III. The Snowball Queen
In the back corner of her bedroom desk once sat an ancient snow globe, a present from Jessica's Grammy (RIP). It was a sizable and time-weathered tchotchke dating back to 1950-whatever, authentic glass, proudly Catholic (its central figurine was that familiar baby blue hooded Mother Mary standing with arms held open) and decidedly non-Christmassy. Or, at least, the secular type that most people pushed for. Kind of a bummer for younger Jess, she'd admit. Hence the former hiding in a corner (to at least pay some respect, because if there was an afterlife after all, Jess knew her Grammy would be watching like a hawk and pissed the fuck off if her granddaughter wasn't adequately appreciating her present game. Which, honestly, brought even WORSE fears into Jessica's mind about what dead Grammy's ghost might've been witness to…), which made perfect sense for pre-February Jessica.
But now it was out in a more obvious spot, one that post-February Jessica could glimpse from various points in the room. She even polished it from time to time, which was a testament to how new this was as a ~fixation~, like… domestic chores? Maybe, MAYBE,when a motherfucker put a ring on it. Maybe. (If he was hot enough and helped with his share.) And this snow globe was most definitely not Mike's engagement ring.
A girl could dream.
Honestly, she wouldn't quite call herself so much… religious as maybe spiritual, per se, these days? Although Jess wasn't sure it really made too much of a difference either way, given the fact that she'd seen things wilder than she'd dreamt in any philosophy. And survived them, to boot.
Credit where credit was due: by the efforts of Mike and Matt (separately) combined, she managed to scrape by alive. Now, as far as psychological damage, who was the night's worst victim could be anybody's game! Jessica heard about Josh's Jigsaw breakdown at the lodge later on (wondering why in God's name he hadn't targeted, say, her? If she was being honest with herself), and really all of them went through the ringer on their own, she could be fair about that. She could.
…But c'mon. She got fucked up. Jess traced the slow-fading scars on her chest and grimaced. A permanent Hallmark card from Hannah. Could anybody else say that?
(…DUH, Emily, right. But that was… so far, for ninety-odd days, they'd managed to steer clear of one another? The widest of berths. Best left alone. Besties reconnecting over scars was more like… an 80s action movie homoerotic dudebro bonding moment, right?)
So she could be forgiven for wanting a divine mother watching her back these days. And really, what business was it to anybody else if she wanted Mary around, anyway? To prove that point, Jess rose from her (unmade, untidy, unforgivable) mess of a bed and shook up Grammy's snow globe. The snow's flurry whisked around Mary in a cyclone.
How does someone survive falling down a mineshaft? Being mauled by her mutated former friend? Limping through those abandoned tunnels with Matt and hiding for dear life from something… well, unbelievable?
The (kinda cliché) answer was: one day at a time. Taking care. Appreciating little things. Like a dead grandmother's parting gift, or fresh laundry, or ordering in and muting her notifications, or listening to music with big headphones and the volume up (dissolving into sensory bliss). It meant the occasional day spent cuddling in bed with Mike, burrowing her face in his chest and letting his body heat wash over her like a ray of sun.
Those were the good days. Yeah. Good, good days.
Now PTSD was a real bitch. That was a given. But it was especially insidious in the sense that it came literally whenever it wanted to. Meaning that, though Jess could sidestep thinking about anything related to Blackwood Pines as much as she liked, it might work for awhile? But eventually something or other would accidentally trigger a memory, and then suddenly Jess would be fighting off another flashback of being dragged through the woods on a snowy evening. And yes, there were medications for that, but they made Jess too dull and sleepy and Jessica Riley was not the type of girl who snored through life.
Even dreams weren't safe. Nightmares favored revisiting that scenario, over and over and fucking over again. Sometimes their terror persisted into her waking life, though not for the reason one might readily assume. See, sometimes… (stay with her here)... Jess swore she was a seer. Like, in her dreams, she would experience that night, but from the viewpoint of her friends instead? Each one down the line, except… sometimes things changed. The details shifted around, diverged. Living out essentially the same story over and over, with varying amounts of death and despair.
And lately… they were such vague impressions, it was hard to say much of anything about what she felt was to come. But something WAS coming. Jess knew it. She didn't tell a soul about it because she knew literally NO one would listen to her. (Cassandra suffered enough for both of them.) Flashes of a mountain, a torch's flame, a beating heart frozen in ice. Imminent change. Destiny, brought to chaotic life on the graceful wings of a cosmic butterfly.
Trippy shit. Heavy shit. Exhausting shit especially for an already broken and busted girl just searching for some goddamn peace of mind. So to help stave off the persistent edge, Jess forged in a direction she'd never predicted: stoner. At least, the kind who smoked to stay sane. Jess was no burnout. (Not yet.) She preferred it to the meds, and her friends certainly didn't mind gaining a dispensary connect.
In the past, her parents never would've gone for it. After February… well, most of their pre-war boundaries were so far from their original markings, it was hard to figure out what the map even used to look like. Free reign to smoke inside her room. New frontiers, folks.
Boyfriend access came with the new living arrangement package. In the past, that would've been an invitation to a raunchy romp of bunny-level fucking proportions. Now, it mainly meant she could spend at least a day or two each week enjoying his company in the comfort of her pajamas.
It wasn't that they didn't fool around anymore. Jess couldn't imagine a healing process withOUT kissing at this point, quite honestly. Mouths and hands and occasional southbound excursions, she could tool around with no problem. But when it came to the main event… well, Jessica couldn't quite cure her stage fright. (Hard to cultivate the mood when a girl was terrified she'd be ripped through a window and dragged out in the night just for thinking about getting busy with her boyfriend.)
Maybe it wasn't the nicest thing to admit, but Jessica found herself surprised by Mike's patience. Trauma bond or not, Jess knew how bad the build-up of desire must've been. It wasn't like she didn't want him anymore, either; on her better days, Jess indulged in a saucy daydream or two, no porn necessary. So they took baby steps. (They even dipped into mutual masturbation territory, which was surprisingly hot in a way Jessica never could've expected.)
Jess could rightfully blame Hannah, but that just brought the chain of cause and effect right back to her own tether, so she avoided that particular game. She discussed it with her therapist (to some degree of mortification), and her best advice was just to sorta… 'Wait it out. Let the scars heal and fade. You can't rush natural processes.' Which was all well and good talking about it in a sedated office building; different story in practice!
She could tell Mike didn't fully understand. What tripped him up was the conflict between their desires and their reality. (Wasn't that true for too many couples already?)
And on rough days, she wondered when Mike would eventually leave her. If that had to happen (she pleaded with God: Be kind enough not to do that, after everything…), she hoped it would at least not be so he could get back with Emily. Granted Mike probably shot down any chance of them reconciling like that after apparently pointing a fucking gun at her head, but Jessica's masochistic subconscious favored that particular image as a torture method anyway. How strange it was, to see Matt as a savior and his girlfriend as the Devil. (Maybe that was harsh; Emily would be, if anything, a lesser demon. Like, the demon of getting the last bits of the toilet paper roll with no back-up in sight, shit like that.)
No indulging in that misery this day, though. Mike would be rolling through any minute with more rolling papers and a kiss for her parched lips. She simply refused to carry that dour cloud of a thought into their Saturday rendezvous.
A chime from her phone. Jessica didn't need to check; she flung open her window and yelled out to the street (doing her best Sylvia Robinson), "C'MERE, LOVER BOY!" After a beat, in her normal tone: "Door's open!~"
Jess liked to imagine a sequence of Hanna-Barbera running sound effects as Mike made his way to her bedroom door. He was practically sweating by the time he arrived, but she could easily pin that on his heavy denim jacket (if she ignored the shape lurking like Jaws beneath the seat of his pants).
"Hiiiya," she beamed, rushing to meet him.
Mike tossed his backpack to the side and buried Jess in a bear hug. "What's up buttercup?"
Jess squeezed him tighter, relishing the sensation of his warm body pressed against hers. It wasn't even too cold today, yet he felt like a roasting fireplace in the middle of a snowstorm. (Hokey, sure, but true.) "Nothin' much, waiting for some stud muffin to come up here and sweep me off my feeEEWOO—" Before she could finish, Mike hoisted Jess into the air and started spinning around. She squealed and clung closer. After a few revolutions, Mike relented and released Jess from his grasp. She stayed pressed up against him anyway.
"What uh, was the rest of that thought?" remarked Mike, affecting a disinterested tone.
Playing it coy, eh, Munroe? thought Jess.
"Welp, I was thinkin' I was gonna take one of those tasty root beer float wraps you just nabbed and roll up a joint, then we'll roast that bone A$AP Rocky and figure out food. How 'bout it?" Jessica's proposition suited Mike just fine, and he let her know it. "MMmm~ eaaaasy tiger, we can get to tongue hockey later hehe."
Mike faked an impetuous huff before grinning cheekily. "'You miss 100% of the shots you don't take — Wayne Gretzky — Michael Scott' — Mike Munroe," he cheesed.
Jess wished there was a camera nearby so she could stare into it with the kind of dry and droll dead-eyed look that conveyed ever so clearly the character was over this shit. "You wanna smoke or naw?"
Fishing out the papers from his back pocket, Mike dangled them for her to grab. "Here ya go Cheech."
"Thanks, Chong." Jessica's tray was already prepared in every facet, from pre-ground weed to filters and lighters and pokers; after so much practice, rolling up a joint these days was a quick operation.
Color Mike impressed! He'd never expected his girlfriend would become the seasoned expert in their dynamic. "Damnnn Snoop Dogg, who sponsors you, RAW?"
Jess snorted and lit up, taking care to get the j properly burning. "Nah, OCB. And let's be real, they actually WOULD love havin a hot girl like me shilling their shit. Might be a good career path sometime if I ever actually get into modeling."
Mike liked the idea of that. "You'd probably get so many promo deals too…"
"Yeah," agreed Jessica. Maybe part of did still wanna model. It just… all felt so far away now. Like a different girl in a different life. "Or maybe I could be, like, a fortune teller, or something. Oracle type-shit, you know?"
Jess was passing the joint to Mike as she said this; he held onto the weed for a halting moment to truly fathom what she just revealed. "Wait, you wanna be a… fortune teller?"
"Yeah."
Mike eyed up Jess. He took his first hit off the joint (good shit, pretty dank) and held back the coughing fit teasing him deep in his lungs. "Since… when?"
"I mean, like, recently, I guess. I just… I think I have ~the gift~," she proclaimed, undulating her arms to emphasize the aura around the last phrase. "Y'know how that like, happens to some people, after traumatic events?"
Mike's face was blank. He passed back the joint, trying to figure out if she was being completely serious. "I thought that was a movie thing. Isn't that just a movie thing?"
"I mean… I dunno, isn't that a thing? Near-death experiences and comas can unlock parts of the brain and like, kickstart ESP or whatever?"
Mike perked up. "You said ESPN?"
Jess had to be careful or her eyes would roll right out of her head. "E-S-P, P, extra-sensory perception, c'mon man."
"Oh." The statement sunk in. "Wait, what, you think you're like, Haley Joel Osment? You see dead people, Jess?" Mike patted frantically at his chest. "Am I your Bruce Willis?"
"No, nothing like that. No ghosts, no thanks." Jess crossed herself for emphasis, burning joint in-hand; she took another puff and passed it on. "No, I'm talking like, did you ever catch reruns of that show The Dead Zone, where the dude wakes up from a coma and has like, a psychic touch? Walks around with the cane?"
"You mean House?" Mike could barely contain the shit-eating smirk begging to creep across his face.
"Michael. You can laugh it off all you want, but you DO know my name is straight up Aramaic for seeing, right? Iscah? So like, I could be a seer."
Mike decided right now was a good time to start holding his tongue and just sorta agree with the flow of the conversation. Maybe that wasn't necessarily the most honest approach, but Jessica… well, when it came to her, Mike tried to be his best self. And when Mike tried, he could be a half-decent guy. And even a half-decent former slimeball like him could be a pretty damn good boyfriend. Plus, he didn't know jackshit about names OR Aramaic(? Bible stuff?), so it wasn't like he could even prove her wrong, per se.
Another drag off the joint; Mike pretended he was a dragon, imagining a roar of fire and smoke erupting from his jaws. (Enough to make any long-legged mountain cannibal freak turn heel and fuck off to oblivion.) He told Jess: "Ay babe, listen, you know I wouldn't be able to judge something like that, it's… not my arena, y'know? But all the same… we've seen some pretty freaky shit. I wouldn't put it past you to have a lil sixth sense thing goin' on."
Jessica's consternated expression softened with relief. "So I'm not nuts."
Mike passed her the joint and shrugged. "I mean, I think we're all just a liiiiiittle nuts after Weekend at Joshie's, but you're DEFinitely not worse than anybody else in our circle."
"Oh yeah?" Jess took two long puffs, French-inhaled; "Who's the village kook in your book?"
Pondering for a moment, Mike's answer materialized rather swiftly. "You'd think I'd say Emily, and usually you'd be right, but somethin' bout Sam recently has me thinking she's the unlucky winner, and that's not a good chicken dinner, you feel me? It's all cold and stale."
Jess raised a quizzical eyebrow and handed Mike the dwindling roach. "I…guess? Whatcha mean?"
"What, she hasn't talked to you about Josh at all?" Jessica shook her head. "Really? I feel like she's always tryna talk to me about him. I'm talkin' like, what he's doing right NOW." Leaning in closer, Mike added in a conspiratorial tone: "I think she loves him."
Jackpot. Jessica's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Nooo, you're joking." Mike shook his head. "Oh God, poor girl… it i for that revelation! Can't believe I never picked up on that before, wow. She should've fucked him before the reunion, it would've been so juicy. Sam… Jesus, that's… that's actually kinda really sad, wow." Another terrible side-effect of trauma: Jessica had more empathy/sympathy for others, which was NOT on-brand as a former alpha bitch and thus very confusing to navigate.
Mike was unmistakably uncomfortable. "Oh uh, yeah. Yeah uh… totally. Super sad." Nice fumble, Munroe. To try and close the distance, Mike wrapped his arm around Jessica's waist and reeled her in closer.
Another time, it would've worked. But Jess's mind was hosting some very troubling and inexpressible revelations involving Josh and Sam, and there was no room in her mental landscape for frisky business at the moment.
Kissing Mike on the cheek, Jess leaned into his ear and said, "Hey, can we just… kinda, like, lay together? For a lil bit?" Clarification: "Nothin' else?"
"Ah, yeah. That thing we keep not doing. Right." After the reply left Mike's lips, he realized how petty it sounded too late; Jess certainly noticed the comment and didn't exactly appreciate it. She pulled back, not entirely, but enough to show her displeasure. Strike two, dipshit. "Sorry, that… didn't come out right."
No shit Sherlock, thought Jessica. Aloud she said instead, "It's… whatever." She let that sit for a few pregnant moments and realized how bitter it tasted in the air. "Okay scratch that actually, it's not whatever. Let's discuss that. I'll go first: just to, uh, clarify, you understand I own my body, and that we'll start doing 'that thing we keep not doing' only when I'm ready, right?"
Mishandling this could mean the death sentence for Mike. "Yes! Of course, 100%."
"You get why I'm not Lil Miss Slutshine so much these days, right? And how I'm valid for still fooling around with you as much as I can?" Jessica only liked that particular four-letter word when it came from her own mouth; otherwise, it was dirty or dickish. She longed to wear it like a self-appointed badge of honor once again, someday. But definitely not today. She hoped Mike could understand that.
"Absolutely. I don't wanna push you at all, I mean that." With more power behind his voice: "I really am sorry I said what I said. Tried to be funny and just… fucked it up."
Jessica scrutinized Mike. Her man liked to warp words sometimes, and charm. Jess recognized that. She wasn't an erudite scholar, but she wasn't a dummy either; Mike had a lot of exes, many of whom were repeat offenders during their time(s) together. She could detect where and when that particular brand of honey came creeping in.
None today.
And so, instead of reading him the riot act, Jessica softened. Maybe they COULD have a proper conversation about this (as long as he respected her boundaries.) It was worth giving him the chance to express himself.
"Thank you for apologizing," she began earnestly. To emphasize it, she laced her left hand into his right, softly tracing the inside of his exposed forearm with her free hand. Despite occasionally feeling AND looking like utter garbage, part of Jessica's decompression routine involved mental health mani-pedis; currently glossy with flawless French manicure, she gloated to herself as her picture-perfect nails invited goosebumps to ripple and swell through Mike's body. She pretended her fingertips were little ice skaters sliding about on a frozen lake. "I guess I just wanna know, though, like… do you feel frustrated?"
In Mike's head, the lighting and soundtrack of the conversation morphed into a ghastly replica of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? at the exact moment when a contestant's answer meant the difference between walking home with fortune or failure. There was no Asking the Audience, no 50/50, no Lifeline to be begged.
"I dunno… I guess it's like, whatever happened to the Snowball Queen, you know? Just cuttin' loose, havin' fun, fuckin' around." Then, realizing he was essentially calling her a killjoy: "Not that you aren't still a blast. Stoney-baloney Jess is mucho fun, don't get me wrong. And I'm not unsatisfied, like, at ALL. It's just… things are different now. And I wonder if it's… my fault?"
Jess wore the bags beneath her eyes like shackles, attempting a half-smile. "She's still here, Mike. And it is NOT, not your fault, okay? Kill that before it takes root, please. It's just… I can't help it? Things gotta take their time to properly recover. Wounds heal on their own schedule. …I know you've heard that before, too, and I know it probably feels kinda like bullshit." Then, softly: "If it were up to me, believe me, I'd be ready to go."
Mike was like, pretty sure it was up to her? But part of his own therapy process (once Mike's therapist, Dr. D'Argento, cracked through his jock-bro laugh-or-fuck-it-off persona) involved DBT, being kinder and more patient with others, practicing mindfulness and empathy, etc. So Mike imagined a falsehood, where he was the one mauled by Hannah's Wendigo for trying to get his freak on.
…He could admit, he'd probably feel weird about fucking for awhile afterward.
And that was why, surprising the audience and the character himself, Mike continued to choose the role of a dutiful boyfriend. That was an important distinction. That was something Mike kinda-sorta felt proud of (sometimes, when he was having a good day); he chose to keep loving Jessica, to stay with her and work through the hard parts. A year ago, he woulda called it quits. No point in bullshitting about it. Know yourself was the saying, wasn't it? Mike knew old Mike woulda thought this BLEW and fucked off to find more available tail.
It wasn't guilt, or a sense of obligation, or passive participation. Chalk it up to surviving one incredibly fucked reunion, but Mike (deep down) was more a man than a young adult these days. There was a point where he legitimately believed his girlfriend was dead, something that would've been HIS fault, his fuck-up to end all fuck-ups… in a post-Wendigo world, Mike Munroe wouldn't walk away from someone he'd loved and almost lost.
Mike didn't actually say many of the things he thought or felt about Jess to her face. That was… harder (if he wasn't sufficiently fucked up enough beforehand). But for a wannabe Don Juan, Mike carried a fairly versatile deck of cards, and that was a language he spoke well. He pulled Jess into an embrace, one she accepted readily; they fell back onto the bed, weaving their legs together. Jess nestled into the crook of his neck.
"Wanna order pizza?"
Jess mmhmm'ed without pulling her face away, a warm buzz that resonated through his marrow.
"Mmkay. Lemme check out our options…"
Before he could dive into the reverie of Napoli, Mike fielded a barrage of texts from (funny enough, would ya know it) someone he'd JUST been discussing. Mike braced himself for Imminent Sampact (Sam Impact, kinda like Deep Impact but Sam's head instead of meteors or whatever fell from the sky in that movie, Mike didn't really remember much, just Elijah Wood freaking out and saving his girlfriend).
\/\/\/
S: yo mike
S: ayo mikey
S: michelangelo
S: mike's hard lemonade
S: mikemikemike
S: guess what day it is
M: :/ don't bring back that fucking camel meme
M: heard enough of that shit
M: fuckin g￡!©o
M: sup giddings
S: nm jus chillin
S: that's a lie
S: the meme angle was to get my jollies sure but
S: u gotta know what day it is
M: wym
M: o right
M: little lord fuckleroy's nightmare retreat
S: …well that's one way of putting it
S: but ya
S: can't stop thinking about him man
M: that blows :/
M: roll a blunt about it
S: wow, why am i even going to therapy when
i have such amazing clinical advice right here
S: outstanding
S: here's a concept: u, me, hartley, & whoever
else i can get to sign on board for this
M: sounds bad already
S: LEMME FINISH
S: jesus
S: we get some homemade flamethrowers go
back and find josh
S: rescue or worse
S: sorry to say it but you're kind of the resident
expert on wendigo-killin now
S: besides me & chris ig
M: whoopee
S: …ok
M: sorry idk how to talk aobut these things
M: *about
M: i joke to cope but i get that can be frustrating
M: so i am sorry fr
M: i also need to like, think about it, before i decide anything
S: it's ok nw
S: just like
S: promise to think about it fr, ok?
M: u got it boss
M: and chin up, spunky is ur vibe
S: shut up lmao
S: ttyl, say hi to jess for me
M: can do
M: she says u smell like beef
S: suuure lol. peace out weirdo
/\/\/\
On a slippery slope overlooking the cable car station, the Wendigo wallowed and skulked. He watched with mismatched eyes as a gaggle of (plump, meaty, scrumptious) strangers crowded around the lower lift station. He was camouflaged, but even so, the Wendigo prepared to attack at the drop of a pin.
They were far away, little more than miniature models playing about in a toy set, but his sensors honed in on their milling motions with acute focus. Would trekking down the mountain for the hunt be worth it? …A possible feast, surely, but the beast knew human beings carried fire sometimes as well. What looked like a buffet could turn out to be a baptism in flames. And though the Wendigo loathed himself deeply, revolted at his very reflection (the anti-Narcissus), he wouldn't go gently into that burning slumber.
From the mountains sprung an echo. Someone was… laughing. Hooting and hollering, making a ruckus. The Wendigo's eyes narrowed into slits. Half of him was homesick. Half of him was… hungry.
Choosing neither, he ran higher up his mountain, back towards the hidden cave and his dark, damp sleeping hole.
A fitting palace for a beastly prince.
A perfect retreat for a half-chickenshit monster.