The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

“Georgia, I want you to know,” he starts, swallowing heavily. “You are—easily!—the most complicated person I’ve ever met.” My face lights up, completely elated. “Thank you.”

“And while we’re talking about this, make sure Oliver doesn’t wear something too…” She leaves it hanging for a second, then leans forward and whispers, “Camp.” She looks around self-consciously, checking if anyone heard her say her version of the C word. “Oh shit,” I sigh, ruefully. “I think he only packed his sparkle rainbow suit.”

That sounds so sterile, I know, but actually it isn’t. It’s sort of romantic, because when someone’s standing that close to you, it reduces your vision field around you, which means you have to rely on your other senses, like smell and touch.

It took me a long time to realize that something doesn’t have to always feel wrong to be wrong.

Then she says, clear as a bell, and I know it’s the truth because I can see it all over her, plain as day: “It was easier.”

Do you know how many other people wear ripped denim shorts? Everyone. Everyone in the world, except you apparently, Maryanne! Because you dress like you just stepped off the fucking Mayflower.”

I think I began to believe that if someone had known, if someone knew and they came to my defense, that it would have felt the same as being defended at the time, but it didn’t. It doesn’t—it couldn’t.

You survive whatever you need to, however you can.

He’s the heavy quilt you pull over your head when it’s too cold and too early to wake up.

“No, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant, ‘fuck no.’” I stare over at Maryanne, flash her a tight smile before I tack onto the end, “In no world.”

I can eat lobster any time of the day; I don’t need those sorts of limitations on my life.