The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

There’s a certain brand of crazy that’s reserved special for the American South, and people who aren’t from there just won’t get it.

Truer words were never spoken

Because—honestly—neither party is great these days, and when you personalize something to the extent many people do in politics, any time anyone questions something the party does, it can feel like they’re questioning you, and that’s just plain unhealthy.

I’m not always like this, by the way. Well, I am—but I try not to be. I do try to switch it off, try to look at everything like a person who hasn’t taught herself to see the world stripped back to its sinew and bones, but sometimes it’s hard. It’s hard not to keep seeing things that are there in plain sight once you’ve taught yourself to see them.

It’s strange how you can long for a place to be your own and hate it so much in one breath.

Every time she touches me it feels like the kiss of Judas.

Her sister is a sommelier, so Hats doesn’t fuck around with wine, but my sister’s a narcissist so I absolutely do.

“Well, you can know someone’s lying and still not know the truth… But sure, most of the time I can tell—”

“I’m weathered.” He sounds tired. “Just not in ways you can see with your eyes.”

I don’t like my mom. I never really have, not for a long time, and you’ll get it eventually. It sounds callous to say it now out of context, but context is everything. I love her, sure—an abstract love that stems from a place sadder and deeper and more desperate for acceptance than I care to acknowledge exists within me, but I don’t particularly like her.

It’s a funny part of growing up, actually… Accepting that things that are better for you, healthier—they can still be painful. That the worst, most shameful day of my life to date would in turn become the most defining. ***

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, holding my gaze. “I could need a Georgia.” “Trust me.” I lift my eyebrows. “You don’t. They’re not worth it.” “I’m pretty sure they are,” he says, but in the context of everything, I’m pretty sure they’re not, so I just give him a tired smile that matches how my heart feels. “Good night, Sam.” And fast as anything, the inner corners of his eyebrows draw in and then go up—he’s disappointed—but then he smiles at me anyway. “Good night, Lord Byron.”

It feels like we’re cramming for an exam, studying like maniacs the night before a test on a subject we’ve half-listened to all year. The content isn’t unfamiliar when you read it; it’s like you’ve read it before. Sam feels like I’ve read him before, but I haven’t. He feels like the kind of memories I wish I had but don’t.

“Why?” He makes a frustrated growl—then pauses, clears his throat, and composes himself with a tight smile. “Georgia.” He peers down at me. “What is the psychological reason behind why I want you to have my sweater? And why am I so annoyed that you won’t take it?”

I could have done with a bit more caveman, Sam

The silence is equal parts deafening and devastating. I have been judged about what happened that night for almost the last ten years—I’m used to judgment. People don’t get it, no one gets it. There are three people in the world who truly know what really happened; one of them is me and the other two are liars.

“You are sad,” he tells me with a small nod—he’s decided—and he steps toward me. “So what if I am!” I yell at Sam. “My dad just died.” He gives me a long look again and then shakes his head. “That’s not why you’re sad.” I bellow, “Who the fuck asked you!” He shrugs gently. “I don’t know, Georgia—I think maybe the more important question is, who didn’t ask you?” I feel like someone dropped a piano on me.

you like pushing people’s buttons to make their heads pop off so you can see how their brains work.” That isn’t true. I don’t like pushing buttons; that’s such a cheap explanation. More than anything, I just like knowing why people are the way people are, and I see a high value in being able to predict what comes next.

Because there is safety in being able to predict the future. If you can predict something,you can plan on how you’d react to it,not be hurt by it,prepare your heart/mind/emotions. Lessen any inevitable fallout. I completely understand why she is the way she is. Sam may as well, and that scares her.

You survive whatever you need to, however you can.

With everyone else, I like their silence because it talks to me. I trust people’s silences more than their words. I can read the world in silence. But Sam is different. Silence with him is silence. Silence with him is five fifteen in the morning before the sun’s up and it’s still dark but the birds are singing. He’s the heavy quilt you pull over your head when it’s too cold and too early to wake up. He’s the song no parent ever loved me enough to sing. He’s the way water runs and bubbles over stones in a stream. He’s a quiet mind.

I walk up the stairs and Sam’s behind me. He moves quietly but stays close, and I get the distinct feeling that maybe he is the adult version of a nightlight. At least, that’s what he’s becoming to me.

“Turn it off.” Oliver points at me. “It’s so fucking annoying, just turn it off for an hour—” “It’s my head! It doesn’t turn off! How am I supposed to just turn it off?” “Just stop thinking!” I stare at him, wide-eyed. “Oh my God! Brilliant! Now I’m all better!”

“It’s gonna feel for a minute like I went and broke your heart and fucked you up, but I swear to God, Gige—it’s the other way around. You’re going to fall in love in a few months with someone who’s not like me at all, and I’m going to fucking loathe you for it.” He chuckles. “But I need you to…to let me go, because I probably can’t let go of you. I love you more than I meant to. I really did just plan on shagging you that night,” he told me, and I laughed even though I was still crying. Then he pressed his mouth against mine, and he never spoke to me again.

what’s your favorite place in South Carolina?” “The airport,” I say, deadpan.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Answer the question.” He nods his chin at me. “Ask it better.” I square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “Sam Penny, do you have romantic feelings for me?” He thinks for a second, and the way his mouth is pursed makes me nervous for the splittest of seconds. “My feelings for you are…strictly romantic.” Then he adds as an afterthought—“And often sexual.”

I’ve never kissed him before. He’s just kissed me. And he’s going to kiss me back, I know he will—obviously—but I just can’t believe I might get to have a nice memory in this bathroom.

It’s been seven days today since I first met Sam Penny and I can confirm with absolute certainty that I am completely in love with him. Ridiculous, I know. It’s fucking insane, actually. I’ve flown off the handle and it isn’t like me at all. And if I wanted to pull it apart, I could say I’m in distress; it’s a trauma response and I’m latching on to him because of that. There are a lot of emotions swirling around me at the minute—that’s true. Sam Penny is a safe harbor—also true. But what else is true is this: Sam Penny is undoubtedly the greatest man I’ve ever met.

I give him a look. “You really need to get that slip of your tongue under control…” He gives me a look back. “That’s not what you said last night…”

He gives me a long look, then kisses me again. It’s not rushy or urgent. It’s not a bookend kiss, he’s not signing off, he doesn’t say goodbye—he just kisses me, hands in my hair, soft and melty, and then he slips out of my room. His kisses are commas.

something in my chest catches with how Penny’s staring at me. Like my whole life has been a corset done up too tightly, and slowly he’s unlacing me.