Page 25 of Dearly Unbeloved
“Anyway. Rose looked after me. She made me soup.” She begrudgingly brought the soup I ordered from the front door to my bedroom and was kind enough to fill up my water bottle maybe twice.
“Rose cooked for you? I’ve never seen Rose cook in my life,” Jazz replies skeptically. And fairly. Neither Rose nor I spend much time in the kitchen. Mostly we reheat shit. Which is just as well because when I do cook, I’m messy, and I think I’d probably cause her an aneurysm.
“I didn’t say she cooked,” I correct. “She picked up soup from somewhere and reheated it, but the gesture was nice. And she kept an eye on me to make sure I was okay.”
“And then what?”
“When I was better, we went out, and I bought her dinner to say thank you.” We went to the grocery store together because my car was in the shop, and I paid for her pre-made salad because she forgot her purse.
“And then?”
Jesus. Does she want a full timeline?
I raise my brows. “I don’t think you want more details than that, considering Rose is your little sister.”
She wrinkles her nose at the implication. “Gross. No, thank you. I’m not going to pretend I get it, because I don’t, but thank you for telling me that.”
We’re quiet as our food arrives, and with one bite of her strawberry pancakes, Jazz momentarily forgets I’m sitting across from her. I dig into my avocado breakfast stack—admittedly nicer than the toast I make at home—and enjoy the quiet, until Jazz drops her fork on her plate and sighs.
“We’re friends, so I’m going to ask you something as a friend and not a big sister who’s concerned about her sister’s wellbeing.”
I gesture for her to go on with my fork.
“What happens in three months?”
My lungs burn as I inhale the avocado and sriracha. Shit. I take a big gulp of my coffee and a deep breath, trying not to meet my demise in a fucking diner. What the hell does Jazz mean by that?
“What are you talking about? Three months?” I ask, hoping I look suitably oblivious.
“Come on, Sierra. I’ve known you for years now. I know yourpattern.”
I don’t have to pretend to look oblivious as I answer. “My pattern?”
“Amy, Molly, Zhi, Sydney…” She ticks off her fingers as she recites the names of the women I’ve dated in the three and a half years she’s known me. “Am I missing anyone?”
She’s missing Toni and Mariana, but I somehow don’t think it’s necessary to mention them.
“What’s your point?” I ask wearily, though I already know where she’s going with this.
“My point is that you meet someone, you date for three months, and then you break up with them, no matter how much you like them. With seemingly no exceptions. I thought Molly and Zhi might actually last longer than three months, considering how much you liked them, but nope. Three months on the dot, you ended things.”
I had no idea she was so observant. Shit.
I could tell her that I have a strict three-month limit on relationships because the easiest way not to get hurt is not to give people the chance to hurt you. I could tell her that I usually have the same rule for friends, but she somehow weaseled her way into being the exception to the rule. I could tell her where it all started, because god knows I’ve never really opened up to her. I could tell her that none of it matters, because Rose and I have a three-month agreement, anyway.
But I don’t tell her any of those things.
“What can I say? Three months is long enough for me to know if I want to be with someone long-term or not. Why prolong things if I know it’s not going to last?”
“And Rose is the person you’ve decided it’s going to last with?” she asks.
I nod, feeling more and more guilty with every lie I tell her straight to her face.
Jazz hums. “I suppose it makes sense that you’d be so picky. Your parents are stupid in love. Kyo too. Marriage must be pretty important to you, considering how long your parents have been happily married.”
“It is.”
Why do I sound defensive?Thankfully, Jazz keeps talking, like she didn’t notice my sharp tone.
