Warning: doesn't get to the sex particularly quickly. Also, this has a little of a lot of things. It was hard to categorize. I hope you enjoy the ride!
*****
Like so many things, it began with Mr. Egg, my old high school history teacher.
In the summer of 2021, there'd been a rash of mosque shootings, and the newly reborn American left had finally begun rebuilding power in opposition to the lingering horror of racism. Everywhere, marches became occupations and occupations became defense committees. Militancy was skyrocketing, and one of its new adherents was a young journalist from Georgeville, California.
Egg had posted on Facebook about her. Laura James's sister, Barb. She'd been arrested in Angels. A protest had been deemed a riot, put down. Egg was proud of Barb. He was also proud of James, tagged her in his post. A strong family. (Her cousin had recently run a solid worker-oriented campaign for Georgeville city council.) Egg was exulting in having taught such dedicated fighters.
James had left a comment on the post. She, too, was proud of her family. She felt bad, though. After a brief stint in Occupy a decade earlier, she'd fallen out of activism, left the mantle to her sister. She'd focused on her career, her writing. And now her sister was in a county jail somewhere and she was stuck in the City of Writers, worrying.
The post made it through to my feed, and it got my wheels spinning.
I... didn't like James worrying.
My wife Fumine and I happened to be in the City of Writers. It was a dumb coincidence. Her best friends from childhood lived here, and she had the time to visit them. Our cat had recently died, and, underemployed as I was, I had nothing keeping me home. I tagged along for the trip. I saw Egg's post the day before our flight back.
"I was thinking of reaching out, seeing how she's doing." Maybe "coffee." Catch up a bit, either take her mind off things or reinforce the importance of her sister's work, depending on which she seemed to need.
To my surprise, Fumine wanted to see her too.
"We've met," she reminded me. Shortly after we started dating, we'd had one lunch with James. It had been a little awkward, and my own communications with James petered out thereafter. We hadn't talked in almost seven years.
As it happened, the friend we'd been staying with had caught a nasty flu, and we were at loose ends on our last day.
What the hell. Having Fumine with me made me more comfortable, anyway. My greeting would seem less like the weird overture it certainly wasn't. I smiled, stroked Fumine's hand.
And then I texted James.
"Hey L! Fumine and I happen to be in the area today. Saw the news about your sis and was wondering if you'd like your mind off things. We could get a meal and catch up."
The answer was immediate, and like so many things James had said to me, it was mildly surprising.
"It'd be amazing to see you."
But a meal would prove hard to arrange, it turned out. James's co-op had a pretty strict meal responsibility rotation.
"Wanna just come over in the evening?" James texted.
I asked Fumine, assuming a dead end; she, too, surprised me when she nodded. Hanging out without dinner seemed to me like it'd be more of an ordeal for her. Without the distraction of food or the built-in time limit of a finished meal, an awkward social encounter can lengthen and deepen. But Fumine didn't seem remotely trepidatious. I think she was also fired up about James's sister.
We had a quiet meal at a trendy ramen shop before meeting James outside the Writer Die Co-op around 8 p.m.. She'd finished her dishes shift, and was off the hook for the night. Seeing her was like stepping into a time machine. Despite multiple invitations to events on various book tours, I actually hadn't seen her in the flesh since that first lunch with Fumine. She didn't look unaged, but her essence—those sharp eyes, her impish smile—was unchanged. If anything, she just looked
more herself
. I'd hoped for an even keel, even expected it, but my heart jumped a beat when I saw her. Fuck.
And she was a hugger. Before words, she extended her arms, drew me in, pulled me against her chest. As soon as it had begun, it was over, and she was hugging Fumine.
"Come on in," she said. "It's fucking delightful to see you."
The common areas were boisterous and full of weed vapor, so we made our way to the attic room in which she was staying. She had a mini fridge up there with some beers, and Mike's Hard Lemonade.
"You like this stuff, right?" she asked me.
A weird mix of elation and fear surged through me. She seemed in good spirits. That was great. But if I wasn't here with Fumine as a distraction, what was I here for?
I shook my head. I did like it, but, as I explained, "neither of us really drinks anymore, for health reasons."
"Smart," she said, cracking open a cold one and taking a few sips.
Was her hand shaking?
There were two twin beds in her room. One, unmade, clearly hers from how she took her perch. The other, a little dusty.
"No roommate?" asked Fumine.
"Writer Die's not doing too hot," James said. "We're down some bodies."
There was something unsaid behind her smile, but I had a literal phobia of pushing her. Seven years of my life had been centered around exerting as little influence on her as possible, to somehow remain friends despite the overwhelming romance in my heart. That period was over—it
was
over, long passed—but the fear lingered.
I'd said we were there to catch up, so I artlessly changed the topic to something banal about our lives in Georgeville, and catch up we did. We went over Fumine's workplace struggles, my fight with the state bureaucracy over various disability items. The sudden loss of our cat. From James we heard about publishing drama and the inordinate pressure that existed in the shrinking YA world to balance inclusivity with apolitical theming.
"It's bullshit," she said, halfway through her second drink, a faint glimmer of her politically outspoken high school self shining through the disaffection she'd worn since Occupy. "Fucking publishers want us to write for disadvantaged populations, to include disadvantaged populations, but they don't want us to make a single nod to
why
these populations are disadvantaged. It's like, call it what it fucking is. Sexism, systemic racism, systematic deprivation." She took a swig. "Divide and conquer endemic to capitalism."
"I'll fucking drink to that," I said, and then I realized it was true.
James passed me a Mike's.
Fumine smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder, then asked if we were interested in an activity.
"What kind of activity?" James asked.
Her tone suggested there was nothing to do, which seemed odd. The city was big and bright, even at night, bustling with people young and old. Movies, shows, art, bars—the possibilities were endless. How could there not be something to do in the City of Writers?
Fumine got out her laptop. "YouTube karaoke?"
James and I reacted with the same laugh in the same moment, and then we laughed at ourselves for that.
"No one wants me to sing," I said.
"I want you to sing," said James.
"You do?"
"Well, I like karaoke, so Fumine's idea is great. But if I'm singing, everyone's singing."
Still somehow mortally afraid of banter with James—of flirting with James—there was no room for debate. I put my hands up in defeat, and Fumine opened her browser.
James did some contemporary pop—Ariana, Adele. Fumine, a hammy smile on her lips at each selection, stuck to Guthrie and Bragg, belting the classics of workers' revolts. I sidestepped my first song by putting on some incoherent mumble rap, but after being berated for this I did my best, an embarrassing crash and burn on Tove Lo. The Mike's Hard Lemonade helped; my tolerance was low, decimated by years of temperance.
An hour flew by, and then another. The women were having a blast with the karaoke, and I was enjoying myself too. Fumine's voice was to die for, honestly amazing. It lifted my heart, made me reflect on my luck in being married to someone who could make such beautiful music without instruments. James wasn't so good, but she was passable. Certainly better than I. The best part of listening to her sing, though, was watching her face. Fumine was focused on the words, on the sounds, on putting her heart and lungs into the singing; James was
performing.
And it was somewhere in that moment, watching James
perform
, that I realized this was
all
a performance.
"L, are you okay?" I asked, when she finished her song.
I didn't mean to ask.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the only thing that came forth was a single tear.
"Oh honey," said Fumine. "Your sister?" She shuffled across the floor on her knees and wrapped James in a hug.
The contact broke something, and James began bawling.
A few minutes later, she admitted, between sniffles, that more was wrong. She was behind schedule on her latest book. She'd fired her agent after he'd tried to pressure her into sex. She'd lost a good friend in one of the shootings.
"Karaoke with you guys is the best thing that's happened for me in months," she said.
Fumine nodded, patting James's shoulder. The touch was somehow both awkward and perfect. These women barely knew each other. Fumine had every reason to distrust my friendship with James. But Fumine was someone who cared, deeply, about every struggling person. She cared deeply, and she cared actively, and her caring touch never failed to reassure.
"I'm glad we're here," she said simply.
As she held James's hand, she gave me a look that I couldn't place for a moment. Then it hit me. Encouragement.
"Me too," I said, still unsure about how to lay on positivity around James. "I, uh, you know. It was a bit of a lark. Didn't really think you'd say yes to hanging out. But your sister's going to be okay, and you're going to be okay." The words began tumbling out. "We're all going to be okay. Not immediately, of course, but like, there's only two ways this world can go, and we're finally on the right track."
"Are we?" James asked.
When Fumine and I met up with James years back for lunch, I'd announced to her that we'd just joined a revolutionary socialist organization. At the time, James had been moving toward the liberal center, and she'd seemingly not known what to say to us about our political choices. But eras had come and gone. Sanders was President, bombing Central America and signing off on massive corporate welfare. The liberal center had fallen apart. Class consciousness was blossoming.
"We are," I said firmly, taking her other hand. Outside her hugs of greeting, it was the first time we'd touched since an elbow brush that one day in AP US History when she'd forgotten her glasses and needed to copy from my notes instead of the board. "We're bending the arc of history back toward justice."
She squeezed my hand, then withdrew from both myself and Fumine. She toyed with an empty beer bottle.
"How long are you in town?"
"This is our last night," Fumine said, ruefully.
James nodded slowly, focused on the bottle in her hands. "Where are you—"
"Here."
James and I both blinked, staring at Fumine.
"We can get our bags in the morning," my wife said. She had a habit of speaking with finality. She patted the extra bed. "The two of us can make this work for a night."
"I'd like that," James said. "It's... nice to not be alone."
I nodded as if this all made sense, but internally I had no idea what was going on. Did Fumine want to spend the night in a dusty twin bed? Why did Fumine want to spend the night in a dusty twin bed? Was it really for James? Did James even really want it? We'd already overstayed, the idea of dinner turning into four hours of chatting and karaoke.
No.
As the wheels in my head slowly turned, I remembered 2010, 2011. The height of my crush. The height of our friendship. The minutes turning into hours. The hours gone in seconds. Every time we'd hung out, every time we'd gotten together for coffee, time had disappeared. This was just another one of those coffee dates. This was just why James and I were friends, despite everything. We got along. We got along really well.
James excused herself to go to the bathroom.
Fumine smiled at me.
"This was really nice of you," she said.
"What was?"
"She needs this." Fumine scooted closer and hugged me. "You're a good friend."
