The thing is, well. The thing is that Joshua wasn't ever going to be her Forever Match (capital letters, because it's a proper phrase, coined by her mother when April was twelve and just charming enough for her to keep indulging) but he had good taste in books and movies and music, and he was easy to talk to (no mean feat for April to find, especially in New York, the capital city of alienation) and he didn't look down his nose at her job, and he made her feel safe and did all the right things during her panic attacks, and his nose was so cute and he always smelled really good and sometimes April thought about it or dreamed about it, the possibility of forever, and it didn't scare her at all. She was settling into it, like a warm blanket, this idea of her and Joshua being a forever thing, capital letters TBA, and to be dumped like this, in public no less, just makes her feel so stupid. She hates feeling stupid.
"He was a libertarian," Jess says brusquely, which isn't necessarily out of the ordinary since he's always brusque on the phone, but April imagines he sounds a little bit grumpier than usual for her sake. "How perfect could he be? You're better off."
April decides not to mention the collection of free-market economists Jess has collected in his own personal life, because that conversational path never leads anywhere good. "He took me to Olive Garden, Jess. Can you believe that? He dumped me over breadsticks."
"Nothing good ever happens in Olive Gardens," Jess says. "Listen, do you wanna get drunk? You can take the train down and get drunk with me."
April thinks about it. "Will Chris and Matt be there?"
"Chris and Matt are always here," Jess says with a scoff. "They're single men in their thirties. I can't fucking pry them away from my living room."
"Well, you have an Xbox in there," April says generously.
"Yeah, and they're always bringing over Twisted Tea and leaving it in my fridge," Jess grouses. "I will pay you to drink it for me. I don't even wanna look at it anymore, it's so fucking depressing."
April feels a little curl of warmth in her chest, partly because of the offer, and partly because April knows that Jess knows that Twisted Tea is the only drink April can stand to drink, and they both know that Chris and Matt wouldn't touch the stuff with a ten foot pole. April would bet her entire next month's rent payment (read: a small fortune) that Jess is on his way to a liquor store at that very moment to buy some.
"Okay," she says. "Yeah, I'll come down."
"Pack an overnight bag," Jess says gruffly, sounding uncannily like her father. April, still feeling generous and grateful and uncommonly fragile, decides not to mention it.
Jess' single capitulation to adulthood is his house, which is actually a split level townhome he currently shares with a rotating circus of roommates. The current one is a European woman named Molly, who is almost never there except for Sundays when she sits in the living room and watches TV all day. Jess has sworn to April on a first edition Hemingway that he is not sleeping with her, and is not even interested in sleeping with her, but April still doubts it, just a little. She's very beautiful, very mysterious, and treats everyone around her like shit: exactly his type.
"I think she's an escort," Jess says without preamble, pulling April in through to the kitchen. Most of the house is predictably covered in bookshelves, and Molly's only addition to the common areas is a gleaming, chrome espresso machine, placed in a spot of honor on the kitchen counter. "No, I'm serious - she makes money, like real money, and she almost never sleeps here, which - hey, none of my business, right? - but if it were a boyfriend then we'd have seen him by now, right? She's been here almost six months."
"She could just be very private," April says, slinging her duffel onto the couch. Jess is already pulling a can of Twisted Tea from the fridge for her - a brand new box, she glimpses with another burst of warmth. "You don't need to jump from 'rich and busy' to 'escort,' Jess, I mean, come on."
"She uses one of those privacy blockers," Jess says, "every time she calls me it comes up as 'Unknown Number.' And she has wigs."
"Wigs?"
"Wigs," Jess says meaningfully. "Like six or seven of them. Nice ones, too. She showed them to me, once."
"Oh my God," April says, through a guffaw. The idea of Jess being led through this elegant, terrifying woman's wig collection and growing progressively more horrified is the most absurd/delightful thing April has ever heard in her life. And considering who her parents are, that's not an easy feat. "Or maybe she's an assassin."
"I wish - wouldn't that solve a lot of my problems," Jess grumbles, opening a bottle of wine for himself. The only thing he ever drinks is red wine, which makes sense if you know how picky he is. He hides it well, but he is tremendously choosy. Another reason why he can't keep a roommate. Or a car. But. April digresses - tonight is about her problems. "So, anyway, she won't be back tonight. So feel free to cry yourself to sleep or whatever."
"I haven't cried myself to sleep since my undergraduate adviser told me that majoring in mathematics just so I could get an Erdős number someday 'wasn't realistic.'"
"Jesus Christ, you're a freak," Jess says, with pronounced resignation. "Just sit down and drink your boozy tea, would you? Let's get this over with."
April pops the tab, noticing with relief that her can is peach flavored, and follows directions.
"So," she says, smacking her lips after a long drink. Jess, holding a gigantic water glass full of wine, flops down in the armchair opposite, eyeing her warily. "How does this work? Do we trash talk him, prank dial his phone, what?"
"Prank dial his phone? What is this, a Mary Kate and Ashley movie?" Jess asks incredulously. "No, weirdo, we sit here and get blasted, and if you start crying then we hug and don't talk about it the next morning. It's called 'comfort,' April. Humans do it."
"Do we have to talk about him?" April asks skeptically.
"Absolutely not," Jess says firmly. "Other options include ice cream, which I don't have - but we could get - and sad movies, which I guess we could do, if you still remember Luke and Lorelai's Netflix password."
"I thought you were gonna get it," April says. "Didn't Elena buy you a subscription for Christmas?"
"I canceled it when she dumped me," Jess says. He gestures at her with his half-pint of wine. "You need to cancel everything you share with Josh. Netflix, magazine subscriptions - you didn't merge bank accounts, did you?"
"God no," April blurts.
"Good." Jess gulps his wine. "Count one blessing."
"We were talking about it, though," April says, feeling the words vibrate tremulously in her throat. "We were looking for apartments. He wanted to find something closer to his family in Jersey."
Jess sighs, reaching out and squeezing her elbow, which is dangling off the edge of the couch. April bites her lip, looking down at her can of Twisted Tea, the sweetness curdling suddenly in the pit of her stomach.
"Dad changes the password every other week now," April says suddenly, just to make the terribly sympathetic silence go away. "He thinks he's being 'hacked,' because his 'Recently Watched' keeps changing. Pretty sure he hasn't figured out that it's us."
"Well, if Lorelai's the one choosing the passwords, we'll never guess it," Jess says in resignation. "We could try Liz and TJ's. I'm pretty sure I could guess her password - she uses her own birthday for everything. Either hers or Doula's."
"Or we could just sign up for our own account," April points out. "Instead of stealing it from our family members. There's even a free trial option."
"Now where's the fun in that?" Jess asks.
They've already watched most of the Ken Burns documentaries, and Jess has opinions on Making a Murderer, so they try Stranger Things, which is boring. Then they try The West Wing, which just pisses both of them off, and finally settle on Friends. Two episodes and another round of drinks later, Jess glares at the TV and says, "I remember liking this a lot more when I was a teenager."
"Perhaps Jennifer Aniston's legs had something to do with that," April suggests delicately. Her own experience of it is uncolored by nostalgia - she wasn't allowed to watch television until she was thirteen, which was uncoincidentally the same age when she found out about and met her father. One of the nastiest fights between her parents had been the great war about movies and television, which had dragged on for months. April still feels a little fond, thinking about how hard Luke had fought for her right to veg out on mindless entertainment. "Or are you more of a Monica man?"
"Phoebe," Jess says, raising his glass to the woman in question. "Always pick Phoebe."
April clinks her own can against his glass, acknowledging the point.
"I thought we were supposed to watch sad movies," she says.
"Do you want to watch sad movies?"
April considers this. "Absolutely not."
"Alright then." Jess picks up the Xbox controller, flipping back to the main menu. "Let's stick with stupid then," he says, and clicks into something with Adam Sandler.
This works moderately better, at least in the sense that they both enjoy making fun of it, and April finds herself laughing despite the dark cloud she can still feel hovering over her head. One thing she's always liked about Jess is that he's the only member of her family that seems to have mastered the art of keeping his baggage to himself. Had she called her mother, she would have been subjected to a reprise of What Did You Expect, followed by the sequel I Just Want the Best For You Because I Love You So Much (addendum, Why Can't You See the Best is What I Want). Luke's brand is a bit more subtle, but still a variation of a theme - gruff attempts at comfort, followed by an awkward recitation of some advice Lorelai probably said to him once, and then yet another round of What Rory's Up To.
If April were a less logical person, she would resent her family's circumstances immensely. Not just to have missed out on so much time with Luke - missing time which, despite all their efforts, still remains an elephant in every room - but to have been made into a chess piece in her father's marriage. April loves Luke and Lorelai and Rory very much, but she finds that that love is best enjoyed from far away, much like her love for her mother. It's not exactly nice to be constantly reminded that Luke spent decades wishing he was some other girl's dad. (Not to mention how weird Lorelai is around her.)
Jess, on the other hand, doesn't have any drama related to her existence, and thus his company is far more pleasant. When April was 21, just graduated from college and wildly unprepared for adult life (and unpleasantly surprised by the reality of what a student loan really is), he let her crash on his couch for almost nine months while she looked for a job and applied for grad programs. It was by far one of the least stressful periods of April's life. Even though she was broke and spiraling quickly into an existential depression, it was still kind of...fun.
Which is why April always calls him, when bad things happen. Jess has a way of knocking you back down to earth, and as they've gotten older he's become gentler, and more deliberate about doing it. Sometimes she wishes she could do the same for him, but he never seems to need help with anything. On an intellectual level, she knows that's not true - he has heartbreaks and setbacks just like anyone - but he never talks about them, never seems affected by them at all. She wishes she were that strong, sometimes.
"When was the last time you had your heart broken?" April blurts. Jess blinks at her, then pauses the movie like he's been waiting for it. "Sorry."
"Time for talking?" Jess asks mildly, tossing the controller away. "Hm. Like a minor heartbreaking, or full on, tragic, moping in your underwear despair?"
"The second one," April says. She's not the kind of person who mopes in her underwear, but if she were - this heartbreak would definitely send her there.
Jess frowns down at his hands for a second. "Just once."
April gulps down the rest of her can of tea. "How'd you get over it?"
"Ah, kiddo," Jess says, leaning his head back against the couch. "There's no secret. Nothing to do but get through it. You know that."
April bites her lip, placing her can carefully on the coaster on the coffee table. It has the Wonder Woman logo on it, which means it was probably a snarky gift. Jess hates comic book movies.
"You never told me what exactly happened," Jess says, quietly kind. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"He said we were going in different directions," April says, pushing the words out. She can feel her shoulders going stiff, the words coming out stilted, like always happens when she's about to cry. "He said that...that he needed to get serious about his life, that he wanted a family someday and if he was committed to making that happen, he needed to find somebody on the same page as him...that he wanted security, and - um - "
"That motherfucking asshole," Jess hisses, pulling her in by her elbow. April leans with it, letting her head fall against his shoulder.
"We've never even talked about kids," April says, hearing herself sound small. "He just assumed...I think what he really meant is that I don't make enough money."
"Fuck him," Jess says fiercely, his arm a solid bar of warmth across her shoulders. "I mean it, April. Fuck this guy. Think about what would've happened if you'd stayed together. If he was willing to speak over you about this..."
April just rubs her nose a little, her eyes burning against the push of tears. She nudges her head further into Jess' shoulder, and his arm tightens around her, squeezing softly.
"I just feel like," April says, concentrating hard on each word, so it doesn't come out wrong. "I feel like nobody sees me for real. Do you know what I mean? Everybody is looking through their own perceptions and biases, they never really see me. They see their own problems, or neuroses, or - or whatever. And that's - you know, whatever, people are people, but I just want someone to know me. That's all. Is that too much to ask?"
"No," Jess says firmly. "No, sweetheart, it isn't."
"I'm sick and tired of it," April chokes out, pressing her face against the sharp angle of his shoulder blade. "I'm just sick and tired, Jess."
"I know." Jess just keeps holding her, his chin pressed sharply against the crown of her head. "You'll find it. You will."
April shudders, and lets the rest of her weight fall fully against him. Jess doesn't even flinch. Not that she's ever expected him to. Not that he ever, ever does.
"It's just hard," April mutters. "You know?"
"You know I do," Jess murmurs. She supposes she does.
"Oh look - baby photos!" They've migrated to Facebook - probably not the smartest option. But they're both blasted by now, so neither of them care much at the present moment. "Thank God Lola got all of Rory's genes instead of that Logan guy, whatever his last name is - Huntingburger."
"Hunchingsurfer," Jess counters. April snorts with laugher. "Humpbackherder."
"Humpinglearner," April says.
Jess covers his face with one hand, laughing through a wheeze. "We gotta stop - we're too old for this shit now, remember?"
"Fine," April says, clicking away from Rory's page. She hardly ever posts anything anyway. Not that it matters - her dad keeps her extremely up to date on all the goings on of Stars Hollow, whether she wants to know or not. And obviously this includes regular pictures of little Lorelai Gilmore the Fourth, who is (of course) extremely adorable and sweet. "Let's look up your other exes then. There's gotta be at least one who's miserable."
"Elena is miserable!" Jess says triumphantly. He's very excitable when he's drunk. "Her new publisher dropped her contract when The Story Brothers flopped. She's been grieving very publicly."
"Serves her right," April says triumphantly. "It really, really sucked."
"God, yeah it did," Jess agrees. "I can't believe I even dated another novelist in the first place. For fuck's sake, she writes in first person."
"The hack!" April exclaims. Jess' laptop wobbles a little, in her lap. She steadies it with an unsteady hand. "Better than that poet lady. What was her name?"
"Bridget," Jess says, with a sigh. "She was a piece of work. Really good in bed - but not worth it, in the end."
April snorts, finding this extremely funny for some reason. "I didn't need to know that," she says, giggling.
"Sorry," Jess says, not sounding all that sorry. "But just think, kiddo - one day you too will have a long list of unfortunate exes to Facebook stalk after a breakup. Joshua is only your first. And least memorable, hopefully."
"From your lips to God's ears," April says dryly. She's scrolling down her feed, which has become even more depressing than before, due to the fact that most of her friends are actually Joshua's friends. April was never really big on social media before they started dating - it was Josh who urged her to be more present, to "market" herself. The tool. "You know, we grow up expecting that it'll be easy - that you'll just meet your husband on the street one day, and bam, that's it. You're done. But where did we get that idea? It's not like our parents are models of domestic bliss. It can't just be from movies."
"Everyone wants it to be easy," Jess says sagely. "So we think we're getting it wrong when it's not."
"Yeah, but it must be easy for some people. You see those couples, where it all just falls into place - Zack and Lane, for instance - you know what I'm talking about - "
"It's a numbers game," Jess says, staring blankly at the computer screen, watching idly as she scrolls. "Numbers and timing. That's it. You think Luke wanted to pine after Lorelai for fifteen years? No - of course not."
"I guess not."
"It just...has to line up right," Jess says. "Lorelai's not the only one who married other people. And they both meant it, when they tried with others. It's not like they weren't trying to move on. But it didn't work out, for whatever reason, and because they were friends, because they were always around each other...eventually the opportunity came up, and they made it happen. And once you get it started - that's when you work on it. But you both need to be willing. You both need to be trying for the same thing. And that's the hard part - because they're just so many fucking people in the world, you know? Sometimes you're gonna choose somebody who doesn't choose you back. You can't guard yourself against it. It just happens."
April stops scrolling, the thought hitting her smack dab in the chest.
"There's no magic trick," Jess says, almost sadly. "Some people just get lucky."
"Do you think they're happy?" April asks wanly. "They seem happy. But you never know, do you? I think that would be just the absolute worst thing - to love someone so much, and not be happy with them. You know?"
Jess regards her seriously for a moment. "If you measure your life in happiness, you're always going to be searching for it. Happiness is just one thing you feel. Just one part of everything else."
April shakes her head. "Contentment, then. Whatever - you know what I mean. Don't nitpick to get out of answering the question."
"Of course they're happy," Jess says, rolling his eyes. "They make each other laugh, they take care of each other. You can't spend more than five minutes in that house without feeling better about yourself, even when they don't like you! Trust me, I know that from experience."
"Don't be stupid, they love you," April says, shoving his arm. Jess rolls his eyes again. "They do! They give you shit because that's the only way you know how to process love, you doof."
"I'm too drunk for this conversation," Jess complains.
"You started it," April says, laughing. "Besides, it's nice to talk to you about this. I can't talk to Mom about them...you know why."
"Yeah," Jess replies, like he knows what she means. Which - he does, April realizes. He's got two entirely separate families too - the one he shares with her, and the mysterious one out in California that he never, ever mentions whenever his mother might possibly overhear. "You handle it well. You really do."
"Thanks." April takes a shaky breath. "I guess it hurts sometimes because I want it so much. What Dad has with Lorelai."
"You'll find it," Jess says, with undeniable confidence. "All you have to do is try. It's hard work - the looking. But when you pick someone, and they pick you back...it'll be worth it, April. I promise."
April smiles tremulously. "I'm really glad I've got you now," she says. "Have I ever told you that?"
"You sap," Jess says, kissing her forehead sloppily.
"Shut up," April sputters, only barely rescuing the laptop from a bad end against Jess' hardwood floor. "Come on, Jess, be a man and tell me you love me too."
"I love you too," Jess says obediently. Then he blinks at himself in surprise. "Holy shit, I am wasted."
"We don't have to talk about it in the morning," April assures him bemusedly. "I'm told that's one of the rules."
"Probably a dysfunctional one, but I'll take it," Jess replies.
April wakes up the next morning, still on Jess' couch, with a European woman looming over her, muttering to herself.
"Gah!" April scrambles back, her heart pounding. Molly squints at her with one eye, then retreats to a more respectable distance. Her hair is black - an obvious wig. April's not sure how she never noticed before - she just thought she dyed her hair a lot.
"Apologies," says Molly, in her vague, unidentifiable accent. "I cannot see well without my glasses. I was trying to see who you were - I didn't mean to startle you."
"That's okay," April says, one hand on her chest. Her head has joined her heart in the pounding, and it's not pleasant. "I'm April," she adds, just to be safe.
"Yes, I realize that now." Molly smiles, still squinting. "Jess is in the kitchen. I believe he is making eggs."
"Oh," April says blankly, still worked up and weirded out. "Okay."
Molly smiles kindly, with a touch of condescension. April is reminded suddenly of why she's never approved of Molly, as a roommate for Jess or as anything else. "You may use my shower."
"Uh," April says. "Is there something wrong with the one down here?"
"No," Molly replies blithely, already breezing towards the exit. "But you may use mine if you like. Nice to see you! Stay as long as you like!"
April sits in incredulous silence for several minutes after she leaves. Maybe, she thinks, her own roommate situation - a one bedroom apartment in Queens which she shares with three other odious, poor Millennials - isn't that bad.
Jess is smirking at her, when she finally ventures into the kitchen. "You see what I mean," he says, gesturing at her with a spatula.
"She's definitely an assassin," April says, beelining for the coffee.
"But she pays all the utilities," Jess counters. "Insists upon it, actually. She says a man as pretty as me shouldn't have to worry about water bills." He says this in an extremely bland voice with a smirk still plastered across his face.
"I worry about you sometimes, I really do," April says. "From now on I want you to text me every thirty-six hours to assure me of your physical safety. And I'm not kidding."
"If she did kill me, it'd probably be a pleasant way to go," Jess says. He laughs at the look on her face. "Relax! You text me more often than that anyway. You'd probably catch on first if something ever happened to me, even though you live two hours away. Shit, Chris and Matt probably wouldn't even notice, at least until it came time to do payroll, anyway."
April just shakes her head. "Did you put her on the lease?"
"What am I, an idiot?" Jess asks, shaking scrambled eggs onto a plate. The smell hits April in the gut, making her stomach grumble. "She's moving out in June, anyway. Says she's moving to Miami."
"An excellent city for assassins," April says, only barely holding herself back from snatching the plate out of his hands. "Do me a favor and find someone normal for your next roommate, why don't you? An accountant, or a bartender or something."
"It really exposes how little you drink, when you use 'bartender' as an example of a normal person," Jess comments. He starts eating his share of the eggs straight out of the pan, leaning one hip against the counter next to her. But not before he puts half a shaker of pepper on top. April wrinkles his nose at him, which he ignores. "You feeling any better?"
April thinks about it for a second. "Physically? No. Emotionally?" She waves one hand in the air, wobbling it back and forth. "Check back in a few days."
"I plan to," Jess says, reaching out to affectionately nudge her arm with his elbow. "You don't have to work today, do you?"
"No." Just thinking about her job sends April's mood downward. Due to the tragic lack of career opportunities for linguistics and philosophy double majors, she's currently a waitress at a very upscale restaurant, where she makes obscene tips from famous people. She's met TV stars, directors, late night hosts, tons of stand up comedians - and she's very good at not recognizing them (and more importantly, not telling stories on the internet about them), which makes her a well-liked, well-tipped waitress. It's not even close to what she wants to do, but adult life so far seems to April like a series of unpleasant tasks you have to perform while daydreaming about what you'd like your life to be. "We're closed for the weekend, actually. Jean and Amit are restructuring the menu, and they're doing something in the dining room - changing the carpet or something."
"Then you can stay and hang out some more," Jess says, deceptively casual. "You can mope with me. We'll go see that new depressing nihilism movie you won't stop talking about."
"Yorgos Lanthimos is not a nihilist!" April says hotly.
"Sure," Jess says skeptically. "Just every movie he makes is an intensely bleak interrogation of human malice and our inability to connect with each other. Total coincidence."
"But not in a nihilistic way," April argues. "That word has a very specific definition that has some overlap with what you're talking about, but 'bleak' is not the same thing as 'nihilist,' and you know it."
"Okay, but nihilism is inherently bleak, and words are altered by common use and you know it," Jess says, talking with his mouth full, as usual. "And I can't believe you're arguing with me about the guy who made that fucking Lobster movie."
April winces at the memory. "If they hadn't killed the dog - "
"Ugh, don't remind me." Jess takes another huge bite, then shakes the remainder of his eggs onto April's now-empty plate. She shoots him a dirty look - as if she wants his peppery eggs - and pushes the plate away. "Come on. If we hurry, we can hook up with Chris. He's in Camden helping his sister with something, but he's on his way back now."
"Ooh, can we go to that arcade bar?"
"You're such a tourist," Jess complains. "No, I'm not taking you there. You blew half your paycheck on Ms. Pacman."
"But I wanna check if anybody's knocked me off the leaderboard," April complains. Jess just rolls his eyes at her. "Fine, then I want Greek food, and if you hate the movie, you have to listen to me explain why you're wrong for ten minutes minimum."
"You might hate it too," Jess protests, but April holds firm. "Fine. But only because you just got dumped."
"Ouch," April says, but she's laughing. Her head still hurts, but she feels a little...lighter, somehow. The memory from yesterday has faded a bit, in the early morning light, in Jess' absurdly grown up kitchen (the backsplash! The organized drawers! The matching curtains! Her dad would cry, if Jess would ever deign to invite him over), in the face of solid companionship, friendly bickering, and over-seasoned eggs. "We can go see a movie you like tomorrow," she offers. "I heard Venom was actually pretty good, in a madcap sort of way."
"You're so fucking mean to me," Jess complains. "Honestly, I give you booze, I give you eggs, I give you seasoned life advice that honestly really is priceless, considering the weight of my life experience against yours - "
"Fuck off," April says, laughing.
"Shut up. I wanna see the Dick Cheney movie. And I'm not gonna put up with a single complaint. Not even one."
"Jesus," April says, through a groan. "Fine, fine. I get to make fun of that one, though."
"Deal," Jess says. They shake on it.
April catches his arm as he brushes past, on his way towards the living room, and pulls him down by one arm to kiss his cheek. Two years ago, he would have groaned and made some kind of quip, to deflect. Five years ago he wouldn't have even let her touch him. Now, he just smiles warmly, pressing his palm briefly against her cheek. Like her dad does sometimes, when he's proud of her.
"You're worth all the bad stuff, you know," April says. "It makes up for the parts that suck, because you and me - we're solid. You know what I mean?"
"You're such a weirdo," Jess says, but - his eyes are sharp, his face creased with emotion, and she knows she got to him. She's the only one who can, sometimes.
April shakes him off, grinning. "Go shower, you smell like a wino."
Jess shoots her a glare and exits the kitchen, muttering to himself resentfully. April turns back to the eggs, and decides to suck it up and eat them. There's space to give anything a chance, she figures.