Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

The soundof a click wakes me up, and when I open my eyes, I see Jocelyn standing above me holding a heavy-duty looking black camera. She smiles, and in the dark of the living room, haloed by the glow of the television, she looks straight out of a black and white film.

Muted colors and high contrast shadows. Soft and stark. Fascinating.

Classic.

I blink and move to sit up but remember the pirata fuerte on my chest. Jocelyn puts her finger to her lips then points to the ceiling, so I slowly maneuver my hands around Jude’s body and stand with him cradled in my arms.

I follow Jocelyn through the living room and down the hallway, careful not to step on one of the many, many toys strewn about the floor. I follow her up the stairs and into Jude’s room, then I wait while she tugs back the comforter on his bed. I lay him on the mattress and pull the blanket back over him, dodging quickly when he swats at my head. I widen my eyes at Joss, and she covers her smile with her hand. I narrow my eyes and shake my head, then walk back into the hallway.

Jocelyn comes back out of the room and opens the door across the hall. She peers inside to check on June, then gestures for me to follow her back downstairs.

“How’d it go?” she asks once we’re down the stairs.

“Good,” I say with a grin. She knows it went well. She FaceTimed almost every hour.

Once we’re in the living room, she flips on a small lamp, and I watch her survey the room. When I look around, I feel terrible and also embarrassed. It’s a disaster.

“Shit, Joss, I’m sorry,” I say, and scramble to start tidying up. “I planned to clean up before you got home, but we fell asleep watching that troll movie.”

I start putting the cushions back on the couch that are scattered all about the floor from when we played The Floor is Lava. The coffee table is covered in crayons and construction paper, there are blankets draped over the kitchen table from our fort, and I know there are plastic blocks underneath it. Plus, the sink is not only full of dirty dishes, but also full of slime. And the kitchen counter is littered with empty juice pouches and pizza boxes.

Shit.

Jocelyn’s house looks like a kindergartener’s version of a frat party.

“It’s okay,” she says with a tired chuckle. “I’ve seen it worse, trust me.” She pulls the blankets from the kitchen table to fold them, so I start on the coffee table. I put the crayons back in the box and begin gathering up the construction paper, when my eyes catch on handwriting that I didn’t notice before.

It’s a loopy, slanted hybrid of cursive and print, capitals and lowercase, and it was done by a practiced hand, which tells me it’s Jocelyn’s handwriting. I peek toward the kitchen. Joss is under the table now picking up blocks, so I look back at the paper.

Underlined at the top of the page are the words “Be A Full Person.”

Underneath is a bulleted list that I scan quickly. Most of these things don’t make sense to me. Items like “Find MY Music,” “Rib Tatt,” and “Back to Photography” have me squinting in confusion, but the item at the bottom makes my heart jump right into my throat.

Sex.

And not just sex, but SEX!!!

In all caps and with three exclamation marks after it. I’m trying to unswallow my tongue when Jocelyn comes into view, causing me to jump like an idiot and bash my knee into the coffee table.

“Shoot, are you okay?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She rushes toward me, and I cover the list with a few other pieces of construction paper.

“It’s fine,” I say, and quickly stand, leaving the stack of papers on the coffee table. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she says as I make my way to the sink. “You should head out. I got this stuff.”

“Nah.” I start organizing the dishes the same way I do at my place. Pots and pans first, then plates, bowls, cups, and utensils last. I plug up the sink and start to fill it halfway with water, just like my dad does. “I was here with them. I helped make the mess. You shouldn’t have to clean it by yourself.”

I feel her come stand beside me. “You wash, and I’ll dry and put away, then?”

“Sounds good.” I don’t mention the dishwasher that’s a few feet away, and she doesn’t either.

We fall into a routine—I scrub, rinse, and pass—and the whole time, we talk.

Jocelyn tells me that she’s working as a CNA and taking courses online to become a licensed RN, finishing up the program she started but couldn’t complete once she got pregnant with Jude. And because, as she says, “life happened.” I don’t pry. Not because I’m not curious—I am. I fucking am—but because I don’t want to say or do anything that could stop her from talking.

She asks me about med school, and I tell her the truth. Something I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t committed to any of them yet. Sure, it will probably be Harvard. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s the top med school in the fucking country. But I’ve got a couple weeks before I have to make the final decision.

“Commitment phobic?” she teases, and I laugh.

“Probably,” I say honestly. Not because I’m uncertain of what I want. I am. Medicine is the only thing that’s held my attention for longer than a few months, because there is always something new to learn. Med school is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of, but... Once I commit to a school, that’s it.

Officialadulthood.

I’ve thought about taking a gap year, but I know myself well enough to worry that one gap year will turn into two, then three, then I’ll end up another former “gifted kid” who squandered their potential on half-explored interests and forgotten hobbies. I wince at the invasion of memories. The windowsill lined with potted plants, the old metal desk, the encouraging words. I hate that my career drive was so influenced by her. I feel guilty for considering any of that experience good. God, it was all so fucked up. I want to reach into my pocket, but even that pisses me off.

Kelley says I would have been drawn to medicine anyway because my family is so established in the field. Ivy says it’s okay to be grateful for that influence because that influence was genuine. Expected, even. It’s the other stuff that—

I blink out of my thoughts and hand Jocelyn the last piece of silverware, then drain the sink.

“Not ready to fully enter the land of adulting?” Her back is to me when she asks, and for some reason, I’m grateful for that.

I laugh. “Is anyone ever?”

“Some people aren’t really given the choice,” she replies. Her voice is quiet, flat, and I don’t know how to respond. She inhales, then turns to me. “Why do you smell like peanut butter?”

“Huh?” I ask, milliseconds before it dawns on me, and my cheeks heat as an embarrassed smile stretches over my face. “Oh, that...”

She watches me, waiting.

“Well, Meatball wanted to play with that slime stuff, and he kinda got some in my hair.”

“Okay...?”

“Well, I needed to get it out, right? And Google said the oils in peanut butter were a good way to get slime out of hair, so we used peanut butter.”

“You put peanut butter in your hair”—she pulls her lower lip into her mouth and bites down, her eyes sparkling with repressed laughter—“to remove the slime?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “It worked too.”