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Laurie can’t stop sweating. The stuff is plastering the front his pressed shirt to his collarbones like wet paper, and if he stands in the sun any longer, anyone can believe he took a dip in the water with his clothes on.
He should have known a trip to the beach would be less than enjoyable once he hit his unfortunate early 20’s. He flinches when a little kid brushes past him, half-clothed and bunching a tiny hat underneath its arm, and balks in the sand when a wave comes too close. Exotic-sounding vacations were something that tempted his teenage self that squirmed around in the prison of Latin lessons and Massachusetts winters, but he’s found that having wet sand blown directly into his eyeballs and finding slimy grass stuck to the bottom of his overpriced shoes sort of made it lose its appeal.
The sole reason he decided to show is depressing at the least: he had received a written invitation from Jo in the mail a few weeks prior, which still remains wrinkled and folded in his trouser pockets. He’s almost fully convinced the gesture was out of politeness, or maybe Amy forced it; with Jo, he can never be sure. She makes his head hurt.
Anyhow, he hasn’t seen Jo since she moved to New York—she’s doing a teaching gig and writing novels, or something, she’s not the type to tell him out of all people—and maybe it’s for a good reason, as seeing a melodramatic love confession and rejection completely destroyed their friendship years ago and Laurie still isn’t exactly sure how to even talk to Jo without wanting to crawl into a hole like a rodent creature. Yet he’s here. But, granted, he’s scored a free week off from work.
The beach is still awful. The crowds. The weather. The bird poop. It’s all gross.
Someone firmly punches his shoulder with a small fist, hard. He has to steady himself before turning.
It’s Jo. She’s grinning at him wide, eyes almost the same shade of blue as the ocean, her other hand shoved into her pocket. She’s always insisted on wearing pants instead of skirts, which was something he’d liked about her. (Well, he still likes it. Her individuality is staggering.) “Hey, Teddy.”
Laurie blinks at the nickname. “Hi, Jo.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says, on the edge of nervous, like Laurie wasn’t thinking the exact thing. Of course, she’s not a mind-reader, but they both know there were probably second thoughts. “I almost booked a house with three beds instead of four.”
“I wouldn’t have a problem with sleeping on the floor if that was the case.”
“Ha ha,” Jo laughs, darting her eyes away for a second. “I’d feel too sorry and have one of my sisters go home.”
“Amy, I presume?”
“Always Amy. Meg is looking for an excuse to spend a week away from her babies, so she’s not giving up a bed, especially not for a man.”
“I’m flattered.”
“How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Laurie says. “Just a little warm.”
It’s a complete lie. A bead of sweat makes its way down the back of his neck and down his shirt, and he has to wipe his palms on his thighs. Nobody had brought an umbrella because nobody had assumed it would be warm enough to tow one along, and Laurie is just unfortunate enough to overheat no matter where he is. Jo, however, is grinning and devoid of perspiration, her loose puffy shirt billowing in the hot wind. Jesus, why can’t it be cooler?
“Come and walk with me,” Jo says. “It’ll cool you off.”
Laurie is very sure that physical activity does the opposite, but the cold spray blowing off the waves feels nice on his face and Jo guides him away from the squishy, entrapping sand so close to the shore. She’s placed her hand on his arm lightly to guide him, turning him even warmer. He silently scolds himself, because really, he told himself he wasn’t here to resurrect his broken teenage heart lying in shards somewhere in the tangled crevices of his stomach.
He wonders if it’s friendly or something more suggestive, promiscuous. Sometimes he wishes Jo was more like Amy, who would have flat-out told him she didn’t like him like that from the start. Amy has a weird inclination towards Laurie and she’s just such a bold person in every way that he knows. The thing is, he can’t see her as anything but a little sister.
“How’s Amy?” Laurie decides to ask, after Jo’s finished talking about the school she’s instructing at in New York.
Jo’s face falls, only in the slightest. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she loves talking about herself. “She’s alright. She just got back from a trip to France with Aunt March. One trip to another trip.” Laurie smiles at the idea of Amy stuffing croissants in her coat pockets at stiff old Aunt March’s fancy parties. “She missed you.”
“I can tell,” Laurie says. “She’s a good hugger.”
“Did you miss her?”
“I missed all of you.”
If this was years ago, Laurie would wrap his arms around Jo’s shoulders and touch the cold metal of Jo’s ring on his finger to her neck, and she’d elbow him in the gut with a playful cry. Except he’s painfully aware of how present everything is, tugging awkwardly at his chafing collar and keeping a safe distance from Jo’s frame, so he forgets it all.
“And Meg?” Laurie adds.
“Married to John. You know that.” Jo shrugs wistfully. “They’re poor, but happy. I think Meg is secretly pleased she’s using our money again.”
“My parents got married against my grandfather’s will and now I’m an orphan.”
Jo glares. “You’re still rude.”
“Some things never change, do they, dear Jo?”
“It wasn’t against anyone’s will, mind you. My mother was very happy to host the wedding.”
“I guess people have a different idea of happiness.”
“Apparently,” Jo says, picking up her pace and leaving Laurie behind underneath the scorching sun. Off she goes being strange again.
Laurie’s unsure of how to talk to Jo again on the walk home, or during dinner. Her sisters are fine: Meg has stayed sweet and Amy’s calmed down, only in the slightest, and they kindly ask him about his current career, his big house, if he has a wife. Everyone stares at Jo at the last question, Jo chewing expressionlessly on her bread, and Laurie steps on Amy’s foot underneath the table.
When it comes to bedtime, Amy refuses to sleep in the same room as Jo for reasons and Meg says something about the other beds favoring her sore back, so sharing with Jo it is. They go to bed wordlessly, but Laurie lies awake staring at the low wooden ceilings. His body won’t let his eyes shut.
He’s not good at sharing spaces with people, which might be part of why he can’t hold friendships for more than a few years at a time. Too long and he starts to feel like he’s undeniably suffocating in their presence. It’s not like that with Jo, but her currently-brooding presence is unsettling.
It’s late, late enough that it’s pitch black except for the lamplight leaking through the bottom of the door and the sound of crickets outside in the grass is deafening, when Jo begins to restlessly shuffle around in bed. It’s close to getting on Laurie’s nerves. She sighs loudly and kicks her blankets around like she’s having a scarlet fever fit. (Laurie then realizes this is inappropriate seeing that Jo’s sister died of scarlet fever.)
Finally, Jo crawls out of bed and slides next to Laurie on his mattress. He freezes at the proximity, like he’s younger again. Her breath is unnervingly warm against his back.
Laurie rolls over after a few seconds. “What are you doing?”
“It’s hot,” Jo tells him. Her eyes are glassy and Laurie can see wet stains in her armpits on her red nightgown. He becomes flustered at the thought of peeling it off for her, the intimacy of the act being what he’s convincing himself he doesn’t need. Get it together. “And I needed to talk to you.”
“You were acting like I didn’t exist at dinner.”
“I couldn’t talk to you at dinner,” she insists. “My sisters would go crazy if I even looked in your direction.”
“I thought they were over that.”
Jo breaks eye contact and pulls her pink, puffy lip into her mouth. “No.”
“Strange.”
“I know.” Jo rolls her eyes. “We’re supposed to be adults now.”
“What’d you need to talk about?”
“What? Oh. It’s…” Jo trails off. “We haven’t spoken in a long time. I went to New York and you’re busy helping your grandfather, you know, and I didn’t know how to start again without making it awkward. So that’s why I invited you on this trip. But I—I didn’t want…”
“What?”
“I wanted to talk about you and me. Not Amy, or how you like her hugs.” The way she speaks is bitter; it takes Laurie by surprise. He tries to focus on Jo’s light freckles or his own damp bangs, anything that’ll keep his own stomach from twisting like a clenched fist.
“I haven’t seen any of you in ages. That wouldn’t be fair just to talk about the two of us. And you walked away before I could even speak again.”
“Laurie, I’ve had a while to think about this, being so lonely for so long,” Jo says, breathing in shakily, “and I really, really—”
The door slams open to reveal Amy standing in the hallway with a lamp clamped in her hands. Laurie and Jo both jerk their heads in the same direction.
“Jo? Laurie? Why are you in the same bed?” Amy squints and holds the lamp up as if she was seeing a mirage. “Are you getting married? Are you in love?”
Jo sits up in an instant. “No,” she snaps. “What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask if you had any ice. We’re practically melting in our room.”
Jo leaves to show Amy to the ice box. Laurie waits for her to return silently, rolling back into the center of his bed and pulling the sheets up to his chin. As much as he’d like to think not, Jo likely isn’t going to return to her spot next to him in bed.
Laurie regrets speaking so highly of Amy.
“Amy,” Jo scoffs the next morning. They’re stood in the kitchen alone, too early for anyone else to rise yet. “I’m sorry about her. She doesn’t have any boundaries.”
“It appears so.” Laurie pauses. “Don’t you like her?”
“I love her.”
“But do you like her? As a companion? As a friend?”
“Sometimes,” Jo says. Her answer is clipped and dismissive. Laurie frowns. “Do you?”
“She’s my friend.”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
Jo looks down, curling her fists. “Is there someone else, then?”
“No. Why do you need to know?”
A short, thick silence hangs in the air. Laurie wants to shatter it with a hammer. Waiting feels like holding his breath.
“Because I love you.”
Oh.
“I love you, Teddy,” Jo says again, swallowing hard. She’s squeezing her eyes shut, grounding herself to the cold tile. “I love you, and I always have. I didn’t want to admit it. But I don’t want to watch anymore, even if you love someone else.”
Something in Laurie’s chest lurches, and the dam he’s been trying to withhold this whole trip bursts open.
“I’ve been hoping for you to say that,” Laurie responds almost breathlessly. His heart is pounding hard in his throat, behind his eyes. “I still love you, Jo. Of course I do.”
“Oh, I’m glad. I’m so glad.” She closes her eyes, shoulders sagging in relief. She looks so vulnerable in her worn-out nightgown and hair plastered on one side, her back propped against the rented kitchen counter.
“I’ve always loved you.”
“I thought you’d changed, it’s been so many years.”
“Never. Not for you, Jo.”
And it’s true—Laurie’s changing, changing, it happens so fast before he realizes and it isn’t until half his life has passed by that he notices his body’s turned empty, hollowed-out. It’s like part of him has been scooped out with someone’s hands, dirt underneath fingernails, and packed tightly in the ground beneath his own feet. He’s so different than he remembers sometimes that it scares him, just a little bit, but loving Jo hasn’t ever changed. It’s a fixed point on the horizon. A North Star.
“I’m so nervous,” Jo laughs anxiously. “My hands are shaking, see?”
She holds out her pink, limber hands, still stained with ink like Laurie remembers them. He takes them in his own and they’re clammy, trembling, but safe. Jo smiles softly at the ground. Laurie keeps holding onto her.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Laurie says. “I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Jo says. “You’re here.”