Chapter Text
In Jean’s junior year of college, she goes home for the winter holidays. Of course she does. She goes home every summer and winter holiday; the only reason she’s been stuck on campus for recent Thanksgivings and spring breaks is her work schedule as an RA. Somebody has to babysit the boozed-up frosh. (Kaeya’s crude words, not hers.)
Jean goes home as much as possible because she loves home and she loves her mother. This year feels different, though.
She still loves her mother, obviously. In everything she’s ever set out to do—everything she has ever accomplished—her mother has been her fiercest supporter. It is impossible to enumerate just how much she has sacrificed for Jean’s sake.
Perhaps that’s why Jean never minded much, in the past, when her mother would spend her entire holiday dragging her from function to function—an endless litany of work parties and church socials and family friend’s houses—to show Jean off and parade her latest successes. Jean owes her that much, after all, and she used to be so proud when adult after adult smiled at her and said, utterly charmed and impressed: Wow. You really are Frederica Gunnhildr’s daughter.
She still is proud, she supposes. It is the highest honour to be half as impressive as her mother. But Jean is also tired.
The final weeks of the semester were taxing. She averaged less than three hours of sleep per night throughout all of exam season. In between her own studying, she took on extra duty shifts (the other RAs begged her to cover because they needed time to cram), never missed a single Debate Club meeting (it’s her responsibility as vice-president), and was swamped with “busy season” (in other words, “exam stress meltdown season”) while volunteering at the Peer Tutoring Centre and Student Support Centre.
Secretly, selfishly, she yearns for her winter holiday to—for once—be a holiday.
She wants to spend two weeks sleeping in, watching bad movies, doing 1000-piece puzzles. She wants two weeks without having to dress up, and smile winningly, and chew with her mouth closed, and tell her mother’s friends about her GPA and class rank, and dazzle everyone with a flawless Bach piece on the piano even though she hasn’t practiced piano in months. She wants two weeks where nobody asks anything of her at all.
She feels guilty. She feels dreadfully lazy and ungrateful. She doesn’t know what has gotten into her. What used to be appreciated as motherly concern or protectiveness—nowadays feels smothering, like a noose she hadn’t noticed being tied. There was once a time she’d gravely take Frederica’s every word as gospel, but more and more often, Jean finds herself chafing at her unsolicited advice and constructive criticism. And worst of all—most traitorously of all—on Christmas morning, Jean wakes up with a sharp searing ache in her lungs because she misses her little sister so badly she can’t breathe.
How silly. How grossly irrational. After all, she hasn’t spent Christmas with Barbara since she was eight years old.
Growing pains, she tells herself sternly. Nothing more. She splashes her face with cold water.
Junior year of college means inching that much closer to real adulthood. She never did have a puberty-induced rebellious phase, so perhaps this recent rottenness is simply all that backlogged teen angst catching up to her.
(Or maybe somebody is a horrible influence, whispers a dangerous voice in the back of her mind.)
Frederica’s boss Varka has invited them both to his house for Christmas dinner after church. Frederica claims all of this is a fantastic networking opportunity for someone like Jean. Jean doesn’t bother arguing that there’s little point in networking with a swarm of lawyers and businessmen when she’s in school to be an engineer. It’s obvious Frederica still harbours the secret hope that Jean will someday transform a lucrative engineering career into a law degree into a getting elected President.
Throughout the hectic day, she manages to send Merry Christmas texts to most of her friends, or exchange heart and hug emojis with the ones who don’t celebrate. Because she is a coward, she’s waiting for some liquid courage from her mother’s boss’s vintage wine before she texts Barbara. Maybe she will even be drunk slash brave enough to video call her this year. Typically Jean never drinks, but her sober self has repeatedly proven too weak to face the brunt of her sister’s disappointment.
There is one other person Jean hasn’t yet heard from. She is trying very hard not to think about her. She is failing quite badly.
So much of this stupid party reminds her of Eula Lawrence. She knows Eula would have a lot to say about the overpriced wines, the presentation of the appetizers, Six-Fingered Jose’s embarrassing attempt at Vivaldi. She stifles a grin imagining how Eula’s nose would scrunch up in disgust if she were here to experience the stale small talk, veiled boasting and sickly sweet flattery of Frederica’s colleagues.
She tries to picture what Eula might be doing right this moment. She can’t. Eula must have turned her back on stiff, stuffy parties like this one the moment she turned her back on the Lawrences. She suspects she would normally be spending the holidays with Amber, but Amber is meeting her girlfriend’s family abroad this year. Maybe Eula is out getting shitfaced, then. She’s never needed much of an excuse to do that.
Would it be strange for Jean to text her? She’d like to think the two of them are friends, though Eula would probably disagree. She favours the term “nemesis” or, on her less combative days, “rival.” At school, Jean and Eula constantly compete for scholarships, research opportunities, mentors, and the number one spot in their class rankings. They study together, because she insists Jean’s the only one who can keep up with her pace. And then—and then, of course, there is their arrangement. Their mutually beneficial arrangement. Their perfectly logical arrangement.
Fact one: sex is a natural painkiller and stress reliever, triggering the release of endorphins and oxytocin. Fact two: with the demands of her schedule, Jean is far too busy to seek out sexual partners or manage a romantic relationship. Fact three: Eula is attractive, willing, and conveniently already a participant in the productive activity (i.e. study sessions) that would most greatly benefit from a dose of stress relief. The conclusion is obvious. (Fact four: Eula tolerates and is even amused by how Jean rigidly schedules each of their study/sex sessions on their shared Google Calendars.)
They are not at school right now. It is the winter holidays. At present—she is not competing with Eula. She isn’t studying with her. And she certainly isn’t having sex with her. Where does that leave them, then? How does Eula Lawrence fit into her life? She can’t text her. It would be very strange to text her.
The overpriced wine hits her, like a wave crashing overhead. Out of the corner of her eye, she verifies that her mother is thoroughly distracted by an academic debate with Dr. Livingstone. Head swimming, Jean slips out into the cold night air of Varka’s backyard.
She doesn’t call Barbara. Instead, before she realizes what she’s doing—
“Gunnhildr?” The girl picks up after less than two rings. Her voice is cool and curt. “What do you want?”
Jean has always liked the sound of Eula’s voice, the dry, lilting cadence. She thinks this might be the first time she’s heard it over the phone. Has she really never called her before?
“Gunnhildr?” she repeats. Confusion and perhaps a hint of worry creep into her tone. Jean can so clearly picture the familiar crease forming in the middle of her brow.
Jean says: “The exam for Microprocessor Systems I. How’d you do?”
“93,” she reports instantly. “I knew I’d mucked up the last question. You?”
“95.”
“Fuck you.” There is no heat in her voice. Jean thinks she might be smiling. “Don’t get too complacent, Gunnhildr. I still beat you in MTE 336.”
“I suspect that prof just doesn’t like me.”
“Everybody likes you. As you very well know.”
“Is that a confession, Eula?” She is grinning like an idiot. It is a mercy that nobody else is here in the yard. Muffled by the screen door behind her, the chatter of party guests and corny holiday music settle into a low, pleasant white noise.
“You are unbearable and obnoxious,” Eula announces. “I’m hanging up on you.”
She doesn’t hang up.
“What are you doing right now?” Jean asks.
“Oh God. Will you ask me to describe what I’m wearing next? Are you drunk? You don’t drink.”
“I’m shocked you’re not drunk, Lawrence. I thought you’d be past the point of coherence by this time of night.”
“Touché.” She laughs, not even pretending to be offended. “If you must know, I was busy cooking.”
Jean sits down on the top step of the porch, staring out at the dark, frost-tipped grass. She wishes she could see Eula’s face. Instead, she can see her own breath in the air, puffs of white mist. She should probably feel cold, but she doesn’t.
“I made too much food for just me, though,” Eula continues, idly. “Muscle memory or something. I had spent every Christmas—every major holiday—since I was 16 years old with Amber. Before—before, you know, her grandfather and I would make Christmas dinner together. I tried to make her all the same things after he... well. I’m afraid it wasn’t ever truly the same. Damned old man didn’t write down his recipes.”
“Amber loves your cooking,” Jean says stupidly. “She—she raves about it all the time.”
“Well, I’ve seen that girl burn the cheese clean off a frozen pizza. Sorry if I can’t muster much pride from earning her endorsement.”
Jean laughs. “Yeah, fine. Go all tough and rude as if you weren’t drowning in sentimentality just five seconds ago.”
“It won’t happen again. Truth be told, I did have two or three drinks before you called.”
“I knew it.”
“At least I didn’t drunk dial you. Unlike somebody, I can hold my liquor.”
“This isn’t a drunk dial. I just had some wine, that’s all. It would be rude not to. My mother’s boss was offering his finest.”
“Another Frederica Gunnhildr holiday social?” drawls Eula. “If you ever need an escape, I’ll prep Amber’s room for you.”
Even though she is certainly joking, the offer brings a twinge of heat to Jean’s chest. Then, there is the awful, electric possibility that she might not be joking. A memory bobs up to the surface, a study session two months ago in Eula’s apartment—an idle conversation, where Jean mentioned she might quit being an RA for senior year, and Eula mentioned Amber would be moving out of their shared apartment next fall, and the offer she gave then was anything but a joke.
Neither of them has brought it up since, but Jean’s mind sticks on the idea. When they can’t compete or study or fuck, how does Eula Lawrence fit into her life? What is Eula to her? If Jean would only say yes, here blooms a clean, easy answer—Eula Lawrence could be her roommate.
Maybe then, next Christmas, Jean would not be sitting tired in a cold backyard, and Eula would not be drinking alone in her two-bedroom apartment, making too much food for just one person. Or, at the very least, it would not be strange anymore to text her.
Into the silence, Eula murmurs: “I am glad Amber’s found somebody, you know. I’m so relieved to see her this happy. She deserves it.”
Jean’s mortified to discover her mouth moving without her brain’s consent, but she doesn’t regret what she says next. “You deserve to be happy, too, Eula.”
“A controversial opinion,” she replies plainly. “But we’ve digressed. What’s the real reason you called me, Gunnhildr? You and I both know Microprocessors grades were posted more than a week ago.”
I wanted to know if you were lonely. I wanted to know if you missed me at all. I wanted, very badly, to hear your voice.
She presses her cheek hard into her phone and says: “Is it so wrong to wish my dear rival a Merry Christmas?”
“Terribly wrong,” says Eula. Cool and curt. “It is wholly incorrect and inappropriate behaviour for a rival. You should be embarrassed. Merry Christmas, Gunnhildr.”
She hangs up.
In almost the same instant, the porch light flickers on and Frederica yells: “Jean Gunnhildr, what in the world are you doing sitting out in this cold?” but Jean hardly hears her, and she doesn’t know how to explain that she’s warmer than she has been all winter.
***
Although Jean and Eula are in the same program and year, it was through Amber that the two of them met. Jean must have shared some classes with Eula in first year, but if she did, she never noticed her. Eula either skipped a lot of lectures or never participated, which doesn’t surprise Jean—none of their first-year courses awarded marks for participation.
Jean participated all the time, of course. Maybe in another world, her classmates would hate her keenness, but she’s always been the first to offer help when anyone struggled with a problem set—the first to share notes when somebody missed a class—the first to volunteer for all the toughest sections of each group project. Eula wasn’t making fun when she said everybody liked Jean.
Amber, too, liked Jean from the moment they met. She joined Jean’s running group when she was in first year and Jean was a sophomore. The two girls quickly got along, making plans to run together outside of the group.
One morning after a run, Amber invited Jean into her apartment for smoothies since Jean had forgotten her water bottle. It was unusual that Amber, a freshman, did not live on campus. At their school, it was common for freshmen to live in dorms while upper years preferred to rent one of the many apartments nearby. (As an RA, Jean lived, worked, and ate in the dorms and rarely ever left campus.)
“It’s way cheaper to rent off-campus and just buy your own groceries,” Amber explained cheerfully. “Besides, I wanted to live with Eula. My roommate. She’s a sophomore like you... I’m pretty sure she’s in your eng program.”
Jean was surprised Amber knew another sophomore so well. “Is she a friend of yours from high school?”
“Something like that,” Amber said, uncharacteristically evasive. “It’s kind of a long story.”
Though the sun had barely yet risen, Eula was awake when they arrived at the apartment. Jean was sweaty and just a little winded—she’d never admit as much, but Amber was a much faster runner—while Eula was sleep-soft, her guard lowered, bedhead rumpled. She was dressed in nothing but a crinkly sleeveless tee and very tight sleep shorts.
Heat flooded Jean’s face. Eula was built like a boxer, long and athletic, all lean muscle and hard angles. She was bent over the dining table, setting down two hot plates of breakfast that smelled divine.
“Welcome home,” Eula drawled. But when she turned and noticed Amber was not alone, every line of her face went hard and frozen.
“Forgive me for intruding,” said Jean, because she was instantly aware that was what she was here. An intruder. “I’m Jean. Um, Amber’s running buddy.”
“I know who you are,” Eula said coldly. She barely looked at her, which stung more than it should’ve. “Amber, you brought Jean Gunnhildr into our kitchen? It’s not even 7 in the fucking morning.”
“I texted you on our way here!” Amber protested. “Jeez. You never check your phone.”
“Well, the two of you can enjoy breakfast together.”
“But—”
“She can have my portion. I’m going back to bed.”
Before either of them could say anything, Eula spun on her heel and marched into her bedroom, door slamming shut behind her. Jean didn’t get another chance to see her face, but she could have sworn Eula’s ears were glowing pink.
“Sorry about that,” sighed Amber. “Eula’s kind of... shy? But I promise she’s really nice once you get to know her. Plus she’s an amazing cook, so you lucked out with breakfast!”
Shy was not the word Jean would have used.
“How did she know who I was?”
Amber shrugged. “I told you she was in your program, didn’t I?”
Because Jean was frankly used to being recognized, at the time she accepted this explanation without further comment. She couldn’t shake the unsettling suspicion that Eula absolutely loathed her—what could she have ever done to deserve that?—but at least Amber was correct about one thing. The breakfast was delicious.
***
The August leading into her senior year of college is hot, humid, and horrible.
Lisa fans herself with a packet of Jean’s old calculus homework. She’s supposed to be helping Jean move, but Lisa likes to claim she’s way too pretty to sweat. It is a difficult argument to refute.
“You’re telling me your mom still doesn’t know?” Lisa’s brows have risen so high, they’ve vanished beneath the floppy brim of her sun hat.
Jean is contrite. “I just... couldn’t find a good moment to bring it up. Summer was busy.”
“Would she seriously be that pissed off?” Kaeya asks, in between chugging water from the kitchen tap. He’s been marginally more helpful than Lisa in the moving effort, which means he is considerably more winded and dehydrated. “You’d think your mom would be glad you’re not gonna be spending half your senior year chasing after shitfaced freshies. I get the RA gig is a pretty sweet deal with the free res and food and stuff, but it’s not like you guys are hurting for money.”
“Tactful as always, Kaeya.”
“I’m just saying!”
“No, you’re right,” says Jean. “Look, it’s not that my mother would be ‘pissed off’ or whatever. I know she’d support my decision. It’s just...”
It’s just that Jean’s mother was an RA all through university, as was her mother before her. It was Frederica’s idea for her to apply to be an RA in the first place, and she was so proud when Jean was accepted. She hasn’t stopped bragging to her friends about how Jean’s been voted her building residents’ favourite staff member two years in a row.
“Let me guess,” Lisa says knowingly. “You don’t want to tell her you’re moving in with your fuck buddy.”
“If you call me that one more time, I swear I will have you removed from the premises, Lisa Minci.”
The interjection, familiar and scathing, startles them all. Eula is leaning on the door frame, having apparently manifested from hammerspace carrying a pile of boxes that struggle to fit through the entrance. It defies physics how Eula can move so silently even while encumbered by what appears to be the entire remaining contents of Jean’s moving truck.
Hastening to take some of the load from her, Jean chides: “I told you we needed to make a few more trips down, Eula. Don’t show off. You’re going to hurt yourself at this rate.”
Eula grunts. Stretches out her shoulder. “As if I was going to trust leaving your friends unsupervised in my apartment for any length of time.”
“Your apartment?” says Lisa, eyes sparkling a bit too bright. “It’s your and Jean’s apartment now, pumpkin.”
“Gunnhildr,” Eula drawls without missing a beat, “I request your consent to have this woman removed from our property.”
“Denied,” Jean says. “Besides, it’s not our property. We pay rent.”
“It might as well be ours. In the three years I’ve lived here, I haven’t seen that fucking landlord once. I ought to bill him for all the plumbing I’ve had to do.”
Later that night—after Jean’s stuff is mostly unpacked and her friends have headed home—Jean is hunched over the dining table with her laptop open, when she’s startled by a hot mug of tea placed gently at her side.
“I know you’ll be staying up doing those optional summer readings,” Eula says tersely, by way of explanation.
“Oh.” Jean blinks. “Thank you.”
Privately, she notes Eula has remembered how Jean likes her tea (earl grey, a small splash of milk), as well as her half-hearted New Year’s resolution to cut back on coffee. She supposes it’s only natural Eula is familiar with her caffeine habits, after all the time they’ve spent studying and completing coursework together.
She breathes in the rich bergamot fragrance of the drink. When she glances up, she realizes Eula is shrugging on a jacket. Something throbs inside her chest.
“You’re going out?”
“Yes,” says Eula, and doesn’t elaborate.
“Okay,” Jean replies. She musters tremendous willpower to keep her voice neutral, free from any whiff of disapproval. “Stay safe, then.”
Eula hesitates by the entryway. “You know, I wouldn’t be offended if she was right. I’d understand.”
“What?”
“Lisa. When she said you didn’t want your mother to know you moved in with me.” Eula smiles wryly. “I get why Frederica would be upset that your new roommate is a Lawrence.”
Jean wants to deny it, wants to defend her mother (she’s not that judgmental) or defend Eula (why should it matter you’re a Lawrence when they’ve practically disowned you), but the words stick in her throat like grains of sand.
In the end, she shakes her head and says, sounding weak to her own ears, “I plan on telling her eventually.”
Eula just shrugs. “Do whatever you need to do,” she says breezily, and then she’s gone, leaving Jean alone with a dark, silent apartment and a cooling mug of tea.