things in her misty dark eyes and her clenched jaw and the tight fist of one of her hands. It takes great effort, but I manage to ignore the crack splitting my heart open and I school my own disappointment so it doesn't show in my face. It's not the first time Jessica has expressed how fed up with her situation she is, but it is the first time I've heard her talk about specific things like a relationship, like having someone to love. Because I'd resigned myself to a life of being single, had I assumed my sister was just as comfortable with the same reality?

"Jessica, I'm so sorry," I say again.

"Stop saying that!" she shouts again, the words still wheezy and weak. "Stop saying you're sorry. I don't want your pity. I don't want anybody's pity. I just want to be able to… live my life!"

I reach for her hand and I expect her to pull away or not let me take it in my palm and cradle her fingers with mine, but she does. She lets me hold her hand, even loosening the ball her fingers are curled up in.

"Do you feel like this a lot?"

"All the time," Jessica says on a sigh, "but it doesn't always get the better of me like this. A lot of the time I can ignore it or distract myself, and then other days, I'm just too tired to care but recently, since the festival, that latest infection, and, well, other stuff, I can't help but feel so fucking sad. And I don't want to feel like that, you know. I don't want to be miserable."

"You're not miserable," I say firmly with a hand squeeze. "When I came home yesterday you and Taylor were cackling like witches up here and I daren't think of the moves she was trying to show you when I heard all that godawful European dance music."

"It's not awful!" Jessica uses our joined hands to nudge my thigh and the relief I feel at having distracted her from her thoughts for just a few seconds is visceral.

"It sounds like a car alarm going off. Several car alarms."

"Shit, Loncey, do you know how old you sound?"

"I am old!"

A thoughtful expression lands on Jessica's face, squinting her eyes and pushing her lips together. I expect her to say something, but she doesn't and instead her gaze drops to our hands.

"It's okay to feel sad about your illness, Jessica. We've talked about that, with Mom too. And didn't your therapist also say it was healthy for you to grieve what you feel you're missing out on?" I clear my throat. "Do you want to try therapy again? Maybe it would help to talk about some of these things."

"I just talked to you," Jessica says in a small voice, her gaze still fixed down.

"But I'm your annoying older brother."

"Emphasis on the old," she says with a half-smile, looking up at me, and I have to bite back my grin at hearing her crack a joke.

"Do you… do you talk to Taylor about this stuff?"

Jessica heaves out another sigh and it's so deep it rumbles through her lungs and prompts her to start coughing. Releasing her hand, I reach for the tissues and a spit bag from her nightstand and place them close to her on the bed. She takes her time, emptying what's in her mouth and wiping at her lips. When she's done, I stay silent, waiting for her to answer my question.

"Taylor… Taylor knows how I feel," she says eventually, seeming to sink back into her pillows a bit more.

I swallow and remember what I saw yesterday evening. "How do you… how do you feel about Taylor?"

Jessica frowns at me like I expect. It's a look that's tinged with disgust.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you have… you know, feelings for Taylor?"

"Well, yeah, she's my best friend." Jessica scoffs and her eyes travel to look at the curtains drawn across her window.

"The other night, I saw you holding hands…"

"So what? You fuck your friends!" Jessica spits back.

"Wow, okay." I hold my hands up. "Defensive much?"

Jessica closes her eyes. "Taylor… Taylor and I like each other. Yes."

"Like more than friends?"

"Yes, like more than friends."

A heavy weight sinks in my stomach. "Since when?"

"A while now. We… I tried to kiss her at the festival. But she," Jessica looks down at her hands again, this time filled with scrunched-up Kleenex, "she wouldn't do it. She won't do it. She doesn't want to risk me getting sick. She says we should just be friends."

That crack in my heart deepens and widens.

"Oh, Jessica, you know that it's probably for the best," I say and immediately her eyes pin me with a heavy look of disdain. "Even with all the risks, there's also the fact that dating your friends can get hella messy."

"Like I just said, you literally fuck your friends!"

"Well, fucking isn't dating!" I raise my voice before I can stop myself. The last thing I want to do is shout at my sister, but I can only be shouted at so many times.

"How the hell would I know? I haven't done either!" Jessica snaps.

My body lurches back from another outburst and the truth of what Jessica has just revealed. It's not like I spend a lot of time thinking about my sister's dating life but of course, it makes sense. And I feel stupid for not thinking about how it would make her feel.

"You need to eat. And you need to do your physio," I say, standing to get the bowl of oatmeal and glass of orange juice. "And you need to take your meds."

"Well, I don't need your help with any of those things," Jessica says. And she's right. She is perfectly able to do these things on her own. And yet, it's our routine on the days when I'm at home. I come home from the gym while she's doing her first vest workout and we eat lunch together while watching some godawful reality TV that she chooses. After that, we have "Computer Club," where we each sit on the couch with a laptop each, or another device. She either reads on her Kindle or watches YouTube videos about low glucose baking. I answer emails and DMs and reply to some comments while also planning content and collaborations. Then she would do her second physio of the day, and I would stay close, keeping her company and urging her on when I saw her getting tired. Then it would invariably be time for her to rest, often napping in her room, while I would go to my cabin and answer more DMs and edit footage I wouldn't want to do in front of Jessica.

"Okay, fine, I've got the message," I say, leaving the oatmeal and juice on her nightstand. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." I start walking to her door.

"I won't," Jessica says grumpily and I am so close to spinning around and giving her a mouthful about being ungrateful, but when I look over my shoulder, I see her look defeatedly at her hands again, another tear slipping down her cheek.

Fuck. Fuck.