Plots, Schemes, and Dasterdly Deeds

Jade was boyish in a way that made Mel’s mouth water. Cropped black hair with shaggy curls that never went long without Mel’s hands running through them when they cuddled. She played softball on the weekends, listened to Dolly Parton and k.d. lang in the car, and had so many tattoos on her body that it was impossible for Mel to tell how many there were as they bled into each other. Her touch was firm, her fingertips rough — she was the harpist for the Pittsburgh Philharmonic.

Their relationship lasted a 5 month whirlwind of late night hook ups, and drive thru dinner dates. Jade was unreliable. When she made it to actual dates she was 45 minutes late, cheap grocery store bouquet in hand (always roses, Mel liked daisies). When she didn’t, Mel received excuses; like her cat was “acting weird” but Mel absolutely should not come over — it would only distress Remy. The night Mel broke up with her started with one text.

JADE💛🖤: hey won’t make the reso, got steelers tix

Mel wanted to scream. She hadn’t even wanted to go to this restaurant, there was only one dish on the menu for her to order (with modifications), the lighting was irritating to her eyes, and every noise was reverberating off the industrial interiors. She asked if they could charge the card on the reservation for her drinks and left.

She didn’t respond to Jade’s text, instantly blocking her number. Considered unblocking it when she saw the Steelers lost miserably just to twist the knife. She still has her contact open when she reached Trinity’s porch, tears streaming down her face. Trinity took the phone out of her hands, deleted the number, text thread, and every photo, not returning the device until the next morning.

Mel laughed when she hit the bottom of her Ben & Jerry’s pint.

“I didn’t even like her that much, we didn’t have much in common outside of sex.”

But her heart still ached. It was never about Jade, or Ryan, or Premila, or Jackson, or Kai, or anyone else. It didn’t matter how much she did or didn’t like them (it varied), the point is it was another person who couldn’t love her. In the case of Jade, more like wouldn’t. To be loved was the thing she desired so deeply, to be seen, understood, cared for, and it was the one thing that felt impossible to come her way. The ache of loves absence never went away.

All that to say, when she finds herself crying on Frank Langdon’s carpet over her break up with Rashad, something about her being clingy but also emotionally distant, she’s not sure on the details, her ears started ringing when he explained it to her. She really thought she had made progress this time, she didn’t wait to tell him about Becca, she didn’t hide her dead parents when he asked about her family, she was honest when she was overwhelmed instead of tamping the feelings down.

And yet here she was, sobbing into the plush white carpet of Frank’s new home. It was fortunate for him that she wasn’t wearing mascara. The only relaxed part of her body was her skull, enjoying the benefits of Frank’s strong hand carding through her hair.

“You want to talk about it?” he whispers gently.

“What use is it? We both know I’m unlovable. Hard to love. Incompatible with the entire idea.” It hurt to be constantly abandoned, it felt stupid to keep reaching out for more. That was the problem with being human, Mel thought, you’ll never stop craving companionship and affection.

“That’s not true.”

“You thought so.” she meets his blue eyes, unflinching.

He sucks in a breath, cutting through the hanging silence with its hiss.

“That’s not fair Melissa.” his voice was sharp,

Even worse, you’ll find someone worth being vulnerable with and the feeling will be so intoxicating that you can’t help but ruin the whole thing.

Ask Mel how she knows.

She’s spent the last two years helplessly chasing that high that was being loved by Frank Langdon. If you asked her, she’d say it felt like being inside a dreamy 70s soft rock song, the bone deep warmth of California sunshine carried by the strings of the guitar, glittering vocals like wind chimes on a breezy summer morning.

Reality was more complicated. They dated on and off for a year and a half — for 2 months before he and Abby separated, 3 months once he had moved into his own place, every other week while he was in the midst of divorce proceedings, completely off during the custody battle — that was the most painful part before the end, then confusingly together but not really — it was all in secret, sometimes she was over at his apartment every day, or inviting him to hers, and sometimes she rejected anything that would leave them alone together.

“Hey do you want to go see the new Superman movie this weekend?” he asked, toeing off his shoes as he entered her apartment.

“Oh!” her face twitched, searching for a feeling to settle on, “shouldn’t you see that with your kids?”

He looked at her like she said something funny. “They already went with Abby. I don’t know why she took them, they’re really not into superhero stuff anyways.”

She stayed silent, twiddling with her fingers.

“Mel? You’re doing it again.”

“I’m not doing anything.” She’s not sure how long he stood there, two feet away from where she sat on the couch, on the TV Tim Riggins tells Lyla Garrity he feels closer to god when he’s with her, no words pass between them. They had had a million versions of this conversation before, the issue never seeming to resolve.

“Are you ever going to get over this?” he raised his voice, just enough for the frustration to bleed through without startling her.

She chewed the tip of her thumb, a childhood habit she had never managed to kick, avoiding his eyes, “How can I—?”

“Easily! It has nothing to do with you.”

She flinched. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

He tried to meet her eyes, shifting his head and jerking his body to be in her view. He couldn’t understand the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was the beneficiary of all his goodness, all his progress, and she had done nothing to earn it. He lost his family and he failed to see the problem there.

“I can’t keep doing this if you won’t stop feeling guilty about my life.” Frank spat out. He hastily shoved his shoes back on and left.

It was 82 degrees and her home had never felt so cold.