©️This is a work of adaption. Credit goes to the original author.

*****

“Lisa?”

A beat.

Two.

But no response.

—

Jennie had only just stepped into the smaller room off of the main gallery space when her past made the least likely but most heart-stopping of appearances.

—

On her third glass of wine, she was searching for a moment of quiet away from the din of conversation, the noise and excitement typical of opening exhibitions.

Outside, the flurries had picked up momentum, a biting cold had gripped the city with more teeth than usual for January, shuttering in most residents. But inside the brick building on West 20th St, the chilly night air is warmed with excited chatter. The Chelsea crowd, along with some of the more intrepid culture-chasers trekking from various corners of the city, all dressed smartly to impress, had huddled in to see the latest up-and-coming artists working in new media. Muffled voices and lively music can be heard through the glass doors, competing merrily against each other as they are carried by exposed brick from room to room.

Old hat by now, Jennie knew what to expect by the second hour once the nervous energy had settled, after the guests were plied with drinks and tiny plates of food. Visitors mingling with curators and critics, giving each other timely nods and approving smiles as they take in the artwork before them. Some staring intently at canvases, others taking careful steps around the floor pieces.

It was routine.

The nods would become more enthusiastic, the smiles wider as the minutes ticked by and the alcohol flowed.

Invariably the Times writer would get into a heated debate with the Post’s blogger over the intensity of a colour, the choice of hue, whether the marks left behind by the bristles had deeper meaning. (They did not. She had been too lazy to switch out brushes at that particular point.)

Invariably her best friends, Jisoo and Hyuna, though her two biggest cheerleaders, would get bored and slip out to the bar next door to shamelessly flirt and fight over who gets the most numbers. (The final tally ultimately didn’t matter, there would never be any follow through since they both had very significant others waiting at home. The victor of the spirited competitions earned bragging rights. Jennie thought it was better anyways that they occupied each other’s time than instigate arguments with the serious connoisseurs over whether Jisoo’s “two-year old nephew could have done that with one eye closed and two hands tied.”)

Invariably the event’s gold sponsor would make a rousing speech about his company’s honour to support the development of the city’s creative capital, while making some ill-punned jokes about not knowing the difference between Manet and Monet (even if the Impressionists had absolutely nothing to do with the night’s art), before handing the mic over to the gallery owner Richard Ford who would lavish more astute praise, and fond over the bright futures of these rising stars.

Yet four years in, and the fledgling artist was still not accustomed to the way nights like these unfolded. Although during art school Jennie was identified early on by her professors as a promising student, she couldn’t produce anything at all, at least anything of consequence, in her first year after graduation. It took another year of false starts before she found her footing. So it came as a surprise when she was singled out in her inaugural group exhibition as the ‘one to watch’ with the most breakthrough potential.

“For someone so young, there is a world weariness to her work, a sombre depth belying her years. Palpable emotions fill up the cracks of surfaces but at the same time show uncharacteristic restraint, a departure from her selfie generation.

While her peers make earnest efforts to invent new palettes, Ms. Kim’s ingenuity is to take existing ones and ascribe them unexpected emotional value. Who knew one could feel infinite sadness from looking at yellow ochre, cheekily entitled Midnight Blue in illuminated neon writing. Working mainly in acrylics punctuated by inventive use of neon light as a medium, horizons of colours — though not a single drop of blue — bleed into each other, immersing the viewer into a forlorn landscape that gets disrupted by a lonely, meandering line whose sculpted path never settles, always turning.

The theme of absence, and ironic names, is strikingly effective, and most arresting in her Verte piece, a wordplay on the French colour but that also poetically translates from Spanish as ‘to see you’. Without having drawn a single tree, or laid down a swatch of green, we are plunged into a deep forest and invited to get lost within lines that encircle but never converge. It is achingly beautiful and melancholic.

I can’t help but wonder, who broke her heart.”

Hyperallergic had praised her in their Weekend edition, the sentiment was then picked up and echoed by the Times and the Post in their fringe art online blogs. Word of an emerging talent out of Brooklyn had quickly spread. That first night’s success was a prelude. Every year and showing since, the interest grew, as did the invitations to be a part of this collective or that. The compliments more parabolic with each iteration.

As time passed, a direct causal relationship had materialised between her heartbreak and her progress in the contemporary art world. The worse the former, the better the latter. Her public visibility would proportionally increase by degrees of her personal turmoil.

It would seem Jennie was currently riding another peak. Tonight marked her final group showing before her debut solo exhibition was to be mounted at the New Museum in six months, where it would then travel to the Walker in St.Louis, the MOCA in Toronto, the Whitechapel in London, the Stedelijk in Amsterdam, the KW in Berlin, and the MOCA in LA.

It was a dream come true. Or it should have been. Yet while many had speculated, few knew of the personal history that motivated Jennie, of the truth behind her work.

Despite the accolades and the early success, Jennie had envisioned this evening and many others with a different outcome than the one she had come to expect. Had the universe been more kind, Lisa would be by her side, proudly accompanying her as they would make their rounds, moving contently about the room arm in arm, disgustingly in love while she shared her ideas and inspiration, and returning home later to their studio apartment for an encore celebration.

In another version, Lisa would be hurrying into the gallery breathlessly at the last hour, after a late meeting at the office. She would catch Jennie’s eye, and swiftly close the distance between them, hug her tightly before apologising profusely and cursing the partner architect at her firm for keeping all the lead designers behind to meet a last-minute deadline. She would kiss Jennie deeply before pulling back and whispering, “I’m so proud of you babe. My blonde Basquiat.” Jennie would chuckle at Lisa’s widely inaccurate art reference, and her stubborn refusal to admit his was the only name she knew.

(“He was also from Brooklyn and a good drawer. I rest my case, Jennie.”)

Or, Jennie would skip her own exhibition entirely to attend the grand opening of a building that Lisa and her team had tirelessly worked on, the first she designed and saw through to its construction. Jennie would be the one hanging on Lisa’s arm, her turn to be the supportive partner beaming, “I’m so proud of you babe. My sexy Frank Lloyd Wright.” Jennie would hide her amusement in Lisa’s shoulder, knowing how ghastly offensive Lisa would find the mis-association.

(“Eww Jennie, no. He was really short with an ego bigger than his buildings. Just no.”)

These alternate scenarios had given Jennie pause, compelled her to retreat from the fray of the main exhibition space. She felt a homesickness for a future where the windows have been boarded and the porch light already turned off. Standing alone surrounded by people who admired her but without the one person who had set her on her current path, Jennie felt a longing so keen it needed its own cathedral to reverberate less it consumed her whole.

So amidst the clamouring and before the inevitable congratulatory speeches, before the turning point that would launch her career into the next stratosphere, Jennie needed a breather. She needed a moment to grieve another night lost to maybes and what ifs.

What she didn’t expect was to find the ‘what can never be’ standing several feet away.

—

“Lisa?”

Jennie repeats, unsure and unmoored, her vocabulary narrowing rapidly down to a single word.

Dressed in tailored grey slacks covered by a long black coat that hangs gracefully off of an elegant frame, Lisa had lifted her head imperceptibly at the sound of the door opening. She turns to fully face Jennie on hearing her name.

The room is dim save for the overhead lighting strategically placed to highlight Midnight Blue, the special retrospective piece the only art in the white space. The mural-size landscape takes up the entire west wall, floor to ceiling, and absorbs Lisa into its foreground. While endless sketchbooks are filled with the curves and lines, the dips and valleys, of the woman before her, Jennie has only ever been able to translate colour to canvas. She had found it too difficult to embody Lisa in paintings for public eyes. It would take a PhD level of scrutiny for anyone to uncover the correlation between the figure standing in front and the pigments of yellow behind. It is surreal then for Jennie to see the subject of her drawings (of her dreams) materialise just beyond the canvas.

Lisa looks as gorgeous as ever, as stunning as Jennie remembered. Statuesque would have been the right word had Jennie been in the right frame of mind to make a deeper aesthetic judgement. Black pumps give the brunette a few extra inches of height and gravitas to an already refined stature. (Lisa could look like nobility even in sweatpants and a college t-shirt.) Her hair sits loosely around the shoulders, largely held in place by a red scarf where one end trails mid-length down her back. Her makeup is simple, minimally applied to high cheekbones and lips that are still plump, emphasising a jaw still cutting; highlighting an effortless beauty.

But there is a hardness to her penetrating verdant gaze that Jennie has not once seen in the ten-plus years she had known Lisa. In the first two years, it was all soft words and shy smiles, which turned into soft touches and even softer looks in the following years when they became more than friends, that then settled into a warm softness of a blanket fort sheltering them from the world’s harshness as they built their lives together. There has always been an edge to Lisa, but while her sharp wit and unflinching glares could dismantle others, she was unreservedly gentle around Jennie.

The contrast now is startling. Instead, an unreadable expression devoid of familiar affection has Jennie rooted in place and forgetting all her words.

“Hello Jennie,” Lisa finally breaks her silence.

Jennie didn’t miss the measured breath Lisa took to exhale her name, nor the tight smile that seemed to take a monumental feat to form. If it were not for the fidgeting thumbs around clasped hands resting guardedly in front of her—the only nervous tell that always betrayed Lisa’s composure—Jennie would think Lisa is greeting a colleague or consultant. Not a love that kissed for the first time under the stars; that held hands while sleeping; that slow-danced the night away to her father’s old record player; that was filled with laughter until bellies ached; that stayed vigil with noodle soup and 80s romcom when a persistent cold turned into the flu; that traded morning kisses in lieu of an alarm clock; that dreamt of a shared future together.

The difference is sobering. There is no broad smile or brilliant eyes that had greeted her in the visions of a moment ago. Certainly no kisses that had once stolen her breaths and promised the world.

The gravitational force of Lisa’s gaze anchors her from flinging herself into her orbit, to have those arms wrap around her again.

Nonetheless, Jennie feels the ground loosening beneath her feet, and plants her heels more firmly to the floor in an effort to remain vertical. She tightens her grip around the wine glass, her only seeming tether to something real. Ironic considering that tether used to be the person standing across from her staring silently. At Jennie’s slight sway, Lisa leans negligibly forward as if to steady her. An old habit perhaps. But Lisa must think better of it as she subtly retracts at the last minute and corrects her hand movements to rest her arms by her side.

Her eyes don’t break from Jennie’s.

The moment stretches before them, Lisa’s stare pulling Jennie apart seam by seam with each passing second. Jennie wanted to escape the cacophony of the large exhibition wing but this small space here has reached a roaring volume with all the things that remain unsaid. Though a pin-drop can be heard, to her ears, and by the hammering of her heart, it is by far the loudest room in the tri-state area.

Until the door swiftly reopens and a flustered woman walks in.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.” The newest addition addresses Lisa, ignoring Jennie completely. “We have to get going or we’re going to be late.”

Jennie takes the interloper in. She has never seen her before. She’s beautiful too, though few hold a candle to Lisa. Where they differ in hair colour and height, they do however match in the formality of their attire. But given Jennie’s near catatonic state, she doesn’t have the faculty to adequately assess what this woman means to Lisa, whose body language remains stiff.

“I’m coming,” Lisa responds to her summoner, even as her eyes stay steadfastly on Jennie. Her voice sounds hollow but firm when she says, “I was just finishing up here.”

Without further warning, Lisa moves to the door and the pair empties out of the room, leaving Jennie to stare vacantly at Midnight Blue, neon sign flashing, the words hanging from her lips.

I’m sorry.

—

After Lisa leaves, the rest of her night goes by in a blur. She doesn’t notice the worrying glances shared between Jisoo and Hyuna when she exits the small room as they are returning to the gallery from the bar; doesn’t pay heed to the server’s inquisitive look when she requests a much stronger drink than the Riesling she had been nursing all night; and she barely acknowledges the Guardian critic who wants to write a feature for the London audiences eager for her introduction to Europe.

While the event closes out as usual, with cards exchanged and plans already set in motion for the next exhibition, Jennie declines to attend the invite-only afterparty hosted by Richard. She politely makes her excuses, citing an early morning meeting with a (made-up) curator, and calls an Uber as soon as the last major critic has left. While hurrying into the waiting car, she reassures her best friends that she’s fine, (“just tired, maybe it was something in the shrimp cocktail”) and will call them soon to schedule their next girls night.

Finally alone in her loft, Jennie takes a fortifying breath, her back against the front door, heels haphazardly kicked to the side, bag and coat dropped unceremoniously on the floor, her head tipped back and up to the ceiling. Though perhaps no more than several excruciating long seconds, the moment with Lisa replays on endless loop behind closed eyes.

It takes her a good fifteen minutes to peel herself off the door, and make her way to the couch. Jennie curls up on her side and drapes the throw blanket over her lower torso, unperturbed by the state of her now-disheveled dress.

She doesn’t know how long she lies there, unblinkingly, but it is while she is staring out impassively at the starless night that Jennie takes notice of the black frame leaning against the window.

*****

In her first year at the New School, Jennie was assigned to document street art around the city and had dragged Lisa along to make use of her dad’s vintage camera. Near dusk, grumpy from the miles they had walked, Jennie was ready to give up to go find real food instead of the over-processed hot dogs they had been indulging all day.

“Lis, I can’t take another step,” Jennie whined, hands on hips, and pout in place, stopping indiscriminately in the middle of an alley at the last location of their itinerary.

Lisa retraced her steps back to Jennie and drew her closer by the waist, looping arms around her lower back. She booped her nose affectionately against Jennie’s.

“You’re just humpy. Hungry and grumpy.” Lisa teased, grinning self-satisfactorily at her portmanteau.

“Ugh. Babe, it doesn’t work. You’re never going to make it happen like hangry.”

“You wait. Urban Dictionary will catch up one day. Then what, Jennie?” Lisa questioned pseudo-seriously.

“You’d still be ridiculous?”

“Hmm,” Lisa absently agreed, tucking Jennie’s head under her chin and dotingly kissing her temple.

They stayed like that, swaying quietly for an extended moment, until Lisa turned Jennie around in her arms, setting her front against Jennie’s back, and tightening her hold again, both now facing the end of the alley. “Look,” she said pointing ahead, chin on her shoulder.

Jennie scanned the scene for where Lisa wanted to direct her attention. It was a second before she saw the sign painting on the brick wall—an epigram by NY street artist Stephen Powers.

She couldn’t keep a smile from forming.

“You are ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yes. But you love me anyways,” Lisa murmured into her hair while one-handedly taking the photo of the art, the other hand unwilling to give up its valued position around Jennie’s waist.

“That I do.” Jennie tilted her head and placed a sweet kiss on the underside of Lisa’s jaw. “Let’s go home, love. I’m humpy.”

To which Lisa turned back around and bent her knees, gesturing silently for Jennie to hop on. Their laughter carried on for two blocks as Lisa hobbled along with a giggling Jennie bucking her forward.

—

It was the end of term, and Jennie was beyond stressed with her final hand-in for the sculpture course. Her materials had arrived late, and then the lathe machine in the shop had decided to give up on life. On top of it all, she hadn’t seen Lisa for more than ten minutes at a time in a few days, who was busy with her own workload at Columbia.

She trudged into her studio space, dragging a bag of clay with her. Only after unloading her haul and plopping down on the stool did Jennie take notice of the black square frame sitting atop her workbench. There were two unsigned sticky notes tacked to it. The first simply read, “Humpy?”, which made Jennie laugh and promptly forget about her misery. The second stated a time and meeting place for lunch.

Jennie smiled fondly at the Stephen Powers print and its uplifting words, before propping the frame up and adjusting its placement for a better angled view. She grabbed her jacket and headed out to find her girlfriend.

*****

The memory washes over her, and Jennie finally breaks down. Her vision is wet, and increasingly spotty, but she can still make out the letters:

Everything Is Shit,

Except You Love.

—

“Jennie?”

Jisoo cautiously pokes her head through the door.

“I’m coming in.”

Invoking best friend privileges Jisoo is compelled to use her emergency key to check in on Jennie after her repeated knocks, and all of hers and Hyuna’s morning texts, had went unanswered.

She is both relieved and sad to find the familiar lump on the couch, Jennie still in her dress from last night, makeup not yet removed, mascara smudged. It breaks her heart however when she goes to tug the blanket more tightly around her friend and finds that Jennie is clutching the familiar black frame closely to her chest. A commonplace sight that she is well-acquainted and had come across often enough in the first two years that Jisoo could add explosives disposal expertise to her engineer’s skillset. Especially in the early days, it had taken bomb-squad level tactics to disconnect Jennie from the live wires of her memories. It’s been awhile since it’s happened so it gives her pause as to what has jolted the artist’s troubled heart this time.

With a sigh and practised ease, Jisoo gingerly removes it from Jennie’s hold and resets it back in its rightful place on the ledge by the window where it would be visible from both the kitchen and living room.

Another forty-five minutes pass before Jennie comes to, awakening to the sight of her friend lounging on the two-seater with her legs dangling over one side, quietly chuckling at the TV.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Jennie groggily asks as she rearranges the blanket and herself into a sitting position.

“You know, just hanging.” Jisoo feigns nonchalance as her attention remains focused on her show, as if she hadn’t been worried whether her friend had spent the night drowning herself in 40oz of whiskey-enabled regret.

Jennie stretches into a yawn and looks around the loft to orient herself.

*****

Sophomore year, when they had first stumbled on the Bed-Stuy apartment during another one of Jennie’s neighbourhood artwalks, it was a gritty fixer-upper that needed serious TLC. Of course, Lisa would fall in love with the wreck immediately.

(“But Jennie, look at the potential. Original wood beams, orange iron spot bricks.” She had gleefully taken on the persona of a realtor. “You’ll art better surrounded by raw materials.”)

Truthfully, it hadn’t taken much for Jennie to be charmed by the two-storey house in a residential row that the owners had converted into a rentable live-work space. She was already sold on the 12-foot ceilings and west light.

But she had enjoyed Lisa’s flailing hands and bright eyes too much as she talked about gutting and cross-sections and reveal joints to give in so easily, and so Jennie had exaggerated her skepticism just to gaud her girlfriend into making powerpoint presentations to her about the merits of getting in early on a hidden gem. They signed the lease a week later. And although a complete renovation was way outside of their budget (and tenancy agreement), it hadn’t stopped Lisa from envisioning how this space or that space could be changed, or drawing out plans of where to locate Jennie’s paints or Lisa’s built-in bookshelves. The inconsistent heating and peeling baseboards were inconsequential trade-offs.

As such, when money started to come in from her commissions, and Jennie could afford to move out to Park Slope or Prospect Heights, or even buy property in Manhattan, she couldn’t let go of the Bed-Stuy dream.

Not the work table that Lisa had handcrafted from the wood of two abandoned doors and assembled together with bike rack frames, turned upside down for use as legs. She had sized it to perfectly fit the width of the small den area (“It’s temporary until I can design you your own studio, love”).

Not the designer lamps they had bargain-hunted for on weekends or the Danish teak furniture that Lisa had found in the dumpster of an old office building clearing out their inventory (“I think it’s a Jacobsen, or a really good fake”).

Not the bedroom window nook where she would find Lisa curled up on chilly mornings with a book and chai tea, softly snoring and burrowed in her blankets, and be met with a disgruntled protest through half-lidded eyes when Jennie would try to remove the book (“I’m still reading”).

Not the hardwood floors where late night pizza and then slow lovemaking would fill the living room with different kinds of moans (“More, Jennie. Please, more”).

None of it she wanted to let go.

It was the easiest decision when the For Sale sign went up, Jennie had bought both the apartment and the studio space below the same day.

*****

“I’m ok, you know. You didn’t have to come,” Jennie speaks up after collecting herself, letting out a shudder to clear the fog of her reverie.

Really though, she is grateful for the companionship, and Jisoo’s perceptiveness, knowing it would have been a Sisyphean struggle to open her eyes and start this new day. Reaching a hand back to the armchair, she lightly squeezes Jisoo’s knee as she softens, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

At that Jisoo turns off the screen and moves to the kitchen to make two fresh cups of coffee, topping them off with a heavy-handed drop of Bailey’s knowing Jennie could use the extra pick-me-up.

“Thanks,” Jennie eagerly accepts the steaming mug when Jisoo returns to sit on the coffee table across from her, “my hero.”

“So,” Jisoo tries to open up the conversation, after it becomes apparent that Jennie wouldn’t be volunteering anything of her accord. She takes a careful sip from her own mug, raising one eyebrow slightly, “rough night?”

“Hmm.”

“What happened?”

Jennie only acknowledges the question with a downturn of lips, but otherwise continues to sit listlessly in silence. Well-versed in Jennie-speak, Jisoo expertly plays the waiting game until Jennie finally manages to squeak out, “I saw Lisa.”

“She’s back?!” Jisoo asks wide-eyed.

“Yup.”

“You saw Lisa?”

“Yup.”

“She was at the opening?”

“Yup.”

Jennie receives a lighthearted shove from Jisoo.

“Fucks sake. Could you please stop with the one-word answers?”

“Okay.”

Another shove as Jennie smiles into her coffee, both hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

They sit quietly, blowing on their drinks, both looking just as dumbfounded about the unexpected guest from last night, not knowing where to take the conversation.

“Are you really ok?” Jisoo asks intuitively after some time. It’s a moot question considering how unkempt Jennie’s hair is, the deep wrinkles in her blue dress, the deeper crinkle of her forehead, and that, had Jisoo not played maid earlier, her bag, boots and keys would still be in various states of disarray around Jennie’s front door.

“Do you think she … ? I mean, why would she … ? What if … ?” Jennie tries after awhile, but only splutters.

“Now that you’ve decided to use multiple words, it’d be great if you could finish your sentences. These mini cliff hangers are giving me palpitations.” Jisoo attempts to lighten the mood, but when Jennie doesn’t take the bait, she quickly changes tact to comfort, “Hey, whatever happens we’ll figure it out.”

“I … I just …”

Jennie can’t make heads or tails of her thoughts. She abandons her course completely after a minute, and with a puff of breath, settles on, “She looked beautiful.”

“Well, Manoban never lacked in the looks department. So no surprise there,” Jisoo acquiesces. She leans back on the coffee table, her palms extended out behind her, one finger tapping mindlessly against the wooden top. “I can’t believe I missed seeing her. Shouldn’t have listened to Hyuna, I really didn’t need those extra shots.” She rubs her temples in sympathy to emphasise her point.

Jisoo then furrows her brow for a moment in deep contemplation, before mumbling absently, “I didn’t know she was back already.”

Several seconds past before the words finally register. Jennie suddenly jerks in her seat, bolting upright and causing half the blanket to pool to the ground.

“Wait, what??”

“What?” Jisoo startles, then blinks in panic when she realises her slip, and tries uselessly to gloss over it, “Um, uh … nothing?”

“What do you mean already? You knew she was coming back?”

Jennie is standing by now, having blindly placed her mug on the coffee table. (Jisoo wordlessly pushes it away from the edge towards safety.) Her voice has taken on a pitch coloured by desperation and perceived betrayal.

“No. No,” Jisoo rises to her feet too, slowly putting her arms out and up in supplication to subdue a pacing lion Jennie, and says more firmly, “of course not.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I … Rosé …” Jisoo stops and starts a few times before sitting back down, this time taking Jennie’s previous spot on the couch. The name gets Jennie’s full attention.

“Rosé?” Jennie questions, her eyes beseeching Jisoo to elaborate.

Jisoo tries again, “I overheard Rosé the other day on the phone. I didn’t catch much, most likely the tail end of her conversation. But of what I could piece together, it must have been something about Lisa coming back.”

Jennie lets it sink in before she asks again, “Rosé?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jennie stops her pacing to sit next to Jisoo.

“Jennie,” Jisoo admonishes, just as Jennie guiltily dips her head, “you know why. This is your rule.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Jennie mutters.

She holds her head in her hands, elbows on her knees, annoyed at feeling cornered by her own coping mechanism.

It was for self-preservation that she had instituted her unique brand of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ after one particularly drunken night, three months into their separation and on the night of Lisa’s departure, when the pain was especially unbearable and she had drunk-dialed Lisa’s mobile leaving a lengthy voicemail. The evening out did the opposite of her friends’ mission to keep her distracted while the love of her life was leaving the country. Even in her inebriated state, and despite her phone being confiscated by Jisoo and Hyuna to prevent her from tracking Lisa’s flight status, somehow she had managed to dial Lisa’s number from a stranger’s phone that she sneakily swiped from coat check. An hour later, high on Jameson-induced self-pity, she had forced her circle of friends to pinky-swear to a Lisa-free zone.

Though the cloudiness had dissipated by morning, to be replaced by a deserving hangover, the pain had persisted long after so Jennie remained resolute to never discuss or hear about Lisa again, at the very least until the name didn’t cause irregular breathing or general despair.

She throws her head back against the couch, “Ugh.”

“Look, Jennie. You know Rosé doesn’t outright tell me anything about Lisa, and even if she did, I’m under your explicit instructions not to share it. But for what it’s worth, Rosé did seem upset and said something about ‘it not being fair, you can’t just come here.’ Mind you, I don’t have any context for what I overheard and I didn’t hear the rest. So it could really be nothing. It might not even have been Lisa. I just assumed it was because she usually calls Sunday mornings. Do with that what you will.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry for over-reacting.”

Jennie pulls Jisoo into an awkward side hug, not without taking mental note of the timing of Lisa’s weekly communication.

(But that was a thought to be tucked away for another day. Her head and heart currently didn’t have room to process anything else.)

Jisoo pats her on the back, “It’s going to be okay.”

“Easy for you to say. You ended up with a Manoban sister.” Tears unexpectedly well up as Jennie considers how she could have been in Jisoo’s shoes. “How is Mrs. Kim-Manoban anyways?”

“She’s good. We’re good.” Jisoo pulls back from their embrace, and smiles widely at the mention of her wife.

Jennie just nods, discreetly wiping her eyes, bittersweetly happy for her friend.

—

The no Lisa rule had also meant minimal contact with Rosé. With Jisoo as the common denominator, Rosé had remained present on some level in Jennie’s life, but Jennie could easily count on one hand the number of encounters she has had with Rosé in the past four years.

The first year had been difficult to navigate her friendships and untangle her Lisa-entangled relationships. After more than a decade, Jennie suddenly found herself as an unwitting third wheel. As a quattro, she and Lisa had often done couple things together with Jisoo and Rosé, and she had relied on Lisa’s calmness to balance out Jisoo’s restless energy, and on her ease and affability to disarm Rosé’s stoicism. Without Lisa, the dynamic was off. Jennie had felt like the short leg of an unstable tripod. Then it became too difficult to look at Rosé, and be around Rosé, without acknowledging the Lisa-sized elephant in the room. So they had mutually ghosted each other out, maintaining a safe distance unless it was a very special occasion or holiday.

But Jennie does miss her almost-sister, of the fun and adventures they enjoyed together, albeit begrudgingly on Rosé’s half. She misses the mischievous sense of humour that bubbled under her unmoving surface, the one that made Rosé and Jisoo such a kinetic match. A ghost of a smile appears as she thinks that latent mischief must be a dominant Manoban gene, how their quiet ways disguised a fierce intellect that could be turned to exact havoc on others when crossed. Jennie had so often had to dig Lisa (and Rosé) out of trouble that one year her girlfriend shyly gifted her with an oversized shovel for Christmas, simply signed in sharpie on the back, I’m sorry. LM. (“It’s still not big enough babe,” was Jennie’s reply as she kissed the apple of Lisa’s cheek and enjoyed watching her blush deepen.)

Yet, while it had its drawbacks for the unsuspecting, Rosé’s unpredictability turned out to have an unanticipated benefit for Jennie in the Lisa-aftermath. Two years prior Jisoo and Rosé had surprised everyone upon returning from their Asia trip to announce their elopement overseas. At the same time many of their friends were complaining about missing out on the big day, Jennie was silently thankful not to have to ride the emotional roller coaster of seeing Lisa at their wedding.

(She didn’t want to think of what it would mean to be bridesmaids, but not brides.)

—

Before she could tumble further down that rabbit hole, Jennie feels a slight vibration underneath her, followed by a faint dinging. It’s a muffled sound decidedly coming from the couch. Jennie assumes her mobile must have gotten lodged into the cushions sometime last night.

“That’s probably Hyuna,” Jisoo foretells without looking up, busy checking her own phone, “she’s been messaging me all morning for regular updates on you. Please answer, so she can annoy you instead of me.”

Jennie opens her messages and sure enough, sees the long thread of missed texts from Hyuna, each more colourfully expressing her concern over Jennie’s health and safety, while equally threatening it.

(“Could you kindly let me know you’re alive so I could fucking kill you for not answering your phone?”

“Your battery better be dead or you will be when I get there.”

“Jennie, my Google history lists the proper uses of a katana sword as the top recent search, followed closely by axe throwing. Just saying. Please call me back. I’m worried.”)

She quickly types out a response to calm her friend.

(Jennie) 09:40

I’m alive Hyuna. Jisoo is helping me work on the well part.

Her other best friend seems momentarily satisfied with the amended report, though she makes Jennie promise a full in-person account soon. Jennie returns to her notifications list to see if she’s missed any other pressing messages. She’s scrolling past Jisoo and Dawn, a few work-related ones from Richard and her agent, when she spots two unread texts from an unknown number.

(Unknown number) 01:12

Jennie, can we talk?

(Unknown number) 01:14

This is Lisa. Rosé gave me your number.

—

Jennie might have stopped breathing, she’s not sure. Jisoo hasn’t clued in yet to her silent distress, furiously typing away, probably to Rosé and Hyuna simultaneously.

She scarcely has a handle on her bearings from seeing Lisa at the gallery. Until last night, the razor thin margin of being in the same room as her ex-girlfriend was sharp enough to cut paper. Now, not only with the exponential probability of it happening again, but that they might say more than two words to each other, Jennie is precariously closed to losing the plot and not just the wheel.

She mutely hands her phone over to Jisoo.

“Shit,” Jisoo blurts out after reading the texts, “what are you going to do?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Jennie admits. She ponders for a moment then gestures to Jisoo’s phone, “Rosé didn’t mention anything?”

Jisoo shakes her head and resumes typing, her fingers making more forceful taps this time. When she gets a timely response, Jisoo raises her phone for Jennie to read.

(Rosé) 09:47

Lisa came by last night. A bit tipsy. Didn’t say more than two words. Then asked me for Jennie’s number. I gave it to her. Didn’t think she would use it.

“Shit,” Jennie parrots. “God, these Manoban like to keep things short and vague.”

“Hyun and I left the after-party early around midnight. Lisa must’ve dropped by my place just before.” Jisoo surmises, and then asks, “So, you going to respond to her?”

Jennie thinks it over. It had been so long since she heard Lisa’s voice, and despite the brevity of last night’s interaction, she was reminded of its soft timbre, the faint lilt, and the way it wraps around vowels or clicks particular consonants. She keenly misses it. How it can act like a hushed veil against the morning light, and take on a tangible warmth by dusk; how it can be brutally precise when she’s upset only to completely lose all its edges as soon as Jennie folds her up in a hug and tangles her fingers through Lisa’s hair. Her favourite sound though is Lisa at night, after bodies have been sated and she’s curled around Jennie’s back, skin to skin, her head cradled into the curve of Jennie’s neck, and her lips grazing Jennie’s ears, whispering complete nonsense that has them both in stitches.

(“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“A stick, Jennie.”)

Lisa would frequently change her voicemail greeting, after she caught on to Jennie routinely calling her phone, when knowing Lisa was busy—their iCalendars were synced—and wouldn’t pick up, all for the sake of hearing her voice. For those not in Lisa’s inner circle, they must have been stumped whenever they tried to reach her only to be greeted with random animal facts or a personal message for Jennie. One time, Jennie was treated to a dramatic reading of the Central Park Zoo’s long list of baby names for the newest addition to the polar bear family. That day, Lisa’s voicemail quickly filled up with bouts of Jennie’s laughter.

She wants to hear that voice again, even if it is now tinged with indifference and detachment. After so long in her self-imposed embargo on all things Lisa, seeing her at the gallery was like letting a ship slip in through the night. It’s not enough. She wants the whole fleet to drop anchor in her abandoned harbour. She needs to know why Lisa was at the opening, where she is living now, if she’s just visiting and for how long.

If she’s happy.

Jennie nods to Jisoo, more-so to brace herself than anything.

(Jennie) 09:56

If the offer still stands, yes I would like to talk.

(Lisa) 10:02

I’m free today. When can you meet?

Comes the instant reply.

Huh. She’s not wasting any time, Jennie thinks. She ignores the little voice that’s telling her such swiftness can only be a harbinger of terrible news, but without much to lose, Jennie decides she might as well speed up the process.

(Jennie) 10:03

12:30pm?

Jennie watches the dots appear then disappear several times before Lisa commits.

(Lisa) 10:05

Great. How about The Standard on Wilmington?

(Jennie) 10:06

Perfect. See you then.

Jennie throws her phone on the couch. Despite their text exchange having all the enthusiasm of watching paint dry, she feels a thrum of excitement, if not nerves, course through her body that she gets to see Lisa again so soon.

“Done,” she informs Jisoo, who had been anxiously awaiting the plot development, “we’re meeting at the Standard at half past noon.”

“Really?” Jisoo gapes disbelievingly.

“Yup.”

“As in today, like in about two hours?” Jisoo clarifies, looking down at her wrist to a non-existent watch.

“Yup.”

“With Lisa?”

“Yup.”

Jennie pre-emptively moves out of Jisoo’s reach anticipating her swatting hand.

“Ok, well,” Jisoo finally accepts and then urges, “you need to shower. I know this is Lisa you’re meeting, who thinks you in a sack of potatoes smelling like a spud factory is on the same plane as a Victoria Secret model emerging from a vanilla-infused bath covered in rose petals, BUT everyone else,” she points to herself, “has standards. Go Kim, you reek.”

“Thanks for the visuals,” Jennie supplies as she retreats to her bedroom, but tosses out before closing the door, “I doubt she thinks that anymore.”

*****

“Hello. You’ve reached Lisa Manoban. Option one: if I know you and like you, note the and is important, please leave a message at the tone. Option two: if I don’t know you, or if I know you but don’t like you, hang up.

If this is Jennie, babe! I’m glad you finally came up for air from the studio. I’m probably on my way to you, but as per option one, you can definitely leave a message anyways. I like your voice too. Talk soon. I love you.”

BEEP

“Lisa, I …” A large hiccup interrupted her, followed by two smaller ones. “Your instructions are very clear. But also confusing? This is your Jennie. I mean, this is Jennie. I don’t know if I still meet criteria one.”

Jennie’s voice lowered with the last sentence. The silence prickled as she considered the dilemma for a second, but eventually lost focus of her task and pushed forward nonetheless, “You’re probably boarding soon. I just wanted to say hi.”

There’s a long pause before Jennie followed up with, “Hi.” Then some giggling as she continued, undeterred, “there, mission accomplished. Gold star for Jennie.”

More giggling.

“I haven’t gotten many of those lately, so that was a good one to get.

I tried painting but it gets too wet. The yellow gets wet Lisa, and it turns into a disfigured Sponge Bob. I don’t wanna paint Sponge Bob, his limbs are weirdly skinny. Like, why does he even have arms and legs? He’s a sponge!

I just want to paint yellow, Lis.

Why is it so hard?” She asked sombrely.

But then as if struck by a sudden clarity, Jennie’s voice perked up to lucidly recount,

“Remember that trip we took to Spain? We were waiting to enter the museum when a group of kindergarteners joined the line. They were so cute. There was one little guy who kept bouncing around. Do you remember him? His teacher was really mad at him for always running off. She kept shouting after him, ‘Amarillo! Amarillo!’

You turned to me with, god, the biggest smile, and said, ‘that’s brilliant, such a great name: amarillo, yellow!’ And then made me promise we would name all our kids after the rainbow.”

Another pause as Jennie made a face at the prospect of shouting, ‘Purple! Purple!’ in the supermarket. The same reaction she had while in Barcelona, despite being generally on board with the concept.

“Anyways, it’s … it’s hard.

I can’t … I miss …

I hope you have a safe flight.

I just wanted you to know that I …”

The sentence hung incomplete as Lisa’s voicemail cut out.

*****

The Standard, 12:30 pm.

Maybe this is Jennie’s second chance to complete it.