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Jen’s never been a very good sleeper, never been someone who can lie down at the end of a long day and fall asleep easily, anyway, and she’s never really found a routine, either, one where she’s been able to force herself into sleep if she focuses hard enough. It’d be convenient if she could say that since Ted’s death she’s suddenly had trouble sleeping, that within the last year, the last fucking year of this everlasting malaise she’s been in she’d picked up bad habits that led to lack of sleep, but ever since she’d been a kid, sleeping has been something difficult.
It’s not lost on her that the last time in recent memory she’d gotten solid sleep is when she asks Judy to stay on the line with her. Right away, somehow, Judy had been this presence that put her at ease, and Jen wasn’t ready for it, isn’t ready for it now, even, because she’s never felt so at home with a person so immediately, and there’s this guilt attached, something like because she’d been married for nearly 20 years and never considered Ted home, and it’s something she will not think about because it’s something she thinks might mean more than she’s willing to believe.
They’ve got this semi-functional, though still slightly dysfunctional family dynamic going where goodnights include she and Judy upstairs each giving a variation of “sleep well” to Charlie, who nowadays is a little kinder, a little more willing to say, “thanks, you guys, too,” and they tuck Henry in, having to give rationales as to how neither her nor Judy are in any danger, how they are all safe and sound at home, with no one and nothing coming to hurt them. It’s all understandable and it’s all heartbreaking and it only furthers their habits of finishing one bottle of wine per night because they’ve got two kids who have been living a life where people they love are constantly in massive amounts of trouble or are hurt in some unimaginable way for a ten, even fifteen-year-old kid to envision, and every day is now full of convincing Henry that she and Judy are really truly okay, convincing Charlie that life isn’t always this bad, this full of shit, and it’s becoming more and more as if the boys are trying to summon this protective bubble over her and Judy, neither wanting to leave them alone much, which, really, who can blame them.
“I’m sorry,” Judy’s saying, wine glass at her mouth, she takes a swig, and looks pained. Jen waits for a second, smoothens the blanket that covers their legs, lets her hand rest on Judy’s cotton-covered thigh.
“What’s wrong?” Jen then asks, curling her fingers around the stem she takes a drink, worries there’s another thing she has yet to be informed of that's going to blow up in their faces, somehow.
“Just,” Judy clicks her tongue, sighs, “Henry. Every night, him asking if we can sleep in his room, it’s just-”
“Fucked up," Jen offers.
“Yes,” Judy says, like she’s relieved they are on the same page, “so fucked.”
“Yeah.” Jen nods, remembering how Henry did the very same thing, requested exactly that of Jen after his dad died.
“It’s been months,” Judy says, and she switches positions, her back against the arm of the couch, her legs falling across Jen’s lap, and she does it so leisurely, so casually Jen doesn’t think anything of it at first, realizes quickly though, that she likes it, likes the weight of Judy lying across her.
“I know,” Jen says, and it’s too exasperating of a sound, “I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Judy repeats, and Jen almost spits out no more fucking sorries, somehow though, finds repose.
“I mean, it’s not you, Jude,” Jen says, hoping Judy doesn’t start up with it’s all my fault because they have passed that shitshow and are well onto the next, “Henry’s always been sensitive.”
“I think that’s a good thing,” Judy says, as close to on the defensive as she can be.
Jen nods and presses her fingertips into Judy’s thigh really only to say she agrees, that she’s here and gets what Judy means. “No, it is. It is.”
Judy takes another sip of wine and then is saying, “God, it’s just the way he says it. How he wants to make sure we’re safe, and that we’re not alone. I feel like we should take him to therapy. Or we could all go, like, maybe family therapy, or just something.”
“You’re probably right. Fuck, do we all need therapy.” And Jen has this small thought that tells her that’s kinda how she feels with Judy, too (also that therapy really is desperately needed all ‘round), there’s something about Judy being out in that guesthouse, alone, separate from all of them that gives her this pulsating anxiety, which surely only further keeps her up at night.
And then the conversation switches, like that, “Are you sleeping?” Judy’s then asking, and she sighs, “cause I’m not. Still.”
“I’m not either."
"I've tried painting to relax but all it does is inspire me."
Jen smiles at that, takes a sip to mask it because she's not just gonna go all soft because Judy says something that warms her chest.
"Should we smoke?" Jen says, adds on, "pot," for clarification.
"It just makes me hungry."
And it pops into her mind and it's a prodding thought so she says it, says it because she and Judy are open, or some shit.
"We could call."
"Call?"
"Like," Jen says, shrugs, "Before bed."
"Oh," Judy says smiling, her face softens, "You mean and fall asleep together?"
"Okay, yeah," Jen says, trying to wave any remnants of a soon to be misty-eyed Judy off, "but don't make it like, a thing, Jude."
"Right. Not a thing."
And that’s how it starts, for the next however many days, they take to phone calls, falling asleep on the line together, just like that very first night.
*
It does feel kind of silly, kind of stupid to be calling Judy every night before bed to fall asleep together when they are living on the same property, though Judy seems to like it, to enjoy it, seeing as she makes jokes as they part ways for the night, saying some variance of, “goodnight, sleep tight, I’ll call you in fifteen!” and it’s like in this way, in this form of sleeping together, it’s not so outright. Sleeping in the same bed would mean something, something more, wouldn’t it, Jen often thinks. People don’t share a bed just ‘cause, that's really not something people just do, no matter how much Jen wants exactly that, wants Judy with her every night, has this ache to know she’s safe, it’s just not something she feels she can ask for. She can’t just keep take, take, taking from Judy like this; she can’t just force Judy into her bed because she’s got like, unresolved anxiety.
She’s curled under a puffy duvet, listening to Judy’s even breathing over the phone, which does make her feel weird, kinda stalker-y in some way she can’t quite explain, and though she usually finds hearing Judy, knowing she’s there with her even in this way, comforting, is usually able to fall asleep knowing they are both safe, she’s found herself wide awake.
Judy, of course, is who she’s deep in thought about, is something Jen’s not sure she’s ever gonna fully grasp, ever gonna fully get like she initially thought, because Judy is selflessness and active kindness and Jen is anger at the slightly inconvenient, because Jen has an ache for rage to lessen, to know that she is free from the knife being taken, twisted in and further, and Judy has an ability to look at life as if there’s promise in the face of the unimaginable, like the knife in her back that sits snug is comfortable so long as life continues.
Jen wants to, though, wants to know Judy completely, and it’s something new, something she’s never really felt before, where instead of giving up, figuring that Judy is just a little too out of reach for her, it’s like she’s even more inclined to understand how she works, because she and Judy get in a car accident and afterward, after they are carted off to the hospital, the shock wears off and they are left with bruises and slight concussions, and to top it off are given extremely large medical bills to pay, Judy goes on with a smile, saying shit about how maybe they are made of metaphoric metal because nothing seems to be able to kill them, not quite, and Jen’s nearly convinced Judy’s not real.
It’s the thought of Judy that slightly scares her, has her questioning how Judy can find the good in a world that has decided she will get the brunt of it, and why Jen herself is so cynical, why grief overtakes her the way it does. Jen’s not sure if she will ever be ready for Judy’s light, for Judy to be there, always, with nothing but tenderness ready to be so freely given, and Jen’s gone without a soul like Judy’s for so long, maybe has never even met another person as ready to love as she, it feels nearly unnatural to receive, feels unnatural to find solace here with Judy, in lying in bed on the phone with her as she sleeps because it’s close to an intimacy that feels too indulgent.
(And their accident only further cements it, etches it in stone, or rather scrapes it on the side of a brand new car, that they are opposites at work that work. After a recovery that requires giving herself over to Judy, to being taken care of and tended to, after figuring finding who hit them is useless because, really, what would that do, life begins again and if anything bad happens it's manageable because it’s doable with Judy. Life, it’s stupid fucking twists, and all.)
She realizes through grogginess, in an almost asleep sorta phase that she can’t hear Judy anymore; she lifts her head, taps the black screen of her phone, sees that the call is hung up, and for a split second she has this rash reaction, this intense rush that prickles her chest, but she tells herself that Judy’s phone probably just died, and really, that she needs to calm the fuck down. She fights the urge to go check on Judy, fights the urge to go check on both Henry and Charlie, just to make sure they’re okay, just so she can fall asleep knowing everyone is fine because anxiety nowadays is something like tenfold out of control.
*
"So, what are you wearing?"
"Oh, nope," she shoots Judy down, "no, we are not doing that."
"But you always wear the cutest pajamas."
Jen looks down at her Boston Redsox t-shirt and sweats combo and laughs. "Do sweatpants do it for you?"
"On you, of course."
Jen rolls her eyes, feels a yawn coming on, which is quite a relief, so she says, “Okay, I'm disengaging. Goodnight, Jude."
“Night. I love you,” Judy says, and her voice is somehow sweeter over the phone and Jen sort of loves how easy it is to say I love you, how it’s done without thought.
“Love you, too,” Jen closes her eyes, listens to Judy’s breath that’s evening out, listens to the sound of the bed creak as Judy shifts positions, the sound of a sniffle, or a small cough, and Jen wonders if this is just their thing now, how their gonna spend every night until the foreseeable future, maybe until Judy moves out, whenever that will be, because of course Judy will, at some point, right?
And then Jen’s wide awake. And it’s something like a shot to the stomach, imagining Judy leaving, imagining having to move Judy out, and somewhere that Jen’s not a part of. To picture life without Judy, always so close, so ready to be there when Jen needs her, and it feels selfish to expect Judy to live her life with her only because Judy still should have every right to a life that doesn't include raising kids that aren't hers and finding someone, someone who loves her the way she needs to be loved.
Then again, maybe Judy will just live here with her and the boys. Judy did help her pay the house off, why shouldn’t she live here with them in their increasingly perfect slice of platonic life. And if this were the way it works out, God fucking willing, maybe the track she finds will commit her to happiness, because Jen wants to be committed to happiness, for herself, for Judy, for Henry and Charlie.
It’s so stupid, too, because all this, this sleeping on the phone thing, it’s supposed to help her sleep, and it’s totally fucking not anymore.
And fuck, it’s like she’s never satisfied, it’s like she cannot even be happy with this setup, where she’s practically forced Judy into sleeping on the fucking phone with her, and of course, she wants more from Judy, and of course, Judy’s gonna give it to her.
“Uh, Judy?”
The lack of an answer doesn’t stop her, though it should, she continues, saying, “Judy?” a little louder.
There’s still no answer, so she starts coughing, feigning something close to choking because maybe that will get Judy to wake up.
“Hm?” comes across, and then there’s rustling, and Judy says, “What?”
“God, what the fuck is wrong with me,” Jen says under her breath, and then Judy’s saying, “Jen?”
“Can you come up here? With me?” God, and it feels like bearing her fucking soul, though such a simple request.
Judy laughs, and it’s a little rough like she really had been asleep. “Can’t get enough of me, huh?”
“You shut the fuck up.” And Jen thinks Judy may be exactly right.
*
It’s a night where Jen considers their drinking to be a problem, though one to digest another time, a night where all is ignored in favor of letting herself enjoy how close Judy is, how Judy’s always so close it’s something dangerous, something close to Jen’s undoing.
“You want that - that raspberry stuff?” is what Judy slurs and Jen laughs because Judy can barely stand, falls into her as she does, bracing herself on the dining table, her chest pressing into Jen’s shoulder, her hair hitting Jen’s face, a knee stabbing her thigh, and suddenly Judy’s sitting on the table, only slightly to the left of her, Judy’s leg next to her arm, her skirt almost fully hunched up, stops at her thighs. Judy sits there smiling, Jen thinks, almost knowingly, something like I see where your eyes go.
Jen leans back in her seat, says, “You okay?” as she’s trying to ignore Judy’s smile, her eyes that are glossy with that look Judy gives her, like Jen matters, like she isn't a sick woman who can’t handle herself.
“Mmhm.”
“Why are you on the table? This isn't a college party."
“S’fun.” God, how the fuck is Judy this gone?
Jen scrunches her face. “Oh, Judy,” she says. She looks down at Judy’s skirt, feels like she needs to cover her, feels wrong for sitting here in front of her like this, so close to exposed, so she goes to do just so, and as her hands almost grasp the material, Judy grabs them, laughing, says, “oh hey, if you wanna touch, just ask.”
As fucking mortified as possible, Jen retracts her hands like she’s touched coal, scoffs at Judy, embarrassed, “Fuck you,” and where Judy usually would seem like a hurt puppy, she just has this hazed over look, one where it’s something mixed with drunkness and desire, and that’s sort if something Jen can’t deal with, “you know I wouldn’t just do that to you.”
It almost seems like it sobers Judy up. Judy leans into her, which really, only gives Jen a near face full of Judy’s rack as she says, “Oh, Jen, I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was kidding, shit, I’m-“ God, Jen thinks, not another fucking sorry.
“Judy, it’s fine,” Jen says and realizes their hands are weirdly clasped, like they couldn’t quite get hand holding down, for once, and she looks at Judy who now does look like a hurt puppy, and Jen tries not to notice how an adrenaline rush is there as they sit close. “Okay, maybe that’s enough alcohol for tonight, Judy.”
"Oh, I'm totally okay.”
"Totally seems like the wrong word."
"Maybe I'm a little bit aroused from the wine, but I'm so good."
"Oh... oh," Jen says, she tilts her head, gives Judy a face that says I’m not so sure I needed to know that, but, still, she squeezes Judy’s hands, “You wanna come up?” and asks before thinking, but she just wants Judy with her, isn't interested in being without her tonight, isn’t interested in limiting it to a phone call.
“Come up?” Judy says, entirely confused in this way that Jen knows means she will have to further explain herself because Judy’s drunk and needs to be talked to like a two-year-old.
“With me,” Jen tries nonchalance, reaching to brush Judy’s slightly too long bangs out of her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Jesus, I must be really drunk,” Judy places her hand on Jen’s forearm and it’s as if all the energy in the world goes there, that very expanse of skin. “What d’ya mean?”
“Okay, you know what, nevermind,” Jen says, regretting the annoyance that is just there without explicit permission, and she wants to move away because she wants it all to stop but it’s like she physically can’t part from Judy like if she deviates the stitches being sewn will tear.
“What? No, I’m sorry, please tell me,” Judy does something like a plea.
“Jude, nevermind.”
“Please, Jen, remember we hate when people do that.”
“Do you wanna spend the night with me?”
“With you?” Judy’s wide-eyed and wondering, but maybe that’s the schnapps.
“Just,” Jen says, panicked by something she thinks Judy gets, that Jen means perhaps subconsciously, though didn’t intend, realizes now, Judy did say she was aroused, or whatever, so Jen says, “just… with me. Like a sleepover. You know.”
“Oh,” Judy says, and she’s smiling, and she looks beautiful though totally glazed over, “yes, okay.”
“And you’re really fucking drunk. I need to keep an eye on you.”
And somehow, it's an unspoken agreement then, where Judy shares her bed, too.
*
It’s not like, a thing, not something Jen views as anything other than two people sharing one bed.
Judy’s just comforting, it's what she narrows it all down to time and again because Judy always has been. It's like she’s just got this energy, this aura that oozes comfort. And so fuckin’ what if they cuddle, friends cuddle, it certainly doesn’t mean anything out of the ordinary.
“Are you even tired?” Judy’s asking burrowed under blankets, and Jen chuckles, because no, she isn’t, she’s much more content scrolling through random apps on her phone to kill time until she is ready for sleep than lying down, eyes closed, mind racing, though the lilt in Judy’s voice is suggestive, almost.
“No, not really,” Jen replies, leaning against the headboard. Judy looks up at her, and Jen tries not to think about how Judy’s sleeping in her bed, fully on purpose, not just because she’s ended up here after a fight though still needed Jen, or after a drunk night where neither should be alone and Jen tries not to think how this used to be her and her husband’s bed, how Judy is sleeping on his side, even, how Judy has taken over so much of his previous role, in so many ways.
“Should we talk?”
“You’ve never needed permission before.”
“Hey, be nice,” Judy says, but she’s smiling, like she’s getting ready to tease back, “You’ve got a beautiful woman in your bed, you should be grateful.”
“Oh, my God, Judy, Jesus,” Jen says and laughs because what else is she gonna do.
“What, it’s true,” Judy says, and she peeks out from the blankets, moving to match Jen’s position.
"Well, fuck, you sure think highly of yourself.”
“Don’t you?”
“About myself?”
“About me.”
“What are you doing?” Jen asks, and it’s like she ruins the ease that is usually there. Judy turns embarrassed, and she’s quickly apologetic, saying something like, “just messing around, I’m sorry.”
“Well, I guess I do think highly of you,” Jen says, because Judy looks small like she’s turning in on herself, so Jen needs to ease it over, but she can’t just say that and can’t be too terribly honest, so she tacks on, “but only a little,” because it feels like they maybe are just teasing one another.
“So, should we cuddle, then?”
“Oh, trying to feel me up now?”
“Always.”
And it just kind of happens, they lay facing one another, and Jen lets her eyes close and allows herself the comfort there, in Judy’s warmth. Jen lays her hand flat against Judy’s hip without thought, soon one arm is being used as Judy’s headrest, one stakes claim on Judy’s waist and it doesn’t occur to her the intimacy of it until after it happens, and they’re laughing together about something like their stupidity, and Judy’s almost like a deadweight, half-lying on her, almost like she wants to be on Jen like this, and Jen allows it, lets the touching happen, lets her hands grasp Judy’s hips for too long, lets Judy’s hand curl around her neck, and if Jen just opened her eyes Judy’s own face would be there, something like in waiting.
And it’s funny, really, how it hadn’t been until this moment, until now with Judy here, her face millimeters away from her own, Judy's hot and minty breath hitting her lips, as they lay in bed that she fully realizes how at any moment she could cave and kiss Judy. How badly she wants to kiss her, how badly, she thinks, she’s wanted it this whole time. How she could cave and say I love you more than I’m supposed to, she realizes now, almost all at once, like it’s a snowball of understanding, like she just needed Judy in a purely their own moment of stereotypical intimacy for her to get it, for it to click, for her to be able to admit to herself she loves Judy more than she’s let on, more than what this setup is meant to be. She could cave and pull Judy so close it’s like she’s trying to meld them as one and at any slight indication that Judy may want that, Jen would, Judy just hasn’t given it to her.
*
Jen remembers telling Judy once that she doesn’t like the grabbing, doesn’t necessarily like Judy’s constant touching, because there’s a difference between a hug here and there and Judy yanking on her arm every time they are near; Jen she must be a hypocrite though because Judy reaching out for her in her sleep is decidedly her new favorite thing, and maybe it has to do with something like newly recognized feelings, or some stupid fucking shit.
It should bug her, should make her angry that Judy shifts so much in her sleep, because not only is Jen not a very good sleeper, she’s a light one, too, and when Judy ends up knocking her in the nose with an elbow, waking her up with a start, it should piss her off, should make her wanna kick Judy out then and there, because the whole entire point of Judy being there is to help her sleep, to help one another sleep, so it really should piss her off because Judy always ends up hurting her slightly, then nestling into her, an arm slung across her stomach, squeezing her subconsciously, and Jen’s there with Judy holding onto her as if life fucking depends on it while Jen’s laid in bed at three in the morning with a nose that stings.
Somehow, though, it’s even easier to fall asleep with Judy clinging to her (after her nose stops burning, anyway). And it should bug her, in the morning, when she wakes to Judy on her like she’s Judy’s own personal body pillow, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t, and that’s the whole fucking problem.
*
It’s something Jen’s still working through, still trying to gauge, still trying to stop. She starts wondering why she is such a selfish person, why she is someone who always needs more than people are willing to give. She ached for more than Ted would give her and now she’s only wanting more from Judy, wanting them sharing a bed to mean more than what it is, mean more than because they both have issues with sleep, mean something like because they love one another.
Judy says I love you like it’s an exchange of how are you, and Jen’s finding it harder and harder to say it back when there is an unvoiced, underlying meaning on her part. Judy wakes in the morning and always wants to cuddle, and if Jen were stronger, were not so self-indulgent all of the fucking time, she would say no, no I have to get ready for work, or some similar excuse, but she ends up with Judy on her, Judy fitting perfectly with her, Judy's legs tangled with hers, Judy's arms folded against her, and it’s mostly uncomfortable on principle but Judy’s so content there, head under Jen’s chin, cheek on Jen’s collarbone, something Jen finds like a stabbing pain if it were her, but Judy seems to love it, so much so that most of the time she’s falling back asleep, Jen battles with having to remove herself, compares it to like moving a sleeping puppy, or a sleeping baby, it’s something you just don’t do, especially because when she parts, Judy usually wakes, saying things about how she’s gonna make them all breakfast, something like eggs and toast ‘cause she slept in a little too much for anything more, and Jen fights the ache to pull Judy back into bed with her when the day starts, blocks thoughts of anything more that may sit at the back of her mind.
And Jen wonders, sometimes, if Ted ever loved her, because sometimes she wonders if Judy loves her, because sometimes she wonders what all this is, really. Judy could love her, couldn’t she? This could be what all of this is, couldn't it?
Sometimes she wants to write it all off, to say that’s just how Judy is, Judy is just kind, Judy is just a lover, a giver; sometimes Jen thinks she’s reading into it too much, placing value on a touch that's bare, that she’s just being selfish and over-indulgent because she’s always gotta want more when more is undeserved.
*
“Don’t take too long,” Jen’s saying as Judy stumbles to the kitchen like that’s any less telling than spitting out I love you, any less telling than thank you for being here, thank you for loving me though we’ve done terrible, unspeakable things. Jen’s mind is almost blank like she’s fucking flatlining or something, and Judy is back within a blink, another bottle of something Jen didn’t know they had in hand, plopping back down in her chair, and she looks beautiful because she is, because Judy is a kindness Jen didn’t know existed, because even drunk she’s never mean, and Judy’s pouring two shots for them and the room is quiet despite this buzzing in Jen’s head, and when Judy looks at her it almost spills out.
“Somebody here is lost in her thoughts again,” Judy says, placing a lazy smile and a shot in front of Jen. “Everything okay?”
“Tired, long day,” Jen says, waving it off. She curls her fingers around the small glass, watches Judy do the same, “and what do you mean by again?”
“You think a lot, and you get this face when you do, you get these little lines in your forehead,” Judy says like it's something she knows Jen just does, and Jen has this quick thought that’s something like Judy knows me, but not as dramatic, not as sentimental, “care to share?”
“Not now,” is all Jen says.
“Well, now might be a good time. I’m drunk and might not remember if it’s something crazy.”
“This wouldn’t be a good way to tell you.”
God, she’s just talking now, just saying shit. Jen bites down on her tongue, eye falling closed as if this is a normal reaction to have - as if that’s not giving anything away.
“Tell me? What? What’s wrong?”
“The pizza tonight was shit.” Jen takes her shot, in something like an action that attempts to veer their conversation into lighter territory, and Judy laughs, says, “hey!” and is throwing hers back, too, like it’s all a game, and isn’t it? Somehow, Judy chokes, has vodka running down her face, her neck, and Jen laughs at her because she can’t help it, because Judy is somehow such a lightweight despite their incessant drinking, and Judy’s pawing at her own skin and clothes, and laughing, too, and it doesn’t get cleaned up, only soaked into her dress.
And Jen thinks, maybe I didn’t love Ted like I thought. The love she has for Judy is not one she had for Ted. Jen thinks this love, here, platonic or not, with Judy, is what love is supposed to be. Jen loved him, she knows she did, but there’s a difference, one that she’s still seeing unfold right in front of her.
(Maybe with Ted it was a comfortable kind of falling in love where it feels right so you do it. So, you do the marriage, you move to his hometown, you have his babies, you get the huge house in Laguna because that means you’ve done it. You love him so you let him do his thing, his whole trying to become a musician shtick. You let him live his dreams and you put yours aside and you work, tirelessly, because there’s a family at home that needs tending to; you succumb to it all because it’s right, it’s what you do when you love someone, isn’t it?)
“Maybe this is where we cut ourselves off, Jude,” Jen says, noticing how there are drips of drink on the table, and she thinks this needs to cool down, that they’re in their 40s with two kids upstairs trying to go to bed, not sophomores in college celebrating whatever they celebrate.
“I think you are right, there. God, my tummy hurts,” Judy says, her hands pressing into her temples, and all Jen can think is that Judy loves her in the way that she’s been waiting for, that Judy is unlocking the very part of her that’s never been alive, this ability to give herself over, to be tended to without feeling guilty for allowing it, and conversely there's this actual need Jen’s having to take care of someone (that’s not her own children), and Jen finds herself doing it without thinking, finds herself rubbing Judy’s back, saying, “I’ll get you some water, honey,” and then she’s grabbing a glass from the kitchen and she’s dizzy from sudden movement and inebriation, and maybe she has a small realization, maybe it’s drunk thoughts, maybe it’s just true, that love has always been earned, never freely given; love was there when Ted was happy, in a good mood, had written a good song, one he thought would take him somewhere other than his studio. Love, with Ted, had always been conditional, conditional upon Jen playing the part he asked of her, and love now feels natural, second-nature, like a sort of something she wants to do, not something she has to do.
She sits next to Judy at the table and rubs her back, tries not to laugh at how avoidable this is, how they really truly are too old to drink this much, but really, it’s fucking fun so they do it, and Judy’s saying something about “at least I’m not throwing up,” and Jen laughs at that, too, laughs at how tomorrow morning Judy will be up, cooking breakfast for their two kids because loves in every day, now, in the breakfasts made and the lunches packed, in the coffee cups topped off, a whole unspoken conversation in that small gesture, a whole acknowledgment there in that mug, and this love is an intimacy she’s not used to, but one she welcomes.
Jen never thought herself to be one who falls in love with her best friend, but maybe that’s part of the problem.
*
Jen wakes and it’s cold, that’s her immediate know, that’s she’s kinda freezing, which probably means Judy is out of bed, and shit, which probably means she’s slept in. She goes to look at the bedside table clock, sees that it is in fact not even past 7, then looks over at Judy’s side, and is startled when she is there, sitting up, already staring at her.
“What the fuck, Judy?”
“Good morning to you, too, ma’am.”
“Were you watching me sleep?”
“Maybe,” Judy says, and there’s that teasing lilt there, and Jen wonders when they started teasing one another so much because she doesn't think it's always been like this.
“Okay, it depends, is it romantic or creepy?” Judy slides down back under the duvet, not quite back to cuddling, but close enough that it’s something, maybe in its own right because they are sleeping in the same bed, after all.
Jen closes her eyes, covers herself up past her head with the blanket, not intending for any conversation especially this fucking early, though still says, “You’re weird, Judy. Not sure I can have a weirdo in my bed.”
“Oh, please,” she hears Judy say, realizing Judy is now fully under the covers, too, she opens her eyes to Judy’s face there, all tired brown eyes and lazy smiles. “You knew this already, you can’t back out now. Plus, you need me, really.”
“Oh, I need you, huh?” Jen says, and she shifts closer, not thinking, not thinking in any single way, and her leg brushes against Judy’s own, and they hold this eye contact that's knowing, somehow, and Judy’s lifting her leg up, and Jen’s sliding her’s in between Judy’s, and she says, “That’s a bold statement, Judy,” once they settle.
“A true one, too,” she says and laughs a little as she says it, and Judy's so warm, like a fucking furnace, and if Jen were thinking, if she were ever thinking, she would discern that Judy’s healing something in her. It's more than just Ted’s death, more than what they've gone through, what they've done within the last year, together, as some sort of strange unit that no one but them seems to get. It's something like grief, moving through it with her. Grief, Jen has learned, is undoubtedly the cruelest emotion, and Judy, though has gone through and still is going through her own version of grief, allows for Jen's grief to manifest, for it to be messy, and fucked up, and real, and it's what Jen needs and what she is trying to provide for Judy, too.
And it’s getting hot under the duvet, so Jen says that, that she’s beginning to sweat. So, they both peak their heads out, and maybe it’s only a way to get closer, an excuse to move so they're an inch closer. Jen reaches out, this time, and Judy doesn’t, more so seemingly lets herself be guided; Jen reaches out, twirls a curl falling on Judy’s cheek, focuses on the curve of her jaw, the set of her lips, Jen reaches out and lays a hand on Judy’s back, pulling her closer, inadvertently her leg lifts higher from where it lays in between Judy’s thighs, close to somewhere Jen has no right to be, though when Judy’s arm is around her, she thinks it's a right she could earn.
Jen lifts her other arm, snakes it under Judy’s head because Judy seems to like using it as a pillow, so Jen says, “lift your head,” and Judy obeys, and lies the side of her face on the inside of Jen’s arm, closes her eyes, and they lie there together until they fall asleep.
*
Judy’s working less than Jen, nowadays, something like because the old folks home cut hours, maybe budget cuts, Jen cannot exactly remember because when Judy told her Jen had focused too hard to Judy’s hands, how she talks wildly with them, and whatever, maybe that does mean something, so fuckin’ sue her and move on.
Anyway, Judy is home now, and a lot and Jen’s coming home to her after work like they are a real family, and maybe they are, maybe the house they own together, the kids that are now absolutely both of theirs, maybe the sleeping side by side (the increasingly improving sleep, might she add), the grocery shopping, the bill sharing, maybe all of it is them building a family. Judy cooks, of course, because, Jen assumes, it’s her love language, how she produces love in some physical sense. She cooks one vegetarian meal one night, one meal with meat the next, and sometimes caves and lets the boys pick, like tonight, like when Jen walks into the kitchen setting her purse down on the countertop, sees Judy filling up a huge pot of water for what probably is one of her pasta dishes, one she knows the boys both love, and there’s this vaguely 50s song playing, a crooning sort of lilt to it, which feels perfectly fitting for Judy, and Judy smiles when she sees her, wide and eager, saying, “Hey, you,” and nudges her head to the left, “I got us some more of that Trader Joe's wine, you liked that, right?”
“The Zinfandel?” Jen grabs it from the counter for confirmation and traces the label with her thumb, looks back over at Judy, who is still smiling at her, maybe like she’s happy to see her or like she’s been waiting all day for this, the sharing of the white zin.
“That’s the one, right?” Judy’s saying, turning the water off and she begins walking over to the stove, and Jen nods at her though Judy’s facing opposite her, not able to verbalize a response, her body working before her mind, she follows Judy to the stove and when Judy turns around, Jen’s millimeters from her, and Judy jumps, only a little, “Oh, jeez,” and then laughs, and Jen wants this so bad, wants this life with Judy more than she’s wanted anything, she thinks, which fuck, is so hard to admit, and she’s nothing but frustrated by how perfect everything is turning out to be when nothing they’ve done calls for it, when nothing she’s done calls for it.
“Judy,” Jen says, and too stern for no reason.
“Jen,” Judy replies, head tilting, and she studies her, and that’s too fuckin’ much, it’s all beginning to be too fucking much, and it takes everything in her not to run when Judy says, “You look rough. Do you need a hug?”
Jen huffs, because a hug from Judy may be the actual last thing she needs, thinks maybe she needs intensive cognitive-behavioral therapy more so, but she gives in because she’s only getting closer to giving in, giving in like it’s something bound to happen, and well, fuck, isn’t it?
So, Jen lets it happen. Gives herself over. Gives herself over in a way she only can because it's Judy. It's Judy asking her to. She allows Judy’s arms to wrap around her waist, allows her own arms to squeeze Judy, allows her body to press against Judy’s like it doesn’t make her want to cry, and fuck, she’s always fucking crying, like it doesn’t make it that much harder knowing she’s gonna break the bubble they live in by spewing out I’m in love with you at some point because Jen cannot leave it alone even when there is no other actual tangible option.
And they just stand there, in their kitchen, in the early evening light, Jen unsure where the kids even are, assumes they are upstairs or Judy would say otherwise, and they embrace, and she hugs Judy reminiscent of how Judy grabs onto her at night, and it feels almost like a joke that she thought her love for Judy was in the realm of platonic because, fuck, it’s just that Judy doesn’t require playing a part. Jen knows, despite it all, Judy wants her as she is, however she is, wants Jen to be the best version of herself, all of that cheesy nonsense Jen kind of hates on principle, finds herself relieved by, here and now.
(Judy requires a patience Jen has never had but is willing to adopt, because Judy deserves love to the highest fucking degree, because Judy is love and light and a beacon of hope and Jen’s totally, completely in love with her, because with Judy it’s all repose and genuineness, which is something she’s needed, was never allowed until Judy gave it to her.)
There’s a song that comes on, Walkin’ After Midnight, another one of those 50s croons, and Judy makes this noise that sounds like she’s excited, kinda like a high-pitched squeal, honestly, and Judy's squeezing her saying, “ooh, my favorite, let’s dance.”
And Jen laughs like she’s saying fuck no, not now, goes to move away, but Judy pulls her close, closer than before, and their cheeks are touching, smushed together, and so Jen grumbles, says, “Fine.”
Judy starts to sway them, and they’re still hugging, and they’re kinda offbeat because Judy actually does not have much rhythm which immediately bugs Jen, and in between humming Judy says, “You can lead.”
And Jen laughs, “Like I’d let you lead,” and one arm wraps around Judy’s shoulder, a hand grasps the back of her neck, around the expanse; Judy rests the side of her head on Jen's shoulder, her breath hitting Jen's neck, and Jen can feel herself starting to breathe heavily, and Judy’s fingers start digging into Jen’s back, and it gives her a chill, one that has her losing her breath, and in her mind, she's thinking oh my god, oh my god, and they’re really just standing in place and slightly swaying to the music, it’s not dancing but it’s nice. It’s warm.
Jesus, this is the thing, Jen thinks, Judy just does this with her. Jen’s always, always narrowed it down to her loving to be close, loving this type of contact. Judy's co-dependent, after all, so it’s just how Judy is. But the thing is, this whole time, in this whole realizing she loves Judy haze she’s in, Jen has somehow decided it’s her right to decide, her right to decide how to navigate this, her right to keep it to herself like it’s only her right to know, only her right to indulge, her right to hold Judy like this in their kitchen before dinner, and not grant truth in the face of something that’s honest, and raw, and real.
Judy’s wearing this floral, deep indigo dress because Judy and floral are synonymous, and it has this collar, that somehow, at the neck, is loose. It’s like, sagging a little at the shoulder, leaving this patch of skin exposed, and maybe it’s because Jen’s tired of being so uncomfortably alone in her desire, in her self-imposed one-sided love where she had decided she lived, but she has this boost of confidence, one that tells her she isn't alone here and maybe never has been, one that convinces her reaching to further move Judy’s dress aside at the shoulder and kissing her, there, on her burning hot skin is a move that’s worth it, and it decidedly is, because though Judy freezes, and Jen thinks she hears some sort of labored breathing, at that moment it feels like the worst move Jen has ever, will ever make, Judy’s moving in their embrace, and Jen’s squeezing her eyes shut, ready for whatever dissension is to come, though, all that is there are hands grabbing her jaw, her head being moved without permission, lips on hers, so soft and so unhuried, and isn’t it fitting that there’s something in their kiss that’s close to what took you so long.