“ oh , fuck you. “ the smile melts wider across trish ‘ s face. she ‘ s still half - a - hellcat , cowl off and hair a short , messy shock of tousled ash blonde and smudged eyeblack. how different it must be for jess to look at her like this , just like herself half in makeup when they were young in a dressing room , and see that now she ‘ s … happy ? maybe. trish doesn ‘ t know if she ‘ s happy. she wants to be. maybe the difference between them is she knows without her jess will let everything jade her to shit and then she ‘ ll go hermit and die alone of extreme alcohol poisoning or psoriasis. without jess , she ‘ ll drop right into a falseness that is nearly unbearable to look at and then wither back into addiction , be it relapsing back into her eating disorder or pills , pills , pills , and then die eventually ( finally , mother will say ) both beautiful and relatively young. an age that would preserve her forever in the minds of everyone and leave her that tragically talented woman who never met her potential — another Marilyn Monroe. that never feels comfortable. she ‘ s grateful they don ‘ t have to be without each other — not right now , anyway. she props her sharp chin into the heel of her hand and smiles a toothy , fanged smile. “ no. no. that is your shirt. — there is a lot of your 90 ‘ s grunge phase happening on that flannel , jess. it ‘ s awful. and you should take it off because it ‘ s fashionably offensive. “ gesturing like a true New Yorker with that perfect manicure. “ — here. — let me help ? “ the question is innocent. not the trish definition of the old days , the one where ‘ innocent ‘ was sweet but heavily , heavily suggestive. this version means she ‘ s asking it innocently — but mostly , if she ‘ s being honest , because her hands are cold and she wants to shove them under jess ‘ s awful flannel.