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[original] _ _ _ and i don’t know how to say it
_ _ _ and i don’t know how to say it
1125w
And if she could have continued that conversation about The O.C. it would have gone like this:
“I was watching The O.C.,” Josephine started. Just start with something familiar, Eric had told her. Just say anything or you might be afraid to open your mouth at all. “There was this scene where one of the kids heard I love you for the first time and didn’t know what to say, but by the end of the episode he knew how to say it back.”
“Isn’t that the most cliche TV soap plot of all time?” Lydia raised her eyebrows. She was painting her nails periwinkle over her comforter. Josephine didn’t know how she had the nerve. “Was it that memorable?”
“It kind of pissed me off, actually,” she answered, chewing her lip. “Because it was all like, he had never known real love, or like, a healthy expression of it, and all of a sudden he was saying I love you to a girlfriend he...” Eric said the words would keep coming, the bastard.
“It was bad het writing,” Lydia finished.
“Sure,” Josephine said. Lydia held her nails up to the light and tilted her hand to see the shine on them.
“Pretty, right?”
“Yeah,” Josephine said.
It was very stupid of her to ask Eric for advice. He was very happy with his girlfriend and despite what felt like parental crisis after crisis during their junior year of college, Josephine never really had reason to doubt things weren’t going to work out. It was easy to say that, anyway, as a bystander. She would never tell him she felt that way.
“What do you want to do? We could get the ice wine, my parents bought plenty,” Lydia said. “I’m sure they’ve already broken into it out there.”
Ice wine did sound good. “I’ll get the glasses, you get the wine?”
Lydia nodded and they opened her bedroom door, splitting up. Josephine went straight to the kitchen cupboards. If she moved quietly enough no one from the dining room would be able to see her. The wine glasses were just on the top shelf—
“Oh, it’s Josie!” Lydia’s dad turned the corner to leave some plates in the sink.
Josephine plastered on her best smile. “Uncle Dan.” She inched off the countertop where she’d climbed up so carelessly. It was unsightly, really.
He ran some water over the dishes and dried his hands. “You left the dinner party so soon, Rose and I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you in so long. But I know you girls have your own things to do. You should have grabbed a chair if you needed the wine glasses, it’s not safe.”
“I know,” she said with a grimace. “Just a bad habit from home. I still think I’m a child sometimes.”
“Time flies, doesn’t it? Soon you girls will be the age to get married. I can’t believe it... Do you—” She knew it was coming.
“Josephine?” Lydia called from the doorway. She had the bottles from the basement.
“I should go,” Josephine said, “the wine will get cold. I mean warm.”
“Have fun, girls,” Uncle Dan said.
“We will,” Lydia said shortly. “They don’t rest,” she muttered under her breath. “Splitting up is never the right strategy in this house.”
“At least I didn’t run into Auntie Caroline or I would have been set up right then and there,” Josephine said. Lydia laughed, deeply amused at the thought of it.
“I can only imagine it. I don’t want to, really.”
Josephine closed the door behind them as Lydia cracked open a bottle. It was not easy to not talk about things, contrary to what having not talked about things for the past ten years might indicate. Lydia was pretty: that was not hard to admit out loud because it was objective fact. Unless you were Eric, whose parents had schemed with Lydia’s to get them together since before Josephine had met either of them. “Of course I think she’s pretty, I just don’t want them to take it the wrong way,” he’d said to her before their high school graduation. “It’s ridiculous, that boys-and-girls-can’t-be-friends stuff.” He hadn’t known at the time, how ridiculous the girls-can-only-be-friends-with-girls stuff was. He was only thinking about himself, which Josephine couldn’t really blame an 18-year-old boy for doing.
Lydia was also charming, stupidly rebellious, and a lightweight drunk. While Josephine had been thinking about all this with a full glass in hand Lydia’s face was already rather red.
“You need to slow down,” Josephine said. The bottle was half empty and Lydia was looking for something to play in the background on her TV.
“I had so much for dinner, though,” Lydia said. “It’s fine.”
Josephine didn’t want to take advantage of her being drunk to say what she had to say. And it was like— Eric’s voice echoed in her head again. What do you even want?
And if she could have continued that conversation about The O.C. it would have gone like this:
“Because even if you know what healthy love looks like and even if you’ve heard it before, that doesn’t mean that you know how to say it, or who to say it to, or when to say it? Or why to say it.”
And Lydia would have gone: “What on earth are you talking about?”
Lydia did not seem to care that she was single and she never brought it up of her own volition. And she never asked Josephine any questions either. Josephine couldn’t not let it bother her. And who else, really, was she supposed to talk about that with? Eric? He tried his best when she needed to say something to someone, anyone, but that wasn’t the same as being heard. Violetta would definitely not understand and despite their many years of friendship and her best intentions, she would actively ruin Josephine’s life by trying to get her help, or worse, a setup. So really, it was Lydia or it was no one. And for most of her life it had been no one.
But what if she did care?
“Are you okay?” Lydia asked. “Have you had too much?”
Her wine glass was still full, so of course not. Lydia wasn’t even paying attention to her. Lydia wasn’t obsessed with her, like it was the other way around. Eric’s experiences had no relevance here. Josephine abandoned the script.
“I’m glad I have you,” Josephine said.
“You’re so goofy sometimes,” Lydia remarked. She lifted the glass from Josephine’s hand and set it on her bedside table. Then she pulled Josephine in for a hug. “Just lie here for a while.”
Josephine nodded, head on her chest. “I love you,” she said, because it was easy to pass off in context.
“Bad het writing,” Lydia said.
1125w
And if she could have continued that conversation about The O.C. it would have gone like this:
“I was watching The O.C.,” Josephine started. Just start with something familiar, Eric had told her. Just say anything or you might be afraid to open your mouth at all. “There was this scene where one of the kids heard I love you for the first time and didn’t know what to say, but by the end of the episode he knew how to say it back.”
“Isn’t that the most cliche TV soap plot of all time?” Lydia raised her eyebrows. She was painting her nails periwinkle over her comforter. Josephine didn’t know how she had the nerve. “Was it that memorable?”
“It kind of pissed me off, actually,” she answered, chewing her lip. “Because it was all like, he had never known real love, or like, a healthy expression of it, and all of a sudden he was saying I love you to a girlfriend he...” Eric said the words would keep coming, the bastard.
“It was bad het writing,” Lydia finished.
“Sure,” Josephine said. Lydia held her nails up to the light and tilted her hand to see the shine on them.
“Pretty, right?”
“Yeah,” Josephine said.
It was very stupid of her to ask Eric for advice. He was very happy with his girlfriend and despite what felt like parental crisis after crisis during their junior year of college, Josephine never really had reason to doubt things weren’t going to work out. It was easy to say that, anyway, as a bystander. She would never tell him she felt that way.
“What do you want to do? We could get the ice wine, my parents bought plenty,” Lydia said. “I’m sure they’ve already broken into it out there.”
Ice wine did sound good. “I’ll get the glasses, you get the wine?”
Lydia nodded and they opened her bedroom door, splitting up. Josephine went straight to the kitchen cupboards. If she moved quietly enough no one from the dining room would be able to see her. The wine glasses were just on the top shelf—
“Oh, it’s Josie!” Lydia’s dad turned the corner to leave some plates in the sink.
Josephine plastered on her best smile. “Uncle Dan.” She inched off the countertop where she’d climbed up so carelessly. It was unsightly, really.
He ran some water over the dishes and dried his hands. “You left the dinner party so soon, Rose and I haven’t had a chance to catch up with you in so long. But I know you girls have your own things to do. You should have grabbed a chair if you needed the wine glasses, it’s not safe.”
“I know,” she said with a grimace. “Just a bad habit from home. I still think I’m a child sometimes.”
“Time flies, doesn’t it? Soon you girls will be the age to get married. I can’t believe it... Do you—” She knew it was coming.
“Josephine?” Lydia called from the doorway. She had the bottles from the basement.
“I should go,” Josephine said, “the wine will get cold. I mean warm.”
“Have fun, girls,” Uncle Dan said.
“We will,” Lydia said shortly. “They don’t rest,” she muttered under her breath. “Splitting up is never the right strategy in this house.”
“At least I didn’t run into Auntie Caroline or I would have been set up right then and there,” Josephine said. Lydia laughed, deeply amused at the thought of it.
“I can only imagine it. I don’t want to, really.”
Josephine closed the door behind them as Lydia cracked open a bottle. It was not easy to not talk about things, contrary to what having not talked about things for the past ten years might indicate. Lydia was pretty: that was not hard to admit out loud because it was objective fact. Unless you were Eric, whose parents had schemed with Lydia’s to get them together since before Josephine had met either of them. “Of course I think she’s pretty, I just don’t want them to take it the wrong way,” he’d said to her before their high school graduation. “It’s ridiculous, that boys-and-girls-can’t-be-friends stuff.” He hadn’t known at the time, how ridiculous the girls-can-only-be-friends-with-girls stuff was. He was only thinking about himself, which Josephine couldn’t really blame an 18-year-old boy for doing.
Lydia was also charming, stupidly rebellious, and a lightweight drunk. While Josephine had been thinking about all this with a full glass in hand Lydia’s face was already rather red.
“You need to slow down,” Josephine said. The bottle was half empty and Lydia was looking for something to play in the background on her TV.
“I had so much for dinner, though,” Lydia said. “It’s fine.”
Josephine didn’t want to take advantage of her being drunk to say what she had to say. And it was like— Eric’s voice echoed in her head again. What do you even want?
And if she could have continued that conversation about The O.C. it would have gone like this:
“Because even if you know what healthy love looks like and even if you’ve heard it before, that doesn’t mean that you know how to say it, or who to say it to, or when to say it? Or why to say it.”
And Lydia would have gone: “What on earth are you talking about?”
Lydia did not seem to care that she was single and she never brought it up of her own volition. And she never asked Josephine any questions either. Josephine couldn’t not let it bother her. And who else, really, was she supposed to talk about that with? Eric? He tried his best when she needed to say something to someone, anyone, but that wasn’t the same as being heard. Violetta would definitely not understand and despite their many years of friendship and her best intentions, she would actively ruin Josephine’s life by trying to get her help, or worse, a setup. So really, it was Lydia or it was no one. And for most of her life it had been no one.
But what if she did care?
“Are you okay?” Lydia asked. “Have you had too much?”
Her wine glass was still full, so of course not. Lydia wasn’t even paying attention to her. Lydia wasn’t obsessed with her, like it was the other way around. Eric’s experiences had no relevance here. Josephine abandoned the script.
“I’m glad I have you,” Josephine said.
“You’re so goofy sometimes,” Lydia remarked. She lifted the glass from Josephine’s hand and set it on her bedside table. Then she pulled Josephine in for a hug. “Just lie here for a while.”
Josephine nodded, head on her chest. “I love you,” she said, because it was easy to pass off in context.
“Bad het writing,” Lydia said.
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the way you paint this long time friendship, the weird i've-known-these-people-all-my-life-but-they-don't-know-me-at-least-not-like-that-isms of going home after coming into your own person, and the dichotomy between lydia and josephine's single-ness, and how the desirer can only imagine the desiree as never reciprocating which just creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. sorry for over-identifying with this piece as a jaded mid/late twenties romantic in her own right... this was just so good and sharp and funny in its own way, i really enjoyed reading it ♡
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