Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [38]
Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t do drugs. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t have sex. Wear a condom. Wear sunblock. Wear a seat belt. Wear a helmet. If you see something, say something. Just say no. Stop, drop, and roll. Stop, look, and listen. Look both ways before you cross the street…
Safety is an illusion. Bad things can happen to anyone at any time, whether you follow the rules or not. You can check left, check right, check left again before you step off the curb and into the crosswalk, but that won’t stop an anonymous asshole in his shitty pickup from putting you in intensive care …
Jessica shakes the voice out of her head, searches inside the bag for her cell phone, and checks for any missed calls. There aren’t any She thinks back to her visit from the night before, when Sunny’s parents promised Jessica that Sunny really could hear her, even if she couldn’t respond. Were they delusional or optimistic? Is there a difference when your only daughter has been in a coma for three days? Jessica wonders whether it would be worthwhile to call the hospital and request that the phone be put up to Sunny’s ear so she can tell her a story she’s—no! not dying, bad choice of word—living to hear.
“Hey, Sunny,” Jessica would say “Guess who’s waiting for me outside the bathroom door right now?”
What else is there to say? “He looks like a god.” And? “I look like a gorgon because I haven’t gotten any sleep since I found out about you.” Then? “So get your ass out of bed, Sunny! Your coma is really taking a toll on my personal life.” Finally? “I’m sorry I can’t joke about this. You are such an incredible girl. Wake up, Sunny The world will be so much worse off without you …”
The phone shakes in her palm as if she’s receiving a call, but she’s not. Jessica decides she isn’t prepared for Sunny and stuffs the phone back into one of the pockets.
She studies her face once more, trying to see herself as Marcus might see her. She acknowledges that the view isn’t too pretty, and she knows there is no way she can pull herself together. There will be no “marveluth” makeover, no transformative miracle to be found in a tiny teapot. This is what she looks like today, even if it isn’t a fair representation of her attractiveness on any other day. And because Jessica won’t be seeing Marcus again anytime in the near future, this is the image he’ll be left with. This is how he’ll remember her.
Rather than lament the unfairness of the situation (Why couldn’t I have run into him last week? I totally had my shit together last week), Jessica gamely accepts her ugly reality and even divines an advantage to playing up her contagious appearance: It will diffuse any hint of sexual tension between them. Not that she’s allowed herself to acknowledge any attraction so far. But Marcus is Marcus, after all. Someone who can sexualize just about anything, even the removal of a sprinkle from one’s cheek. Someone who has made prudence in thought and action even more difficult by having the nerve to look better than ever.
And it’s been, what, almost two years since Jessica had sex? Doesn’t she have needs? But consider the curious circumstances of that last lay: exes fucking for old time’s sake. Sex recycling is common practice among consenting adults of a certain age, so Jessica’s one-night stand with Len Levy would hardly seem worthy as a source of guilt and regret—that is, until it spawned a nerdcore breakup anthem of guilt and regret. Jessica has lazily surrendered to familiar temptations before and has suffered extraordinarily awkward postsex consequences. She chalks it up to a lesson learned and will not let it happen again.
She is intentionally careless with the lip balm, smearing it all over her decaying nostrils and dry lips, hoping it makes her look even less sexy than she did before she entered the bathroom.
“Happy birthday to you,” Jessica sings as she washes the sticky goo