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Jillian came to third grade prepared, in terms of frog accessories. She had frog barrettes, frog erasers, frog pencil sharpeners, frog sweaters, and frog socks.

Yet somehow, she was not instantly the most popular girl in her class. Shocking, that. Although in fairness, her lack of perceived coolness might have been less about her amphibian aesthetic and more about her extremely unfashionable glasses. The frizzy red hair wasn’t doing her any favors either. It was likely a combination of these three things. Ultimately, the entire package of her presentation being what it was, Jillian was the subject of mockery.

Ryan was tall and blond. Though his personality was as geeky as Jillian’s, by the capricious reasoning of elementary school students, he was considered “cool.” Jillian was not the only one hopelessly smitten with him, though her reasoning was better. Jillian liked him because he was smart and interesting; his eight-year-old handsomeness was incidental.

One rainy Tuesday, some male students started calling Jillian “Frog Girl.” Which really wasn’t fair, as she wasn’t wearing anything frog-related at the time! What, was she supposed to just not use the perfectly functional frog pencil sharpener at her desk? That would have been wasteful!

Her female classmates laughed at the boys’ hilarious “jokes.” Somehow that was more hurtful than the name-calling itself—the hypocritical attitude that by merely laughing along with the bullying, they weren’t somehow complicit in it.

Ryan overheard the interaction. He knew that the boys looked up to him, and intuited that the girls liked him even more. He also knew he’d done nothing to deserve their collective adoration, other than be unusually tall for a pre-adolescent. As such, he had a moral responsibility to protect the socially vulnerable. Jillian’s weird hair wasn’t her fault.

“Stop making fun of Jillian right now! If anyone is ever mean to her, ever again, I will never EVER be your best friend or your boyfriend, and also you can’t come to my birthday party.”

The kids seemed to take his threat seriously, because no one ever belittled Jillian again.

But there was also a less obvious change. Jillian decided that she was going to improve her social skills and become popular. Incredibly popular. “Not being bullied” was an improvement, sure, but it wasn’t good enough for Jillian’s lofty ambitions. No, Jillian was going to be outgoing and bubbly, fun and funny and flirtatious, so that everyone wanted to date her or be her friend. Then Ryan would have no choice but to notice how universally beloved she was, and that would make her desirable to him as well, because humans were herd animals. If everyone wanted to be close to Jillian, Ryan would want the same, because peer pressure was a heavy heady drug.

Ryan must never know that Jillian was seducing him in the most roundabout, indirect way possible.

*

Nine years later, Jillian’s glasses were extremely flattering. They were also designer. The same parents who’d splurged on her questionable fashion choices at the age of eight allowed their seventeen-year-old daughter a healthy clothing allowance, which she put to good use. Her makeup was tasteful and highlighted her large eyes, which were now considered attractive rather than freakish and bug-like. Her hair—which had darkened from yellow-orange to a beautiful golden red—was no longer frizzy, but perfectly styled into natural ringlets. She’d always been pretty, but now she wore it well. Her peers took notice.

Oh and she’d grown boobs. The boob thing definitely helped.

Thus, her feminine looks and her gregarious personality rendered her one of her high school’s most sought-after students.

Ryan was no longer “tall for his age.” At 6’3” he was just tall, period. He adorned his lanky body in Star Wars t-shirts and blackwatch plaid flannel pants. He and Jillian ran in different social circles. There was no evidence that would suggest to a reasonable person that Jillian was in love with some random geek.

Immediately after their AP calculus class, Jillian pulled Ryan aside. He was surprised, but went with it. With her.

“Ryan. I’ll get straight to the point. My parents are away for the weekend. My sisters are home from college. You remember my sisters, Bridget and Liz?”

“Yeah, I once scraped my knee at your house and Liz—or maybe Bridget—put a Band-Aid on it and kissed the Band-Aid. I was like nine, so to be honest it was a bit infantilizing, but I still appreciated the gesture.”

Jillian thought, remind me to slap Liz later, with a glove. Or maybe Bridget. You dare to kiss my beloved’s leg??

Aloud, she said, “Cool, cool. I’m having a party. To be clear: This is NOT a rager, nothing crazy. My sisters don’t want to get arrested for providing alcohol to minors. That wouldn’t be grateful on my part. So we’re all going to be on our best behavior. Anyway, the party’s on Saturday. I’d love to see you there.”

“That’s very nice of you, Jillian. I have plans with my friends.” Ryan was loyal; he wasn’t going to ditch his friends just to go to a Fun Sexy Cool Girl Party. They’d make fun of him, to hide their envy, and he didn’t want to deal with that level of teenage passive aggression. So yes, his loyalty was partially tied to self-interest, and the complicated dynamics of any given friend group.

“Bring them.”

“Wait, really?”

“Are there fewer than twenty of them?”

“Uh.” Ryan was uncomfortable at the very idea of having close to twenty friends. It sounded excessive, stressful. God he was awkward. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Curse his pale complexion! Why couldn’t he be more like Jillian? She was also pale, but she always seemed cool and she never blushed, or if she did her makeup covered it. Say something, Ryan, you look like a weirdo. “Yeah, it’s like me and four guys.”

“Perfect. Bring them.”

“Oh. OK.” Ryan took a second to absorb what was happening. “Uh, thank you.” 

“Saturday at six till…you know…whenever. Sunday, maybe. My sisters understand they’re on ‘babysitting’ duty. You know where my house is, right?”

“I…think so?” Though he hadn’t been there since her eleventh birthday party—to which she’d invited the entire class, most of whom attended—Ryan could walk to Jillian’s house in his sleep. The high school classmates who’d attended Primrose Primary School were the richest of the rich. Different social circles aside, Ryan and Jillian were still members of the same financial tribe. They all knew where the others lived. They’d grown up interacting with each other’s maids.

“Well, it’s in the school directory.” If Jillian suspected Ryan was lying about being unsure where she lived, she gave no sign. Jillian had an excellent poker face.

“Right. Should I bring anything? Like, can I at least reimburse you and your sisters for the drinks we consume?”

 Jillian smiled, showing straight white teeth. The long-discarded retainer had earned its keep. “No, you’re good. And you’re cute.”

She did not add, “Also I’m desperately in love with you.”

*

Ryan and his friends, as nerdy as they were, knew better than to show up to the Cool Girl’s Drinking Party with twelve-sided dice and Magic: The Gathering cards. They understood that while they would more or less stick together as a group, they shouldn’t exclusively talk to each other and no one else. As such, they did their best to mingle. They were awkward, but not cartoonishly so. And really no more awkward than anyone else.

Jillian’s sisters had brought over some of their Stanford friends, to help monitor drunk teenagers and drive them home. Their first priority was safety, their second to protect their parents’ property. No alcohol poisoning, no fires, minimum spills. They were friendly in their commitment to their shared big sisterly role, even as they took turns with the vacuum cleaner. When the guests gushed over how cool her sisters were, Jillian happily agreed.

 They also owed Jillian—and they knew it—for all the occasions she had deliberately distracted their parents when the twins themselves were high school seniors. She had single-handedly saved their skin more times than any of them could count. Jillian was, at the very least, entitled to the odd chaperoned booze party.

Things were going well. A little after 9, Amara from U.S. Government pulled Jillian into one of the downstairs bathrooms. It was perhaps the fourth time they had spoken outside of class. Amara had been a courtesy invitation, out of respect for the fact that Jillian and Amara were considered more or less equal in terms of popularity and beauty. The code of etiquette was, you do not snub your peer—it only leads to more drama later on.

 “Jillian, oh my god, you’re friends with Ryan, right?”

Though not as sober a hostess as her fully sober sisters, Jillian wasn’t THAT drunk. As such, she had not lost her ability to maintain a poker face.

 “Sure, I guess. We attended primary school together. Why?”

 “Ugh! I feel so bad! He just asked me out, and he seems SO SWEET! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just not gonna go out with a guy who wears argyle flannel pants.”

“Blackwatch plaid.”

“What?”

“He’s wearing….you know what, it doesn’t matter, I hear your point.”

“Right, so like. Can you talk to him for me, please? Can you let him down gently, on my behalf?”

“Of course I can. Don’t worry about it, Amara.”

“Oh my god Jillian, thanks so much, and thanks for this party, this party is great!” Amara returned to the living room, relieved of her burden. Jillian walked to the garden, determined.

“Ryan. Bathroom. Now.” She tried to sound bossy, rather than angry. Ryan for his part was tipsy and compliant.

“What’s up, Jillian?” he asked, as she locked the door. “Thank God your house has so many bathrooms or I’d feel guilty that we’re hogging one. I’d forgotten how rich your parents are, even for this area. My parents are rich, your parents are rich-rich. Anyway what’s up?”

“Ryan. Listen to me. Amara does not wish to date you.”

“Oh, I figured. Of course. I just had to give it a shot, you know? The worst she could do was turn me down. Nothing ventured, nothing lost, I mean gained, no big deal.”

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you. I’m RIGHT HERE! Are you blind? Are you stupid? Every single straight guy at this party—including your geeky friends—would kill to be in this bathroom with me now. By the way I don’t mean ‘geeky’ as an insult, just a descriptor. The point is, I ask you again: What the FUCK is wrong with you?” The poker face was off. The near-perfect teeth were out, and they weren’t smiling.

“Yeah, OK. Jillian, look in the mirror.” This time it was Jillian’s turn to obey. Their reflections made eye contact.

“No, I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid. I know, I know, you’re gorgeous. You think I don’t see that? I see it. And you’re right. Every guy at this party, every guy at this SCHOOL, and not just the straight ones, wants to trade places with me. But look at our eye colors. Can you see the difference? I really can’t. Now let’s look at our coloring in general. Pretty close to identical, right? Think about who I’ve dated. Roshni, Vivian, Priscilla. What do they all have in common? And Amara, too? None of them are WHITE, Jillian. On the rare occasions I’m attracted to girls of my own race, they always have dark hair and dark eyes. You’re a classically beautiful, fair-ass angel. Fair, fair, fair. And that’s just…not my thing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jillian. Also I’m sorry, but I really REALLY need to pee.”

“Understood.” She did. He had answered her question; there was nothing else to say. She unlocked the bathroom door to exit, making sure to lock it again behind her. Even drunk and rejected, Jillian was a conscientious hostess. She attended her other guests, leaving Ryan to pee in peace.

The party went smoothly, the rest of the night. When Ryan and his “posse” eventually accepted a ride home with her sisters’ friend, Jillian graciously accepted their goodbye thanks, and thanked them in turn for coming.

She waited until they were gone before making out with Stuart in the gazebo. She was too classy to use Stuart to make Ryan envious; such childish games were beneath her, and anyway it probably wouldn’t have worked. Plus it wouldn’t have been fair to Stuart, who was a decent guy, an adequate kisser, and perfectly attractive in his own right. When he touched her boobs, for a few minutes he had her full attention.

On Monday, it was as if nothing happened. AP Statistics wasn’t awkward. It was just…statistics. There was too much math to be done for either Ryan or Jillian to behave awkwardly with each other. Jillian showed no sign of resentment or hurt. She glowed her normal glow.

And maybe Ryan glowed a little, too.

*

Gym had just gotten out. Jasmine ran up to Jillian.

“Hi Jillian I was wondering if you’d go out with me on a date.”

“You know what, I’m flattered, Jasmine. But I don’t go out with girls. It’s not personal. It’s just the way I’m wired.”

“Oh OK. I heard you were a lesbian. I’m a lesbian too. So I wanted to know if you wanted to go out with me.”

“I see. Jasmine, you were lied to. I’m not a lesbian. I’m not bisexual. I’m straight. Whoever told you that was bullying you. Bullying is unacceptable. Do you understand that? Do you understand that you don’t deserve to be bullied? You’re one of the best math students in the school. You deserve respect, for that alone. But even if you weren’t, you still would deserve respect, because you’re a person. And no one deserves to be bullied.”

“Oh no one told me that. I just read it in the bathroom. The wall said ‘Jillian is a lesbian’ and there was a picture of you taped next to the writing.”

“Ah. I see. Then whoever wrote that is bullying ME. Which is also unacceptable. While there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a lesbian, there is something wrong with lying about a person’s sexuality. And doing so both publicly and anonymously. That’s cowardly, and very weird. Like, there has to be a healthier way to handle being obsessed with me. Make a sculpture of me or something, God.

“The point is: You can’t believe everything you read on bathroom walls, Jasmine.”

“Oh OK. That makes sense. It’s hard for me to remember that some people don’t always tell the truth.”

“Right, because not everyone is as honest as you are.”

“Correct. Correct. Even though you’re not a lesbian, you’re very pretty. That’s why I wanted to date you.” 

“Gosh. Again, I’m flattered. I’m sure you’re going to make some sweet girl very happy.”

“Thank you Jillian, have a good day.” Jasmine ran off, as quickly as she’d arrived.

Rodney, still in his fencing gear, walked up to Jillian.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Thank you for the way you handled that.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem. I know how to reject people without being cruel. Speaking of cruelty, I can’t believe someone wrote ‘Jillian is a lesbian’ in the bathroom. That’s both trite and also… weirdly wholesome? Like are we just going to return to the days where everything was analog? I could get behind that. God, if that’s what they’re writing about me in the girls’ room, I’d hate to see what they’re saying about me in the boys’ room. Am I a slut? I’m guessing I’m a slut. Yeah right, like I have time for that. GPAs like mine don’t just HAPPEN. I can’t properly study with a dick in every orifice.”

“You have to WORK at it, Jillian! You have to practice.”

“Whatever. I plan to go to college with my virginity technically intact. I mean I’m not a NUN. I enjoy dry humping as much as anyone. Wait, no I’m guessing even nuns enjoy dry humping. All that fabric. The friction would be excellent. But then there’s the static cling.”

“Right, I’m gonna go take a shower now. But honey, you are fucking adorable. If I hadn’t come out freshman year, I’d have made you my fake girlfriend.” 

“And if I didn’t have such high self-respect, I’d have let you.”

Later, Jillian reflected on how her automatic rejection of Jasmine hadn’t been THAT different than Ryan’s automatic rejection of her. Both were based on immutable qualities of the body.

That said, even if she’d been a lesbian, she would have required better social skills in a potential girlfriend. But telling that to Jasmine wouldn’t have been constructive or kind, so she’d kept it to herself. Please God, thought Jillian, let that girl develop SOME emotional intelligence in college! Jillian was touched by Jasmine’s vulnerable innocence.  What Jasmine needed was a bossy, slightly older girlfriend to tell her what was what. Like a Latina girl with lots of tattoos who could tell Jasmine “You gotta knock that shit off, Mami” when she was acting excessively weird. Not in a judgmental or shaming way, just a loving and direct one. Jillian hoped she’d be invited to the wedding of Jasmine and oh, let’s call her Marisol.

*

 A sophomore girl whose name Jillian didn’t know came running up to Jillian. People running up to Jillian was not an uncommon event.

“Hi Jillian I’m Elise. You had chemistry with my brother Buckley last year. I wrote a play that’s going to be performed for the student directed showcase festival in a couple of weeks. I was wondering if you’d be willing to play the role of God? God is only in one scene, and she only has one line, and the line is one word, and the word is ‘Meh.’ I understand if you don’t want to do it. You wouldn’t have to rehearse and you can wear whatever you want. But you’re probably too busy.”

“That sounds fun, Elise. Have Buckley get in touch with me with the performance dates.” Elise could barely contain her shock, so prepared had she been for Jillian to politely decline. It was true Jillian WAS busy, but audacity should be rewarded.

When word spread that Jillian was to perform as God in Elise’s play, the school’s black box theater was packed both nights. With a single word—literally “meh” but figuratively “yes”—Jillian had single-handedly lifted a dorky little sophomore’s coolness credit through the roof. Because why the fuck not? It meant virtually nothing to Jillian, and everything to Elise.

Sure, it was charity. And charity is a good thing. Jillian was not a saint and she sure as Hell wasn’t God.

She wasn’t a queen; she didn’t think of the other students as peasants.

What she was was a swan with a long memory, and a highly refined sense of moral duty.

*

Late in the school year, Ryan approached Jillian in the hallway. “Jillian! I just heard the good news. Congratulations!”

 “Oh! Thanks! You too, obviously.”

“Thank you. Um, listen, Jillian, can I talk to you for a second? Somewhere private?”

“Sure. You want to go to the girls’ bathroom with me?”

“Ha. I said PRIVATE.”

“OK, but seriously I know the best stairwell for privacy.” She led the way. He tried not to look at her ass. It was such a nice ass! Why couldn’t it have belonged to a girl with darker skin? Man, life was unfair!

“Here we are. I gave my first hand-job on that step right there.”

“Got it, so this is a hallowed, sacred place.”

“Indeed. I don’t know why they haven’t put up a plaque.”

“Listen Jillian, can we be serious for a second? I know I screwed up. With you, I mean. I should have been your friend, and I wasn’t. I was weird, and I was distant. I thought you were too cool for me, and so I pretended I was too cool for you. But if you can forgive me, I’d like a second chance.”

“Gosh Ryan. If only we were attending college in the same town.”

“Ha, right. So is that a yes? Can we hang out in the fall?”

“Of course we can, Ryan. But it isn’t fall yet. We still have time to hang out as high school students.”

“Hey yeah, so we do!”

 “Come to my graduation party, then. And bring your friends. I like those guys. They’re fun.”

The five of them attended, enjoying wine coolers and champagne. Neil the dungeon master received his first blow job, courtesy of Jillian’s friend from Irish stepdance class. Neil was a good DM and an even better dude, but after Roshni broke his heart by choosing Ryan over him, only to then dump Ryan for Michelle, Neil had pretty much sworn off women. Lydia from stepdance class was as talented with her mouth and hands as she was with her legs and feet, so Neil left Jillian’s basement with a renewed sense of confidence.

Not a bad way for high school to end, all in all.

*

That October, on the other coast, Ryan invited Jillian to a party at MIT. She told her Harvard friends she was visiting a friend from high school, which was technically true. She didn’t add, “Also we went to elementary and middle school together, and the entire time I was in love with him, and now I’m meeting his new girlfriend for the first time, which I have complicated feelings about, because he romantically rejected me last year. I’m totally over it, though.” Jillian was a woman of mystery, and some things were better kept to oneself.

He met her outside and escorted her to his dorm. “I really think you’ll like her, Jillian. Oh, and she’ll like you, of course. Everybody likes you, you’re Jillian.”

“I am. They do,” agreed Jillian. She was silently comparing the structure of his dorm to hers. Hers was nicer, no question about it. What was this, brutalism? Ew!

“There she is! There’s my girl! Ruby, I want you to meet my oldest friend, Jillian. Jillian, this is my girlfriend, Ruby.”

The two teenagers made eye contact.

They did not break it.

The world kept spinning, probably.

“…Hi.”

“Wow. Hi. It is…unbelievable to meet you, Ruby.”

“It is beyond amazing to meet you.”

“Agreed. I mean. Agreed.”

They continued to stargaze at each other. The lightning did not dissipate.

“Um, girls, I don’t mean to interject,” interjected Ryan. “But I have to ask. Is there the slightest chance, even the slightest chance, that this—whatever this is—could turn sexual?”

“No! Ryan, what is wrong with you?”

“Seriously. Not appropriate, Ryan.”

“And besides, on our first date you told me you weren’t attracted to girls who were fully white. Which was a very weird thing to say on a first date, by the way.”

“I’m still a heterosexual male! I’m still aroused by the idea of two hot chicks making out, regardless of race! I’m not a monk! And even monks would find that hot! Monks aren’t priests!”

“OK, why don’t you get me another drink? And Jillian one as well?”

“Right. Point taken.” Exit Ryan.

“So Jillian. Where were we?”

Other than the occasional pee break, neither Jillian nor Ruby left the couch for the next three hours. Ryan was wise enough to not interrupt their conversation, and to only eavesdrop a little as he refilled their drinks.

*

They were not instantly inseparable, Ruby and Jillian. “Inseparable” would be a hyperbolic way of phrasing it. They were college students, not kindergarteners. Jillian had plenty of friends at Harvard; Ruby had a few of her own at MIT. Plus they both had an insane amount of coursework. (“Damn, Jillian, I thought Harvard students were supposed to be lazy.” “No, you’re thinking of Brown.”)

As such, Jillian and Ruby only hung out, on average, eight hours a week. Ryan was allowed to join them roughly half the time.

Throughout high school, and most of elementary school, Jillian had always had female friends. She enjoyed their company, she respected them, and she kept in touch with them post-high school. Not for nothing had she been among the most popular students at school, and not just with ones who were trying to date her. The line to be Jillian’s friend was as long as the line to be her boyfriend.

She was grateful for the positive attention, and she did her best to be kind to everyone, even when she couldn’t return their ardor in full. Perhaps especially then.

Still. Universally adored as she was, she’d never had a BEST friend. Maybe precisely because her social schedule was so very tightly packed, and so to focus on one girl was to inadvertently slight six others. This lack of intimacy might have bothered Jillian, if she hadn’t been so busy with classes and extracurriculars. Bodies in motion tend not to wallow in self-pity. But in moments of self-reflection, she had to admit to herself that she envied her sisters. As close as she was to them, as much as they loved her, she would never know the unique bond of being an identical twin.

Ruby’s case was different than Jillian’s. She was a late-in-life only child, who had spent the majority of high school in a textbook. Even around her friends, she didn’t usually talk much.

To Jillian, she could say anything. It was beyond a relief.

They loved each other, they needed each other, they grew together as equals.

It was not about Ryan. But Ryan approved.

*

As college went on, it became increasingly apparent that Ruby and Ryan were not a mere First College Relationship, but clearly destined to mate for life. While waiting for Ruby to join them for drinks, Jillian reflected on this to Ryan. “I swear to god, if you guys broke up, I’d basically be like a child whose parents were divorcing. Like I would NOT choose between you. You’d get split custody of me. So. You know. Good thing you’re going to be together for the rest of your lives. So much less awkward for me, the most important person in the universe.”

Ryan’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! She wants that too, right? Doesn’t she? Me? Forever?”

Deadpan, Jillian said: “It must be the flannel.”

*

Jillian continued to enjoy the company of multiple suitors. She went out with them, but she was quite clear that her studies came first. “I enjoy our dates and your dick but not drama,” was Jillian’s romantic philosophy. She joked about crocheting that motto into a throw pillow, but first she’d have to learn to crochet. She had no time for crocheting and even less for heartbreak; it was finals coming up. It seemed like it was always finals coming up, if you were pre-med.

Late in Jillian’s junior year, her TA took her out for coffee. “Jillian, I’m in love with you.”

“Jesus. At least buy a girl dinner first.”

“I’m serious. And I’m serious about waiting until the semester is over, and I’m no longer your TA, to buy you something more than coffee. I just wanted you to know. I don’t ‘fancy’ you. I don’t have the hots for you, a crush on you, whatever—I’m in love with you. Do with this information what you will.”

“Got it. Thank you, Maxwell. Now are you diagnosed as autistic? Or…what?”

“Ah see, that’s a conversation for our third date.”

*

Her senior year, Jillian and Maxwell were officially a couple. When Jillian was accepted into Yale medical school, Maxwell was able to transfer his doctoral studies there. With their families’ support, they looked for a place together in New Haven. It was really happening, this adulthood thing. Ruby and Ryan were both bound for Caltech. The four of them partied together as much as they reasonably could, given their schedules. Jillian continued to remind herself and Ruby that while their time in Cambridge was winding down, they had the rest of their lives to be friends.

At Jillian’s graduation, Ruby cried the hardest.

The next week, at Ruby and Ryan’s graduation, Jillian didn’t cry at all. Instead, she shook. It was so subtle that only Maxwell could tell. He managed to steady her, a bit.

*

Five years later, all four of them were “doctors” (though only Jillian had an MD), all of them were in California, and all of them were married. Well, Ruby was married to Ryan and Jillian was married to Maxwell; they weren’t a polycule.

Ruby and Ryan’s wedding had been a lavish affair at his family property, an hour south of where he and Jillian had grown up. Ryan understood that it wasn’t his outright—that his older brother and four paternal cousins had as much claim to it as he did—but nevertheless felt like a king surveying his land.

Ruby’s mother had insisted a big wedding. She didn’t explicitly play the “four miscarriages and a stillborn daughter” card.

But the subtext was clear: Ruby, let me fucking have this.

Ruby’s mom was a Nigerian doctor, of rumored royal blood. She was used to getting her way—one obvious and tragic exception notwithstanding. Four less obvious but tragic ones as well.

Thanks to her mother, Ruby had a castle’s worth of cousins, and no student loans. 

For all these reasons, Ruby acquiesced to a dream wedding that wasn’t quite her own dream. Still, she’d been happy to marry Ryan, and that was the point.

Jillian had been a radiant maid of honor, reflecting the light of Ruby’s sun.

Ryan wore a blackwatch kilt, despite only being a quarter Scottish, and despite his family tartan being mostly red. Oh well, at least he was wearing wool and not flannel. At least his gold Yoda cufflinks weren’t instantly obvious.

Ruby and Ryan’s officiant was Neil, who in addition to a full-time career as a lawyer was also a justice of the peace, and still a part time Dungeon Master. When Jillian and Maxwell saw what an excellent job he’d done, they asked him to marry them as well. Of course, he said. Lawyer or not, he wasn’t going to turn down a free vacation. Also he liked Jillian. He owed her. Ah, Lydia.

Jillian and Maxwell had married in a much smaller ceremony. Only their immediate family, plus Ryan and Ruby. 44 people, and bride and groom and Neil, on a private island beach. Though Jillian had opted out of official maids of honor and bridesmaids, the shells in her veil had been arranged by Liz, and Bridget, and Ruby.

*

Ryan and Ruby’s house was a five-minute drive from Jillian and Maxwell’s. The two couples took turns hosting each other for dinner. Other than the extensive demands of their careers, life was chill.

And then Jillian was accidentally pregnant.

She fake-sobbed to Ruby in the bathroom, “Fuck me, I’m knocked up! Now I’m never going to college!”

“You’re a medical resident.”

“No one’s gonna marry me!”

“You’re happily married.”

“I’m about to be a teenage mother!”

“You’re about to be 27.”

Jillian continued her medical residency until a week before giving birth, after which she took a month of maternity leave. And then she was back on the hospital floor, as Maxwell attended their son Nathaniel. Shortly after Nathaniel’s second birthday, Maxwell and Jillian implemented their plan for a second and final child. There was wine involved.

On the one hand, it worked, and Jillian became pregnant immediately. On the other hand, they completely failed to conceive one baby.

“TRIPLETS? MOTHERFUCKING IDENTICAL TRIPLET GIRLS? What are the odds?” lamented Jillian. Ignoring the obviously rhetorical nature of her question, Ryan and Ruby immediately quoted the statistical odds. Maxwell corrected them. The three of them took to the internet to settle the debate. Jillian called out to them, “Nerds! You’re all nerds!” She wasn’t wrong.

*          

Things were great, mostly. But for one thing, or lack thereof. When it became increasingly clear that sex alone wasn’t working, Ruby and Ryan decided to meet with fertility doctors. Jillian offered several recommendations of colleagues she knew were competent and kind.

In the car en route to their first appointment, Ruby played with her wedding ring. She wasn’t a particularly fidgety person, but it was never too late to discover new habits.

“It’s me. I know it’s me.”

“You know that how, exactly?”

“I just do. It’s instinctual. Call it a non-mother’s instinct.”

“You’re a scientist, Ruby. You know better than that.”

“OK. How about this. My mother had fertility issues, and that kind of thing tends to be genetic.”

“And your mother is a mother. As you will be, Ruby.”

They both turned out to be right. Because all the doctors confirmed the same thing: Ryan’s sperm was perfectly functional. Though by no means an athletic man, his “boys” could run and swim.

It was mildly shocking that although Ruby was not yet 35, her eggs were next to nonexistent, and of extremely low quality. The likelihood of Ruby conceiving naturally was next to nil.

Egg extraction was the first step. But none of them proved to be viable.

Ryan held Ruby’s hand with both of his, kissing and rubbing it intermittently. “What do you want our next move to be, Honey? It’s OK if you don’t know, right now.”

“No, I know. I absolutely know. Egg donation.”

“Great! In that case, we’ll find an egg donor.”

“No need, we have one. She offered, if it came to that.” Ruby didn’t clarify who “she” was.

Ryan smiled. “Of course she did.”

*

Outside of their bodies, in a petri dish, Ryan’s sperm fertilized Jillian’s eggs. “Eight-year-old me would be very confused. Not by the science itself, just by the emotional logistics,” Jillian reflected to Maxwell, in bed. “But I think she’d be proud of me.”

“Probably. She’s smart and kind,” muttered Maxwell, half-asleep. Jillian played with his hair as he purred.

*

Two of Ryan and Jillian’s embryos were successfully planted in Ruby. God, Ruby loved the word “planted.” It made her feel so fertile, so powerful. She was Gaia, with forests inside her. Fraternal twins, a girl and boy.

Nathaniel and the girls understood that while, genetically speaking, the babies were their maternal half-siblings, in practice they would be more like younger cousins. Nathaniel was just excited that one of them was a boy. You couldn’t blame him, really. He was an excellent and patient big brother to three little girls, but the glitter and princess paraphernalia was hard not to trip over.

Lisa and Teddy were born vaginally. Jillian told Ruby, “Damn, I’ve only ever popped out one kid from my vagina. Nicely done.”

“You can’t tell from looking at me, but my baby hole is bowing. Wait no, curtseying. That’s far more ladylike.”

*

Less than a year later, Ruby and Ryan unexpectedly conceived a son. Lisa and Teddy now had four maternal half-siblings and one paternal half-brother. Though of course Micah was their full sibling, in every way that mattered.

Still, DNA was a hell of a thing. Micah was the only one of the children to have any African blood. You couldn’t really tell, but for his brown eyes. The other six children had Jillian’s blue eyes, even the ones Maxwell had sired.

As scientists, Ruby and Ryan were fascinated by this practical experiment in nature vs. nurture. Because most people aren’t adopted, it can be hard to differentiate what you get from your parents specifically because they raised you, vs. what you get from them because you share their genes. Micah was Ruby’s only biological child. Would he resemble her in personality in a way his siblings didn’t? It was a fascinating case study, but obviously there weren’t enough data points to definitively solve the nature/nurture quandary. Still, it was scientifically irrefutable that Micah was adorable.

News spread in the scientific community of the miracle baby, and the circumstances leading up to his conception. Jillian, Maxwell, Ryan and Ruby politely declined offers to star with their seven children in a made-for-TV documentary series.

“We should really consider starting our own cult, though,” said Ruby to Jillian over their weekly brunch. They were sitting outside.

“Sure, Ruby. ‘Starting.’”

*

One week later, at the same brunch place, Ruby was regaling Jillian with a hilarious work anecdote. Man, scientists were crazy, even the so-called sane ones! Jillian was thoroughly entertained. Her thoughts were not able to complete the sentence “That car has no driver in it.”

Jillian felt herself, along with the restaurant’s window, broken. But unlike the window, she’d been evenly sliced in two, with no messy pieces. 

Doctor Jillian realized that there was nothing to do for Ruby. Ruby was dead as the debris. 

Best Friend Jillian didn’t care. She ordered Doctor Jillian to try, anyway. Doctor Jillian was not an emergency room surgeon, but she did her best with what experience she had.

She was still futilely trying when the paramedics came, declared Ruby dead and placed her underneath a blanket.

The coroner confirmed that Ruby had died instantly, of blunt force trauma to the head. That her death had been quick was the smallest slice of mercy. The slices in Jillian’s fingers, as she cleaned the glass from her hair—those slices were far from merciful. Her fresh wounds contrasted Ruby’s dried blood. She refused to let anyone else assist her, for the old adage is often true that doctors make the worst patients.

*

The car did in fact have a driver in it. A driver who had been slumped on the passenger side, tangled in her seatbelt.

A 66-year-old grandmother of five, the driver had no history of heart attack or stroke. She seemed to be in perfect health. That she’d randomly died while driving was a sad outcome that no one could have predicted or prevented.

There was no one to sue. There was no one to blame. Maybe God, if you were feeling dramatic, or religious. But Ruby’s blood tainted no human hands.

Thus, there was no logical place to direct the rage that fell upon Ruby’s family. Jillian felt that she was walking through a rock storm, with granite constantly falling from the sky onto her shoulders. Granite, lava, glass.

*

During the funeral, Jillian didn’t cry once. Not even when she gave her eulogy. Her voice was steady. Her energy was calming and warm. Her focus was almost entirely on Ruby’s children, on Ruby’s parents, and on Ryan.  

She ran interference with the other guests, acting as a welcoming hostess so Ryan and his parents-in-law wouldn’t have to be social. She delegated practical tasks—such as food preparation for the post-funeral reception—to her parents and sisters, who were happy to be put to work.

Ryan looked at her and thought, you’ve been widowed almost as much as I have. And you witnessed the event itself. Why are you smiling? Is it because you feel you have to?

When Jillian wasn’t smiling, her blank mask poker face was on. Or she halved the difference between smiling and neutral, in the style of Renaissance art. She was as a statue of Venus. Warm rather than marble-blooded, but almost as still.

*

A few days later, when the kids were at school and Maxwell was at work, Ryan went to Jillian’s house. She was excessively solicitous of him, his feelings, his grief. As if hers were somehow nullified.

He didn’t want that. He wanted to bond in water and blood.

“Jillian, you don’t have to be strong every second.”

“Yes I do. This is about you and your kids. My own sorrow can lie dormant. Maxwell can listen to my primal wails. Maxwell can hold me as I break.”

“Please, Jillian. Please. Show me.” 

“Is that really want you want? You want to witness my raw grief?”

“I…really do.” 

She stood. For a moment her eyes met his. They were the same shade. Pools reflecting infinite blue.

None of the eyes blinked.

And then.

The sounds that came out of her made his arm hair stand erect. He didn’t try to console her, or touch her at all.

He just witnessed his best friend repeat his wife’s name, through her guttural gasps. 

God, grief is ugly. It’s not a well-made up woman gently dabbing at her eyes, with a clean handkerchief and a sense of decorum. 

It’s bloody. Like childbirth but somehow worse. It’s worse. This is the most intimate I’ve ever been with anyone.

 Jillian herself looked ugly, with the snot pouring out from her nose through fingers. Her blue eyes were red.

She had never been ugly before. Even with her frog glasses, or whatever she wore in third grade, he couldn’t remember, maybe it was just coke bottle glasses and frog socks. She’d looked dorky, then, but not aesthetically displeasing. Certainly not repulsive.

She now looked truly ugly. Grotesque. 

Humanity at its most honest was ugly. It was maggots writhing grotesquely on dog shit, rather than whatever idyllic ideal idol specimen Michelangelo would disingenuously carve.

Ryan was reminded of the one philosophy class he’d ever taken.

Jillian generally inspired Eros with her face and body and Philos with her personality. That was an oversimplification, sure. She was hot in every sense. People were set aflame by their desire for Jillian. They were drawn toward her, reduced to yearning moths.

Now, though, the fire seemed to be melting her face off.

And Ryan was burning with Agape love. The love Jesus felt for the lepers. If the lepers were “sexy” it would have been Eros. To love the ugly, to love with Agape, to love with saint like, Christlike love, pretty much requires the recipient of that love to be hideous. The hideousness is the point.

He’d changed his children’s shitty diapers. And loved them despite the stench. That was close to what he was feeling, now.

But seeing Ugly Jillian, it occurred to him that he was experiencing love in its purest form. Even purer than that of a parent for a child.

As much as he hated self-aggrandizement, he couldn’t but wonder if he was feeling toward Jillian the love that God feels for Man.

*

The scheduled lunch was awkward, because of course it was. The dead driver’s adult children turned out to be total Jesus freaks. Or maybe they were just believing Christians; Ryan didn’t really differentiate between the two categories. He found them simple but sweet. “I want you both to know that my family and I aren’t angry at your mother. We know it wasn’t her fault,” he told them. He was telling the truth.

But then he kept talking.

“My wife isn’t suffering. She came to me last night, and she told me that she’s happy where she is.” A noble lie. God, devout Christians were so easy to manipulate! Such kind-hearted rubes, they were. Eager to believe false comfort. Ryan envied them even as he pitied them. 

The lunch ended with several hugs, and shared promises to pray for each other. They were good people who didn’t deserve their grief, any more than Ryan deserved his. Ryan felt only a little guilty about lying to them, and then mocking their beliefs to Jillian afterward. 

“Yes, Ruby came to me wearing white robes, with wings, playing a harp. That’s totally what happens after death. Give me a break. Ridiculous. Childish.”

Jillian snorted her assent.

The flash of faith he’d felt while witnessing her ugly-crying had dissipated into the ether.

But they both knew, on some level, that they were strawmanning a belief system they couldn’t even bother to try to understand. They were being unfair, ungenerous, unkind.

Jillian and Ryan weren’t naturally cruel people. They weren’t prone to mocking plebeians in private.

They were just in a lot of pain.

*

Ruby’s direct supervisor sent Ryan a letter.

Upon reading it, he immediately called Jillian. “Ruby didn’t know this, but. Apparently. At the time of her death, she was on the short list for space travel.”

“Huh. I’ll never look at the stars the same way again.”

*

Jillian took the same amount of time for family bereavement leave that she’d done for maternity leave with Hannah, Stephanie and Jane: Six weeks to the day. Granted Ruby hadn’t been family in the legal sense, but everyone at the hospital knew the situation, and was accommodating. Jillian was a damn good doctor.

She embraced her work, as was her signature. Her bedside manner didn’t suffer. She was compassionate and competent, as she’d always been. To do anything less would be an insult to Ruby’s legacy.

Ruby had been a damn good scientist.

Jillian was a damn good doctor.

*

Two years later, Maxwell bravely broached the subject. “We need to talk about your fortieth birthday.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Jillian, don’t be daft.”

“Nothing. I want nothing. No party. No acknowledgement. No presents. You and the kids can sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, that’s it. In fact, don’t even sing the song proper. You can say the words, exactly one time each. Separately or in unison, either way; I’m bossy, but I’m not a dictator.”

“Or. Here me out. We do what we’d originally planned.”

“We dig up Ruby’s corpse, and take her with us on vacation to Mexico? Gross, and illegal.”

“Yes. I think we should take the trip we talked about. All of us. Because of course we’ll take Ruby with us. Meta. Phorically. How could we not?

Jillian sniffed. It was her “I’m seriously considering what you’ve said” sniff.

“Yeah OK. I’ll talk to Ryan and see what he says.”

*          

Ryan, Jillian, Maxwell, seven children, and three college-aged babysitters got on a plane bound for Mexico. It was only an hour’s flight, thank God. Still, the flight attendants were effusively thanked for their patience, and the babysitters extremely well paid.

The kids were in bed upstairs in the hotel rooms, the babysitters technically on duty beside them, but free to relax and enjoy their technology. It had been a long day.

Jillian sat between her two favorite men, and looked out at the dark sea. Maxwell had been correct: Ruby was with them, almost as much as if she’d been physically present. That “almost” was the key, and the killer. Being with Maxwell and Ryan was when Jillian felt Ruby’s absence most acutely. Ruby was always talked about, even if they were talking about anything else, anything at all. They could talk about breakfast, about astrophysics, anything, and all anyone was really saying was “Ruby. Ruby. Ruby.”

It was why she kind of loved spending time with her husband and Ryan together, and why she kind of hated it, too.

The men were critiquing a scientific article they’d recently read. Jillian was half-listening. She saw movement in the sand. A tiny little frog, barely visible in Mexican moonlight.

She closed her eyes and frogs was all she wanted to see. Rainbow colored, and every shade of green. She and her therapist were working through her post-traumatic stress. She’d been drawing birds, during most sessions. It was time to switch to frogs. She’d loved them, once. Why not reclaim that childhood love?

But then it had never been about actual frogs. Actual frogs were gross and slimy. Jillian had been obsessed with their sanitized image. Cute and fluffy cartoon frogs that smiled on plastic and never ate flies. During sophomore biology, she’d felt no connection to the dead thing on the table, even as she successfully got its lungs to inflate.

“Hey Jillian. Guess what. It’s after midnight.”

“Oh hey, so it is! Happy fortieth birthday, my darling love.”

Jillian thanked them. She did not open her eyes. The frogs kept swimming.

*

She retired as a doctor at 45, which was more than a little young. Something inside her just knew it was time. The world didn’t need a doctor whose heart was no longer in it. To honor the physician she’d been, and for the sake of patients everywhere, she took her bow and left the stage.

But she needed a hobby.

It started with Ruby. Having not formally taken studio art since she was a teenager, Jillian tried her hand at small sculptures at first. She based them on photographs and three-dimensional memory. She practiced and she improved. For his fiftieth birthday, she presented Ryan with a full-sized statue of his wife. Statue Ruby didn’t have wings, but her wedding dress very much resembled angelic robes. Jillian had captured the movement of the wind on Ruby’s wedding day.

Not even Ryan knew that the statue was wearing astronaut boots, hidden and never even sculpted. So Jillian had taken some artistic liberties in her mind, so what, so sue her. Like it was her fault Ruby’s mother had chosen a wedding dress so long it had obscured the shoes Ruby was actually wearing. It had been multilayered so that even as the wind ravaged the skirts and train, you could barely make out the outline of Ruby’s legs. Could anyone blame Jillian, therefore, for sneaking invisible astronaut boots into her sculpture, never carved but theoretically as real as Ruby’s time in space had been?

*

Lisa asked Jillian—not unkindly—about her sole choice of subject. “They’re great, Jillian. They really are. I love the bust you gave me and I keep it in my room. But…are you ever going to sculpt something, or someone, that isn’t. You know. My mom?”

Jillian looked directly into Lisa’s eyes, which were hers. Or Ryan’s. It was impossible to tell.

“I’m not ready yet. If your mom is my only muse, then…” She looked away and swallowed. Why was it so hard to finish that sentence?

“Then you maintain a unique intimacy.”

“Precisely, Lisa. Good, good girl.”

“Got it. Understood. Thanks again for the bust.”

“Thank me not, but rather genetics. The shape of our most beautiful bazooms was perfectly sculpted, as if by God himself.”

“Ew, don’t be gross! You know what I meant. Also, ‘bazooms,’ how old are you? Like that’s both old-fashioned and weirdly immature. Are you simultaneously twelve and ninety?”

“I contain multitudes, my love.”

Eventually Jillian moved on to frogs, because why the fuck not. Then the family’s current living cat, which was a much less morbid way to preserve him than to eventually have him taxidermized. Bagheera would be cremated, as his predecessors before him. But unlike them, while still alive, his “body” would know the flames of a kiln.

Then back to humans. Non-Ruby humans who had never been alive, who were born entirely from Jillian’s mind, Zeus-begetting-Athena style. Who could therefore never die.

And then she was doing real people, paid for by other real people, as commission.

What had begun as passion project was now a full-time, late in life second career. Jillian didn’t need the money, but she needed the WORK. The purpose, the goal.

She still thought of herself, deep down, as not a sculptor but rather a Ruby Sculptor. Her true vocation was to sculpt Ruby. Everything else was a side hustle.

Teddy, who was a graphic artist, helped her design her only tattoo. A heart made out of rubies, which were crimson and the cardinal red of MIT. It was located directly over her actual heart. Fuck subtlety.

Ryan’s tattoo was also designed by his older son. It was on his bicep, a round glowing candle that resembled the ones he’d had at his wedding. Slightly more subtle, but the colors were the same.

*

Now in their thirties and twenties, the seven kids were doing OK. None of them were perfect, of course—no child grows up to be perfect, with or without a living mother—but all were fundamentally decent and happy people.

Even Micah, who had graduated from Dartmouth—where no one in his family had ever gone—and while there discovered squash. What the hell? Ruby and Ryan’s son was AN ATHLETE? Blasphemy!

Yeah but in general the kids were all thriving, the dorks.

Ruby hadn’t been buried in her wedding and engagement ring. The two rings sat in a box for years, in what had once been the bedroom she shared with Ryan. Ryan tried not to see the box as a tiny coffin.

Micah eventually proposed to his wife with Ruby’s engagement ring. He himself wore Ruby’s wedding ring, refitted.

His older siblings didn’t object. Of course it wasn’t technically fair; nothing was fair! Life wasn’t fair! Micah had had their mother for the least amount of time, and unlike his siblings he didn’t have a backup genetic mother. So let him have the rings, dear god!

All three of Ruby’s kids inherited plenty of books from her. Lisa looked great in her clothes. She and Teddy split the rest of the jewelry between them.

*

Ryan asked to take Jillian out to dinner. There was something important he wanted to talk to her about, he said.

“Dinner, eh? Sounds serious,” remarked Maxwell over morning coffee. “You think there’s a woman?”

“Yeah, probably. Unless his team developed a new patent or something.”

“If his team developed a new patent, I’d be insulted I wasn’t also invited.”

“You’re right. This is 100 percent about a woman.”

*

When, at the age of eight, she’d heard that lobsters mate for life, her first thought had been of Ryan. But childhood passions come to little when drowned in liquid butter. She thought of this while watching Ryan devour his lobster tail, with vigor and high table manners. He was, after all, a member of the upper class.

“Oh my god, Jillian, this lobster is delicious! You’d think it were in season!”

“Agreed, but one has to wonder. Is the flesh itself delicious, or is it just the butter?”

“Does it matter? OK listen, I was going to wait until our second glass of wine to tell you this, but I just can’t contain myself.”

“What’s her name?”

“Wow, you’re good. You’re really good.”

“I’m good, and I know you. I know you so very well, Ryan.”

“Right. Her name is Kendra. I’m nervous for you to meet her, but also excited. Mostly excited.”

“Me too. And what does she do?”

“Oh, you know. She’s a neuroscientist. She’s biracial, same phenotype as Ruby. I admit, I have a type. Ohhhh she’s so pretty!” Nearly sixty years old, Ryan was blushing as red as he’d done when he was a teenager.

“You certainly do. How old is she?”

“Three years younger than we are.”

“You’re dating a FRESHMAN? How scandalous! Anyway. Is she divorced? Widowed? Never married? Kids? No kids? What?

“Two kids slightly older than mine, amicably divorced for over a decade.”

“Good. Final question. Speaking of kids.”

“None of them know yet. I’m telling you first.”

Jillian smiled. “You know, I’m sure they’ll love her.” Her smile didn’t fade, but her face got a bit sharper. “Assuming she’s kind.”

“Oh, Jillian. She’s kind. So very kind. Not as kind as Ruby, but then no one is. No one is as kind as Ruby. No one ever could be.”

“Stop it. I’m not a child. I don’t need you to reassure me that you’re not replacing her.”

“I wasn’t! OK, maybe I was, a little. It’s awkward. I’M awkward, Jillian.”

“Yes, but I love you anyway. And I’m happy for you. Maxwell will be happy for you. I mean he already suspects, so it’s really just a formality, telling him.”

“Good, good! I want the four of us to hang out, very, very soon. Kendra knows all about you.”

“Even the frogs?”

“The what? Oh right, the frogs. When I met you, you were super into them. I think we called you Frog Girl, but like…affectionately.”

Jillian didn’t correct him. Instead, she dabbed her eyes with the fancy restaurant napkin.

Ryan noticed that Jillian’s mascara didn’t smear. It must have been waterproof. He marveled at how pretty she was, even while crying, a bit nostalgic for Ugly Crying Jillian. He’d only met that woman once, more than twenty years ago, but he missed her, and he missed how she made him feel.

Maybe Ugly Crying Jillian will make an appearance, as a very old woman, at my funeral, he thought. The image made him happier than it probably should have. But whatever, people were strange, and he was a person. No shame in strangeness, then.