Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grace isn’t alone in their house, not after she flicks on the light switch in the foyer by the front door. She’s met with Frankie’s absence, announcing itself in all the spaces where Grace can’t see her, in all the awful quiet that doesn’t have her noise.

Somehow Grace has to get herself through an entire week of this. Seven days in their house with no Frankie, just drained walls and pale furniture and dead doors, bone that’s dropped flesh. But it’s not forever, or even open-ended. That’s what she needs to remember. Frankie’s given her a real timeline, something Grace knows she can survive. First thing in the morning her priority will be to figure out exactly how.

One week. Seven days. Less than seven, if you count the hours.

Then I’ll come home to you.

Years ago, when the kids were still small, she'd completed a half marathon just to prove to herself that she could. Spent three months training for it and ran with strangers there to cheer her on. Grace remembers her wobbling legs shaking as she’d tried to stop her forward momentum after the finish line, finding that for a few seconds, she didn’t know how.

It’s not quite nine o’clock yet, but she’s never felt so ready for bed in all her life. Everything Grace has she’s used up today, drained out of herself, leaving her with weak limbs, hot eyes, a blurred brain. Loopy enough from exhaustion that she wonders, ludicrously, how many calories you burn coming out four different times to five different people in one day. Maybe one hell of a lot, if her wilting body’s any proof, and Grace manages to shamble over to the oversized armchair in their living room before letting herself collapse into it with a soft groan of relief. Just a few minutes. She’ll rest here for a few minutes, maybe relax her eyes, then take herself upstairs for some proper sleep.

The only reason she realizes that she’s dozed off is the jolt that takes her back into semi-consciousness. Her purse is rudely pressing into her leg, jammed between thigh and seat cushion, and while she’s trying to decide if discomfort is enough to make moving worthwhile, it has the audacity to vibrate. The long staccato vibration that means someone’s calling her phone.

Fuck.

The absolute last thing she wants to do after the day she’s had is to start yet another conversation.

But—and there’s a tiny flutter as she thinks about the possibility—it could be Frankie. It’s actually very likely to be Frankie. And even though Grace doesn’t want to move right now, even though speaking seems like an unreasonable effort, she also can’t think of anything else she’d rather do than listen to Frankie’s voice. So she yanks her purse out from under her leg, pulling out the phone.

As soon as she sees the lock screen, disappointment fumbles in her stomach. Not Frankie, after all. Mallory’s calling. And God knows she doesn’t want to talk to Mallory again. Not after their conversation earlier, and definitely not right now. She needs more time. At least a couple of days to cool off.

Still, despite her exhaustion, some surging impulse that inertia can’t overcome makes her slide the button to answer the call.

“Did I let my phone ring long enough for you before answering?” she asks, instead of saying hello. “Or do you think I rushed into that, too?”

“Mom,” Mallory says, after a second. She sounds tired, although Grace isn’t especially inclined towards sympathy for her at the moment. “I know you’re mad at me, all right? I get it. Just hear me out.”

“Oh, I think you made yourself perfectly clear earlier.”

“Can’t you take a second to see what this looks like from my end? Please. Just yesterday you sat right in front of Brianna and me and you swore up and down that there was no way you were a lesbian. I think the exact word you used was ‘preposterous,’ actually. Now, all of a sudden, you’re telling me you’re a hundred percent positive you’re gay? It’s that simple?”

Simple. A rush of sudden and immense anger frosts her into sharpness. “Well, I had no idea you’d suddenly become such an expert on my personal life! Congratulations. Maybe I can rustle up some kind of achievement certificate for you.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong about this, Mom. Those things you said about Frankie at lunch, they weren’t exactly the straightest— Okay, look. What I’m trying to tell you is that obviously I’ll support you, no matter what.”

“But,” Grace says.

“No ‘buts,’ I swear! It’s just—”

“There we go,” she mutters.

“—that this is happening so fast. Don’t you want to take some more time to think about it? Don’t you want to be completely sure you’re right before you overturn your entire life? When Mitch and I were having problems, I didn’t just decide immediately to break up my family, I really thought about it, I thought for months—”

“I do not want to take ‘some more time,’ Mallory. And I’ve thought about this. My God. You, you have no idea what I’ve been—how dare— ” Horribly, Grace’s voice breaks on the last word, and she attempts to cover it by the loud clearing of her throat. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I am still your mother and you are still my daughter. You are not entitled to know anything about me other than what I think is necessary to disclose, which means that I don’t have to spend one second justifying any of this to you.”

“I’m not asking you to justify it! I’m just trying to wrap my head around how you could be so convinced about this when you didn’t seem like you had a clue yesterday. You don’t have to tell me every single detail, just— You’re my mom and you’re telling me you’re gay, and I’m trying to understand it. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Okay? I want you to be okay.”

There’s a plaintive note in Mallory’s voice, genuine distress that manages to slice through Grace’s resentment and frustration without dismantling it one iota. “Fine,” she snaps. “After our lunch, I went for a walk down by the cove and did some thinking. And that thinking led to an epiphany, I guess you could call it. That’s all you’re getting for now.”

“That’s all?”

“I need you to trust me that I’m right about this, Mallory. That I know who I am. Because I’m not going to defend myself, to you or to anyone else. I’m a lesbian. I have always been a lesbian, whether or not you knew about it. If you can’t deal with this information like a grown-up, then that’s your problem to figure out, not mine, and you can go do it someplace else that isn’t this conversation."

A long pause, and then, softly, Mallory asks, “Is this why you were always so sad?”

She has to fight not to inhale at the intimacy of Mallory’s question. It’s not wholly unprecedented. They’ve talked about this before, or something like it. That night she’d smoked Frankie’s pot for the first time and watched the night sky and badly wanted a thing she couldn’t name, except to know it spilled beyond acceptability. She’d told her daughters how alone she’d been in her marriage. But what Mallory’s saying is different, telling Grace she’s been seen for decades, perceived without her permission or awareness, and she’d always assumed— She’d been good at pretending, hadn’t she? A consummate actress. Good enough that she could go weeks or months without letting herself touch the soft panic of her desolation. Even Robert never knew back then how she’d really felt, hadn’t been able to care enough to ask or notice. But the girls—

Oh, God. What had her girls seen?

Not trusting herself to speak yet, Grace leans back into the armchair. Her head, pressed against the cushion, sags slightly to the right, as though her neck’s decided it doesn’t want to do the work of lifting it up anymore.

“When I was a kid,” Mallory continues, “I always thought it was me. Brianna and me. I thought we weren’t right. We weren’t what you wanted, or we kept doing something wrong. I tried to stop whatever it was I was doing, but— I don’t know. And then I got older, and I figured that maybe it had something to do with Dad, because you’d fight when you thought we couldn’t hear. Or you wouldn’t talk to each other at all. But after he came out, when the shock wore off—Mom, this is so gross of me, because I know you went through a really hard time—when Dad came out, I was kind of relieved. Because I felt like it explained so much about our lives. I thought, oh, that’s why everything was so awful. It was Dad. He was in pain for so long. Hiding who he was.”

“Everything was so awful?” Grace repeats, astonished by it. “Everything, Mallory? Your entire childhood?"

“Not all of it. There were some good times. That trip to New York, when you took me on the carousel in Central Park, just the two of us. Bree and Dad were off somewhere. You told me that I should pick the prettiest horse, because I deserved it for being such a pretty girl. Remember?”

There’s a vague recollection of the trip struggling to the foreground of her memory, pieced in blurry snapshots. A small hand in her own, tugging hard. Lifting up Mallory—or had it been Brianna?—so she could peer into a tower viewer at the top of the Empire State Building. Stopping to buy the girls overpriced pizza at some neon tourist trap. Walking through an unfamiliar city she’d adored with immense and irrational feeling, desperately loved its millions of unconcerned strangers who weren’t expecting anything from Grace, or asking.

“Yes,” she says. “Of course I remember. I’m thankful you’re able to come up with at least one instance when living with your father and me wasn’t a complete nightmare.”

“That’s not what I was trying—” Mallory’s stung by her retort, Grace can hear it, and even though that wasn’t her intention, she can’t muster up too much regret. Likely she’d feel worse about it in a different sort of conversation, one where Mallory wasn’t trying to impose a schedule on Grace’s personal choices. “I said there were good times. It wasn’t all bad.”

“That’s a relief.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I think—maybe I was wrong. Dad wasn’t why you were so unhappy. I mean, he was part of it, but he wasn’t the main reason, was he? You were hiding, too. You were in pain, too. Oh, my God.” She gasps. “Mom. You were. You were in pain, and you were hiding who you were. This is why. This is the reason. You’re just like Dad. You’ve been gay my w-whole life. God, Mom.”

“Sweetheart,” Grace says, quietly, and closes her eyes. “Please don’t cry.”

“You really didn’t know? You weren’t keeping this big secret from us for twenty years like he was? You had no idea?”

The answer’s yes, and the answer’s no, too, but right now explaining the nuances of how both can be true at the same time doesn’t seem possible, given how little energy Grace has left. So she says, going with what’s easier and mostly right, “I really didn’t know. Oh, maybe if I’d fallen in love like your father did, I might’ve be able to realize it sooner. Or if your grandmother hadn’t spent my entire childhood talking about my future husband, like marriage was the only thing I was supposed to work towards. Or if I hadn’t been so good at denying how I—”

No. That isn’t for her daughter’s ears. Too private.

“The world was a very different place when I was younger,” she continues, retreating to the relative safety of big picture statements. “I made the choices I made because I never thought there was an alternative. And besides, there’s just no point in imagining how my life would’ve looked if I’d realized this before now.”

“You mean if you’d known, you might not have married Dad.”

“Mallory, I said there’s no point—”

“Or had us.”

She’s thought about it.

Grace would never admit this out loud to anyone, not even to Frankie—Frankie, for whom motherhood is her life’s calling, a blessing that shapes the world into meaning—but the thought of a life without her children has crossed her mind. More than once. During both pregnancies, hating the way her growing belly slowly became the domain of total strangers’ hands. When she’d been angry over how Brianna’s incessant cries could make Grace’s milk leak without permission, staining the front of her nightgown. Having to choose between Mallory’s ballet recital and the largest cosmetics conference in Southern California, and the guilt she’d finally felt was over not feeling guilty. The first I hate you from a teenage Brianna, and the second, and the third, until finally she’d snapped back, “I can’t help but notice that you haven’t asked me how I feel about you.” Brianna’s face had blanched.

Grace loves her girls. Loves them wholeheartedly, with a strength and ferocity she couldn’t have anticipated in those final childless months when she and Robert had fought over now-or-never. She’s immensely proud of them, even if she doesn’t always understand or approve of their choices. Adores their many strengths, tries hard to accept their inevitable weaknesses. Knows for a fact that the world is a better and stronger place for their existence.

And. And.

She could have moved to New York by herself, after college.

Somewhere in the Village, maybe, where there were people like her, people who understood even back then that this wasn’t a sickness you had but something that helped you breathe. Grace, never Hanson. Instead, she would’ve made a life around a secretarial job while she kept looking for better openings at Cover Girl or Elizabeth Arden. Bared her mouth in something men took for a smile, not seeing the corporate ladder rung between her teeth. At work, a package of carefully constructed lies she’d tell about her personal life, designed to fend off set-ups and pinches. At home, maybe a wife in everything but recognition. Or the occasional lover, women to keep her nights warm. Years of long looks inside unmarked bars on no one’s map. She’d have known herself sooner, faster, burned for longer.

But no Frankie. She wouldn’t know Frankie. Not in this alternate timeline without Robert.

Grace is thinking about that, about the sheer impossibility of a life without Frankie in it, and not about anything else when she says, finally, “If I could do it over again, I’d marry your father. In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t hesitate."

“You would?” There’s no denying the relief in her daughter’s voice. “I don’t want to say I’m glad, because that sounds really shitty, but—”

“You can be glad. It’s all right.” Her hand rests briefly against her stomach, a place Mallory knew a long time ago and left. “I am. I’m glad—” That even if I spent more than seventy years without loving her, I’ll get the rest of my life to try and make up for it. “—that you’re my daughter. My smart, brave, kind daughter.”

It’s true. Moreover, it’s what Mallory needs to hear right now. What Grace needs to hear herself say, too, a statement that wards against the pointless indulgence of a what if that still wouldn’t make life just. Nothing would.

“Mom.” It’s soft, a little teary again. “That means a lot to me. Thanks. And I’m—I’m really glad you’re my mother.”

That could be true, too. Or something close.

“My gay mom,” Mallory continues, and takes a deep breath. “I’m starting to get used to it. It’s happening. Yeah, we’re pretty good. I’m like twenty, thirty percent there already. My mother, Grace Hanson, who is a lesbian. My kids’ gay grandma. My mother, who— Wait. Mom. Mother’s Day. Next Sunday.”

Sunday. Why does that word ring inside Grace? Sunday—

“We’ve still got a week left,” Mallory says, and Grace sits up in her chair, pulled temporarily out of fatigue by instant comprehension. That’s it. A week. Frankie’s coming home on Sunday, so they can have a conversation about the future of their relationship. On the same day their children are planning on throwing the two of them a party. God in heaven. “So if you think we shouldn’t have brunch, given the situation, I can always cancel it.”

She manages to refocus her attention. “Last I heard, Mallory, brunch wasn’t exclusively for heterosexuals. In fact, I understand from your father that it's very popular among the—what did he call it?—the ‘lavender persuasion.’”

“We’re really gonna have to work on updating some of your slang. No, I’m not talking about the whole gay thing. I mean the situation with Frankie. The part where she isn’t living with—” She breaks off. “Oh, Mom. Oh, no. That’s it. You came out to Frankie, didn’t you? That’s why she ran over to Coyote’s and wouldn’t talk to any of us. Because she freaked out and didn’t know how to handle it. Jesus. Mom, I’m so sorry.”

Grace pulls the cardigan she’s wearing tighter around her chest. Mallory’s close enough to the truth that she feels uncomfortably exposed by the way her daughter’s stitched information together, making Grace human in ways she doesn’t especially appreciate.

And then, Mallory asks, quietly, “Did you tell Frankie that you have feelings for her? Like we talked about?”

“I,” Grace says, and stops. How do you tell someone you’ve carried for nine months that you’re just now realizing your body and heart are capable of achieving miracles? “I, uh. I don’t want to go into that. Not right now. And brunch will be fine. Just don’t go to too much trouble. Frankie and I—” As if the simple conjunction bridging the two of them still means exactly what’s it’s always meant. “No fuss. Neither of us wants that. Something small. It’s your day, too, after all. You shouldn’t be working yourself to death on our behalf.”

Maybe there’s something convincing in her voice, because Mallory doesn’t press the Frankie issue any further. “No fuss. Promise. It’ll all be very tasteful and understated. I’m thinking lavender honey lemonade spritzers, a red pepper and asparagus frittata, Greek yogurt parfaits, avocado deviled eggs, blueberry scones, mini pancake stacks the size of quarters with a raspberry garnish—Mom, those are going to be so cute. And because we're honoring Frankie, too, we have to have a waffle bar. Heart-shaped waffles and plenty of yummy sugar-free toppings. But that’s it. I swear.”

“Mal,” Grace says, not without affection, “all of that sounds suspiciously like a lot of fuss.”

“I’ve only got two Pinterest boards and three to-do lists. And anyway, I’m going to tell Brianna that for every ten tiny pancakes she makes, she can use Macklin’s slingshot to fire one tiny pancake at Bud’s head, so that part of prep will go ridiculously fast. Don’t worry about it, okay? You've got plenty of other stuff to deal with right now.”

“Like figuring out how I’m going to talk to your sister tomorrow,” Grace says. There’s got to be an easier way of doing this, one that doesn’t involve constantly spreading her ribs for others’ inspection, showing off these tender strips of self that should stay in the dark of her body.

Mallory gasps. “Wait a minute. You told me first? Brianna doesn’t know yet?”

“Well, no, not—”

“Can I be there when you tell her? Please? Oh, please? I’ll be so quiet. You won’t even know I’m there, except for all the waves of total moral support I’ll be vibing silently in your direction.”

“Nice try. Forget it. You can vibe all the moral support you want from the comfort of your own home.” She yawns unexpectedly. It’s wide enough that her cheeks sting from stretching, and this time, the moisture that rises in her eyes has nothing to do with tears; everything, instead, to do with how exhausted she is. “Mallory, I don’t want to be rude, but I really need to get off the phone and go to bed.”

“Of course. Absolutely. You should go do that. Sleep well.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I really think I will.” She means it, if only because she knows she’ll be helpless the second she hits her bed, ready to give herself up for as long as oblivion will let her stay.

“Um, Mom? Before you go?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe being out will make you happy,” Mallory tells her, and there’s so much hope in her voice that Grace aches, briefly, with some undefined pain she can’t place. “I mean, happier. You’ve seemed, I don’t know. Like things have been a lot better these past few years, ever since you and—since the divorce. And, Mom—” She hesitates. “There are other women out there besides Frankie. You’re a total catch. I bet all the older lesbians in San Diego will be fighting over who gets to date you, and you know what? I’m gonna stop this train of thought right now before it makes us both really uncomfortable.”    

“Oh. Uh. Thank you.” It’s the second time she’s said it to Mallory in as many minutes, and this time, it’s less assured. Of course, Mal knows next to nothing about what Frankie actually wants, and Grace isn’t ready to correct her just yet, not before she’s had her conversation with Frankie. Regardless, hearing the easy assumptions guiding her daughter’s words—you clearly have feelings for Frankie; Frankie obviously doesn’t feel the same way about you—makes self-doubt prick inside Grace’s chest. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a silence, the kind that always seems to edge between the two of them despite Grace’s best efforts, and likely Mallory’s too. It distends for a few seconds and then a few seconds more.

She hears the tiny hint of breath that means Mallory’s opened her mouth to tell her something, almost certainly good night, and then, Grace says, quietly, “I had an unhappy mother, too.”

A handful of memories she’s stuffed inside herself, most of them acidic and not worth bringing back up, but one struggles into her awareness, despite knowing better where it should stay. I married down, her mother had told Grace, once, when Grace couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Old enough to see how the statement made her into living proof of her mother's bad choice. I could’ve been an Astor, one of them danced with me, but I married your father. Learn from my mistakes, Grace. You’re far too pretty to waste yourself on a naval captain. Find someone better than I did. Aim for the stars.  

Aim for the stars, Mother had ordered, and more than sixty years later she’d gone to the desert at night and stood in some desolate wash a hundred miles from anywhere, bundled in Frankie Bergstein’s warm embrace. They'd looked up together.

She says, now, “Your Grandma Helen. She was unhappy. And it wasn’t easy for me when I was a kid. In fact, it was pretty—well, awful. Awful is right. I’m sorry you went through the same thing I did, Mallory. I know how it feels. But you, you’re giving your children something different than what you or I had. Something better. And I’m so proud of you for that. Really, I am.”

A shaky inhale. “Wow. I, um. I honestly don’t know what to say, Mom. Except that my therapist is going to lose her shit when I see her tomorrow.”

“What you can say,” Grace tells her, gently, “is good night. That's enough for right now. We can talk more another time. After you've disclosed all this very personal and private information to your therapist.”

“Good night,” Mallory repeats, still sounding stunned.

“And Mal? If you breathe a single word about this to your sister before I get the chance to talk to her, I swear to God I’ll buy Maddy a drum set for Christmas this year. The loudest one I can find.”

“Mom! I would never—”

“I love you,” Grace says, “I love you very much,” and as she hangs up, curling up her legs in the armchair like a person who’s earned its softness, she’s still smiling.

There’s a text waiting for her on the screen. Her smile spreads further. Coyote’s number, not Coyote.

She’s sent Grace a yellow face, this one with its eyes closed and several ZZZs on its forehead to indicate sleeping. I’m going to sleep, she means, probably, or you should be going to sleep, Grace, or are you asleep yet, or just hey, isn’t sleeping the bomb dot com, since a general celebration of being dead to the world would be fairly on brand for Frankie.

But does it matter, exactly what she’s trying to say to Grace? Maybe not. Maybe the only thing that matters is that they’ve reached the end of an excruciatingly long day, one where they’ve torn at themselves, at each other, done it enough for other people to see, and Frankie still can’t let herself go to bed before reaching out to Grace one last time.

Me too, Grace writes back.

______________________

There are dreams. Two. The only seam that splits them is the moment when, half-awake and aching for what can’t be found, she comes on the hand jammed between her thighs. Teeth in her neck.

But by the time light’s filling her bedroom, the ache’s re-homed.

Even before she’s fully awake, she knows something’s not quite right. Grace isn’t off the pillow yet, and already her head and her stomach are fighting to see which one can make her feel worse. Well, they’re both winners. Pain bolts through her temples and the front of her skull, too sharp to stop her from squeezing her eyes tight in response, and oh, Christ, she feels sick. The kind of rollicking nausea she typically only earns from losing count and throwing back one too many, too fast. Which is ironic, because she hasn’t actually had a drink in—

More than twenty-four hours. Not a real drink, anyway.

Oh. That’s why.

This isn’t the first time she’s gone through it. About a decade earlier, she’d attempted to stop drinking. Just for the short term. To prove to herself that she could, a decision provoked by a snide comment Janet had made over lunch—my goodness, Grace, it’s a wonder you’re ever able to powder that perfect nose of yours! Well, you know. It’s always inside a glass—followed by silence from the other girls. It had been the silence, more than anything else, that disturbed Grace into taking action. No uncomfortable giggles. Just quiet. She’d caught Mary and Arlene’s quick glances at the floor and realized, horribly, that the truth Janet had excised with her comment was something everyone already knew about Grace Hanson.

She’d resolved to give it up, just like that. Temporarily, of course. A healthful detox, a systematic purge, a fresh start. Two weeks of sober living would certainly be good for her skin, she’d reasoned. Maybe she’d lose a couple of years off her face and get a few additional compliments on how glowing she looked. Robert might even notice.

Three days. That’s how long she’d lasted.  

Three days before the headaches and tremors and escalating bouts of unplanned vomiting had left her weak and desperate enough to crawl right back to her supply and fix herself a fast rescue. Not a martini. She’d grabbed a coffee mug and there were no olives or vermouth to pretty up her choice and the only thing shaking was Grace and her drink was just vodka, vodka she’d knocked back in seconds like it was water for a cracked and burning mouth. Janet could go ahead and make her shitty comments.

So Grace knows what withdrawal feels like. Understands perfectly, as she sits up in bed, why her hands are trembling, why her heart’s squeezing so fast, why she can feel sweat starting to bead at the edges of her hairline, between her breasts. And she knows, too, how quickly she could make her symptoms stop. There’s a nearly full bottle on the kitchen counter, still uncapped and silently waiting for someone to claim it.

“Frankie?” she says, too loudly. Her head pounds hard with each syllable. “Frankie, can you come up here?”

No answer.

She’s about to call out again when she realizes, not all at once but slowly, like a wound trying to close, that something isn’t right. What Grace just did, that’s what isn’t right. Asking for Frankie. Because Frankie isn’t here. Frankie’s somewhere else. Somewhere not their house. Different. Small. Coyote’s.

Grace hasn’t forgotten Frankie’s gone. It’s certainly not the kind of thing one forgets. Six more days, she’d thought immediately upon waking up, six more days, and she’d even dreamt about it during the night. Frankie, missing, and Grace frantically hunting throughout their house, knowing she’d failed to keep Frankie small and safe and close at hand. Wondering, in the dream, why she hadn’t thought to do the obvious by folding up Frankie’s body and stashing her in one of Grace’s hiding places. Aching for her with each imagined step.

She knows for a fact that Frankie isn’t here, and still she’d called out. Alarm joins her pain and nausea, prickles quickly up her arms.

Twenty minutes later, she’s dressed, downstairs, and seated at the dining room table in front of her laptop, trying her damndest to stay calm. Alcohol withdrawal, she types into her browser’s search bar, and swallows down the nothing that’s in her mouth as the results load. Her stomach’s trying hard to convince Grace she isn’t actually sitting upright, that the room is tilting meanly. Mental confusion, one link preview reads, and another, disorientation. Hallucinations. Tremors. Seizure. Delirium tremens. Agitation.

Well, if she wasn’t agitated before.

The medical article she eventually locates, after a more refined and careful search, has a recent publication date and five authors with M.D. after their names, although the journal isn’t one she recognizes. All of these people seem to be in general agreement that safe withdrawal from years of consistently heavy alcohol use is possible without medical intervention, yet inadvisable, especially with comorbid conditions. Heavy. A term she’s never once associated with anything connected to herself. But if heavy alcohol use is defined for women as eight drinks or more per week— No. That can’t be right. Only eight? That’s all? Barely more than one drink a day? And yet, there it is, peer-reviewed and in black-and-white.

Hesitantly, Grace lets herself start to number through her previous week’s total, as near as she can remember it, and ends the count once she’s halfway through. There’s really no point in continuing that far past the marker, like running after the finish line. Her hands, suspended just above the laptop keyboard, are shaking harder.

She clearly can’t stop drinking, not if she doesn’t want to risk a fall in an empty house, or a trip to the hospital, or worse. Maybe twenty years ago she'd tough it out and take her chances, fifteen or ten, even, but now? At seventy-three? All the willpower in the world, all the self-resolve, apparently doesn’t mean a damn thing if she can’t guarantee her body’s safe response.

A whimper of pure frustration escapes her mouth.

Just then, the cell phone next to her lights up with a text. She grabs it, moving fast enough to make her head and stomach object aggressively. Too early for—but it is. Frankie’s sent her another emoji. This time it’s a coffee cup.

A drink for Grace, just when she’s terrified over how much she needs a different one. Grace won’t let herself find signs in every minuscule and unimportant occurrence, not even after nearly three years of living with a woman who’s got a large sign hanging in her studio that says IT’S A SIGN!, for God’s sake, but maybe—

She texts back before she has time to stop herself. May I call? And then: It’s fine if you’d rather I didn’t. I know you need your space.

While she’s staring at the screen, waiting for the ellipsis bubble to tell her Frankie’s writing back, the phone buzzes loudly, startling her almost out of the chair. Christ, her heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Did you sleep okay?” It’s too fast, what Frankie’s saying. She sounds nervous as hell. “I got about five solid hours, maybe, but I gotta tell you, this loft really isn’t built for sleepwalkers, so it’s a good thing I only—”

“Hey,” she says, wincing, and it’s only mostly from the band of pain that’s gripping her head. She closes her eyes. Sensory deprivation is easier right now. “Um, Frankie? Can you, uh—”

“Grace?” And just like that, the tension rushing Frankie’s words vanishes, replaced with sharp concern. “You sound horrible. What’s wrong?”

Her tongue’s big, too large for her mouth and getting in the way. She can feel the stagnant air of the room where it’s meeting her exposed skin, pressing at her moist neck, her sternum, working more sweat out of her pores.

“Grace, if you don’t spill the beans at some point in the next five seconds, I’m gonna be out of this house and in my Leaf so fast I won’t even have time to appreciate the extra space. You’re scaring me.”

“Please don’t be scared,” she says, finally, and sits back in her chair. Despite the admonishment, that’s what she’d wanted, on some level. Another person who could be scared for her. Not just any person. “I’m all right. Mostly. I just, uh. I think I could use some. Help, I guess. In figuring out what to do.”

“Help,” Frankie repeats. Slowly, a little too cheerfully, like someone trying not to startle a skittish animal. “Okay. Yeah. Sure. You’ve got it. I’m on board. I’m very good at helping. Great at it, actually. You’re speaking to East Flatbush’s officially designated P.S. 244 Helper of the Month, circa 1953. I’ve got an engraved medal and everything. With what, may I ask, might I be of assistance?”

“I don’t think I can stop,” she says, which could apply to several things having to do with her current state, all of them true, and so she clarifies, “Drinking. On my own. I mean that I don’t think I actually can, Frankie. Physically. Not without taking the risk of hurting myself. I think my body’s too used to it.”

Shame, tremendous and all-consuming, heats her chest and radiates out. It’s strong enough to overtake her whole attention, make her physical symptoms temporarily recede. The word Grace isn’t using is dependent.

Frankie draws a long and audible breath. Finally, she says, “So you really have decided to stop for good. Wow.”

Has she? Grace isn’t sure.

“I can’t stop,” she says, rather than agree with Frankie. “That’s what matters. Don’t you get it? I don’t have a choice. Oh, God, talk about scared. I am, I’m—I don’t think you know how—Frankie, I feel completely cornered. Like someone’s backed me up against a wall and said ‘this isn’t yours to decide.’ And please don’t make a joke right now. Not about this, okay?”

She expects Frankie to protest that she wouldn’t, she would never, but that’s not what happens. “Do you really need to quit cold turkey this exact second?” she asks, instead.

“Yes! Of course I do! I can’t just go back to the way things were before all this, I can’t pretend like I haven’t realized—” She won’t say I can’t let myself be the person who hurt you.

“Honey, I don’t mean you have to go back to the way things were. Maybe there’s another option. Look, if you were a Disneyland attraction back in the day, you’d be an E-ticket ride. High speed. Thrilling. Moderation’s never been a Grace Hanson forte. We both know that. But what if—and, by the way, what I’m about to suggest would probably get me chucked out of Al-Anon toot sweet, if Bobbie were listening in on this convo, but, okay, hear me out, what if— What if you could find— Not a happy medium, per se. An okay-for-now-until-you-figure-out-your-next-step medium. You wanted to talk to Coyote at some point, right? Think about your options? So stake out some middle ground until then.”

“What, two glasses a day keep the DTs away?”

“Well,” Frankie says, slowly, “yes, as a matter of fact. Something along those lines.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table in exactly the way she’d been taught never to sit, trying to ignore the fresh lurch of sharp nausea that’s doing more than threatening to escalate. Well, she’d done it over the weekend, hadn’t she? Poured herself a glass of two a.m. chardonnay to get between the night’s dry spell and the day of rupture she didn’t know was coming. And still, this feels different. Like she’s making a foundational concession to something bigger than herself, a force that’s been moving her in one direction for so long she’d mistaken its hands for her own.

And then, Frankie continues, “I believe in you, Grace. You know that, right? If this is something you think you need to face right now, I have the utmost faith in your ability to do it. Head-on, no backsies. You’re good at that sort of big decision thing.” A pause. “Yours truly, maybe not so much.”

The skin on Grace’s arms is still prickling. Louder, now, and wet, too, like it’s being closed inside a purring mouth big enough to take the bones. Why can she hear a feeling? Nothing about that seems right.

She squeezes her eyes a little tighter against the throb of pain at her temples. “This is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation about this, Frankie. Ever. In nearly three years of living together. Have you realized that? You’re Coyote’s mother, for Christ’s sake. You go to Al-Anon often enough that you knit those people tiny doll blankets for Hanukkah. And not once have you ever brought up my drinking. Not seriously, anyway.”

“It’s not like you’ve ever tried to talk about it either!” Frankie exclaims. “I would’ve been there for you in a hummingbird’s heartbeat, Grace, if you’d ever said ‘I think I have a problem and I want to do something about it.’ Don’t you know that?”

Grace won’t open her eyes yet. Too bright, too much. Far away, in the kitchen, the refrigerator motor starts to hum.

“Well,” she mutters, and shoves a trembling hand into her lap, between her thighs, so that it’s pinned and safe. “I’m saying it now.”

“I know,” Frankie tells her. Grace’s shaking hand isn’t holding Frankie. A hand can’t hold someone who isn’t here, that doesn’t make a bit of sense, and so it can’t be Grace’s hand making Frankie’s words shake like that. “And now I’m here. I’m here for you. Lady, you’re not alone in this. I’m only a phone call away. Just because I’m spending some time processing in another house, that doesn’t mean I’m out of your life, okay?”

In a voice she hardly recognizes as her own, one that’s shot through with undisguised need, Grace says, “But you’re not really here,” and she doesn’t add I miss you, I need you, come home, but all of it’s there.     

“I can be. Just ask, Grace, and I’ll do it. You know that, right? If you need to not be by yourself right now, say the word. I’ll be at the beach in fifteen minutes. Thirty, if there’s traffic on the 5. Forty-five, if the zoo lost one of their ostriches again.”

She considers it. Frankie, back in their home, the pale rooms animate again with her sound and light and movement, and the thought fills her with so much longing she’s got to press her lips together to stop a small moan. With Frankie back, she’d be able to reach out and—

Her eyes open. No, she couldn’t. Touching’s off limits for the moment. Not until Frankie’s had her week of processing and Grace her week of limbo.

It would be an intermission where they’re not best friends, or roommates, or lovers, but something else, something defined by lack and lull. Sleeping in separate rooms, separate in waking rooms. Alone together in the same house, and awkward with the temporary suspension of their two-person language. Each ordinary interaction swollen with possible meaning. Frankie’s fingers crooked around a brush, or her mouth on the lip of a selfish cup, or the frail oval of her unkissed wrist. The heat between them, a thing so alive and palpable it could almost be stroked out of the abstract, made filthy, touched. Grace, not touched. Needing it. Frankie too. These things, together.

“I’ll be all right, Frankie,” she says, instead. “Please focus on your—what did you call it yesterday? Your noodling. Do that. Be the best noodler this week that anyone’s ever been in the history of the world, and I’ll be here—” What? Trying to keep vertical and lucid? “Mulling over those okay mediums, I guess. Until you’re ready.”

“Roger that.” Deep disappointment, she can hear it in Frankie’s voice, and a strain of yearning that makes Grace shudder with something that isn’t sickness. “I’ll noodle so damn good the first thing you’ll do when you see me on Sunday is ask what I’m doing out of a pho bowl. Meanwhile, keep me posted, okay? I need to know you’re doing all right. And Grace?”

“Yes?” Sweat drips unhurried between her breasts and finds the upper reaches of her stomach, hidden from view. Chasing darker places.

“There’s no shame, sweetheart,” Frankie tells her, gently, “in being kind to yourself. There’s no shame in needing it.”

______________________

Two ample glasses of Riesling from a bottle she’d been planning to re-gift. That’s all.

The timer on her cell phone ticks down from thirty minutes while she sips, puts the shaking glass back down on the kitchen island, lets it go, and waits, counting silently. Picks it up again and sips, the wine’s mawkish sweetness a curb that reminds Grace she doesn’t get to love this rest, just have it.

Slowly, mercifully, her headache fades. The nausea pulls away. Her hands still. The house around her sharpens back into accuracy. She trades the bottle’s fullness for her own.

______________________

By early afternoon, Grace is fine again. Better than fine, actually. Relieved and loose, her body slack with the incredible pleasure of gone pain. Driving herself downtown to Say Grace becomes a viable option, one that temporarily distracts her from any unease over feeling this good.

Brianna’s office is transformed, too, a fact she notices before she’s even walked inside. A large walnut desk is the centerpiece for a room that’s been entirely repainted and redecorated, now colored in deep honey and gray accents. The sleek furniture is gone, replaced with soft cloth chairs in cream, a plush couch just begging for a nap, and a sturdy conference table that, remarkably, looks as though it isn’t trying to be anything other than what it is.

“Very nice,” she says, and takes a couple of steps into the office as Brianna looks up from her desk. “Very, very nice.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” Brianna asks, and laces her fingers, resting her chin on top of the bridge she’s built with her hands. “Was that an unconditional compliment? From my mother? My esteemed mother, who’s never met an interior decorating choice she couldn’t fillet into splinters with the sharpest of appraisals?”

“No, I mean it. You’ve really done something with the place. It’s lovely. Much warmer. Of course, you might end up regretting that full couch, given how busy the wall is, but—”

“Oh, goody, it’s still you in there. I was beginning to get worried. And speaking of—” She gestures at Grace to take one of the seats on the other side of the desk. Not for the first time, Grace is struck by the strangeness of this reversal: her daughter inviting Grace to sit down in Grace’s old office. “I take it you’re here to fill me in on the whole Frankie B sitch? Because it’s about time someone in this family fessed up.”

“Something like that.” Grace’s mouth is suddenly dry.

“You know, for once, Mallory is completely refusing to tell me what’s going on? Coyote won’t narc either, even after I threatened to give him a wedgie, and he’s very familiar with how uncompromising my wedgies are. And somehow, somehow, Budyard has found a new way to be impressively useless, since apparently he knows even less about the current state of affairs than I do. That is not the way this family functions, Mom. Kids on one side, adults on the other, with the occasional exception for when your roommate calls me to pick her up from the middle of the fountain in Balboa Park because she’s baked out of her fucking mind and doesn’t want you to know she forgot how to leave. Again.”

“I’ve told her a million times,” Grace says, “circles have exits,” and she sits down, brushing invisible lint off her slacks in the process. Not one trace of a tremor. She’s grateful for small miracles. “Brianna, before we get to yesterday—I came here because I need to talk to you about something. Something important. About myself.”

“O—kay,” Brianna says, cautiously. “That sounds pretty serious.”

“It is serious. I mean, it’s not all that serious, I’m all right, there’s nothing wrong with me, it’s just that—” Oh, God, why is she so nervous? She’d been able to blurt it out the other four times, and now what Grace needs to say to her eldest daughter is sticking in her throat like something that isn’t sure it’s made for daylight.

Which is clearly preposterous, because Grace is almost certain the news won’t be a complete shock, given Brianna’s pointed questions about Frankie at Saturday’s lunch; her answers, too. But what if Brianna laughs or rolls her eyes at how blind Grace has been to herself all along, when even Brianna knew the right thing to ask? What if Brianna thinks she’s rushing into this announcement, just like Mallory did? Worse, what if Grace’s revelation is too intimate, too private? What if this information somehow disintegrates the relationship they’ve managed to create, a respectable understanding that’s built on shared competence, brutal incisiveness, professional acumen, and nothing more truly personal than a mutual hatred for the shorter Property Brother?

Two people who’d shared a body once and agreed not to do it again. The last time they’d talked about anything delicate, just the two of them, she’d been shocked to learn Brianna hadn’t felt loved unconditionally as a child. Ashamed, mostly, to discover her failure to convince her girls that they’d had what all children were supposed to have. You’re not very unconditional with yourself, Brianna had informed her, like it was obvious information anyone could grasp. Except that Grace hadn’t made the connection, not in decades of motherhood, and now she can’t help but wonder what else her daughter can lay bare for her that Grace couldn’t see until now.

“I’m so sorry, Brianna,” she whispers, and she isn’t going to start crying before she gets this out of her mouth. She just can’t. “Give—give me a minute, all right?”

She fishes for a tissue in the purse on her lap and finds one, touching it to the thin skin below the corner of her left eye, and then the right, pressing hard rather than wiping. If she wipes, the gesture will be far more obvious.

While Grace struggles to collect herself, Brianna keeps quiet. She places her hands on the top of her walnut desk, palms down, and spreads her fingers wide, in the gesture of a person who’d prefer to touch everything at once but can’t.

I spent more than seventy years trying to convince myself that survival and happiness were the same, Grace could say, and then she might have to listen as Brianna tells her yeah, no shit, Mom, you’re talking to one of the things you survived.  

The tears are coming in earnest now. She can’t move the tissue quickly enough to blot all of them.

“Mommy?” Brianna asks, abruptly. “Maybe I could say something first. While you’re—” Her hand gestures in Grace’s direction, acknowledging the escalating situation. “You know. In a temporarily moistened condition.”

Grace nods, not trusting herself to speak.  

“Do you remember a woman named Nancy? I don’t know her last name. She worked at Dad and Sol’s firm in the early 90s. Short hair, no makeup, suits and ties. Dead ringer for a young k.d. lang.”

Oh, yes, Grace remembers. She nods again, sniffing, and the prickle of memory that runs up her spine tells her where Brianna’s going next.  

“I met her the first time you let me come with you to the office Christmas party. I was ten, and extremely hot shit in my super stylish green velvet dress with basketball-sized puffed sleeves and a red polka-dot headband. And you looked like a cross between Heather Locklear’s character on Melrose Place and the wife of a hypocritical Republican senator. No offense. Actually, it was a pretty decent look. My point is, per usual, all the people in that room couldn’t take their eyes off you. Including Nancy.”

Grace remembers that, too.

“Nancy was the only person at that party who didn’t treat me like some stupid kid. She was cool, you know? She said ‘fuck’ twice, which is amazing when you’re ten, and she let me drink a teensy bit of her Scotch when no one else was looking. But then, at some point, you pulled me into a corner so you could do that thing you always did where you made me feel like shit about my hair? And you jabbed your finger in Nancy’s direction, and you said, ‘Let that woman be a lesson to you, Brianna. Everyone in this room feels sorry for her. You can always control whether or not other people feel sorry for you.’”

“I said that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. And then you said—Jesus, I remember it like it was yesterday—you said, ‘Why would a woman ever choose to look like that?’ But the way you said it, it was like there couldn’t possibly be a good answer.”

Across a crowded room, and there was Nancy, pulling the wrong kind of attention, or attention that Grace didn’t like because it felt wrong to her, unnerving. She hadn’t meant to stare or be rude, but she’d never seen a woman dressed—well, dressed in a suit exactly like a man. Not a feminine suit, either, but a navy double-breasted coat and tailored slacks that might’ve been just as much at home on Robert. Except Robert didn’t have obvious breasts that swelled out the front of his jacket, or generous hips and an ass that couldn’t be fully hidden from view, even with all that tailored cloth. Or eyes like Nancy’s, sharp and knowing as they’d caught Grace’s stare and held her, trembling, on a strange hot hook without a name or shape.

Slowly, Brianna says, “I was thinking about Nancy after lunch on Saturday. I was thinking about Nancy a lot, actually. And you. And what you said about her. To be specific, I was thinking about why you, my mother, a woman who’s just told me she can’t live without her best friend, a woman who wanted to know if her best friend loves her, would say something like that. And then I thought—well, maybe it wasn’t your typically enchanting Grace Hanson charm after all. Maybe you saw something that scared you. Or—” She pauses. “Or maybe you saw something you liked. I don’t know, maybe it was two things.”

When Grace speaks, it’s nowhere near steady. “Brianna, I—I should never have said that. I shouldn’t have said that about Nancy, and I shouldn’t have said it to you. The person I used to be back then, she was, she was awful, she was—angry, and, and brittle, and mean, and hurting, and—”

“Gay?” Brianna asks, quietly.

Air rushes from her lungs in a single stunned gasp, and then—an unplanned sob jerks out of Grace’s throat, and then another, until she’s crying in earnest, crying enough that she can’t bring herself to look directly at Brianna’s face. Brianna can’t stand earnest emotion when a cutting comment and a raised eyebrow aren’t enough to box it away or make it vanish. Brianna hates it when people cry. She’s never had any true tolerance for human frailty, and Grace, oh, Grace knows exactly why.

“I need—” She’s flailing her hand over the desk, nearly blind with tears. There’s a Kleenex box somewhere, and by some miracle she manages to find it, grabbing the tissue hard enough to tip the box over onto its side. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m really, I’m fine, I’ll be—”

Brianna’s chair scrapes on the wood floor as Grace hears her push it back. For a good ten seconds she’s convinced her daughter’s going to walk right out of the room and leave Grace alone until she calms back down into something approximating normalcy. And maybe, in the end, that’s the best thing for both of them. Maybe it’s the least mortifying option out of a series of wholly embarrassing outcomes.

Just as she’s taking a deep breath, she feels Brianna’s hand cupping her shoulder.

“Mom,” Brianna says, from above her. The name’s gentled down into softness, nearly unrecognizable in her daughter’s mouth. “Mom, hey. Mom. It’s okay. I got you.”

And then she bends down and puts her arms around Grace.

For a second, Grace is too shocked to move. Admittedly, the hug is more than a little awkward, their bodies forming a wide angle that meets only where Brianna’s holding Grace’s shoulders, pinning her upper arms as she leans in. But it’s her daughter who’s doing this, the one who’d spent her childhood struggling away from good-night kisses, wiping off her cheek any that managed to land with furious fingers, until Grace, angry and embarrassed, stopped trying at all. They never hug, except on those rare occasions when dire circumstances or Christmas morning make Brianna impulsively forget how much she needs distance.

This doesn’t feel anything like an impulse. Brianna’s embracing Grace so carefully, as if she understands that the best thing for what’s too much is something that can stand to hold it, and then Grace suddenly twists towards her. She wraps her arms around Brianna’s waist and squeezes, hard, the side of her head pressing into Brianna’s abdomen as she pulls her daughter in, as close as possible. The abrupt realignment of their bodies means that Brianna isn’t bent and hugging her anymore, but after a second, Grace feels the light pressure of two hands, one over each of her shoulder blades. Incredibly, Brianna’s not trying to get away.

Fresh tears spring to Grace’s eyes. Those hands have come a long way to reach her.

For a while, they stay like this, and eventually, Brianna says, patting Grace briefly as she does it, “You know I said ‘gay’ and not ‘gray,’ right? We’re not operating under some hilariously awkward misunderstanding where you burst into tears because you think I’ve finally realized you’ve been dyeing your hair for the last quarter century?”

“I don’t dye my hair.” Her indignant breath ruffles the red silk of Brianna’s blouse. “I maintain the color that God gave me. And yes.” She lifts her head, looking up at Brianna. The movement breaks the cord of direct contact between them. For one ridiculous second, Grace feels unfairly deprived, and then, just as quickly, the sense of deprivation is gone. Brianna’s still here, looking down at her. “I heard what you said.”

“So—? Would you care to comment further?”

She pulls away and finds the tissue again, wiping quickly at her wet cheeks. At least this time she’d had the foresight to keep the eye makeup at a light coating of mascara. “It’s true.”

“Ah,” Brianna says. And then, still looking right at Grace, “All right. That is—God, that is definitely a thing you just said.” She takes a deep breath and blinks a couple of times. Seems to steady herself. “Well, then. Okay.”

“Okay?” Grace repeats it, startled. “Really, Brianna? You mean that?”

Brianna's tiny smile seems bigger, somehow, than it actually is. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Dad’s super gay, apparently you’re a huge lesbian, and, in totally unrelated news, this year I would personally like to volunteer to write the letter that goes with the Bergstein-Hanson family pan-holiday card.”

“You don’t—? Your sister, she thought this was too fast.” It hurts, still, even though they’d talked it out. “Too sudden. She thought I should take more time. You don’t agree with her?”

“Mom.” Instead of reclaiming the seat behind her desk, Brianna takes the other client chair, crossing one immaculately trousered leg over the other as she sits down. Now they’re side-by-side. “We’re talking about a woman who thinks going from light blonde highlights to medium-light blonde highlights is a drastic change that requires consultation with at least four different people. Why do you care about her opinion?”

“For the same reason,” Grace informs her, quietly, “that I care about your opinion. Because she’s my daughter. Because you’re my daughter. And at the end of the day, while I refuse to let anyone else dictate how I live my life, I would prefer not to go through this—this process without the full support of the people around me who matter most.”

“I see,” Brianna says, and tucks a strand of hair behind an ear. “You really want to know what I think?”

“I’m not asking for my health.”

“Okay. Speaking as a person who took literally months to figure out she’d thrown away the best thing that’s ever happened to her—correction, the best thing that wasn’t discovering we exceeded last quarter’s projected growth by eight fucking percent—”

Wait a minute. Eight percent? The news briefly distracts Grace from her focus. She’d managed three percent, just five quarters before she’d retired, and even that had been an impossible feat before she’d made it happen. “Brianna, that’s astonishing. Eight? Are you sure? Really? ”

“Yeah.” Brianna grins, her face blooming with quick joy. “Eight. Insane, right? We just got the numbers this morning. I was going to tell you, but—” She waves a hand vaguely in Grace’s direction. “Events. Anyway. Back to this whole emotion thing we’re doing right now. The point I’m trying to make is that I threw away the other best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I almost didn’t get it back. Get him back. I’m talking about Barry, in case that isn’t clear. And because I didn’t figure out how I felt before he left for Baltimore, now we’re stuck doing long distance for the time being, which means at least a couple more months where we’re not together in person, so—” She stops. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, because normally, clichés make me break out in hives, but Mom, look. Life’s too short to spend it not going after what’s right for you. If this is who you are—and it sounds like you’re pretty positive it is—then I really think you deserve to have what makes you happy. Don’t wait.”

“Brianna,” Grace says. She clears her throat. How could she possibly communicate what she’s feeling right now, hearing this? Like her life is slowly expanding to accommodate the shape of what’s inside it. “Thank you. Very much.”

As Grace watches, Brianna looks away into the corner of the room and brushes a fast finger under her right eye. “So,” she says, after a moment, and shakes her head quickly, her hair rustling. “Um. You’re a lesbian. Which you apparently realized at some point between lunch on Saturday and right now. May I ask what happened? Did you binge-watch a bunch of classic Ellen episodes? Spend a lot of quality time at the Subaru dealership? Participate in some hand-to-gland combat with Frankie?”

Jesus Christ. “I,” Grace stammers, completely unprepared for that last question, “I, um,” and her face must be turning bright red, it has to be, the truth of what’s happened written all over it, because now Brianna’s staring at her in absolute horror, her mouth starting to open. Oh, no. Oh, no.

“I was kidding. I was totally—Mom? You’re not seriously telling me—? Oh, my God. You went for it? You actually put the moves on Frankie? Grace Hanson, seductress of ladies? Oh, shit, is that why Frankie’s currently playing the lead in an extremely low-budget and hastily assembled production of Escape from La Jolla? Of course it is. Of course that’s why. Of course Frankie ran out.”

A blanket denial seems entirely pointless in the face of Brianna’s astonishment. “I’d pick a different phrase than the very colorful one you used,” Grace manages, “but let’s just say the general characterization isn’t entirely off the mark.” She sits up, pushing her shoulders back. If she has to have this conversation here and now, at least she can face the situation with excellent posture and retain a little dignity.

Brianna says, “And once again, it appears my natural gift for hilarity has, by total chance, brought to light some uncomfortably real shit I would prefer not to acknowledge.”

“Only today we’re talking about my love life, not yours.”

“First of all, Mom, fine, I always acknowledge a decent burn when I hear it, so good one, and secondly, what in the actual fuck? You’re telling me that you had—” She stage-whispers it. “—sex with Frankie at some point in the last forty-eight hours, after straight up denying to Mallory and me that you were stupidly and completely in love with her? By the way, please know that if I could outsource the asking of this question to one of my interns without risking a lawsuit, I would do it so quickly it would make Adam’s weird little bowtie spin.”

“Can a lesbian really ‘straight up’ deny something?” Grace asks, before she can stop herself.

“Okay, cool, you’re a comedian now, in addition to being gay and super evasive. Mom. Focus. Or should I start calling you Mom 1 now?”

“We didn’t have sex.” It seems extremely important to clarify this, even though absolutely none of it is Brianna’s business, and this is not a conversation she wants to be having with her daughter. Her face is boiling. “I guess it really depends on whose definition you—”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Stop right there. I am one hundred and fifty percent okay with not establishing in any detail whatsoever the exact parameters of the sex you did or did not have with Mom 2. What I would like to hear about—and in the vaguest possible terms—is if, you know. Things. If they’re okay.”

“Things?”

“Well, obviously not everything, everything clearly isn’t okay, the world is a giant apocalyptic trash heap, but I guess I’m referring to a fairly specific part of that everything that I happen to be concerned about in this particular moment. More than most of the other parts. Of things.”

“Brianna, are you trying to ask me how I’m feeling?”

“Yes,” Brianna says, with relief. “Yes. Good. Say that.”

It’s a question that’s almost as remarkable as the hug that’s proceeded it. From Brianna’s inability to meet Grace’s eyes, she knows her daughter cares about the answer, far more deeply than she’s willing or able to admit. Brianna’s looking down again, and away. For once, her jaw is relaxed, not stiff with defensiveness. In the soft curve of it Grace suddenly sees the familiar shape of her little girl, the flicker of a disappeared face.

There could be a gift here, in risk. So. She’ll be honest.

“When you were about four years old,” Grace begins, the image rising behind her eyes as she speaks, “you vanished. One minute you were playing in your room, and the next, you weren’t. I couldn’t find you. I looked all over for almost an hour—your father was ready to call the police. We were terrified. Then I thought to check outside, in the backyard, and all of a sudden, I could hear this tiny sound coming from under the house. This soft cry. You’d been stuck in some crawlspace antechamber nearly all that time I’d been looking for you. No one else was there to hear you but me. I couldn’t go in and get you because where you were was too small for me to fit—do you remember?”

“No. What happened?”

“You had to wiggle yourself out. I was right there the whole time, talking you through it, encouraging you, but you did it all by yourself. All the hard work. And once you were free—I’ll never forget it—you stood up and looked right at me, all covered in dirt and spider webs and God knows what else, little sticks in your hair, and you said, ‘Watch me, I can do this now,’ and you spun yourself around in a circle. You know, with your arms stretched wide? You spun, and you spun, and you spun, even though you almost fell down, and you didn’t want to stop. Maybe you couldn’t stop. Because you were so damn grateful to be out of your trap.” There’s a catch in her voice. This time, she doesn’t try to hide it. “You wanted to know how I’m feeling, Brianna? That. That’s how I’m feeling.”

There’s a long silence, and then Brianna says, softly, “Jesus, Mom.”

“Well, it’s the truth.”

“No, I know, I get that, it’s just—that sounds pretty fucking intense. You felt trapped? All these years?”

There’s no good way to explain what she’s realized over the past few days: how a crawlspace can look exactly like a life, how you can spend decades inside it going deeper, convincing yourself that the walls are what you want. So she says, instead, another thing that’s right. “Until the divorce. Until Frankie.”

Maybe there’s something in Grace’s voice that gives away her longing, because Brianna asks, “You know she’ll come back, right, Mom? You do know that? She always comes back. Frankie loves you. We’ve established this. Remember? Saturday? Around the same time you informed Mal and me that you were heterosexually interested in having a heterosexual Boston marriage with your heterosexual roommate, heterosexually, and terrified our waiter into giving us a free dessert? Well, me. It was me, I had the dessert.”

“She’s coming home on Sunday,” Grace says. Now it’s her turn to look away. There’s an empty vase on Brianna’s desk, something that should be filled and isn’t. “A week. Less than a week. Six days.”

“See? Then you and Mom 2 can live in sweet sapphic bliss alongside Dad and Sol’s adorable gay joy, while PFLAG bestows upon your loving and supportive children platinum-level lifetime memberships and a free goody bag each. Everyone wins.”

“And then you’ll have the mother you’ve always wanted.”  

It falls out of her mouth so easily, like something loose. As though Grace hasn’t voiced for the very first time a deep pain that’s scratched at her for thirty-five years, since the exact moment she’d watched a newborn Brianna cradled in Frankie’s soft arms, envying Frankie her certainty, envying Brianna her comfort. Motherhood’s always been so much easier for Frankie, a natural extension of who she is and not the sutured appendage Grace still can’t quite mistake for her own self. But maybe—maybe with Frankie by her side, as her partner, things could be different. Grace, with more, might finally have more to give.  

The revelation sits in the room with them, fading under the limelight of confession, dwindling towards a pain she can start to manage, and after a while, Brianna says, so carefully, “Yes, Mom. You’re right. Because I’ll have you. But happier.”

______________________

Today 2:51 PM

Brianna and Mallory know. I talked to them.

Today 2:53 PM

R u ok?

R they ok

With it I mean

How did it go

R they happy for u?

Oh Grace I’m so stinking happy for u

We’re all fine.

Actually, I think everything’s going to be fine.

By the way, Brianna guessed about you and me. I couldn’t lie to her.

I’m sorry. I know we weren’t going to tell the rest of the kids until after we talked.

U don’t have 2 apologize

I understand

Wouldn’t want u 2 lie

Did u think about that ok medium?

Today 3:01 PM

Yes.

Two glasses.

From that bottle of Riesling Amanda gave us.

I stopped at Vons and bought a few more bottles to last me through the week.

Just until I figure out what I’m going to do.

Good

Good for u

Well I think it’s good

It’s good right?

Is it good?

It’s something.

I don’t feel sick anymore, at least.

Good

No that’s good

Grace

What?

I keep thinking I can smell ur perfume

But that can’t b right

Can it?

I shouldn’t b able 2 smell u

Should I?

I don’t know.

It’s possible.

Maybe.

I keep thinking I can feel your hands on me.

Today 3:19 PM

Frankie?

Are you still there?

Yes

Here

I had 2 put down the phone

Oh.

Today 3:26 PM

Is it cool if Coyote comes over in a bit

To pick up some things for the week

Clothes and my phone and some art supplies and a box of Tibetan Abhishek incense

Will u b at the house

Of course. I’m not going anywhere.

Today 3:29 PM

I’m right here.

She doesn’t write this in a text, but Grace, standing in their kitchen and staring down at her phone, thinks she might be able to smell Frankie, too. Of course, Frankie doesn’t wear perfume. Just generous amounts of tea tree oil, rubbed regularly into her pressure points for relaxation. Against her temples, on the back of her neck, in the soft pad of flesh between her thumb and index finger. There’s the faint trace of pot smoke that always hugs Frankie’s hair between showers, drifting up whenever Grace gets close enough to touch. And there’s another smell, too, one that Grace associates with her and can’t use language to define with any real accuracy. It’s sharp, that smell. Familiar. Like sweat or salt, close to the brined scent that’s baked into the beach house from years of wind and sun and spray. Sometimes it’s hard for Grace to tell apart what’s Frankie and what’s all around them.

______________________

In retrospect, she should’ve been tipped off by Allison’s matter-of-fact statement over the phone that while she and Bud don’t have time today to meet Grace for coffee, of course Grace is welcome to accompany them to their Wednesday afternoon Lamaze class, because the instructor just loves it when grandparents show up. But it’s Allison, after all. Somehow, it seems just like her to spontaneously extend a familial role towards Grace, despite the fact that Grace has exchanged maybe eight or nine words with Allison, cumulatively, since she first entered their lives.

Allison is—well, more than a little odd, to put it mildly. But kind, in her own strange way.

And direct, too, which is why Grace is only moderately astounded when Allison, arranging herself carefully in a cross-legged position on the thin yoga mat in the middle of the studio, says, “So. I haven’t seen your wife since she dropped off a gallon of fermented cod liver oil for me last week. Why is she living at Coyote’s place now? Is it a skin condition? Are you worried about contagion? Because I definitely get that.”

Bud, who’s been propping up a series of pillows to support Allison’s back, freezes in place. “Um,” he says. “Uh. Allison?”

“Can you hold on a sec, sweetie? We can talk about our pillow material rankings later, I promise. I’m in the middle of being polite to Grace.” She leans a little towards Grace, who’s sitting just off the mat to Allison’s left, and grins at her, like they’re part of a two-person conspiracy. “So far, so good, right? I’ve been working on my conversation skills. I think they’re improving a lot. Can you tell yet?”

“Yes?” Grace tries. Her feet are flat on the floor, and she pulls her legs up against her body, chin touching her knees. That she’s approaching a fetal position before the start of a Lamaze class is not lost on her.

“Let’s all just stop. Pause. Rewind. Reflect. Allison, you do know Mom and Grace aren’t married, right? You were making a joke?” Bud laughs, two forced ejections of air. “Oh, right, I get it! Because they live in the same house, and they’re always together, and my mother likes to spend Sunday afternoons in the Mission Valley Home Depot so she can hang out with the store cat, it’s, yes, really great job with the humorous—”

Confusion flickers on Allison’s face as she swivels to face Bud. “I haven’t gotten to the part of my interpersonal communications practice yet where I feel comfortable making jokes with other people. You know that.” She turns back to Grace. One hand moves to rest on her belly, swelling noticeably under her loose blouse. “I mean, for a while I figured you had a polyamorous relationship, because of the way Frankie split her time between you and Jacob, but of course that doesn’t mean your marital bond is any less legitimate.”

“Wait a minute. You thought my mom was dating a man and married to another woman at the same time, and you never once thought to bring it up with me? ‘Hey, Bud, wow, it’s pretty nifty that your mom’s cross-platform compatible.’ No? You didn’t, oh, I don’t know, think any of that was maybe something worth discussing?”

“Why would I?” Allison’s still watching Grace. “Aren’t you two married?”

“No,” Grace replies, after a moment, and even though it’s true, the answer costs something to give. Her stomach pulls. “No polyamory. No marital bond. We’re not married. Frankie’s my best friend. My roommate. And my partner. In Vybrant.”

“But you love her,” Allison says, sounding taken aback.

“Of course they love each other!” Bud exclaims, and he sits down on the floor in front of them, hard. His statement’s loud enough that a couple on a nearby mat look over in their direction, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, no less intense. “Allison, we’ve talked about this, remember? After they had that fight over the gun, when I told you they kissed and made up, because they realized that when you really love someone, you’ve committed to working through—oh. Ohhh. I get it now. Yeah, okay, in retrospect I probably should’ve been a little clearer about some things. That’s on me.”

Allison’s still looking at Grace, her expression unchanged and perplexed, like what Bud’s said hasn’t even registered with her, and she says, again, “But you do love her, right? Really love her? I don’t mean the way I love how great it feels to peel dry skin off my lips. I mean, like, the way I love Bud?”

A wave of intense longing, slow and tremendous, starts to roll through Grace, beginning at her toes and seeping up through her limbs, flooding into her torso, her chest, her fingers. She presses on her shinbones, pushing her legs further into her body. It isn’t sexual, exactly, what’s happening to her right now, but it’s not entirely different from sex, either. The strange feeling of being gradually shaped towards something, every nerve and muscle gathered together in unanimous agreement on a target that’s just out of reach.

Like it’s being tugged out of her throat and into the room, she says, “Yes.”

“Grace,” Bud says, slowly, after a long silence. “Uh, maybe I’m wrong about this, but I’m starting to get an inkling that you might need to process something extremely important here. Shall we go have a quick feelings huddle out in the hall before class starts? Or a long feelings huddle? You should know that I’m completely receptive to a long feelings huddle. As a matter of fact, some of my most rewarding life experiences have taken place in long feelings huddles.”

“Ooh, a feelings huddle,” Allison coos. “I’ve got, let’s see, one, two, three—six feelings I can share right now, and only one of them is a potentially serious disease symptom, which is just so cool and different for me. But Grace, you can go first! I, for one, would be happy to listen while you tell us about how you’re just completely over-the-moon besotted with Bud’s mom.”

“Is that—?” Bud’s staring at Grace. “Is that why you called us and wanted to go out for coffee, even though in thirty-three years I don’t think I’ve ever once been in a room with you where Mom wasn’t also there? Oh—wait, hold on, hold the phone, hold every single phone, does this have something to do with why—”

“Your mother’s staying with Coyote right now, yes,” Grace finishes for him, because she’s been here before, and sighs. Honestly, there’s just no point in trying to maintain any amount of privacy or circumspection about information you’d like to keep quiet, not with any of their children. “We are not doing a feelings huddle in the hallway. Not if I have anything to say about it. And I didn’t call you because I’m—I didn’t call you to talk about my—about Frankie, I called because I realized I’m a lesbian and I want everyone in my family to know it. And, well. There you are. Now you know.”

The same exact sensation, every time. Repetition doesn’t mute it. The world immediately gets sharper when she says it out loud, and closer. Coming into contact with her skin, charging her up with new urgency, making her brim over into something reckless or free.

Bud’s jaw drops, and at the same time, Allison says, brightly, “Well, yeah. Of course you are. That’s obvious. Right, Bud?”

“No! No, it’s not obvious, and we did not know that, we—”

“But it’s very nice of you to make sure there was no miscommunication,” Allison continues, and smiles at Grace again. “Very considerate. Guthrie or Fable—” She gestures to her belly. “—is really lucky to have such a thoughtful grandma.”

“Or,” Bud says, in what sounds like a rehash of an earlier conversation, “Daniel or Sarah is very lucky. But, okay, maybe, let’s go back to the part where Grace just said she’s a lesbian? Which, I want to state again, for the record, I did not know? Can we please do that?”

Amazed, and not by the names Allison’s picked out—she’s known the Bergsteins too long for that—Grace lets her legs drop flat to the ground. She presses her hand on the mat, and shifts a little to the right to let the fleshier part of her hip take the weight of sitting. The floor’s not especially comfortable. “You knew, Allison,” she repeats. “How did you know?”

“Well, first of all, because you’re married to Frankie,” Allison says, “or I assumed you were,” and, all right, that seems like a fairly logical extrapolation to make from a misreading of their relationship. Then she adds, “And the way you look at her.”

She’d expected something like—well, Grace doesn’t know what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been that. “The way I look at her?”

“Your face. It gets all—it’s like a very, very tiny cluster of stars. Bud looks at me like that a lot.” She beams at him, and Bud’s face softens briefly out of his bewilderment as he smiles back at her. It’s sweet, or Grace would find it sweet, if she weren’t so busy reeling from discovering how obvious she’s been to a near stranger. “Oh, right, and that one time I saw you two kiss.”

“What?” Grace exclaims, while at the same time, Bud says, disbelievingly, “I think I’m having an existential crisis. I think this is what an existential crisis feels like. There’s a flavor. It’s very metallic.”

“I didn’t—how could you have seen that? We’ve never, not—” Not before this weekend, she almost clarifies, and bites it off just in time. “It’s impossible.”

“On New Year’s Eve? At Bud’s dads’ house? After we all watched the ball drop?”

New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Eve? New Year’s—

Oh. Oh, God. New Year’s Eve.

“But that wasn’t— No. That wasn’t. I didn’t,” she says, managing to stutter herself out of denial and into remembering yet another puzzle piece she’d tried very hard to forget, had mostly forgotten. Until right now.

Because it was. It had been. She did.

“I was kissing Bud, and I had my eyes open because sometimes I like to make sure his pores are still healthy, and I saw you two. Also kissing.”

Four drinks in, some godawful pink concoction Sol had put together, it was just after midnight, and she’d been standing next to Frankie behind Sol and Robert’s couch, behind the rest of the small gathering in the living room. Times Square was celebrating on the television screen, but her eyes had been on Frankie.

And Frankie was watching her, too.

Jacob isn’t here, she’d told Grace, an obvious fact that only implied more than its bare truth because she’d said it. No midnight kiss. Unless you want to pucker up those tea coolers and lay a quick one on me.

Four pink drinks. Maybe that was the excuse she’d needed.

Smooth against her lips, Frankie’s cheek, and then Frankie, seeming startled, had turned a little towards her, as if on instinct, and still their mouths hadn’t met. Not quite and not then. Just the bare edge of Frankie’s lips, the dimpled corner a promise of something Grace couldn’t bring herself to ask for or deserve.  

“I kissed her,” she says to Bud and Allison, because it’s true, and now she’s a person who says true things. “You’re right. I kissed her because I wanted to do it, and I told her ‘Happy New Year, Frankie,’ and I told myself all of it meant absolutely nothing.”

There’s a hand holding hers. Grace looks into her lap. It’s Bud’s hand. Looks up, again, to see his face peering closely at hers from across the mat, and the anxiety she’d seen there before is mostly gone, replaced by a focused compassion. The expression is so bone-familiar, so intensely yearned for that seeing it in someone else’s face makes her feel like weeping.

“Grace,” he says, this man she’s known all his life, and hardly knows. Frankie’s son. Her baby boy. “Hey. We’re here. Okay? Allison and I, we’re right here for you. What can we do? How can we help you with this? Do you want me to—I can talk to Mom, I can find out—”

She shakes her head, hard and fast enough that the ends of her hair smack at her jaw. “Thank you,” she says, quickly, to cover up how much she doesn’t want Bud to bring up any of this conversation to Frankie, “thank you very much, but no. Thank you. Really. Just—let’s change the subject, all right? Talk about something else? Anything at—”

As if on cue, a voice from the front of the room calls, “All right, everyone! We’re gonna get going, so moms, please assume the starting labor position on your mats. Support partners, make yourselves comfortable.”

Make yourselves comfortable. That seems impossible, given the current situation, and so Grace says, as the couples around them start to move into position, “You know, I’m thinking maybe I should just leave? I’m not a part of this, after all, I’m not part of your—your birth plan, or whatever you call it, and I don’t want to be in the way. I told you what I needed to tell you, so—you know what, I’m just going to—”

She starts to get up, yanking her hand away from Bud’s, pushing herself into a standing position, and then, just as she’s on her feet again, Allison reaches out to grab her wrist.

“You’re not in the way,” she says. Her eyes are large and focused on Grace. “You’re our family. You said it yourself.”

“We’d like it,” Bud adds, gazing up at her, “if you’d stay. With us, here. We’d like it very much.”

Grace stares down at them. At her family.

“You mean it?” she hears herself ask.

Allison lets go of Grace’s wrist, rubbing her belly with both hands. A soft look settles over her face, an expression Grace recognizes, with a twinge of old discomfort, as the kind of response pregnant women are supposed to have. “This is the first time I’ve had something growing inside me that I didn’t attempt to remove surgically or with intensive balneotherapeutic meditation. I could use someone who understands what that feels like.”

“I don’t know, I—”

“Please, Grace,” Bud says. “Stay.”

Just like his mother, Bud is a terrible liar, afflicted with the inability to be credibly dishonest, and so Grace realizes the request must be genuine. More than genuine. Without an ulterior motive. They’re not asking her to stay because she’s good at managing the situation at hand, or at making sure a task goes smoothly. In fact, they don’t really need her at all. Apparently, Bud and Allison are asking her to stick around because—for some reason that isn’t fully clear to Grace—they seem, sincerely, to want her with to be with them.

Something very old and cramped inside her loosens a little as she says, “All right. Okay. I’ll stay.”

“Well, fuck, yes!” Allison exclaims, and absurdly, Grace blushes, while Bud, grinning with pleasure, silently extends towards her one of the pillows he’s collected for Allison. A nice plush one, comfortable enough for sitting.

She takes it and carefully sinks back down to the floor, just to the side of Allison’s mat. Positioning the pillow beneath herself, Grace watches as Allison, now lying on her back, bends her knees with her feet flat on the floor, letting her arms rest on either side of her body. The hill of her belly is still relatively small, just a preview of what she’ll have in a few months, as Allison learns how to become someone else’s home.

“Moms, let’s begin by taking a deep breath,” the instructor calls out. “Count to five.”

Without thinking, Grace slowly fills her lungs with air, lets herself expand.

______________________

Today 9:42 AM

Nnetqrta

Oh rats well look at that I must’ve accidentally pocket texted u whoops!!

But while I’m here it would b the polite thing for me 2 say hello

I am nothing if not unfailingly polite

And charming and utterly delightful

Hello Grace

How r u?

Today 9:48 AM

I’ve developed a very strong interest in staring at the clocks in our house.

?????????

What r the clocks doing?????????

They’re not doing anything, Frankie. My point is that I’m trying to get time to move more quickly.

Believe it or not, I haven’t been very successful.

It’s only Thursday. Somehow.

How are you?

Is Coyote’s place comfortable? Are the bedsheets soft? Is it quiet there at night? Have you been getting enough sleep?

Have you been able to think?

Are the clothes I gave to Coyote all right?

Today 9:58 AM

I will answer these questions in the order u asked them

Reasonably

U know other people’s bedsheets r never soft enough for me

There’s a very large owl nesting in a nearby tree that likes 2 share her opinions vociferously and I wholeheartedly support her right 2 free expression

Not exactly

Yes

And SUPER yes!!

Grace how did u know I desperately needed 2 wear my green dress w the Greek meander pattern???

I didn’t know. It was clean.

But I’m glad I picked something you like.

And the other items I packed

I take it those were okay, too?

Today 10:11 AM

My geodes let me know they were very happy about our reunion

It was pretty subtle feedback but I got the message loud and clear

By the way were u aware that it is possible 2 hotbox 160 square feet with just 1 extremely large stick of Tibetan Abhishek incense

Except of course there’s no high

Just a crapload of coughing

No, I meant the other clothing items.

Today 10:20 AM

Oh right

Those

Yes

Those were good 2

Right because u picked those out for me of course u did I thought about that before right now

I know it’s a little intimate.

It’s just underwear Grace

We all have it

Under our wear

As the famous expression goes

Right.

As the famous expression goes.

There’s nothing inherently sexual about it whatsoever

I didn’t say there was.

Right bc there isn’t so of course u wouldn’t say there was

Anything sexual

Because there isn’t Grace

People touch other people’s underwear all the time

It’s practically tradition on community outreach night down at the co-op

Absolutely. Sure. Community outreach.

I thought you’d like to have the gray cotton pair.

They felt soft when I picked them up.

I know how much you like soft things, and being comfortable.

Today 10:33 AM

I do

I mean I do like the gray cotton especially

And they r soft

And I do like 2 b comfortable

Everything is very comfortable

I am at the veritable apex of personal comfort

Which u have provided me

In regard 2 this underwear

That u touched

So thank u

I’m glad.

I want you to have what makes you feel good.

Today 10:45 AM

I really want u 2 have that 2 Grace

Today 10:49 AM

U have no idea how much I want u 2 have that

Or maybe u do

Have an idea I mean

Today 10:55 AM

Grace

Today 10:59 AM

I know.

______________________

“Yes, Arlene,” she says, into the phone, and tosses her reading glasses onto the dining room table. “Yes, that’s correct. Exactly like Robert, but with women. Yes. Both of us. You’re right, the odds are probably very small. I certainly understand why you’d be surprised. Of course. No, I’m not going to stop wearing my high heels now. No, Arlene, I have not, nor will I ever think about you in that way. Well, I’m glad to know you’d find it flattering, but it just isn’t something I’ve ever— Look, Arlene, I’m sure there are plenty of other lesbians out there who’d find you very appealing, I just don’t personally— No, I don’t know any. How would I— It’s not like there’s a gay Rolodex, for heaven’s sake, I was just making a—”

Frankie would laugh, if she were here, and squeeze Grace’s free hand tightly in hers. Arlene, she’d holler, loudly enough to be heard through the speaker, hey, Arlene, get your own lesbian. This one’s mine.

She avoids looking at the empty chair next to her own when she says, “Well, thank you, Arlene. For your support. Well, yes. I agree completely. Your friendship is important to me, too. Yes.” And then, “Oh, Arlene. Of course you’re allowed to say ‘congratulations.’ That’s—gosh. It’s a very nice thing to say. I appreciate it. I really do. Yes. Yes. Talk soon. Okay. Sounds good. Arlene, I really do have a lot of calls to—okay. Arlene—yes. All right. Same here. Bye-bye.”

Arlene’s name is first on a numbered list of eight people. Grace is about to cross it out when she hesitates, pen suspended over the legal pad, and makes a different choice instead. A checkmark, right next to the careful scrawl of “Arlene.” The dark lopsided V stands out stark against the yellow of the pad.

Three more calls. Just three more calls, three more checkmarks next to her sister, her brother, and Cousin Alice. Then she can let herself have her Thursday Riesling allowance, the two glasses that never get more distant than the periphery of her attention. And after that, lunch. Maybe she’ll treat herself to someone else’s effort. There’s that place on Girard right by the bookstore that has excellent hamburgers, cooked medium rare and bursting, just the way she likes them best. Grace hasn’t been there in years.  

But she’ll make a quick stop at Warwick’s first, where she can pick up the new Ann Patchett she’s been meaning to buy, fall into, let the book take her just far enough away so that the hamburger she’ll eat while reading tastes good to Grace, nothing more.

______________________

Today 1:22 PM

Coyote and I had a long conversation this morning

About AA

He told me u called

But don’t worry Coyote is very serious about the anonymous thing

He didn’t tell me anything else

But if u felt like telling me anything else

Then I would like very much 2 listen

Today 1:32 PM

Grace??

Today 1:34 PM

I’m trying to figure out how to put this without sounding like

Oh, I don’t know

Like I’m making excuses for myself.

I’m not, Frankie. At least I don’t think I am.

Today 1:38 PM

I’m staring very intently at my phone with the utmost attention

I know u can’t see me so I wanted u 2 know what I’m doing

I’m listening with my eyes Grace

Today 1:44 PM

Coyote sounds really happy with the program.

He told me it gave him the structure that he needed to get sober.

Which makes sense, given that he never had all that much structure to begin with.

Today 1:48 PM

I didn’t mean that the way it sounds

Or looks, I guess

Frankie?

Today 1:52 PM

You understand I’m not blaming you for Coyote. You get that, don’t you?

Today 1:55 PM

I guess I do

Sore spot sorry

I’ll b good again in a sec

Today 1:59 PM

It’s not your fault, Frankie. Coyote’s addiction.

It’s not

What I’m trying to say is that Coyote needed more structure to get better

And the thing is, I don’t know if that's what I need to figure things out

My whole life, I’ve had structure

You know?

Piles and piles of structure

I’ve made all these rules for myself 

Today 2:06 PM

So maybe

I think

If I’m going to make different choices

I should make those choices differently

Today 2:14 PM

Does that make any sense at all?

You don’t think it’s an excuse

Do you?

What do you think?

Frankie, please tell me what you think.

Today 2:18 PM

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

Today 2:23 PM

Okay, just so we’re clear

Hearts are a good thing in this context. Right?

Yes

Yes they r Grace

Hearts mean you think I’m on the right track? You support me?

Oh lady lady lady

I’ll b every single motherfucking pillar 2 ur Coronado Bridge if u let me

Have u thought about what u want 2 do instead?

Today 2:31 PM

I want to get it out of my system first. All of it.

With medical supervision.

So that means detox, I guess

Today 2:34 PM

There’s a place in Del Mar that does outpatient treatment. 

It doesn't look too depressing.

I want to call and schedule a consultation. To see if it's right for me.

I haven’t called yet.  

But I’m going to call.

Today 2:37 PM

Want me 2 b there when u do?

Today 2:40 PM

Frankie

Yes

Today 2:44 PM

I’ll hold ur hand the whole time

I won’t let go

I promise

Not even if ur hand gets all sweaty and clammy and slippery 

Not even then

Today 2:49 PM

I'd like that.

Today 2:53 PM

I really would.

______________________

The woman sitting at the front desk in the otherwise empty reception area is bent over a stack of scattered papers when Grace walks in, head held high. Both hands clutch her purse strap tightly.

“Hello?” she begins, trying not to let her nerves jangle the greeting into a question. What if she’s in the wrong building? There weren’t any signs when she entered, nothing that reassures anxious first-time visitors they’ve found the San Diego LGBT Community Center. “I’m looking for Julia. Julia Ramirez? The volunteer coordinator?”

At the sound of Grace’s voice, the woman looks up, face knotted with focus. “That’s me.” And then, taking in Grace, her focus dissolves rapidly. It’s replaced by a startled expression. “Oh. Yes. Hello there. I’m Julie.”

“We spoke on the phone earlier. About volunteer opportunities for the Center? You told me to come down when I had some free time. And I have some free time today.” She doesn’t let herself think about Vybrant and all the work she hasn’t had the concentration to complete this week. After all, today’s Saturday. The day of—all right, not her day of rest. Frankie’s day of rest. “So here I am.”

“And you are?”

“I’m a lesbian,” Grace says, before she has time to think about it.

Julie’s eyes widen. She lets out a loud and generous laugh, a whoop that fills the room, makes it warm. Or maybe that’s just Grace’s cheeks, scalding with fresh embarrassment as she realizes what she’s done. She grips the purse strap even harder, pressing her lips together.

“Me too,” Julie informs her, and—oh. That’s— Grace feels it. Something inside her chest squeezes hard, a grip of perfect recognition. “But that’s not what I meant. What’s your name, honey?”

“Grace Hanson.”

“Grace Hanson.” There’s a lilt to it, that note of delight still threading through Julie’s voice, and yet despite that, Grace doesn’t feel like she’s being mocked. The laugh lines around Julie’s dark eyes and full mouth are deep grooves, clear evidence that she’s a woman who’s spent years letting herself be pleased. “Welcome to the Center. How’d you hear about us?”

“A friend told me. He does some pro-bono work for you. Sol Bergstein? He’s—well, ‘friend’ isn’t exactly accurate, although I guess we’re sort of— He’s my ex-husband’s husband. They were law partners, they had a twenty-year affair before they—” She presses her lips together. “God. I’m so sorry. I have no idea why I’m just telling you all this. A total stranger.”

“Hey, you’re family,” Julie says, waving a hand in vague and cheerful dismissal of Grace’s discomfort. “Family can’t be strangers. Take a seat, why don’t you? The chair on the right’s better. The other one, you’ve got about a twenty, maybe thirty percent chance one of the legs is gonna give right out. I wouldn’t risk it.”

Grace complies, taking the recommended chair. “I don’t— I take it that means something. Family. Something other than the standard definition. Do we—” She’s said it. We. “Do we use that term differently?”

Julie peers at her over the desk. After a moment, she asks, “How long you been out, Grace? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“About a week,” Grace admits. “A week tomorrow.”  

A low whistle. “Wow. And you’re already jumping right into volunteering. Well, you’re a gal who doesn’t like to waste any time, aren’t you?”

“At my age, there isn’t much of it to waste.”

Julie doesn’t take the opportunity to speak. As she looks at Grace, she blinks a bit too fast, thick lashes beating. They’re long enough to graze the skin just below Julie’s eyes. Natural, too. Nothing false about them.

Eventually, Grace says, “Are you going to tell me what ‘family’ means, or will I have to go on a long and probably fruitless internet search later?”

“Right, right,” Julie says, still staring, “no, yeah, sorry, of course,” and Grace—well, she knows that look. Countless men, innumerable times. Only now it’s on the face of a woman who must be, what, fifteen years younger than Grace? Maybe twenty. There’s hardly any gray in Julie’s hair yet, just a few obvious streaks splitting the dark curls. “Family means you’re one of us. Part of the community. Means you belong.”

Just like that? No questions asked? All Grace has to do is walk into a nondescript room that hasn’t been decorated beyond the presence of a few rainbows and some poorly-framed pieces of mall art, and suddenly she’s part of a family? “I don’t even know you,” she blurts out. “And you don’t know me. I don’t belong here. I’m an outsider. I’m, I’m seventy-three years old, I’ve lived my entire life acting like a straight person, I don’t even know how to be a lesbian. I’ve never been a part of a community. Any community. Look, Julie, you seem like a very nice woman who shouldn’t have to listen to me telling you all of this, and I really did come in here just to get some more information on volunteering, so maybe we could—”

“Lemme ask you something, Grace,” Julie interrupts. “When you were in high school, or maybe college, did you have a close friend? Another girl. Someone different from your other friends, someone you wanted to be around all the time, someone who made your stomach do flip-flops whenever she looked at you?”

It’s been more than half a century, but Grace can still feel it on her left cheek when she tries. The warm press of Judy Campbell’s mouth, the puff of breath, the soft slide of her lipstick. “Yes,” she says, startled, “I did, but—”

“Was there an older woman you admired? A teacher? Maybe you thought about her a lot, couldn’t wait to see her every day, wanted her to think you were more special than all the other girls?”

“I’ve never told anyone about—”

“When the other girls talked about boys they liked. You had to think about it really hard, right? I bet you had a name all ready to go in case anyone asked you. Some boy who made sense.”

Five minutes. It’s been five minutes, maybe a few more, and this unfamiliar woman’s pulling out bits of Grace’s past with the confidence of someone who’s been watching her closely since childhood. “How in the world could you know all of that?”

“Because,” Julie says, and smiles at her, “you aren’t alone.”

Grace opens her mouth. Closes it again. All those years. All those years of awful determination, feelings that stayed below until they couldn’t and became spills she’d cleaned up fast before they could stain her with what’s true. She’d always felt so goddamn—

Opens her mouth, again, and says, “Family. Right. I see.”

“So.” Julie clears her throat. “You wanted to talk volunteering. There’s an orientation in a couple of weeks, and we’ve got to fingerprint you first before you can start, but what’s your cup of tea? We’re gonna start prepping the AIDS Walk next month, the Hillcrest Youth Center’s short on group facilitators, the art class needs a new instructor. Any of that sound good?”

Still reeling a little from Julie’s insights, Grace hears herself ask, “An art instructor?”

“Yeah. You know how to paint?”

“Oh, God, no.” She shakes her head quickly, as though vehemence is the only thing keeping her from a fate marginally better than making macramé. “But—I know someone who does. My roommate.”

“Your roommate?” Julie repeats, arching one eyebrow.

As it always does, the word feels thin, wholly inadequate to the task of capturing Frankie Bergstein in all her loud glory. Roommate. A name for someone who’s adjacent to you, not woven in. “She’s an artist. You should see Frankie’s work, it’s— She understands people. She sees them for who they really are. And somehow, somehow that understanding ends up in every line of her paintings. Every single brush stroke. She captures them. And then you understand what they feel. Their pain. Their joy. Their longing. They become real.”

Julie says, gently, “Sounds pretty amazing. This Frankie.”

What Grace can manage, her throat tight with feeling, is “Yes.”

“Are you—?”

The unfinished question hangs between them. How many different ways could Julie finish it? With her. Together. In love with her.

“I am,” Grace says, after a long pause.  

Julie nods. Just once, a firm downward tilt of her head, punctuating a sentence that never started.

They don’t talk about Frankie again, not until after they’ve discussed the Center’s Senior Services Program, which—as it turns out—happens to have an advisory committee that’s always looking for new members. Grace tells Julie all about her work on Vybrant, about her commitment to senior women and their sexual needs, and Julie listens intently, asks the right questions, wants to know if Grace might be interested, at some point, in offering a seminar for the Program focused on educating older women about the benefits of masturbation.

Yes, as a matter of fact, Grace is interested. Very much so.

She shakes Julie’s hand before taking her leave, and maybe it’s Grace’s imagination, but Julie seems to hold on a little longer than absolutely necessary.

“Your roommate,” she says, and pulls back her hand. “Frankie. She’s a very lucky woman. Assuming she’s wise enough to know what she’s got. And if she isn’t—” Julie’s cheeks are pink. “The maple bacon donuts, over at Great Maple, around the corner? They come in twos. Perfect for commiserating.”

Grace feels herself flush. Maple bacon donuts for two aren’t in her future. Certainly not with Julie. She knows that, with the bone instinct of someone who can’t stop planning for a life that starts tomorrow, the second Frankie walks back through their front door. And yet—those donuts could be in her future, with Julie, if she wanted it to happen. She knows that, too.

Just the possibility. That’s more than enough. She’ll take that with her, going home.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she says, “thank you,” and allows herself the indulgence of a tiny little thrill as Julie smiles at her one last time.

______________________

Talking about Vybrant brings the business back to the forefront of her attention, for the first time in a week. By the time Grace is back at the beach house, the guilt over ignoring her professional responsibilities overrides other preoccupations. At the very least, she really does need to check her work email. There’s a parts order that has to be placed no later than next week, distributors to contact, quarterly taxes to file. An entire life to live that isn’t thinking about how much she misses the sting of a dry martini, or about Frankie’s hands, or that she doesn't really mind the taste of Riesling anymore, or Frankie’s thighs, or when she gets to have her next drink, or what Frankie will be wearing the first time Grace undresses her.

Logging in at the dining room table, she sees forty-seven new messages since, what, last Saturday? Okay. That’s not as bad as she’d—

Wait a minute.

The second email from the top. The one sent earlier this morning. The one with the subject line “A Professional Business Letter Regarding Our Business.”

Grace clicks on the subject line, adjusting her glasses on her nose, and doesn’t let herself think about what she’s hoping, desperately, to read.   

Ms. Frances M. Bergstein
The Tiny Home of Mr. Coyote Bergstein
(In front of) 6425 Tourmaline Street
San Diego, CA 98571

May 13, 2017

Ms. Grace Hanson
40224 Seahaven Way
La Jolla, CA 92037

Dear Ms. Hanson:

As I am contacting you per our shared venture, in my capacity as a serious and professional entrepreneur, I am sending you a business letter. Which I carefully formatted with the assistance of one Mr. Sol Bergstein, Esquire, and, moreover, the internet, before it distracted me with a delightful video of a very small rooster who can play the piano. But that is not the germane point. The germane point I would like to make is that this missive is about our business, and from me, a businesswoman, to you, also a businesswoman. This is not at all, for instance, a letter from a woman who can’t stop thinking about you, to you, a woman who maybe is thinking about me too.

Because I have recently been educated, also by the internet, to appreciate that learning from customer feedback is one of “50 Steps Every Entrepreneur Must Take to Build a Business,” I have taken the initiative to solicit said feedback. This has been accomplished by going into our database (with the helpful technical support of one Mr. Coyote Bergstein, Son) and contacting, via cellular telephone, twenty-five randomly selected individuals who have purchased our product and who had the first names of people I was friends with in high school.

Here are some important things I have learned from this survey that I wish to convey to you:

1. After conversing with them one-on-one, I have discovered that Vybrant’s customers are extremely pleasant people. Except for Ida Mangold. I didn’t like her. She had a very snotty tone.
2. Seven of the twenty-five randomly selected individuals, which is 28 percent, which is very mathematically close to two-thirds, wish that the packaging was more “discreet.” Elizabeth Rojas told me, quote, “I don’t want the mailman to know I’m visiting the safety deposit box, if you know what I mean.” I did, in fact, know what she meant.
3. Four of the twenty-five randomly selected individuals, which is 16 percent, which is sort of mathematically close to two-fifths, expressed interest in purchasing a smaller vibrator, if Vybrant were to offer one. Barbara Nowak said that while she enjoys the Ménage à Moi, on occasion its size can be, quote, “a little much.” Personally, I don’t get it, but there seems to be something of a “market demand.” Perhaps at some future juncture we could discuss expanding our product line to include what I suggest we call the Mini Moi.

I hope you have found this information to be elucidating, and that it will prove fruitful as we look towards the future of our great enterprise. I thank you for your time, and trust that you are well in mind and spirit and body.

Very professionally yours,

Ms. Frankie Bergstein, BA, MFA, CMO

P.S. If you need to contact me to discuss the contents of this letter, or for any other reason, I am available for a cellular telephone conversation prior to our scheduled reunion tomorrow.

P.P.S. You know the number.

P.P.P.S. It’s (858) 351-8524.

All Grace can bring herself to do, after reading this astonishing letter again, and then a third time, is sit back in her chair with a soft thump. She takes off her reading glasses, folding them carefully, and places them on the table next to her laptop. Frankie, taking an interest in their business? Actually going into the database and attempting to do something that might, if you squint really hard, resemble market research? Coming up with new ideas to expand their business? Where the hell did all of this come from? Frankie’s never, not one time—

The sudden understanding that surges through Grace feels like warmth. Run away, she’d yelled at Frankie, almost a week ago. Run away, just like you do from anything that’s remotely difficult.

Well, this isn’t running away. The opposite, in fact.

And Frankie wants Grace to call her.

Of course, Grace does. It would be impossible not to do it. She doesn’t let herself call right away, though. Not until she’s answered a few time-sensitive emails she really should’ve responded to during the week, finished folding the clean laundry, wiped down the kitchen counters using all the energy Frankie’s created in her. She isn’t hungry, nothing working inside her stomach but the low and tremulous shiver of excitement, but she eats a silent and mostly respectable dinner, anyway. A piece of leftover chicken that’s been marinated in balsamic vinegar, basil, olive oil. Roasted green beans. Several bites of angel-hair pasta. And all the while, she feels it teasing at her chest, her shoulders. This inevitability, this reward she’ll give herself held, just barely, at bay.  

By the time Grace is seated on the couch in the living room, holding her phone in both hands, she's prickling with new heat. It’s time.

Frankie answers on the second ring.

“Grace?” she asks, and that’s it, that’s the only thing she says, but it’s all Grace needs. Frankie's voice is in her ear for the first time since Monday. Euphoria, pure and pointed, shocks right through her body with a strength that seems impossible. She almost gasps.

Instead, she tells Frankie, “I got your email,” trying very hard to sound like a person who isn’t clinging to normalcy with one slipping hand. “You said you were available? For, uh, a cellular telephone conversation?”

“Yes,” Frankie says, clearly delighted, “I’m very available, I have the house all to myself right now, Coyote's putting the kids to bed,” and then, “Did you like my email, Grace? Did you?”

It must’ve taken Frankie hours to write. Two or three days to call all those women and ask them for their feedback. She’d asked Sol to help her format what she’d sent, solicited Coyote’s help to get into the database. Taken notes, maybe, as she’d interviewed each customer, chewing her pencil’s eraser in between sentences. Her business “missive” sounds like she’s run it through an online thesaurus, the language objectively ridiculous and still, somehow, beautiful. Every action, each word, carefully crafted to give Grace what Frankie thinks she needs.

It’s a love letter.

“I liked it,” she says, “very, very much.”

“Oh, hooray!” Frankie exclaims. “Tell me, what did you like about it? Do you think twenty-five was a good number of people for me to call, because I wasn’t sure that it was— Wait a sec. Grace. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I should ask you how you are. How are you? I’ve been thinking about you.” A soft thunk. "Owww."

"What happened?"

"No, it's cool. I just sat up in bed too fast. You'd think I'd remember where the ceiling was by now."

Frankie's in bed. All right. Grace won't let herself picture what that must look like. Not right now. "I'm fine," she says, instead, and means it. Better and better with every second, in fact. Every tick of the clock brings them both towards tomorrow and Frankie closer to home. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”

“You have? I mean, I hoped you were, but I didn’t know for sure. You’ve really been thinking about me?”

“Frankie. Are you kidding? Of course I have.”

There’s a silence, characterized mainly by the total absence of elaboration from either of them.

“I really liked your suggestions,” Grace continues, before the pause becomes too long to be anything other than obvious. She means it, too. What a wonderful thing, to tell the truth and make Frankie happy, all at the same time. “The packaging. It makes total sense to label it more discreetly. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.”

“You can’t have all the ideas,” Frankie says, reasonably. “How about the smaller vibe?”

“The Mini Moi.” For a brief instant, she’s transported out of the single-minded focus of the past three weeks, back into an easier version of herself. “I think you’ve got something there, Frankie. It could really work.”

“You know, I thought the same thing. What’s the Ménage à Moi’s diameter, 1.5 inches?”

She’s more than a little surprised Frankie remembers. “Yes, that’s right.”

“So say we go with one inch or thereabouts. Maybe lose the pearls, too, if we want to create a totally different experience for our customers.”

“Gosh, I’d miss the texture,” Grace says, without thinking, and then realizes what’s accidentally left her mouth. Her face is instantly and horribly hot. That isn’t the sort of thing she should be saying out loud at all. This is about their business, not about herself, and it especially isn’t about what she likes.

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

Then Frankie says, “So would I.”

Oh.

They’ve never used the first person singular when discussing their business. Not once. Even during the designing stage, when their own preferences inevitably influenced the choices they’d made, Grace had been extraordinarily careful with her language, distancing herself from the process as much as possible. If we go external only, then we’re not being attentive to customers who might also be looking for an internal experience. We need to include a variety of vibration modes in addition to intensity levels. Our product should take advantage of the entire vaginal wall, not just the G-spot.

Which is why she can’t believe what she says next. “What would you miss about it?”

Another pause, long enough that Grace, burning with the scald of exposure, is about to change the subject to something that takes them back to safer ground, and then Frankie, sounding a little hoarse, says, “Sometimes smooth is fine. Sometimes smooth is what I really want.”

There’s a qualifier coming. She waits for it and can’t move.

“But usually I want something less streamlined. It connects me to the experience more fully. Forces me to be present in the moment. You know. All those little sensations happening inside me. What about you?”

It takes a second for Grace to register that Frankie’s asked her a question. She’s still thinking about the words inside me, how they’d had that slight grit. Her mouth is dry. “What about me?”

“You said you’d miss the texture, too. What would you miss?”

“I like that it’s a little rough,” she says, quietly. There’s a small noise in her ear, a little hitch as Frankie’s breath catches on the other end of the line. Hearing it, Grace shifts slightly in her chair. “I’d miss the way it rubs up against me when I—”

“When you—?”

“When I—move it.” She hesitates. “In and out.”

“Oh,” Frankie whispers, “oh,” and Grace has to close her eyes. She’s hot everywhere, now, not just her face. They’re not really going to do this, are they? “So insertion’s an important part of the experience.”

The experience, not your experience. Right. Right. Okay.

“That’s something we should probably maintain. Assuming we decide we want to branch out into this new venture.” She’s proud of herself. The words are fine. They’re almost calm, and she doesn’t think there’s anything in them that gives away the very specific and personal venture she can’t help but imagine. “Of course, the research tells us how crucial clitoral stimulation is for most women, and I think we’d both agree that should remain a major feature if we mock up a smaller vibrator, but we can preserve both elements. It’s important our clients feel reassured that this new product isn’t disregarding their other needs.”

Very quietly, Frankie asks her, “What do they need, Grace? Tell me.”

The throb between her legs is terrible, approaching painful. It’s drawing the entire focus of her concentration, pulling her like tide. So she says, desperately trying to redirect herself into any other feeling, “If you’d read any of the literature I gave you when we first started designing the original prototype, you’d know already.”

“I did read it. Or I put it under my pillow and let the words seep into my brain while I slept. Which in some cultures is considered an extremely enlightened method of acquiring knowledge. But that’s not what I want you to tell me about, honey. I think we both know that.”

It makes her dizzy, this honesty that rips at the veneer they’ve been preserving. The room actually spins, just for a moment, and she grabs the couch arm, fingers tightening over the lip of it. Under the new pressure, her knuckles start to protest. That’s all right. It’s a distraction.

“Frankie,” she chokes out. “You wanted your space. I gave it to you. Now you’re—?” She can’t finish the sentence.

“I’ve had space,” Frankie blurts out, in a rush, “six fucking days of space, six nights of lying in this bed and not being able to sleep because all I can do is think about needing you. So much my toes are permanently curled. Every day it just gets worse and worse and worse. I didn’t even know it could be like this, that I could want it so much—and now you’re in my ear telling me you like it rough, what am I supposed to—” She gasps. “Grace, I'm aching so bad.”

“Oh, my God, Frankie—”

“Please tell me I’m not alone. Is it like this for you, too?”

“You’re not alone. I didn’t know it could be this much either. I can’t stop—” It’s her own ragged voice admitting this, somehow. “I’ve had to—take care of myself. A lot. Way more than usual. Just to be able to function normally.”

“How often?”

Grace lets go of the couch arm and lifts her hips a little, pressing her back into the cushion. Should it be this arousing when you’re confessing to the humiliation of not being able to control yourself? “Two times a day since Sunday. And that’s not counting the dreams I’ve had.”

“Grace,” Frankie says, faintly. “Jesus ice-skating Christ. Do you ever think about me during?”

“The whole time,” she whispers, and maybe her voice contains some of what she’s remembering, because Frankie’s exhale shivers out slowly. “Are you doing it too? Have you been—?” She swallows. It’s a perfectly normal word. She’s used it at least five hundred times over the past year. “Masturbating?”

“I can’t.” There’s real anguish in it. “Not here. No privacy. My kid’s always in and out during the day because apparently no one in the entire city of San Diego needs a substitute teacher right now, and I happen to be sleeping exactly one robot claw grabber’s distance away from the rest of the entire house. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Oh, sure, maybe I’d get some relief. A little quiet down there. It still wouldn’t give me what I really want.”

Someone else is holding her breath, keeping it from Grace. “What do you really want?”

“You,” Frankie says, and there’s no trace of levity or farce in the word, just a note of unrestrained sincerity that pulls the cord of Grace’s need impossibly tighter. “First I want us to sit down and have a conversation in person. A real one. The conversation I promised you. Total transparency. We need to get on the same page about what’s ahead before we do anything else.”

For some reason, she thinks about the night she’d placed Frankie’s flowers by her own bedside and waited with a book in front of her unseeing eyes. “And then?”

“Once we’re on the same page, then we can turn it together. By which I mean—”

“We make love.”

She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but the words are out of her mouth almost before she knows she’s said them. Grace bites down briefly on her lip, an instinctive punishment.

Frankie isn’t talking. The stillness between them feels delicate, a carefully spun thing that could snag so easily on a half-sharp word or too-eager phrase and fray right into distortion. Maybe she’s already done it.

“I’m sorry,” Grace says, finally. “If that isn’t what you were going to—”

“No. I mean, yes. It is what I was thinking, I just didn’t expect you to— Yes. That’s what I want to do with you, Grace. Make love. That’s exactly it.”

Oh, gosh, she thinks, a little giddy just from hearing Frankie say those words out loud. But as much as the prospect of the two of them being in alignment delights her, that hard kernel of fear she’d had pressing inside her all Sunday is back, too. A little softer, a little less insistent, but still ready to remind Grace of what she could lose, should this all go badly again. She’d have to figure out some way to survive it, despite not knowing how that’s possible.    

It’s either courage or fear that makes her speak again. “Frankie, are you absolutely certain you’re ready for a physical relationship? Because if we do this, really do this, if we make love and you decide it’s too much for you again, I don’t think—I’m not sure how I would get through all that a second time. If there’s even one single small part of you that wants to hold back, then I need to know about it right now.”

“Oh, sister. Look, can you put on your listening ears for a minute?”

“My—my listening ears? As opposed to my seeing ears or my talking ears?”

“Don’t be cute. Okay, fine, twist my arm, be cute. You’re so damn good at it. Here’s the thing. I need to tell you about the first time I slept with Jacob.”

Well, there it is. The only sentence in the world that could possibly dampen the hum of her arousal. “Do you have to?”

“Yeah,” Frankie says, “I really kinda do, sweetheart. I understand that you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the only way I can think of to explain why I know I’m ready to have sex with you. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it PG.”

I know I’m ready to have sex with you. For a few seconds, Grace doesn’t speak, too overwhelmed by exhilaration. If Frankie’s certain about moving forward with her, then Grace will listen to just about anything that gets them there. God, she’d even sit through a long and rambling anecdote about that one time Frankie and Sol hybridized Twister and Battleship into some unholy two-person plastic wading pool intercourse tournament. Again.

“All right,” she says, eventually. “Shoot, I guess.”

“So as you’re aware, we waited a long time to do it, Jacob and me. Months and months after we started dating. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, honestly, because I did—he’s a good kisser, Jacob, so I had a feeling that—”

“Frankie.”

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry. And, hey, I said ‘good.’ I did not say ‘makes me forget at least two, maybe three of my four names.’ That’s an entirely separate category, Grace. Belonging to a certain fiesta de uno. In case it’s unclear, I’m talking about an outrageously good-looking blonde with a mouth that should be heavily regulated by the Consumer Product Safety Commission.” She pauses, clearly for dramatic effect. “The consumer is me.”

“Yes, Frankie, I got that.” It’s probably not very nice to feel so satisfied. After all, Jacob’s really not much more than an innocent bystander in all this. Nevertheless, she preens a little, her lips pressing together in a satisfied smile. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to the end of this story before Al Roker puts our names on a screen to congratulate us for reaching a century.”

“As a matter of fact, Little Miss Impudence, I do mind,” Frankie tells her. “So keep that talented mouth of yours closed for just a minute and listen to me.”

It’s friendly, her command, a little teasing, mostly sweet, but there’s an undeniable edge to it, too. Despite the unappealing topic of their conversation, something about that edge suddenly makes Grace throb so hard she exhales with the force of it.

At least Frankie doesn’t seem to hear her. “All right, then. Back to Jacob. So we waited, and he was so patient with me, just a total mensch, until it was sorta like someone flicked a switch in my head, or in my body, and I needed to do it with him. Honestly, I can’t explain what happened, why I wasn’t ready one day and then the next I was, except for—” She stops abruptly. “You and me, I guess. That was around the time we were finalizing the prototype design. I knew it was unbefitting my professional role, but some of those conversations we had—I swear, I couldn’t help it. They got me pretty worked up. Maybe that has something to do with why I went for it with him.”

Christ. And Grace had been so certain she was the only one having trouble reinforcing an opaque wall between their business endeavors and what she’d done at night. She’d convinced herself that needing it a little more often, or a lot, was only natural, given where her mind had been focused. Nothing to do with Frankie, though. Of course it wasn’t. Not even the first time she’d used both hands down there at once, something she’d never thought to try before. (Earlier that day, Frankie had mentioned simultaneous clitoral and vaginal stimulation in passing conversation. Let it slip so casually, too, like it was masturbatory routine for her, a regular occurrence.)

“Anyways. We had sex. It was good. Kind. Healing’s really the right word. And we cuddled afterwards—oh, by the way, Grace, you should probably know I have a big thing for fully present post-orgasmic nuzzling, I like to schedule in at least twenty solid minutes, if not more—”

“Duly noted,” she manages.

“—and here’s the thing. I felt totally at peace with what had happened. I closed my eyes and said a mantra of gratitude to my brilliant body for letting me know I was ready to take the next step with him. That’s really what I’m trying to tell you, Grace. When we got home from the desert last weekend, I was so freaked out about what could happen with us that I completely forgot something I’ve known for quite a while. Something I was reminded of the first time Jacob and I did it. Bodies are much wiser than we give them credit for. They understand things our brains can’t accept yet.”

“You mean like how you think you can predict that someone’s about to start a wildfire because you get warning signals from the tiny hairs inside your nose?”

“Exactly! But it’s even more than that. It’s like—” Frankie’s no doubt wrinkling her face in concentration. Grace can see her exact expression, as clearly as she could if Frankie were right here next to her on the couch. “It’s like how my head realized last year all by itself that it fits perfectly in that place where your neck curves down to your shoulder. I had no idea until the first time it happened. Or how your fingers know exactly the right amount of pressure to use when you rub that intense repair lotion into my hands. I’ve never even told you what I like. Your body just understands instinctively. See what I mean? Smart.”

Grace flushes, stirred by the casual intimacy of Frankie’s examples. Despite her instinctive resistance to align herself with anything that sounds like new age metaphysical mumbo jumbo, she does, in fact, see what Frankie means. After all, her own muffled body’s been straining to speak up for years, seemingly undeterred by decades of Grace’s skilled efforts to numb it, armor it, whittle it down into compliance, keep it quiet and small and safe. She can see that now.

All that time, and her body’s never given up trying to tell her what Grace is just now starting to hear.

“Well, yes,” she says, and blinks rapidly against the new dampness in her eyes. “I suppose there’s something to that. So you’re saying that’s how you know you’re ready? Your body?”

“Honey, my body’s been shouting ‘vamos’ at me since the exact second you detonated that sexplosion in our living room on Saturday afternoon. And I will say it’s a good thing I didn’t listen to it right then, otherwise I would’ve immediately pulled you down onto the couch with me so we could invent all sorts of new ways to give ourselves joint pain.”

The couch on which Grace is currently sitting, in other words. It’s seeming increasingly possible that the flush in her cheeks will never go away again. She’ll simply have to go through the rest of her life red-faced and constantly stirred up.

“But,” Frankie continues, “in retrospect I think my body figured out something important before my brain could see it. Something I didn’t start to realize until I was lying in this bed staring at Coyote’s phone and waiting for you to text me back. That entire time, the whole three hours and forty-one minutes, I felt like I was falling into that abyss under the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Battling eternally with the Balrog of my decisions. I thought for sure I’d lost you.”

“You could never lose me. Never.” It’s God’s honest truth, simple and uncomplicated. A little frightening, too, considering all the possibilities encompassed by never, but that’s a thought for another time. “Remind me. What’s a Balrog?”

“I actually can’t believe I’m going to say this, Grace, but the Balrog isn’t important right now. Although, trust, the second I figure out how to remove bubblegum from my sound effects machine tape deck, I’ll act the whole scene out for you to refresh your memory. It’ll probably involve some expressive corporeal art, which utilizes dynamic movement sequences, and howling.”

“I look forward to it.” Somewhere along the path of this conversation she’s lost her ability or desire to be sarcastic.

“But all that is neither here nor there. What is here, and there, and everywhere, really, is that on that afternoon when I walked out of our house, I came face to face with the possibility that I’d brought about my own worst fear. You know how I told you I was terrified of being heartbroken? Well, I’d tried to run away from it, and bingo, there it was, happening to me. My heart shattering into a million microscopic pieces because I thought I might’ve made a future where you weren’t there to keep it whole.”

“Frankie,” she says, just barely audible. “Frankie.”

“So maybe we’ll hurt one another. Odds are, it’s gonna happen. And we still have to handle our shit. We’ve got a shitload of shit to handle. But I’m starting to think that we can handle our shit and handle each other at the same time, if you know what I mean. Sex isn’t going to determine whether or not we get through this. Something else is. Because here’s what my friggin’ genius of a body has known since the first time some primal instinct pulled my head towards your shoulder, while my brain was too busy finding reasons not to realize what was happening. I’m in love with you, Grace. It’s not just that I love you, although that’s also true. It’s that I’m so crazy head-over-heels totally in fucking love with every single inch of your sweet self that I’ll do anything it takes to be by your side for the rest of our lives.”

Her own heart cramps, a sudden spasm of unbearable joy. It’s not breaking, that’s not the word Grace would use, but it’s a kind of fracture just the same. Like the muscle’s shuddering away from coherence into something open.

“And that means even when I get scared or want to run away, and even when you get mean or controlling, we gotta work through that. Process, talk about our feelings, stop avoiding things, all that hard stuff. Because if we do that, and we do it right, then guess what? We get this. This gorgeous thing. You and me, lady. Twenty-five more years of you and me.”

There’s a tear tracking down her cheek. “Twenty-five more years, huh? We’re gonna stick around that long?”

“You bet your bippy we will. And then we’ll die side-by-side in our sleep at the exact same microsecond with the windows open so our souls can take to the sea together. Oh, Grace, we’ve built a beautiful life, haven’t we? A life I never could’ve imagined for a second before Sol and Robert came out, and somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, it became the thing I need most.”

“Me, too,” Grace whispers, still not sure this moment is actually happening to her. “So we should probably do something about that, huh? Really, really soon?”

“I’m in. How’s tomorrow sound?”

She laughs, sniffling a little, and wipes at her cheek. “My calendar’s clear and you know it. I guess I have to be celebrated at some point. You, too. Mallory’s doing it for both of us. But there’s no reason why we can’t find some time during the brunch to slip away from the kids and Robert and Sol so we can have our conversation privately.”

“And then we can celebrate each other. If you’re ready for that too.”

Oh, goodness. Just like that, her breath’s caught again on a turn of phrase that shouldn’t have nearly as much power to affect her as it does. The heat rushes back into her face. “Also privately, I take it.”

“Yes, very privately,” Frankie agrees, and then, “it’ll have to be, in order for us to—” She makes a sound, a short hmmmm that has more than a little air in it. “Maybe you could tell me. If you want.”

“Tell you?”

“Tell me what we’re going to do tomorrow. You know. Physically. You said you’ve been thinking about me while you masturbate. You’ve clearly been imagining it. Us. I’d really like to hear you tell me. So I know what to expect. Think of it as necessary preparation. It’ll get my brain and my body in perfect alignment.” She pauses. “Do you want me to ask nicely? I’ll ask nicely. Pretty pretty please.”

Weakly, Grace says, “I’m not having phone sex with you right now,” and licks her lips. Who the hell is she trying to kid? That’s exactly what she’ll do, if it’s what Frankie wants. She’ll do whatever Frankie wants.

“Who said anything about having phone sex?”

“You did!”

“I most certainly did not. Phone sex, by definition, requires that the participants touch themselves during, and at no time, Grace, did I invite you to do that. We’re fully-grown adults with developed frontal lobes who are extremely capable of restraining ourselves for one more day, until we can do this properly in person. Or are you trying to tell me that’s not the case? Are you saying you can’t tell me what we’re going to do together without putting your pretty hands all over yourself?”

God, Frankie sounds— Just a second ago, she’d been talking about spending the next twenty-five years together, as earnest and beautifully candid as Grace has ever heard her, and now—well, now there’s the full-throated return of that breathless urgency. Like she can’t stop herself from circling right back to what they both need to do.  

Grace can’t stop herself either.

“I’ve said no such thing,” she declares, channeling her arousal into kittenish outrage. “I can control myself. I can keep my hands off my body. Can you? You’re the one who hasn’t had any relief in the last week. You really think you can lie there in that bed and listen to my voice without doing something about it?”

“Try me, Hanson.”

Fucking hell. The ache she’s been enduring throughout their entire conversation, the hot pulse between her legs intermittently forcing her into a wriggle—she’d thought it was bad before. It’s nothing compared to the way her body begs for pressure in the aftermath of being dared. What’s worse is the image in her mind that comes with the challenge: Frankie, on the phone and lying down in bed, her hips lifting just a little because she can’t keep herself from squirming in anticipation.

Her left hand creeps unbidden to slide up her thigh, and when Grace realizes what it’s doing, she jerks it away. No. She’s going to play fair, or not play at all, and not playing at all is an impossible option.

If Frankie really wants to know what’s on the tape that’s been playing in a loop for the last week in Grace’s fantasies, then she’ll damn well hear about it.

Just above a whisper, she murmurs, “I’ve barely touched your breasts. Have you realized that, Frankie? Because I can’t stop thinking about it. I think about it all the time. When I’m driving. When I’m washing the dishes. When I take myself on a walk down the beach. When I’m masturbating.”

There’s a strangled noise from Frankie. She takes it as an invitation to continue.

“When we were in the car, the angle wasn’t right, and then on the front porch you were shoved up against me—I didn’t get the chance to put my hands on you the way I wanted. I wanted it.” She glances down at her chest. She can see goosebumps percolating through the strip of skin that’s visible. Under her thin blouse and the lace of the bra she’s wearing beneath it, her nipples are obvious, already stiff and begging to be played with. “Should I tell you now? What I want you to let me do?”

“Yes,” Frankie says. It’s nothing like her normal voice at all. “Yes.”

She lets out a tiny moan, soft and teasing. Bait for Frankie, or that’s what it’s supposed to be, but instantly, Grace is caught too. Hearing proof of how much she wants this is impossibly arousing. A second moan, unplanned, slips from her mouth.

Frankie makes a sound of her own.

Grace could touch her own breasts and Frankie would never be the wiser. She could open the first few buttons of her blouse and let her fingers edge inside, slip under her bra, answer the aching skin that’s begging her to get touched.

She keeps her free hand at her side. It squeezes into a tight fist as Frankie breathes, “Keep talking, okay? Please.”

“I’ll stand right behind you. You’ll still be fully clothed. I’ll pull your hair to the side, first. Kiss your neck, in that place just below your ear. I know what that does to you.”

“Yes.” The same unfamiliar voice. “I know you know.”

“And while I’m kissing your neck, I’ll rest my hands on your waist—you have such a nice waist, Frankie, it’s really such a shame, the way you never let anyone see it—” She means the way you never let me see it.

“Remember, Grace, I’m more than just a sex object,” Frankie interrupts, in the longing tone of someone who wants, more than anything, to be a sex object. “I’ve got a brilliant mind, too. Not just this irresistibly seductive body you’re obsessed with touching.”

It’s Grace’s turn, now, to say, softly, “Shhh,” and astoundingly, it works. Frankie shuts up. “I’ll slide up past your waist, over your ribs, slowly, very slowly, until—” She inhales, caught in her own description. “Until I’m cupping your breasts. Do you want me to feel you up?”

“Ah—” Frankie gasps.  

“I thought so. I’ll be sure to take my time. Stroke you slowly.” Could she feel Frankie’s nipples through the layers of her clothing? How quickly could she get them tight? Would they be hard before Grace even starts to touch her?

“Be gentle, honey.” It’s strained. “Tease me a little. I like that.”

It’s Grace’s turn, now, to say, “Yes,” and the way she says it isn’t confirmation or agreement or anything other than a desperate need to do exactly what Frankie likes. “So gently. I’ll do it over and over again while you push back into me. And then you’ll pull one of my hands down between your legs.”

Frankie says, voice trembling, “Jesus. Tell me why, Grace.”

It’s not a question. Not a real one, anyway. They both know the answer. They both want to hear Grace say it.

“Because you can't stop yourself,” Grace whispers. She has to touch something. She has to. It isn’t cheating if it’s just a limb, is it? One hand grabs the outer curve of her leg, clutching it hard enough to make her ache, briefly, in two places. “You can’t stop yourself from grabbing my hand and putting it there. You need it as much as I do. Oh, God. I'll be able to feel you. Oh, God.”

Frankie’s breathing audibly into her ear. “Sweet fancy sanctified Moses,” she says, after a while. “Keep going. What else have you been imagining?”

“I think about the inside of your thigh.” How many times since Saturday has she reached for the memory of Frankie’s smooth skin against her fingers? It should be worn down by now, a little numbed. Instead, the thought jolts her with the same fresh shock of desire. “It’s—it’s so soft. I think—Frankie, I think it’ll feel even softer when I kiss you there.”

Grace waits for a response and doesn’t get one. More breathing, that’s all, fast little exhalations that tell her exactly what must be happening to Frankie on the other end of the line. It’s the same thing that’s happening on her side. Stumbling closer and closer to the edge they’ve been veering towards this entire conversation.

“That’s what I thought about when I used my vibrator this morning,” she continues, flushing hot with the thrill of admitting something so private. “The second time I’ll ask you to spread your legs for me. But it won’t be like last Saturday. Because this time, you’ll do it. And this time, I’ll go down on you.”

Frankie’s breath hitches. “Fuck,” she says, ragged. The obscenity is a promise, a lick.

“Put your hand on the back of my head?” It’s not supposed to sound like pleading, but— “Please, Frankie? Pull me into you?”

“Where? Be specific. I want to hear you say it.”

“Your—” She stops, tongue suddenly caught with unanticipated shyness. There are at least a few accurate terms that come to mind, but all of them are far too clinical for her purposes. “What word do you want me to use?”

“Grace,” Frankie says, and now she’s panting. Her cheeks must be pink with excitement, her hair spread out on the pillow as she lies in bed. “God. Anything. Speaker’s choice. Use what turns you on.”

Okay. All right. She can do that. Grace shifts again. Swallows. Says, quietly, “Your pussy.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken that word aloud in her entire life. Her clit pulses in response, everything pulses, she’s so fucking warm down there, and—oh, is that—? Is she getting wet? Oh.

Frankie’s exhale is sharp and shaking.

Adrenaline rushing through her, Grace continues, “That’s how I thought of it this morning. Because you called it that once. When we were designing the prototype. Do you remember? You wouldn’t look at me after. It—got me all flustered. Very flustered. I couldn’t think about why. Not then.”

Frankie whispers, “Yes. I remember. Tell me what you’ll do to it.”

What she’s imagined is a blur, less about careful planning and more about the promise of being overwhelmed by a sensation she craves: nose and tongue and chin grinding into heat, soft damp curls, slippery flesh. “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses, aroused enough to let honesty override embarrassment. “I’ve never—Frankie, I want to—I’ll do anything you ask, I’ll go inside you at the same time, if you like that—”

“I think—I think it wouldn’t matter what you did, just seeing you down there, just feeling you, knowing it’s you, it’ll make me so—”

“You’ll get so swollen, won’t you? Just like me. All swollen and tender, the same way I do when I’m almost there. This morning I pretended that I was you. Everything I was doing to myself, I was doing to you.” Her legs are trembling slightly. The phone feels hot, or maybe it’s her hand. She’d watched herself, stared down between her legs as she pressed the vibrator’s head just to the side of her clit and felt herself grow thick against the pressure. Thought, as she’d done it, about what that same growth might feel like inside her own mouth, what it might be like to suck the slick and ready nub into fullness.

“Did you come, baby?” Frankie asks her, softly, and this time, Grace can’t stop herself from gasping loudly. “Did thinking about me make you come?”

“Yes.” She’s starting to pant, too. “Yes. I came so hard.”

“Oh,” Frankie breathes, “oh, oh,” and it’s so similar to the way she’d sounded on their front porch that for the first time in her life Grace, nearly delirious, wonders if it’s actually possible to orgasm without direct contact. “That’s what I need. More than anything. I have to make you do that again. Your gorgeous face, the way you look when you— What else? What else do you need?”

Her mind would be whirling, if she still had one. If she were still a facsimile of a person. Not this constellation of homeless sparks frantically searching for anything that’ll help her burn.

Trembling, Grace opens her mouth, and says, with her own voice, “I need you to fuck me.”

Frankie whimpers. Just once. So quietly that Grace almost doesn’t hear her.

“And Frankie? I don’t want you to be gentle. Don’t worry, I can take it. Whatever you want to give me, I’ll take it. I’ve been practicing.”

Another wordless noise, this one louder, closer to a wail, and then, “Grace.”

“Fill me out. That’s what you imagined, isn’t it? What you told me you thought about while you were waiting for me to text you back on Sunday? Except there was another woman involved. Josephine, right? She was the one filling me out while you listened.”

“Oh, no,” Frankie moans, and the deep shudder of it tells Grace everything she needs to know, “oh—n-no, oh please, it’s too much, please, I can’t stand—”

“That drove you crazy, didn’t it? I can see why. The thought of another woman in your place.” She won’t bother to point out that Josephine isn’t real. If Frankie can bring up Jacob— “Another woman fucking me. Taking what belongs to you.”

A choked cry. “Grace, Grace, Grace —”

“Do you like hearing that, Frankie? Does it get you off, knowing this is yours?” She leans forward on the couch. Somehow the friction of her jeans makes the ache even worse, edging her into perfect agony. “I’d know you were on the other side of the door. I’d perform for you. I’d do everything I could to get you to touch yourself.” Like I am now. “Would you interrupt us while she had her hand inside me? Would you tell her to get out? After she left, oh— I’d be so empty. I wouldn’t be able to handle being that empty. Not with you looking at me.”

“Oh, my God,” Frankie gasps, “oh, God, yes, y-you—please, oh please, please—”

“I’d have to do penance. You’d have no other choice, Frankie. I let her give me what I needed. Except I wouldn’t really have what I needed. Because I wouldn’t have you. Not yet. Not until I earned it.”

“You want, you want me to make you beg for it—that’s what you’re saying, Grace, you want—”

They’re imagining the same thing. Grace knows this like she knows the topography of her own body under her hands, knows they’re both imagining Grace splayed open on her bed, exposed and half-fucked and frantic for more, while Frankie watches her. Watches, and then—

“Make me beg,” she whispers. What will it be like to ask for something she desperately needs and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Frankie’s going to give it to her? “Tomorrow. I want to beg.”

“Yes,” Frankie breathes, “oh, yes, I’d, but you said, you said, you just said it belongs to me, but Grace, you’re your own independent person, I can’t, I don’t own you, not even that part of you, you’re not a possession, it would be so wrong of me to want—”

“It’s yours.” She’s dizzy with how good this feels. Not just her body, but the rush of speaking these fantasies out loud, all the gifts Grace has let herself create and crave over the past week. “I’m yours, Frankie. Every single part of me.”

“Oh —”

“Talk to me, honey. Please. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“I’m—ah, I’m, I need to, I need to touch,” Frankie moans, and now it’s Grace’s turn to whimper, rocking into the cushion, unable to stop herself from grinding down. A little more pressure. Just a little. “I, I haven’t—I’ve kept my hands to myself, scout’s honor, I’m trying so— You’re not—?” It’s a little thin, a little unsure. “Not, right now—” Almost as if she expects to be contradicted, and maybe that’s what she’s hoping to hear.

“No!”

It’s true. She’s not touching herself. It feels like the biggest lie she’s ever told. Grace can’t stop thinking about touching herself, or being touched, or having both at the same time. Wanting it so badly that need’s almost the same as action, how she’s imagining hands everywhere on her, in her, the limits of what she thought she could take finding new ground.

“God, I’m not,” she says, again, and it’s close to a sob. “I promise.”

A pause, and then Frankie says, low, breathless, “That’s my good girl.”

Grace can’t stop the loud moan that comes out of her throat. It’s mortifying, how uninhibited she sounds even in her own ears, like someone else, someone shameless, someone peeled down into one shrieking nerve, and Frankie’s making a whole string of tiny noises in her ear. These little breathy cries. They might actually drive Grace insane if she doesn’t stop—

“Oh, I can’t keep doing this,” Grace chokes out, “I can’t do this anymore, Frankie, I can’t, I have to get off—right now—”

She’d meant the phone, get off the phone, but that’s not what it sounds like to either of them. Frankie cries out. The sound makes Grace’s arousal feels sentient, alive, what’s beating between her legs a thing with no other purpose or aim than being fucked.

Her crossed thighs squeeze together. I’m your good girl. She’d say the words out loud, if Frankie were here now, and open her shaking legs, waiting for what she could get. Unfilled and helpless. But Frankie isn’t here. Frankie’s fifteen minutes away, in another home that isn’t theirs, and there’s one more day to wait before they can fuck each other in person, the way Frankie wants. Properly. The two of them, skin to skin. Her bare skin sliding against Frankie’s bare skin, both sweat-slick. Her hot and eager mouth working these same sounds out of Frankie’s throat. One perfect paint-speckled finger stroking up the length of her slit while Grace writhes and thrusts up for contact and begs—

As if she understands what’s firing from the last remaining cells in Grace’s brain, Frankie pleads, “You have to put down the phone, okay, sweetheart? Right now. I know you need to come—”

Grace gasps. Throbs, hard, and bends forward again, so that she’s almost folded in two, still gasping.

“—and I need you to have that, just, please, I can’t listen—if I hear you it’ll make me—please, Grace, put down the phone, go— ”

She has permission. More than permission. Direction.

Grace pulls the phone away from her ear, stammering out something incoherent before her thumb finds the screen’s red button. The phone falls from her shaking hand, dropping onto the couch cushion.

Upstairs. Now.

Breathing hard, she’s hauled herself up from the couch and taken a couple of unsteady paces towards the stairs before what she’s facing becomes painfully obvious. Getting to her bedroom isn’t possible. Grace can’t make it that far, not in the condition she’s in. Can’t keep walking like this, the hot and heavy animal between her thighs pushing harder, hotter with the abrasion of each unbearable step. It’s too much to bear.

Humiliation burns through her body as she realizes what has to happen next. So far gone that she’s got no other choice but to fuck herself standing up, fully clothed— oh, God, Frankie, you’re right, I can’t wait —

The hallway off the dining room.

At least it’s farther from the open shutters than the living room. That’s the best she can manage. Somehow, Grace staggers herself there, managing to slap off a nearby light switch that’ll give her a little extra cover. Bracing her right hand flat against the painted wood slats, she leans towards the wall for balance. The other hand unbuttons her jeans as fast as she can manage, forcing the zipper open as she yanks them just below her hips, her underwear too, and then, without hesitating, she drives two fingers inside herself.

The cry that bursts out of her throat is almost a scream. Thrusting up again, crooking her fingers frantically into what’s swollen and so greedy, and fuck, she’s wet, she’s wetter than she thought she could ever get without help. All from telling Frankie what she needs. Slick enough that this doesn’t hurt her yet, despite how fast and hard she’s going, unable to slow down or do anything but chase that perfect impact over and over, nearly sobbing from how fucking good it feels to fill herself up. It’s so good, Jesus, she can’t stand how good, and Frankie knows she’s doing this, right now Frankie’s lying in a bed trying desperately not to slip a hand below the waistband of her pajamas while she thinks about Grace fucking herself, doing exactly what she’s been told, her good girl—

That’s all it takes. To no one, she whimpers, “Oh—please—” as she clenches violently around her hand, knees giving a little while the shockwave convulses through her body. The hand she’s got pressed on the wall scrabbles helplessly at the wood, moving in a poor mimicry of the fingers inside her, and maybe she’ll black out or fall but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care about anything except chasing this and getting it, having it, living inside it forever and ever and ever, this perfect miracle she’s made. And, for a while, she has exactly what she wants. Grace comes and comes and comes, her cries high and strangled as she works herself into completion.

It isn’t until the orgasm starts to recede, finally allowing awareness to seep slowly back in, that she realizes what she's done. Her mouth’s locked on her right arm, teeth clamped hard into her bicep.

With a gasp, she lifts her head. The light’s off in the hallway, but even so, in the dim glow streaming from the living room she can see the soaked patch on her silk sleeve. Underneath it, there must be bite marks in her skin. Two parentheses.

Dimly, she’s aware of the fingers inside her body, now motionless and cramped. Breathing hard, Grace pulls them out, slowly, feeling her tender skin protest with the friction as she moves. She’s done too much without lube, pushed her body beyond comfort, fucked herself too hard not to feel it in the morning. She’ll have to walk around with this undeniable proof between her legs. She’ll be sore. She’ll have to tell Frankie why.

Her hand’s in front of her face, sticky, and before she has time to think better of it, Grace slips one wet finger into her mouth, tasting herself for the first time. She closes her lips around it and sucks. The finger leaves her mouth with a soft pop. Oh. It’s sharp. Not bad. Maybe good. Something another person could like or even want.

Faint arousal licks at her again, impossibly, as she realizes that this is what she’ll taste like to Frankie.

She’s panting a little, still dizzy from her climax, leaning against the wall with her jeans below her hips, wrecked and raw and alive and home in herself. She remembers the poem Frankie bookmarked with Grace’s note, that odd cluster of broken sentences she didn’t understand and yet recognizes, as though they’re a path she can feel starting to unfold below her blind feet. Like your own body to you. She thinks about coming, and becoming. She thinks about where she belongs.

Grace thinks, Tomorrow.

There’s more than one kind of need and more than one kind of emptiness. Needing a lung to grow around the air you’ve been promised, or the aching cavity of a house waiting on one more person so it can hold a family.