Tish:

The imbalance used to bother me. Not only could I never buy him anything as extravagant as his gifts to me, I couldn’t even afford to keep up with his lifestyle. I couldn’t routinely buy a plane ticket to Gotham at a moment’s notice, and my wardrobe didn’t cover all the nice places his parents wanted to take us.

A lot of his invitations also came with, “And here’s a card to use if you need something to wear.”

I started to feel very unpleasantly... kept.

He maintained that it wasn’t a big deal, and he never made me feel indebted to him. But I got a few passive aggressive comments from acquaintances and even good friends about how very generous he was, wow, you played that one right, didn’t you?

I got more and more tense about it, until finally Jon got impatient. “I’m not seeing how this is even a problem. I like being able to give you things, and honestly it’s annoying when you don’t let me, because then we can’t do whatever it is we were planning to do before the money thing stopped us. Are we going to not do things because some snotty girl from your theory class makes snotty comments?”

With time, I got used to him sharing so casually and generously. Or perhaps I just got spoiled. Regardless, I use the card without any guilt now.

Jon:

Jon:

For all intents and purposes, she lives with me. All her shit is here - including her most annoying shit, like single-purpose kitchen gadgets that make the drawer stick. She sleeps at my place, she does the dishes at my place, and it is my shower drain getting clogged up with her hair.

She just won’t admit it for some weird reason. She won’t give up her lease, and if anyone mentions Cake Cafe, she says, “Oh, I live just around the corner,” as if she actually spends more than 5% of her time there.

okay but why didn't tish ASK to see baby pictures? that's the first thing I'D DO if i met jonny. (honestly i love seeing baby pictures. i cant imagine dating someone and not on the first opportunity trying to see all baby pics possuble)

Jon:

I told Mom to show her those pictures. I’m adorable now, but I was fucking precious then.

Tish would’ve melted. Melted like chocolate in my mouth.

Jon:

I don’t know, French? I keep telling her that saying the sappy stuff in French is essentially talking to herself, but she keeps doing it anyway.

I can say je t’aime and call her a little rabbit - though God knows why I’d want to - but that’s the limit of my knowledge.

Tish:

He’s very... tactile, let’s say. And he has never had a hard time saying how he feels about me, even if what he says isn’t traditionally romantic. Things like, “When you’re around, it’s much easier to not be any more of an asshole than I can help.” It isn’t a Shakespearean sonnet, but I know what he means.

Jon:

When I OD’d on Vertigo, the walls ran with blood, and Joseph Risdon stepped out of the shadows. He insinuated himself between me and the girls, and he told me everything he planned to do to them after he killed me. I ended up screaming on the floor while Dad and McGinnis restrained me.

I won’t call it the most humiliating experience of my life, because of that one time a girl locked me out of her dorm room naked. But I still can’t think about it without cringing.

The first night afterward, I woke up alone.

The bed was a rumpled mess, and the apartment felt wrong. It wasn’t just the quiet of two o’clock in the morning, but actual silence. I glanced in the bathroom - dark and empty. The door creaked too loudly. My breathing and my heartbeat were too loud, and so was every step going down the hall.

In the kitchen, I found Tish. She was adjusting the flame under the kettle.

I tried a casual lean in the doorway. “Hey, everything ok?”

She startled, and then her expression softened considerably. I must have looked as pathetic as I felt. “Everything’s fine. Do you want some chamomile?”

It was a reason to hang around. “Sure.”

I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, and I watched her fool with loose tea and mesh balls and little bottles from the spice rack. After the kettle whistled and she set two mugs to steep, she came and sat in my lap.

“Honey or sugar?” she said in my ear.

“Surprise me.”

“I won’t disappear on you again.”

“I’m not a teacup poodle with separation anxiety.”

“Mm-mm.” She pressed a kiss to my neck. Sucked on the pulse point. Somehow it didn’t feel sexual, despite how many times it had been her opening move for dirty, sweaty banging. It felt like reassurance, taken and given.

I found out later that I had bruised her, lashing out in my sleep.

The Vertigo hangover lasted a week. When I closed my eyes, I saw all kinds of crazy shit. Dead men unmelting from the floor with red, pulpy faces. Dad running me through with the sword that killed Ra’s al Ghul. Abby screaming in a room I couldn’t find, no matter how many hallways I ran down.

Every time I jackknifed awake, there was Tish.

Jon:

I don’t hate him. I don’t even know the little bastard.

Jon:

Mom has given me plenty of unsolicited advice about Tish. Does that count?

As a general rule, when I’m having issues with my girlfriend, the only person I talk to about them is my girlfriend. Maybe I’m supposed to be getting a second opinion.

I mean, okay, sure, I’ll bitch about her to McGinnis when she’s being unreasonable or contradictory or frustrating. But I’m not going to throw her under the bus to my mom, of all people.

Let’s see, the last thing I actually went and asked Mom about was... which of the two newest glassbooks on the market to go with. And the thing before that was where to move some of the newly freed-up money previously held in trust for me. And the thing before that was how to handle one of Abby’s moods.