Chapter Text
2009
In a rare good kind of miracle, the stars align, and the planet turns on its axis to the longest day and shortest night of the year, and on this day, Natalie Scatorccio marries Charlotte Matthews a second time.
No, she doesn’t vomit or bail.
She’s shoeless and in a white and red tux with Jackie at her side, and Shauna helping JJ carry the rings.
Nat cries like a fucking baby as Lottie floats down the aisle in an obscene mass of tulle and lace, looking like Stevie Nicks and Barbie and the 80’s cover of Bridal Weekly all rolled into one. Number five with the gold ribbons in her hair.
With Buddhism and Anglicanism on one side and Catholicism on the other, they choose to piss both sides off with a Celtic Neopagan officiant who talks about the trees and the wind for like fifteen minutes before they take their vows.
(Lottie draws blood on their first kiss as wives in the eyes of their friends and family. Nat bites her back in retaliation.)
Just like that, they’re married.
Married with the first dance to Wicked Game (the only song they could agree on, because Nat wanted Lovesong , but Lottie was insisting on Kiss From a Rose and Nat usually lets her princess get whatever she wants but not the pirate ass sounding Seal song). Nat’s face hurt from smiling, and her neck hurt from looking up, because Lottie wore six inch heels for their wedding .
They’re married.
Married with the champagne and the garter toss and the laughter from friends and family because they could not stop dancing. Every song, Lottie would be handing her glass of champagne off to another attendee and pulling Nat in saying, “I love this song. We have to dance to it.” And, yeah, Nat likes Kiss Me too, and yeah, she likes kissing her wife and swaying along to it.
Married with the whole fleet of cousins giving her back pats and shoulder squeezes (regaling her of the months Lottie spent moping around the farm in Aotearoa while they suggested different wooing techniques for getting Nat back), and married with a big family photo complete with all three of Lottie’s parents, Ben and Guy in their own complimentary suits, Misty with her bird (her date couldn’t make it), Nat’s aunt Phoebe in place of her mom, and Jackie holding her two year-old son in one arm and the massively pregnant Shauna in the other.
The happy ending she never really dared to dream of. Something so sweet and perfect that a jaded girl sitting on cold bleachers wouldn’t guess it for a moment.
This wasn’t how anything was supposed to go.
Now Nat’s the boring kind of married. The kind of married that tucks away the rock (because, “ Jesus Christ, Lottie how fucking big is this thing?”
“That’s what she said!”) and switches it out for a simple two toned wedding band. She’s the kind of boring married person who doesn’t want to get after work drinks, or go to parties, because he wife’s at home and they’ve been watching Life After People and going through all of the neighbourhood takeout options. She’s the kind of married person who picks up her wife’s meds at the upscale pharmacy and decides it’s a Friday night, so why not pick up a pint of ice cream and a bottle of Midol and a magazine, and oh--they’re low on lube.
It’s unheard of. The class of ‘97 wouldn’t believe Natalie Scatorccio as a devoted homebody, the Chelsea gaybourhood would be skeptical of Nat being the first to go home, and the New York punk scene would call her lame.
Nat calls herself tired. She calls herself settled. Fucking content, even.
“Evening Howard,” she says to the doorman--an older gentleman who collects first editions of classic literature.
The Nat of today shares the elevator with a pair of Dutch heiresses and a washed up movie star. The Nat of ten years ago was gritting her teeth about buying a mattress, now she has a fucking Tribeca apartment with a doorman and pool.
She still misses that Chelsea apartment that became home in a way nothing else has ever been before (or after if she’s honest). She misses the uneven stairs, and the smells of everyone’s cooking. She misses Ben’s stupid skincare routine, and Misty doing crunches on her little yoga mat. She misses Jackie, Jackie who was as much part of the house as the wallpaper. Her best guy, with the big eyes and the cigarette dangling from her lips. Jackie’s never far from hand, but it’s different now. Settled elsewhere. Home elsewhere.
At least, at this place, the elevator is always working.
Porky greets her at the door with her pitbull sing-song vocalizing and a biiiig stretch. She’s not needy and there are boots at the door and Alicia Keys on the Hi-Fi, so Lottie’s home.
Nat sheds her jacket on the coat rack that cost more than a stick you put coats on probably should, and puts her keys on the hanger. She drops her jeans into the hamper in the bathroom because she can’t even make it to the bedroom because what-the-fuck-ever. They have a laundry service and a cleaner, because as mentioned previously: rich people apartment. One that they actually fucking live in. Lottie hired an interior designer to pick their “aesthetic” and “palette” which are black and taupe for some reason. The hallway is littered with photos of them, from a really cute one of junior prom Misty managed to hunt down for a wedding present, to the pair of them trying on sunglasses at a tourist shop after that first night they spent together.
One of the walls is covered in books, the other has all of Nat’s guitars. They have a big modern kitchen that they barely use (Nat stops to put the ice cream in the freezer and pound back a Redbull), and a big bedroom with a view that they use all the time.
And what a view it is.
See, when you’re married, clothes around the house are just a suggestion. When you’re married and living together alone and it’s summer in New York, you can just come home to find your wife in one of your tank tops and one of her g-strings, and the pair of glasses that are pretty new (and overdue, considering Lottie is so fucking blind without them) and mind-blowingly sexy.
And, even though they’re married, and it might be old hat to some, Nat still gets excited when she hears the sex playlist and comes in to the room to find Lottie dressed like Nat’s very specific fetishes. From the glasses and the university grade reading assignment. And, from the sex playlist, Nat knows Charlotte had a rough day and is nursing a low grade headache. The kind of headache that can only really be relieved by a good scalp massage or by being pounded fast and hard into their (legally acquired) new mattress.
Nat’s happy to provide either, but with how many broken bike chains she had to wrestle with today, she’d rather take the Redbull and jackhammer her wife into submission using nothing but her hips and eight inches of silicone.
“Hi baby,” Lottie says with a slow smile that makes Nat melt, and she’s wearing Nat’s ring and pulling her close by the shirt.
“Hi,” Nat mirrors, pulling back despite the pout it gets her, and striding over to the toy drawer to grab the harness, “How was class?”
“Ugh, so I’m actually interested in the material, but Sloane presents it in the most difficult to parse way that I’m better off skipping and just doing the readings--but I actually like my class, so mostly I just doodled pictures of your boobs in the margins.”
“The Columbia psych department knows what my tits look like?” Nat asks with a laugh. Lottie joins her, getting on her knees, shooting Nat her big soft innocent baby seal look as she tightens the straps on Nat’s thighs.
“Frankie certainly does, she was wearing a T-Shirt of the bathtub shoot you did with Nan Goldin,” Lottie drops casually.
An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of Nat as she picks through their collection, she’s not sure she’d be so eager to let someone take a photo of her wet-haired and in the bath these days, but it’s become an iconic image of both her and the era.
“Does Frankie know that you’re married to these?” Nat asks, removing her T-shirt.
Lottie leans up to kiss at the dice tattoo on Nat’s ribcage as she hums along to the Beyonce song the playlist has switched to, “I’m lucky, I’m married to a whole torso,” she says, fang snagging at the corner of her lip. “How was work?”
Nat scoffs, combing Lottie’s hair back into a ponytail and then dragging her up by it, enjoying the blacked out and drunk look it gets her, “It’s barely a job.” It’s fixing up bikes at a shop called Bespoke because that’s the kind of humour the owner has. It keeps her hands busy and pays for Porkchop’s ear medication, but it’s not her higher calling.
“You barely need to be employed,” Lottie pecks her lips before taking a huge bite into Nat’s shoulder. The bloom of pain makes her jog her hips and rut her silicone dick between her wife’s thighs.
“Guh, you fucking vampire,” she giggles as her head lolls back.
“Delicious,” Lottie pulls back to say.
(For a moment, Nat pants as she looks up and remembers Lottie with black, black eyes, and a red mouth and how she always wondered what her guts would look like between her wife’s teeth. She hopes Lottie would be romantic and eat her heart first. It’s always had her name on it, after all.)
They remember to call the Thai place before Nat holds Lottie by the back of her knees and fucks her quick and dirty into the sheets. Topping Lottie is a beautiful thing. Out of all the people in the world, Nat’s the only one who gets to do it. And, when she does, she treats it like the honour it is. She’s worked on her core and hip strength, her stamina, and her memory of where Lottie’s most sensitive internal spots are. It’s easier when it’s anal, because her wife is a closeted butt slut. The golden sentence for when Lottie is fussy and cranky and struggling to articulate why: “If you keep being a brat, I’m gonna have to punish your ass,” or some variation always results in needy noises and dark hair wrapped around Nat’s fist.
Tonight’s not that kind of night though. They don’t have the time that Nat likes to reserve for making Lottie twitch and wail incoherently against the duvet.
After sharing a breathless orgasm, followed by a lot of nuzzling, they get the call that tells them the food’s ready.
“Ughhh, do we have to go tonight?” Lottie fusses, and Nat palms her ass as she considers it. She’s fucking sleepy and there’s this problem where Lottie has the comfiest boobs to nap on. However, the ever-present growl of her best friend’s voice enters her brain to scold her:
“Natalie, you always complain about how we never hang out, and then you bail on our plans like… every time.”
“C’mon, you’ll get to see your little boy.”
Lottie’s eyes shift at that, “I want to see my little boy.”
It’s American Idol night which means they have to drive across the bridge to Chez Shaylor and Lottie keeps making noises about how there’s a place for rent like three blocks away from Jackie and Shauna’s and Porky would appreciate the yard . Which, like, Nat knows. It’s perfect. They could make a whole thing about jogging clubs and, Lottie would really prefer the private pool, and they’d be close enough to take JJ and Callie whenever Shauna and Jackie need a break.
It’s just.
Jackie’s the one who announced that she and Shauna were looking for their own place first, and she was the one who stopped calling every day first, and Nat knows her well enough to know that she didn’t mean anything by it --Jesus, she’s not Shauna. It just smarts. Going from being someone’s person to a peripheral. It’s like going from being a Barbie to a Ken in the dreamhouse of Jackie Taylor’s life.
Now, with a bridge and two kids filling in the gaps between them there’s a plausible deniability for the growth they’ve made in opposite directions.
Moving back into Jackie’s orbit to find herself still feeling light years away might actually break her.
But, Nat has no reason to break. She’s married, you see, has a dog and a nice apartment, a fancy car with heated leather seats that help the driver who is currently having to sit a little more gingerly after the beating Nat just gave her pussy.
Lottie drums the beat of the OneRepublic song on the radio against Nat’s thigh as they cross the bridge, street lights blooming into spots of illumination on her glasses.
“My mom called earlier,” she says.
“How’s Em?”
“Pissy. Tayn’s kindergarten teacher mistook her for his grandmother and Nainai thought it was hilarious.”
Nainai is Lottie’s grandmother, and she is the shadiest old bitch Nat has ever met. She’s the best. Total card shark with a wicked chili crab recipe. She’s pretty tall for an old lady and Nat’s never seen her without an impeccable perm and jewel toned kebaya. And, despite living in New Jersey for like, thirty years, and having a framed photo of Bruce Springsteen, Nainai still pretends she can’t speak English. (It’s all good, Nat’s been practising her Mandarin, especially because, on their first night visiting Nainai’s manor, Lottie rolled over in bed and said, “I’m gonna become really Asian as I age. Or really white. I haven’t decided yet.” Māori not being on that list kind of breaks Nat’s heart, but Lottie still struggles with claiming her whakapapa due to the whole growing up in New Jersey thing.
“Okay,” Nat said, “I’m gonna get really Italian, because I don’t get to choose. It’s gonna be great. We’re gonna have two fridges. So don’t worry, we can put your macca root and ginseng smoothie ingredients in the pasta sauce fridge.”
“I see you’ve considered every circle of the venn diagram of where old ‘spiritual’ white ladies, and old Asian women meet.”)
Nat lights a cigarette and rolls down the window to enjoy the air current, and to avoid hotboxing the car, “Nainai’s there?”
“Mm, she says hi, by the way. Wants to remind us that she’s only got so many years left and would love to spend them with some great-grandchildren.”
“Didn’t she hear? Tayn is her great-grandchild.”
“Come on, Callie, just latch… please…” Shauna pleads with her screaming daughter. In another bullshit trick of fate, her attempts at motherhood are just as fraught as her attempts at sisterhood, childhood, and love have been. Callie can sense how unworthy Shauna is, and that’s why she’s barely stopped crying in the three months she was born.
Colic, just like Jackie had when she was a baby, so, Jackie takes credit for it, despite offering zero genetic material to Callie’s conception.
It doesn’t stop Jackie from acting like their babies are theirs and only theirs, despite Callie having Jeff’s nose, and Jack having his forehead.
“Don’t be silly,” Jackie always says, “He has your dad’s forehead, not Jeff’s,” and she says it with such confidence that Shauna actually believes it.
Jackie Taylor(-Shipman), like G-d and Bigfoot and UFOs, somehow too charming not to believe. Just like she’s believing in Jackie that Callie’s eyes will settle as her own brown and not Jeff’s washed out blue like they currently are. It was a relief to wake up one morning and see JJ’s eyes had darkened to Jackie’s yellow hazel-green.
It’s like her children can smell fear, and that’s why Callie has been screaming non-stop since she was born--setting her brother off with her.
Shauna Shipman never thought she’d be married to Jackie Taylor. Not… not never, actually. Once upon a time, when she was like, seven, and dressing up in oversized heels and Mrs. Taylor’s old veil, they roleplayed getting married, and even though Marilyn found them and hauled Jackie off to another room to beat her, they still held hands at recess and told the other kids they were married. Maybe Marilyn’s actions deterred Shauna’s maturing mind, or maybe it was just reality. She grew up thinking that Jackie was meant for the Hamptons and some guy named Brad who looked either like the one from Rocky Horror or Fred from Scooby-Doo , but she wasn’t meant for Shauna. Shauna was meant for some other Jewish intellectual named Rachel, or Adam who she’d marry after college and have a messy divorce involving 2.5 kids and moving back in with her mother. That old apple not falling far from the tree thing.
This isn’t how anything was supposed to happen , crosses her mind more than once when the Jackie Taylor she expected to passenger princess her way through parenthood the same way she ducked responsibility in all aspects of life, gets up for the midnight feeding without a fuss. She was obsessed with her childhood Jackie, but post-NYC Jackie? Shauna’s in awe. A worshipper at the shrine of easy home improvement and drinking soy milk directly from the carton. Her wife Jackie can bounce a baby with one arm and stir a pot with the other, all while maintaining a three-way phone conversation between former roommates. Competence on Jackie is so fucking sexy that Shauna’s response to finding her fixing the sink was to shuck her work pants down and eat her pussy as efficiently as possible. They only had so many moments that the kids were both down for a nap.
Jackie must have a similar fetish, because every time Shauna shows off her knife skills on a complicated piece of meat, Jackie fingers her right against the counter, teeth digging into Shauna’s ear hard enough to snap it off one day.
They had to break apart to fit back together perfectly. Matching shirts, matching wedding rings, matching pinkies kept in little glass vials.
Matching plans with Jackie’s friends, who are technically Shauna’s friends because she likes Lottie and Natalie even if that wretched, jealous part of her heart wants to snarl and guard her family from interlopers.
But, it’s American Idol night and Callie is still refusing to feed, and Jack is hungry and whining about the mismatched attention between him and the newborn.
Which has her juggling two screaming children while Jackie runs for the door bell.
“Ding-dong,” Lottie announces, tottering through the door with Nat in tow. They carry three bags of takeout between them.
Shauna inhales sharply as all five feet and ten inches of Lottie Matthews drifts into her personal bubble and reaches for Callie.
“Do you want a break? I can take her,” Lottie says in a soft voice and with big soft eyes that make Shauna want to cave her whole face in.
“I’ve got her, thanks,” she says with as much venom as possible.
Callie, in a rare showing of solidarity, ceases her wailing and latches onto her breast. Over in the kitchen she can hear Nat and Jackie sharing growly laughs and tearing into takeout packages.
“Come on Little Man, let’s let Mommy and Callie have quiet time, okay?” Lottie says, like they’re married , and scoops him up for tummy raspberries. She carries him off to the kitchen with a soft smile to Shauna. For once, Shauna doesn’t fight the grateful grin she flashes back.
American Idol night was made a thing because Jackie misses Natalie and Natalie misses Jackie and Shauna is at peace with that. They lived together for a decade. She and Jackie still speak their own language, Jackie is just also fluent in the idiosyncrasies of Nat Scatorccio.
Idiosyncrasies like: yelling Big EYE-talian Guy back and forth, or acting like they’re cannibals every time they eat a vegetarian pizza, and everyone else being a fucking vegetarian in this household. Shauna doesn’t openly gripe about this as they sit down on the blue corner couch Jackie insisted they decorate their entire living room around. (And, no, they did not buy it from Jeff’s store. Even if he did offer them a ‘family discount’.)
Just a trip across the river does offer better takeout options, and it is nice to have two extra pairs of hands to take care of the kids so she and Jackie can actually eat together rather than staggering meal times.
“That’s right Cal,” Nat’s growling as she bounces a, surprisingly, giggly and happy Calliope Jane Taylor-Shipman, “You tell me who’s boss.” Then presses a number of grumbly kisses to the apples of Callie’s cheeks.
Jackie unconsciously passes her chopsticks to Shauna as she presses into her thigh while JJ is trying to explain the dinosaur game to “Auntie Lolly”.
“I think Ryan Seacrest is a sentient mannequin,” Jackie says as the over-coiffed man interviews potential pop stars with plastic enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I could see that.” “Sure, I’ll integrate that into my belief system,” the Matthews women say simultaneously.
Shauna’s biting through a piece of spiced potato as she feels Jackie stiffen against her. Shauna checks the windows and door first, on alert for the house, but Jackie’s focus is on the TV where Ryan Seacrest is interviewing a small puckish woman with bleached blonde hair and the thinnest eyebrows Shauna has ever seen (the overplucking trend took its own bite out of her brows).
“So, you’ve been trying to get into the biz for a while, I’ve heard,” Ryan asks.
The woman nods, “Yeah, I was part of a punk band back in New York in the early aughts.”
“Anyone I know?” he laughs.
“I mean, it’s punk so….”
“Fffucking Chloe Fandango,” Jackie spits.
“Huh, was wondering about her the other day,” Nat says, then laughs at the affronted look Lottie gives her, “Oh my god, not like that.”
“Thought you were fine with the whole open marriage thing ,” Shauna mutters under her breath.
“She just… disappeared off the face of the Earth after leaving like fifty messages on our machine. I thought Jackie might have ordered a hit on her or something,” Nat jokes.
Jackie chokes on her food, and Shauna wordlessly hands her water and keeps her own damn mouth shut.
“Well, I guess she was getting lip filler and an eyebrow removal,” Lottie says cattily.
“Whatsan eyebrowremoval?” JJ asks in the cutest little voice that has them all ‘aww’ing.
“It’s a grooming trend and why your Mommas and Aunties have eyebrows too thin for the current style,” Lottie elaborates like she’s talking to a gay teenage boy.
“It’s a bad idea, baby, don’t worry about it,” Jackie says in her dismissive Marilyn Taylor voice.
Shauna’s still staring at the side of her wife’s head, admiring how still Jackie can be under observation, because last time Shauna checked, Jackie did put out a hit on Chloe Fandango .
Later, when they’re getting ready for bed, (a ritual involving changed pillow cases, and fluffed pillows, and pulling back the duvet to settle in with Jackie’s left armpit right by her head) that Jackie says, “Maybe she just knew to lay low and get out of town in time. Either way, it’s not like she’s gonna darken Nat’s doorstep anytime soon. See? Sometimes murder isn’t the answer.”
Jackie doesn’t mean for it to sting, Shauna knows that by now, but it still has her rolling onto her side with her back turned to her wife as the turn out the lights.
She wets her lips, readying herself for a confrontation when the air splits with another peal of Callie’s cries.
“Fffuck’s sakes,” Shauna groans.
“I’ll get it,” Jackie says, kissing her shoulder before shuffling to the end of the bed to pull the infant out of her cradle.
Misty Quigley has never fallen in love. Not really. She’s known infatuation--first Mickey Friedberg (the first boy to love Labyrinth as much as she did, Mickey later turned out to be gay), then Coach Ben Scott (also gay), and then Natalie Scatorccio (which was when Misty found out she was the gay one). She had a thing for dark, damaged, and troubled types. Real fixer-uppers. Mickey, for example, notoriously chewed with his mouth open.
And she didn’t even mean to fall in love with Natalie, at first… well, again if you can call whatever it was that they had. Have. Love.
Speaking of infatuated, Natalie’s been like, obsessed with Lottie Matthews since high school--how embarrassing! Well, they’re married now, and that works for them. She kinda gets it. Lottie’s tall, and rich, and classically pretty, in a unique way. She’s not stunning and jagged like Nat, but few people are.
Anyway, after that blew up, and Misty realized that her relationship needs weren’t exactly conventional. She had resigned herself to a quiet life with Caligula, and the occasional female caller, not expecting to fall truly, madly, deeply.
It started, as most things in her life do, on a Livejournal community.
A discussion thread about Amanda Knox and how much of the evidence was purely circumstantial got her a private message from ‘username1665’ saying, “I see you on every thread about this. Got some kind of personal stake or something?”
Which--she has vested interests in steering the conversations away from bringing up another similar murder case, OKAY?
“What’s it to you?” Misty replied as she typed.
“Call me curious. I have another case I’m working on. Something personal, not for the general boards. I was wondering if you had any insights.”
Which began a game of cat and also cat. Circling each other, feeling each other out, gaining insights from mutual respect.
She found herself spending long nights up talking, flirting, maybe with ‘username1665’, who she gleaned from a doxxing attempt, was on the road a lot. Woman. About Misty’s age, maybe younger. Military background for sure.
Or, username1665 could be an Akron, Ohio accountant with too much time on their hands. But, if it was then… look, Misty wasn’t going to fall for Becky Hammond making up a fake boyfriend for her again.
She joked about it enough for “UN” to finally crack and say, “What about a phone call then? I need someone to keep me company on a long drive anyway.”
“I mean, I’ve never heard your voice before, so it’s kind of moot regardless. I don’t have a face to match it with.”
“A face is too much right now, but if you don’t wanna have a call….”
“No! No. I mean, why not? Right. I’ve got the night off.”
UN’s voice was smooth, rich, and with any sort of accent filed off like serial numbers. Not what Misty expected. She felt her cheeks flush, “So, what kind of music do you usually listen to on long drives? I’m a musicals gal myself.”
“Not a big fan of musicals,” the other woman drawled.
Well, no one’s perfect.
2013
“This is our signature scent it’s called Serenity and it’s a combination of Sandalwood, lemon, and ylang-ylang. The latter--god, so when I was backpacking in the Philippines I kept smelling this amazing scent that gave me the best sleep of my life.”
Lottie has been to the Philippines approximately once. She stayed in the Manila airport while waiting for a layover.
That’s not what she’s selling though.
The women in front of her inhaling close their eyes and for a moment, they are young and beautiful and sleeping under broad leaves and bright stars.
This is somebody’s truth.
Probably.
Lottie’s truth is that she’s damn good at sales. Not the selling of products, per se. She can make up any story about any product, and maybe she’d be just as successful in another life, behind the counter of an expensive boutique, making eyes at the cranky goth who works at the coffee shop--who knows. In this life, Lottie lives at the axis of rich, beautiful, and skinny. People want the secret to her flawless skin and thick hair. They think that by buying Ylang-ylang essential oils, or sea sponge loofahs, that they’ll become youthful, lean, and energetic.
Lottie could sell an umbrella to an astronaut if they thought it meant they could be more like Lottie Matthews .
It’s something she’s spent her whole life leveraging--from dodging TJ Maxx security to haggling the farmers’ market hucksters selling overpriced sea sponges and olive oil soap down to cost.
“I think you’re an evil genius,” Van says, cracking peanuts in their molars and hiding from the sun in a Jurassic Park style hat. They’re actually dressed like a kind of amalgamation of Jurassic Park characters today, with the taupe khakis and the red gingham shirt.
The two of them are at a farmer’s market, so Lottie’s opted for a flowy floral pants and a tank top under a $200 cardigan to show that: 1. She means business. And, 2. She has expensive taste.
She has expensive taste when she’s purchasing local wellness products for the Utopia ‘Spa Experience’ packages and she has expensive taste when she’s picking out a wife.
Because Natalie is a top shelf woman. Perfect figure, glossy hair, big expressive eyes, a soft pout, and dimples to boot? The kind of girl who can open a beer bottle with a set of keys and hop a fence? A girl who looks amazing dressed up like a screen siren, or dressed down in a loose tee and panties?
Nat was in danger of ending up with some cheap man making her feel like she was worth less.
Lottie had no choice but to intervene.
See, when it’s worth it, she’ll splurge on diamonds, jewels, and designer dresses. She’ll pay full price for the right cause (Natalie in crotchless lace panties and thousand dollar heels, screaming against the mirror Lottie’s fucking her against, being one of them).
Snake oil and scented candles though?
“Your dad has you hawking this bullshit?” Van asks, sipping from an overpriced and dissatisfying lemonade.
“Mmhm, I’m officially ‘head of wellness’.”
“A bit ironic,” Van drawls.
“Thanks, Van,” the weight of that dig hits Lottie with a craving for a cigarette.
She’s barely had time to dig into her purse for her pack of Pall Malls when there’s a little tugging on her pants.
The girl is maybe two years-old and cherubic--all white blonde curls and chubby cheeks as she offers up a dandelion with a shy smile.
Van’s grinning as Lottie kneels down to accept the flower, “Thank you.”
“Olivia! Don’t go wandering off,” the girl’s mother chides her as she arrives with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that. She’s been giving flowers to strange women all day.”
“Little Casanova,” Van comments.
Lottie would elbow them if they were closer. Instead, she looks the little girl in her big blue eyes and says, “Thank you for the flower, Olivia. I like it very much.”
Olivia gets so flustered she hides her face in her mother’s legs. Lottie laughs and gets up, “She’s very sweet.”
She and Van end up at a picnic table with an eclectic batch of provisions.
“The candied nuts are good,” Van comments offering the bag.
Lottie shrugs, preferring her cigarette.
“You’re not going all Kate Moss on me, are you?” Van checks in.
Lottie sighs and rests on her elbows, “It’s not so much a lack of eating as it’s that I can’t taste anything.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yup. The drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, nor the company in the world would harm or slake our lust.”
Van frowns a moment, mouthing the words, then says, “Wait, are you quoting Pirates of the Caribbean at me, right now?”
Another shrug of muscular, tanned shoulders, “It’s a curse, you know. Being stuck between living in a world wrapped in cellophane versus losing my fucking mind.”
“I mean,” Van swallows a mouthful of nuts and switches to lemonade, “When you don’t take them… are you,” they gesture with wiggling fingers, “All the time?”
Lottie shakes her head, then nods, then waffles between the two helplessly, “Maybe? I don’t know. It’s not like I’m in Candyland or anything, I just... I've spent months talking to investors who weren't fucking real. And if they aren't real, then are you? Am I having this conversation with myself right now?”
Van’s aware that they haven’t been the best at this--keeping people on an even keel. They got to see the full wrath of Jackie Taylor at their door when a shared joint ended up with Nat taking ANOTHER trip to rehab.
Something about the D.A.R.E program was right, or PeeWee Herman telling them that this is your brain on drugs, something about not even once .
And Van fucking knew that. They knew that “Just a glass of wine with dinner,” in Momspeak translated to, “I’m going to fall asleep cuddling this bottle.” That the trips to AA followed by the uneasy weeks of stability--going to school with clean clothes and a packed lunch for a change (before giving up and taking over the laundry and the shopping and the meal planning so that their younger siblings wouldn’t have to live like this)--were more uneasy than the weeks of Mom passed out drunk on the couch. Van knew what addiction looked like. They knew how fucking steep the cliff was.
But, they also knew their friends. It was hard to line the two images up: Nat and Lottie goofing off in the pool after a joint, or hooting over shots of tequila. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t like that.
“You haven’t had to talk Lottie down because she swears there’s a dead body somewhere in the attic of my fucking house. You haven’t been there,” Jackie hissed.
And yeah, it wasn’t bad when they were kids, but Van sees it now. Her friends are married, but each has one foot in a roller skate and the other on a banana peel, and if one goes down they both go down.
“I mean. I can fail to do a backflip if that convinces you I'm real," gets Van a laugh.
"You think you could only pull it off if I was delusional?" she asks.
"In not as many words," Van grins, then switches tracks,"Look, if the meds aren’t working, Lott…”
Lottie sighs and kind of deflates in that way she does, all dark hair and long limbs, and shadowed eyes, “You know, I started getting into alternative medicine because maybe… some combination of other things is better… maybe I can find the golden ratio of--”
“What? Fucking… ginseng root and goji berries? Dude, you know this can’t be fixed with crystals and incense.”
It’s not the answer Lottie wants, because she huffs and presses her fingers into her forehead, “I know. I know. And, it’s why… after December’s fun little episode, I’ve been thinking about getting electroshock therapy.”
“Fucking what?” Van lowers their voice after a bunch of heads turn towards them, “You’re thinking of getting the old 1960’s hysteria torture treatment?”
“It’s a safe procedure and… it can replace medication reliance.”
“Fuck, dude. Have you talked to Nat about it?”
“I don't want to burden her with it more than I already have. Besides, she's such an alarmist, she'll think I'm getting a lobotomy.”
“It’s not a lobotomy, is it?” Van asks.
Lottie rolls her eyes, "Lobotomies have been illegal, like, everywhere since the 1970's, Van," then sighs, "It’s supposed to… reroute some things, maybe make my brain stop producing so much serotonin that I can’t sleep,” she says with such hope that it sounds more like a Christmas wish than a psychiatric procedure.
“Shit, Lott… it sounds better than meditation and smoothies at least.”
“How easy is it to get a divorce?”
Taissa scoffs against the receiver, “Natalie, I have actual important work to do today.”
“My wife is sticking her brain in a light socket because she doesn’t want to try another type of medication.”
Tai exhales sharply and searches her desk for a pen and pad of paper. She can’t fucking find anything these days. It’s like the cleaning staff is shuffling everything around every day. She swears, she’s going to switch cleaning companies.
“Don’t you have some kind of spousal veto right against this?” Tai sighs, “She’s clearly not in her right mind.”
“I’m not gonna fucking lock her out of it. I’m just pissed off that once again she’s struggling with this without telling me, and we’re fucking… we’re married, man. She’s supposed to talk to me.”
Taissa sighs as she pushes away the separate bank account she just took out for ‘rainy days’.
“So, what? You’re gonna divorce her about it instead of talking to her about it? That'll show her, right?”
Nat hangs up.
Jackie Taylor-Shipman, Hoboken City Council, is used to cleaning up interpersonal conflict.
She also has a small house with two screaming children, so when Natalie shows up on the front stoop with a suitcase that so clearly says “ask me about my marital problems”, Jackie sets up the couch. For a moment, she’s glad it’s Nat she has custody of, because even with the L-shaped couch, Lottie would be so squished.
“I just don’t know how this is gonna work if she doesn’t trust me enough to talk about this kinda thing,” Nat says.
And, Jackie gets it. Jackie still has to coax what’s bothering Shauna out of her using food, sex, or jealousy, but she also knows that Nat is making herself miserable right now. She knows Lottie is probably curled up in some corner of the house watching Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls all while looking like the dampest, most sad creature in the world. And, Jackie knows both of these idiots will be stuck in this loop of miscommunication and sacrifice until the heat death of the universe unless she intervenes. She has to intervene, because Shauna will kill her and Nat, and then revive her (not Nat) if they have company staying on the couch more than three nights in a row.
Clock’s ticking.
Also, as her two best friends, she likes to see them living their deeply horny and weird happily ever after. Just… from a few houses over. Because she loves Nat. And she loves Lottie. And she loves their love. (Loves their sex life. Maybe is a little too curious about it.) She’s absolutely not going to let another three years of their pining go by. Nat is going to be home and in her own bed, with her own damn wife by the end of the week.
They’re just gonna… rewatch The Matrix trilogy first. Callie and Jack are sprawled between them and allowed a sugary cereal cheat day because Shauna's away for her first book tour locations (yay Shauna!), and
Fixing any relationship fissure requires back up. And, knowing her team, she knows just who to enlist.
“Surprise! When you said it was a crisis, I thought, duh, Marie’s Crisis Cafe . Such a perfect spot. Mm, they do an amazing Chocolate Martini here. Isn’t this fun?! I’m so glad we get to start spending more time hanging out… going to shows… oh! They’ve got this great new musical Off-Broadway. It’s about this lesbian who realizes that her abusive father was also gay, and tries to come to terms with it. It’s called--”
“ Fun Home ? Like, the book by Alison Bechdel,” Nat squints at her.
“Oh! So you already know it.”
“Yeah, I know who Alison Bechdel is. I used to read Dykes to Watch Out For all the time.”
“Great, so we’ll have to go to a showing. Oh! Oh! Oh! Natalie, they’re singing Seasons of Love. ”
“Babe, you are doing way too well,” Simone says.
Taissa wiggles in her spot, “Babe, my whole job is resource management, I should hope I can throw down at Settlers of Catan,” before taking a self-satisfied sip of wine and looking Lottie’s way. The lighting is such that, from her spot, Tai’s eyes look red as blood.
But, that’s probably not real. Just like how Biscuit the dog, currently resting his chin on her knees, probably doesn’t have such human looking eyes that she feels like he’s about to start producing human speech. When she looks up from the man trapped in a dog’s body she finds the other two looking at her expectantly. Like she knows how to play this game and hasn’t just been hoarding the sheep tiles because they’re cute.
“Let me know if you need another refresher,” Tai says, in that way she would say that to the JV members she intended to destroy during practice.
Lottie, feeling the walls pushing against her--between Tai and Simone’s weird smug exchanges, the living Tim Allen movie licking the same spot on her pants, and the sheep tiles, Lottie stands up.
“I have to use the washroom.”
“Purple hyacinths. Elevated apology flowers, I’m impressed,” Lottie says against Nat’s hair.
Nat grunts as she nestles in closer, “Yeah, well, this really annoying girl I used to date got me all into that ‘language of flowers’ stuff by leaving this complex apology bouquet.”
Lottie scoffs, “Sounds pretentious. Dumping her was the right call.”
“You’d think that, but she uh, actually keeps me sane in this crazy world,” Nat yawns, "Thanks for the basic roses."
And, in their little cocoon tucked away from the world, Lottie Matthews begins to tell Natalie Matthews about the lack of taste, and the way she worries about losing her libido again, and how safe the procedure is.
“I was never against you getting it done, I was just against you not telling me this stuff when it’s getting bad.”
Maybe mid-life crisis isn’t just a global conspiracy to make anyone over 35 feel like shit.
Lottie blames bailing this morning on the knee injury from the game against Phoenix Phoenixes (real clever name) and not on the recent blast of electricity between her hemispheres. Then when she finally made it to the bathroom she started huffing about forehead wrinkles and maybe, “Just a bit of botox…” .
Nat likes them. She likes that she’s got a roadmap of every divot and line Lottie has. From the scar in the shape of Nat's teeth on her bicep to the elegant number 7 tattooed on her hip. She thinks that maybe that marriage is more about witnessing. Maybe love is, anyway.
It doesn’t stop Lottie from going on another health kick .
“I think I’m gonna cut rice. Do you think I should cut rice?” she says while inspecting her flawless skin.
“Baby, if you cut rice your hair is gonna get all light brown and fluffy and you hate that,” Nat replies, even though she’s focusing on some musical notation.
“I hate that you know all the Asian secrets now.”
“闭嘴, 我知道你觉得这很性感,” Nat fires back.
Luckily the old guitar is sturdy enough to withstand being tossed aside and being replaced with a lap full of wife, "Hi?" Nat laughs.
"Talk dirty in Mandarin to me some more."
"You're so fucking easy."
Still, even with distracting kisses and, “Your forehead lines are so sexy, Baby, come back to bed.” Nat gets roped in along in the pursuit of self-care.
Lottie, being Lottie, incentivizes the whole thing with making it a game . She talks at business dinners about how she likes her woman to look a certain way. Dictates through notes what colour of nail polish Nat is supposed to get at the salon, how her hair is supposed to look. If Lottie wants Nat to look California trophy wife with golden hair, golden skin, and a matching pickle ball uniform, then sign Tracy Dick up for the fucking country club.
It creeps Jackie out, but Jackie’s never really gotten how they work. It’s psychosexual chicken. And, it’s love and care.
Infuriatingly, Jackie has aged the least out of all of them. Nat’s pretty sure she’s doing blood rituals or microdosing placenta or something. It didn’t stop her from throwing her back out shovelling snow last winter. It’s funny hanging out with her and Shauna, because Jackie’s voice is so low and Shauna’s is so high they’re like a married pair of muppets. They’re all sitcom moms talking about charter schools and which kindergartens are going to lead to early Harvard admission (fucking what? When did that become a thing? God forbid kids just go to school and have fun, everything is turning into a job interview these days) even though Lottie’s obviously going to pull some strings to get Jack and Callie into whatever school they want. Fuck, Nat will pull some strings. She goes to the Russian baths, she meets the people who run things. And, yeah, maybe she gave a signed guitar to the Dean of Columbia’s son to get Lottie that honorary doctorate. It’s worth it to be able to finally buy something for the girl who’s had everything their whole lives.
Misty’s Misty about ageing, and marriage, if anyone’s being honest.
“With my busy posting schedule, and my walking club, and caring for Caligula, I just don’t have time. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. Sometimes my face is a little puffy in the mornings, so I put on an ice pack while I do my stretches. After I remove the ice pack I use a Mary Kay deep pore cleanser lotion. Then the mint rejuvenation mask, alcohol-free, so it doesn’t dry out my skin. I can send you a sample pack if you like!”
She says all of this like Lottie isn’t in the Utopia labs trying to perfect the formula to the fountain of youth to pour on their faces.
“Hey divorced guy. How’s being divorced?” Nat answers the phone.
“It’s been two years, Nat, you need a new joke,” Travis replies sullenly. He doesn’t know that it isn’t so much a him thing, as it’s a… reminding herself of how close she came to the same edge thing.
If by close, like, three days of living on Jackie’s couch.
“Sorry. Hey still-divorced guy.”
“Naaaat.”
“What’s up, Trav?”
“Do you think I could be a soccer coach?” he asks, like he’s actually considering it. And, like, she can relate to the need-slash-desire for a career change. Fixing bikes is fun, it relaxes her brain and busies her hands in a way that only playing music or getting topped does, but she’s in creative hibernation mode and she and Lottie aren’t unburdened twentysomethings anymore. They can’t spend the day hiding away in bed. (Well, to be fair, they’re rich enough to not have to work, but the Nat who grew up having sleep for dinner never feels comfortable without a safety net.)
So, bikes. Nat pauses in replacing the wheel she has in front of her, “No fucking way. Why?”
He sighs, “I need to get out of construction. I’m like, thirty-five, and my body’s busted.”
“I mean, tell me about it. Lottie bailed on her way out of bed yesterday because of a ninth grade knee injury.” Nat doesn’t add that she had to talk her wife down from a meltdown that same morning on account of new eye wrinkles.
“Fucking knees, man,” Travis agrees, “They’re bullshit.”
“So, what? You wanna spend your days with your hands on your hips, watching baby dykes chase each other around a field because that’s what your dad did?” Nat goes back to switching tires, ignoring the weird looks that sentence gets her.
“No? Yes? I don’t know…” he sighs.
“Trav, you’re floundering. You’re not your dad, and you’re not a coach.”
“Yeah, I know,” she can tell he’s rubbing his neck in the way he does, “It’s just a better idea than grocery store manager or… cab driver.”
“Are you just going through the job postings on Craigslist?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Trav, do you really wanna work for someone else?”
“...No.”
“So, use your brain to think and come up with a new idea instead of crawling to other people.” Nat pushes back from the bike to look at her progress in satisfaction. Another bike well done.
“When did you get so fucking wise?” he laughs.
“Somewhere between the overdose and the almost-divorce.”
“Maybe I should start calling you Almost-Divorced guy then.”
2014
“Ugh, I thought that meeting was never gonna end. Kramer can eat shit if he thinks I’m voting for his fucking weird yacht parade idea.”
“No, no, it’s definitely not the most batshit proposal I’ve heard,” Tai laughs, waiting for the light to turn.
“Including your own?” Jackie teases, fishing through her purse.
Tai glowers at her as she accelerates forward without checking the intersection. They’re in Tai’s car, lunches purchased from this little hole in the wall deli that has an eggplant parm definitely worth showing off. It’s weird. Getting lunch with Jackie like it ain’t no thing. There’s a console between them, not a field of turf and a Captain title. Any old rivalries are long buried between them. Right next to Rachel and the pilots.
Well, almost all old rivalries.
“I still can’t believe you got gay married before me,” Tai says petulantly.
“Nat and Lottie got gay married before you, Tai. Like, you’ve been many things over the years, but slow?”
“Fffuck off, Taylor,” Tai laughs, almost running a red light, “Or I won’t approve this little rec centre you’re proposing.”
“Going through children to get to me? Why, Mayor Turner, didn’t you list putting the children first in your campaign promises?” Jackie turns at the waist and bats big hazel eyes at Tai.
Tai changes the subject, “Speaking of… Simone’s been bringing up children more and more lately. I don’t oppose… it’s just that a child can seriously affect the timeline of one’s political career.”
“Then just get her to have it,” Jackie fishes a cookie out of her bag and bites into it, eyes rolling back in enjoyment, “It’s not like you need to hire a surrogate.”
“I know, I know, and she even volunteered! I’m just… I have a good trajectory going with my career right now,” Tai says in her sulky little mutter.
Jackie takes her in. Taissa Turner has always been the picture of poise. She knows, that in their own parallel ways they were both raised to be the dutiful daughters of their parents’ ambitions. They had to be perfect. Perfect looks, perfect grades, perfect poise. That’s why Tai sits stiff enough to balance a book on her head. A posture Jackie always finds herself mirroring when they sit together.
“Tai, do you want me to be real with you right now?”
“As much as I thought you were fake in school, Jackie, I know by now that you’re capable of nothing else.”
“Ow, okay. Look, if you don’t start popping out perfect model citizens soon, you’re going to start lagging in the polls. You’re a woman. You should be able to do it all, and you should want to be a mommy. That’s how it works.”
“One, never say the word mommy in my presence again, and two… I can’t believe Jackie Fucking Taylor is schooling me on feminist political theory.”
Their break is almost up and the heavens are cracking open with big fat rain drops. Tai sets the wipers on.
“Look, you don’t want to be last in place to have gay reproduction too,” Jackie says.
“Please. Last time the word ‘motherhood’ came up around the Matthews women, Nat left for cigarettes, and Lottie started barfing like the little girl from The Exorcist.”
“That was a bad medication reaction. Between babysitting the kids, and spending more time with her baby brother, they’re seeing that they’re actually really good with kids.”
Tai pauses, chewing on her lip, “Jackie… you know that it’s so much more dangerous for the two of them than for you and me. That they’re being responsible by not going there.”
Jackie sucks a breath in sharply, “That’s a really shitty thing to say, Tai.”
Tai eyes going up towards the clouds cautiously, before meeting Jackie’s again, “Look. I’m not trying to be a dick, or a eugenicist here… You know how one of them relapsing destabilizes the other. And, you know how fucking awful that would be if it happened because someone got rightfully stressed about having a baby.” Then another sigh, and squeezing Jackie’s arm, “You know that better than anyone.”
Lottie Matthews would joke about there being a deep state conspiracy to try and get her and Natalie to reproduce, but her therapist would call that a “red flag”.
And, the last thing she needs is someone noticing that she’s been ignoring the “keep a steady medication routine” part of the doctor’s orders after getting the electro-shock therapy.
So, she keeps quiet about the way part of her aches when she watches Nat chase JJ around the back yard. Or, the part of her that likes that she knows just right way to rock and sing Callie to sleep.
Tayn’s old enough to start having a personality, and sitting around watching Adventure Time with him last time they visited was nice.
Not as nice as being able to spontaneously fly out to Rio de Janeiro for a few weeks in the summer because JJ’s obsessed with the bird movie, and she and Nat both wanted to see the giant Jesus.
“This is the one who watches you masturbate,” is what Nat says.
“They ruined a perfectly good view of the Corcovado for this,” is what Lottie says.
“Fancy meeting you guys here,” says Misty, dressed in a Minnie Mouse themed Canadian tuxedo.
“It’s like 100 degrees, Misty, how are you even wearing that?” Nat asks.
“I have notoriously poor circulation,” she beams, “I once wore a parka in Arizona.”
Misty’s in town to meet up with her girlfriend--who neither of them have met so far, but seems to be the mysterious sort. Misty keeps alluding to “wet work” and “fixing problems”, which Nat says, “Sounds about right.”
Lottie’s just glad that Misty has finally found someone who understands her and the bizarre things she talks about reading on The Internet.
“How’s Rio? The internet tells me that it’s, like, insanely hot there.’
Nat stares up at the distant face of Jackie, because whenever they FaceTime, Jackie begins with her phone propped up on something, and then it slides down slowly over time until it’s like she’s an ant on the ground.
“My wife is insanely hot here,” Nat says, because she’s clicking through the photos they’ve taken and a good chunk heavily feature Lottie’s ass. How can she help herself? There are so many beaches. She clicks the next one. Misty in a low cut bikini. Nice .
“While you’re out there being horny, your nephew is taking soccer for tykes,” Jackie smarms, testing whatever cooking concoction she’s making with a frown. Jackie’s cooking has improved over the years. Shauna announced, shortly after she and Jackie started dating, that she’d never marry someone who couldn’t cook at least a week’s worth of dishes. Suddenly, Jackie was all interested in learning more than Menk and Chaise. She took cooking classes with Shauna. Those cute couples kind that trendy little pop ups in Bushwick were offering. Jackie learned a slew of new recipes she unleashed on the household which ranged from “good” to “a damn fine passover fauxrisket”. But, the problem still remains. Jackie cannot improvise in the kitchen. She needs a recipe or all is lost.
“How dare you,” Nat says, “We were gonna take him to Li’l League!”
“Yeah, well. You’re the ones who were like ‘oooh we don’t have kids, let’s go to a tropical country for funsies’ at the beginning of soccer season.” Jackie fires back.
And, the fact that Jackie is in the kitchen, sans children, means Shauna is probably parked on the couch with the pair of them, watching Tangled for the three thousandth time.
“Mmhm, and we’re having so much fun. Sleeping through the night and then lying in late. Eating at sophisticated restaurants. Having spontaneous sex…”
Jackie huffs, “Rub it in all you want. I’m going to send you photos of Jack in his adorable uniform wondering why his aunties aren’t there for his first game.”
“Oh, fuck you Shipman.”
“Fuck you too, Matthews!” There’s crying on the other end and Jackie’s hackles raise, “Gotta go. Tell Lottie and Misty I said hi. Loveyoubye.”
Nat wishes she didn’t feel the ache of heartbreak every time they have calls like this. She takes a breath before returning to the main room and finding Lottie and Misty splayed out on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“...as a kind of sister wives situation. And while some of them say they have astral projection sex with Snape, others claim he inhabits the bodies of their husbands,” Misty is saying.
“Do they like… all see him as Alan Rickman or do they have another projection of him? Because if they claim that Rowling channeled Snape to make the books then wouldn’t his appearance predate the casting?” Lottie asks, but her eyes flick to Nat, checking in with a non-verbal frown.
“That is a fantastic question, actually--”
“Jackie says hi. Sends her love,” Nat announces before flopping down between them and finding that they’ve both been watching a gold beetle crawl around on the ceiling.
“Should we be worried about that?” she asks.
“No, she’s a golden shield beetle and she likes to eat sweet potatoes,” Lottie says.
“I’ve actually been looking into the most dangerous animals housed in Brazil. It’s quite an extensive list due to the rainforest…”
Natalie can’t not fuck them.
While the trip to Brazil doesn’t cross a Misty-Lottie-threeway off her bucket list (Misty was too nervous for meeting up with her girlfriend, something usually only saved for pre-Broadway jitters), it did get Nat picking up the guitar again. She’s been feeling listless lately. Stuck.
Jackie and Shauna have their wonderful little rugrats, and it gives her and Lottie endless opportunities to spoil the kids rotten. Nat goes to the gym, both to replace the desire to get high, and to make sure she’ll be able to throw Jack and Callie around for as long as possible (Jackie threw her back out shoveling snow last January and Nat hasn’t stopped mocking her for it).
Van has their journalistic pursuits (told Nat about doing a big think piece on the “War on Terror” while they were catching up most recently).
While Lottie has quit psychology due to it being “not for her” and “too much school”, she’s still trying to meditate her way into having a brain that doesn’t lie to her.
Ben’s training championship soccer players in the UK.
And, Tai has her whole “world domination” thing.
Nat though. Nat’s staring down the double barrel of accomplishing her goals and the mind-numbing existential void of finding a way to keep busy for the next sixty fucking years.
She wishes she could have a break. She does. She wishes she could turn her brain off, just a little bit, and that it wouldn’t ruin her life. Wouldn’t have her selling Jackie’s earrings for a hit of heroin, or telling Van she’ll pay them back, she will.
“I think I’m circling the drain,” she tells Lottie as she walks in. Nat’s flopped out on the floor, Scooby-Doo! and The Witch’s Ghost still playing on the TV, because Lottie thinks The Hex Girls are hot. They’ve just put the kids to bed, giving Jackie and Shauna a well-needed date night.
“Why are you circling the drain?” Lottie asks, picking up a squeaking bee toy and squeezing it at Nat before returning it to the toy box.
“I’m bored… restless,” Nat says, glaring at the ceiling to avoid the disappointment she’ll see in Lottie’s eyes.
Instead, Lottie carefully walks over and steps on Nat’s cunt, “Are you not having enough fun lately, baby?”
Nat whines and tries to move, but Lottie pins her with more pressure, all while looking at the TV instead of at Nat. “I’ve been thinking of new ways we can play, maybe something to keep your brain occupied these days.”
Tears flood into Nat’s eyes, unbidden, and Lottie shifts, removing her foot and letting Nat pull her down onto the floor with her.
“Charlotte,” she says shakily.
Lottie hums and rubs their noses together, eyes big and sad, “Yes, my love?”
Nat cups her jaw and speaks against her lips, “I’m so lucky to have you.”
“Shut up, I’m the lucky one.”
“Oh yeah?” Nat lets her head bonk the floor as she leans away to look challengingly at her wife, “You prepared to back that up with some facts, Matthews?”
Lottie’s fang makes an appearance with the tilt of her chin, “Don’t fucking start with me, Matthews. Especially when you look this fucking hot,” she growls and starts groping Nat roughly. Nat covers her mouth to avoid the high pitched moan escaping her mouth.
Lottie’s sticking her head under Nat’s shirt when the upstairs light snaps on, “Auntie Lolly! I have to pee!” Callie’s little scratchy voice bounces down the stairs.
Lottie laughs, head connecting with Nat’s sternum.
“I’ve been summoned,” she says, groaning as she gets back up and holds one hand out to Nat. “Coming, Cal!”
“I swear, your kids have cockblocking senses,” Nat tells Jackie over a snuck cigarette when she gets home.
“Tell me about it, Jack wouldn’t speak to me for like two days because he thought I was ‘hurting Mommy’ when he wandered in one night.”
“Gross. Did you ever catch your parents’ having sex?”
“Mmhm, taught me never to go into their room when Tom Jones was playing,” Jackie flicks the ash of the cigarette at Nat, who pinches her nose for the offence, “Staaawwp.”
“Tom Jones, huh? Didn’t think Mr. Taylor was that much of a smooth operator,” Nat says.
“My mom is a huge fan, actually,” Jackie replies, waving to Shauna through the kitchen window. Shauna’s got like, so much cleavage out right now. Why the fuck is Jackie smoking with her instead of burying her face in it? Virginal behaviour until the day she dies. The bushes rustle and Nat groans, “Charlotte, do not try and pet the raccoons!”
“I’m not gonna pet ‘em, I just wanna get a photo!” Lottie pops out of the bushes, looking pale and black eyed in the moonlight like a sexy ghoul. “Wait, is that the pussycat in What’s New Pussycat? Is--”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Jackie warns her.
The back door opens to reveal an irritated and still booby Shauna, “What the fuck are you three doing out here?” she hisses.
“Lottie’s trying to catch a raccoon and we’re talking about the Taylors’ sex playlist,” Nat replies.
Another crash, followed by chittering and disgruntled grumbling.
“Lottie, leave Bert alone!” Shauna whisper shouts, “And why the hell are we talking about Les and Marilyn’s yearly sex appointment?”
“Your dad’s name is Leslie?!” Nat guffaws.
“Yearly?” Lottie emerges from the bushes hiding a hand behind her back, “Oh that explains so much.”
Jackie sputters pointing her cigarette around like a gun--first at Shauna, then Nat, then the shadowy figure that is Lottie, “One: It’s not yearly, if it were I wouldn’t have traumatised myself on Christmas morning--”
“Damn, Leslie, get it--”
“Shut the fuck up, Natalie, I swear to G-d. Two: You get one lesbian joke about my dad’s name, use it wisely. And, three: Lottie, baby, please don’t tell me we need to take you to the hospital for a rabies shot. It’s like one in the morning.”
“...”
Nat makes a distressed noise before jogging, avoiding the pool, to inspect her wife’s hand, “Jesus Christ, Lott, did you at least get to touch his little ears?”
Lottie shakes her head mournfully.
“How the hell did you three survive in New York City for so many years?” Shauna sighs.
March 8, 2014 begins a similar pattern of vomiting, sweating, and obsessive TV watching among the remaining members of the Yellowjackets team.
It’s not just the missing plane. It’s the singular focus of the world. It’s the three days. It’s the ghoulish journalists blaming everything from a suicidal pilot to Russian spies. It’s the weeks with no trace of life. Thinking about a plane nosing down towards the Earth. The drop was so much worse than having their bodies thrown around in the crash.
There were kids aboard that plane.
There were kids aboard their plane.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” asks Jack Taylor-Shipman, Koichi Kitigawa, Laila Abioye, and Chelsea Lowe ask their vomiting mothers simultaneously (though separated by hundreds of New England miles).
And, all except Laila’s mother, brush off why the news reporting a piece of a missing plane made them lose their lunch. Akilah, however, sits her daughter down and tells her patiently about her own three days in oblivion and how she never got to see what her parents went through until now.
Her parents don’t get it.
It’s called “passive income” for a reason, Marisol.
Why would you want to work in a kitchen, Marisol? We have the help for that!
And it was something she stumbled into. One of Kazu’s friends, Shane, threw a barbecue for the Super Bowl one year (the inferior football) and she got bored of listening to Kazu tell the dolphin story for the seven hundredth time, so she drifted to the kitchen to help with dinner. Like a good little housewife, or whatever.
Shane didn’t talk to her like she was sexy furniture, but he did think he knew everything about cooking, so he explained the chemical applications of heat and water to breaking down fatty and muscle tissues in meat and how it makes for a superior pulled pork.
Mari didn’t find god in that pork. It was too salty, and needed a few bay leaves. But, like watching Natalie “Tornado Blowjobs” Scatorccio fumble a backheel pass, Mari knew she could do better.
Plus, being a rich housewife is so fucking boring. She’d gone through three different art periods and taught both of her sons how to juggle a soccer ball.
Culinary school was high pressure and so fucking mean. It was the best. There was literally no better feeling in the world than being the only bitch with an unbroken sauce and perfectly cubed vegetables, all with spotless chefs whites.
She staged at this Korean-Mexican fusion in Houston, and it sent her through an obsessive period of trying to get just the perfect wasabi-mango glaze for short rib.
Kazu didn’t appreciate the recreation of his favourite meal components, and when he stepped out on dinner to take a business call, she took the boys to her mother’s and told him she didn’t want to be married anymore.
That was a year ago, and the week after, she bumped into Travis Martinez of all people, looking hangdog in a Home Depot as he haggled over an order of wood.
She always kind of liked Travis. He was a dark horse choice on the hot boy list at high school. Flex. He could suck his own dick, allegedly, and how soft and pouty his lips looked, she bet it felt pretty good. He had that DiCaprio hair, and a surprisingly full pair of jeans. Still did, based on the strain of the seams on his Dickies.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Hickory chips,” she said like it was the most obvious thing ever.
They got coffee after, like old people do when they meet other old people and have a spare hour.
He told her about weekend custody arrangements and Javi’s boy drama at Pratt. Told her that with his busted back and busted knees that he needed to get out of construction and was thinking of business school.
“I’ve been thinking of doing a restaurant or… like a food truck maybe, but I don’t wanna do the business side of things. I was just thinking of employing my least-useless cousin.”
“I could be your least-useless cousin,” Travis said.
“Ew,” Mari shoved him playfully.
It’s now and like a billion degrees in the test kitchen.
“Here, try this,” Mari says.
The three-point five walls of pockmarked drywall and stainless steel of the test kitchen is probably a cunt hair bigger than the cooking space in the truck, so a whole lot of sweaty Travis presses against her on his way to the pot. He somehow manages to hit his head on every ladle and shelf on his way over, yet the sheepish pull of his smile is more charming than goofy.
“Poor baby,” she says rubbing his head, enjoying how silky his hair is under her palm. She’s always wondered about Travis’s hair. Back in twelfth grade, she used to joke about how he belonged in a Pantene Pro-V commercial because of how shiny and pretty his hair was. It’s less long and floppy now, and that’s kind of a shame.
His lashes flutter against his cheeks as he blows on the spoon and accepts the pile of shredded meat into his mouth. He rotates his jaw a few times as he chews, still blinking, clearly deep in thought. Then swallows.
“Holy shit, Mar, those,” he points to the pot, “Are the best damn carnitas I’ve ever had. Bravo, Chef.”
Mari tucks her head behind her ears and elbows past him to hide the blush on her cheeks, “Yeah, well, you’ve got shit taste, so I’m gonna need other opinions.”
Travis scoffs, holding a hand over his heart as if wounded, “My own business partner? Where’s the trust?! Where’s the love?”
Their Coronas clink against each other as they sit, collapsed in the shitty Home Depot lawn chairs.
“ To family ,” Travis says in a Vin Diesel impression that Mari would not have giggled at in high school.
“To having a fucking menu down,” she wipes at her head, “And to finally signing my divorce papers.”
Travis leans up, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at her with surprisingly soft eyes, “Shit, that was today?”
Mari shrugs, it’s overdue. They tried to make it work, and believe her, she would never have assumed that she would be the one acting like the fucking grown up in her marriage. Maybe it’s something to do with feminism or women’s roles and equality or whatever. But, while Kazu can still do Molly and stay out at a club all night after being in the office all day, Mari’s at home kind of parenting their children.
It feels like a sunk cost fallacy. Finding the only hot, fit, Catholic Japanese party boy who meets the financial qualifications her parents laid out for her, and he’s… he’s just so boring.
The worst part of her divorce is how little she actually gives a shit about Kazu. Like, she can do the whole crocodile tears thing, but really, she’s relieved that she doesn’t have to keep going to the Priest and the therapist and try to make it work.
Yes, her abuelita is throwing a fit about the whole thing, and she just cannot be bothered.
She’s pretty sure Kazu’s been cheating on her for years. It’s why she started sleeping with the pool boy (and it wasn’t even that fun!)
Aside from Koichi and Miguel blaming the whole thing on her (typical), it’s less drama than getting dumped by Danny Meares for his own cousin (and they stayed married, so maybe there’s something there.)
They’ve rented a kitchen space in the same mini mall as the Subway, the middle aged lady clothing store, and the decent nail salon. The back end of the parking is almost pretty, because it opens up to the field between the mall and the playground. Mari watches a cricket hop the fence, and lets the breeze go through her hair as the radio switches to some Enrique Iglesias.
“Come on,” Travis says, dusting his hands off and setting his beer down.
“Come on, what?” Mari cocks her head and shakes the ankle on her crossed leg.
“We’re celebrating properly,” he turns up the radio.
“Travis, you’ve been holding out on me,” she laughs, letting him lead, because damn, the boy’s come a long way since awkwardly swaying with Nat at prom. His hand fits nicely at her back, and he knows more than just the basics, twisting her through the salsa.
"When we were still trying to make it work, me and Heather took dance classes. You know, give us something in common besides the kids," there's a bittersweetness about how he says it.
"Do you regret it?" she asks him, moving closer.
Travis shakes his head, "My mom fucking hated my dad for most of their marriage, and it made everyone miserable. And then he died and she... I think she regretted a lot. It's nice to have closure... when you're alive. Aw, shit, sorry if that's too heavy."
Mari wraps her arms around his neck, "I mean, I was there. He was my coach, and he liked me best because I could tell when he was cursing us out in Spanish and never ratted."
He laughs at that, moving his hands to her hips and digging in, "I think my biggest regret about it is... like, does it make you feel like… like you lost? Like, if you were better somehow, it would have worked out?"
“Not really, I mean, someone liked me enough to marry me once , weirdos like Misty Quigley don’t even get that far.”
“Far from the coastline, but low in altitude,” Misty hums, clicking on the map with a plastic nail (a fun new thing she’s trying. She likes the rhinestones, but they get in the way of her work and are difficult to keep sanitary) “Does this country have an official language?” she asks with a smile, zooming in on a city under her cursor.
“It does not,” that sexy rich voice replies.
“Uh huh, well, Welkom in Amsterdam, darling,” Misty says.
“Bingo.”
“And what name should I call you for this assignment? Jessica? Lori? Sarita?”
“Shireen Ram. Real Estate Agent,” her girlfriend says with a little laugh.
“And what brings Ms. Ram to Amsterdam? Ooo that’s a half-rhyme,” Misty says, before catching herself and returning to a cooler, more stoic centre. She doesn’t want to scare JessicaLoriSaritaShireen away.
“I’m on vacation. Checking out the canals and the red light district.”
“Ooo, is Shireen being bad?”
“Shireen is bored of the suburban life and is instead pursuing an affair with a wealthy Danish client.”
Faking offence, Misty says, “Are you cheating on me?”
“Never, babe.”
It’s a studio. Not a house. Just somewhere to concentrate on getting the album done. No distractions. Nat puts a mattress against the wall because sometimes she works late into the night and doesn’t want to take the trip across the city. Lottie sleeps at the hotel sometimes. It’s a European thing they do. Pretend to live in separate places, it makes things exciting. Reminds them of the years they dated long distance.
Nat’s been putting in more studio hours this week is all. Rory comes by sometimes, going grey at the temples and venting about “that cunt” who teaches her daughter’s ballet classes.
Nat’s got some indie hotshot producer coming by as well. Skinny dude with glasses who talks about seeing her play some shitty bar in Weehawken like it was his Woodstock.
It’s her third night in a row parked in front of the console when she comes back from walking Porky and fetching dinner and finds her wife waiting for her, “So, this is the girl you’re cheating on me with,” Lottie’s dressed in one of Nat’s shirts and a pair of black jeans that look painted on. Like she’s going as a rock star for Halloween. Nat’s mouth goes dry and she feels guilt mix with desire in the roil of her stomach acid.
“Hey baby, wanna split a meatball sub?” is what comes out of her mouth.
It’s incredibly fucking lame. Especially when Lottie’s looking at all of the photographs that decorate the little nest. Polaroids of the old days. Stuff like the two of them and Jackie wrapped in feather boas at one of Dylan’s parties.
Nat looks around for the other exposed secrets. A hair tie of Rory’s. Producer boy’s jacket slung over a chair. Porky, who snuffles over to Lottie, drooling in her lap as she does whenever Lottie strokes her ears. She looks at the dog a long moment before letting her settle and getting to her feet, arms crossed.
“You could have just told me you don’t like the house,” Charlotte rests her palms on Natalie’s shoulders, “You didn’t have to hide your… mid-life crisis cave from me.”
Nat isn’t sure why she’s crying. Why she feels like she’s fifteen and Berzonsky is searching her locker in front of the whole school, ripping off pictures of Kathleen Hanna, and Nirvana in dresses on his quest for a drug free school. She remembers Lottie watching, arms folded and mouth downturned. Angry on Nat’s behalf.
“It’s embarrassing,” she manages to get out, and Lottie pulls back.
“I’m sorry. I could feel you pulling away from me and I panicked. Misty let me in.”
Nat snorts. Of course, Misty has a key.
“It’s just me playing the same few chords over and over again. It’s really nothing exciting.”
“Natalie, we used to watch paint dry in wood shop together.”
Nat’s always been pretty self-conscious of playing in front of people. The first time she played a song for Lottie about Lottie (She Wants My John Handcock), she made her turn around the whole time.
Lottie always tread carefully around rehearsal time after that.
Not anymore.
Not since Nat married an asshole who did like two semesters of Musical Theory and thinks she’s fucking Mozart.
It starts with the little “tsks” Lottie starts making when she disagrees with a note they’re playing. Which escalates to Lottie humming what she thinks the end of the stanza should sound like.
And, infuriatingly, her input isn’t bad. It sure is better than Producer Boy suggesting a bunch of spoken word sounding bridges and some synths.
“It’s a waltz. You need to have the drum on the three instead of the four,” Lottie drawls from her spot on the bed, exhaling a cloud of orange flavoured smoke.
Nat’s gonna fucking kill her.
Except it’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen, and Rory’s been amused to leave earlier and earlier every day because, “The tension is palpable in here.”
(She and Lottie have been trading skin and hair care routines and it reminds Nat of how things used to be and how they never stop being.)
“You’re looking sentimental,” Lottie exhales vapour against her collarbone, ticking nails up Nat’s neck to play with her hair.
“I wore a necklace for a decade just because Jackie fixed it. I always look sentimental,” she bites back with little force.
It’s been nice like this. Camped out together in a shitty apartment again. Maybe it is roleplay in the face of a midlife crisis. Maybe that’s how they’ve gotten through everything else.
“Big houses remind me that everyone’s waiting for us to have kids.” And then it’s out loud and out there.
Might as well talk about it.
“Do you… still not want kids?” Lottie asks.
Nat covers her face with a whine.
Because that’s a complicated answer. Does she want a baby with big black eyes and dimples that looks up at her like she’s some kind of god?
Maybe?
Does she want everything that a baby entails, knowing how fucking good they are at swapping off on feeding and changing duties?
Fuck no.
Does she wanna pay someone else to raise her fucking kid through the hard shit like her in-laws?
Absolutely not.
Lottie’s waiting for her, patient in her anxiety. It’s a shared one. She thinks. She knows, actually. It’s rare for them to be on different pages.
Two lonely kids used to disappointment. Two neglected kids used to flinching at the sound of the front door.
Two little girls who could make someone else less alone.
“What if we… tried adopting?” she says out loud, “Some like… little eight year-old chess genius who’s being looked over by other parents because they have a giant birth mark on their face or something… like nothing too specific.”
“ Nothing too specific ,” Lottie bursts out laughing, “Yeah, it’s worth a try.”
Van Palmer has a problem.
It’s not the gay group sex they’re currently partaking in.
Well, it’s kind of the gay group sex. (Oh man, teenage Van would have slugged adult Van for having the audacity to bemoan a dyke orgy, but this isn't their first rodeo, and adult Van would tell their teenage self that. Gay orgies will be old hat by the time you hit forty, kid.)
See, Van got into this… arrangement because Van really likes Harper. Harper’s cool. Used to play field hockey, likes Marvel comic books, and has a bunch of cosmic tattoos. Harper has a gap between her front teeth that Van sees every time she makes her laugh. She’s memorized the freaking fear mantra from Dune , and has like, the most insanely skilled naughty fingers.
However, Harper is also in a relationship with Amanda, Kym, Nicole, and Ophelia.
Out of them, Van likes Kym. Kym makes experimental movies using disfigured Barbie dolls and works as a check out girl at Trader Joe’s. It figures that Van gravitates towards the Hawaiian shirt wearing portion of the polycule.
It’s not like they’re required to join in the whole polycule. Van’s read The Ethical Slut and been to like a billion lesbian polycule processing sessions between college, university, and NPR. They know about boundaries and relationships.
And, as someone who grew up living by the seat of their pants--rather than projecting some kind of white picket dream, Van doesn’t hate where they are. They’re just kind of tired. Just want a partner and a dog and a nice apartment. Good coffee and warm socks.
“Which is why we’re thanking this week’s sponsor, Roasted Monthly. For quality coffee delivered right to your door, Roasted is there. If you head over to their website, you can take a quiz based on your own drinking habits and preferences and they’ll send you a selection of local coffee brands each month. Right now I’m drinking a blend called Agent Cooper and it’s a really nice acidic dark roast. Very diner coffee chic.”
Van rubs their temples, ad breaks should not be automatic now, even if it does mean unfettered access to a listening audience as Van retreads important queer pop culture moments of the past three decades. They want to do a story that matters. Something with actual meat. Something like, this fucking war that Bush started over a decade ago that’s still going on for some reason. Thanks, Obama.
Truthfully, Van was looking to reach out to an old friend, but there hasn’t been a phone number owned by Laura Lee Brandt in five fucking years, and there’s this stone in their stomach that thinks: she’s dead. She fucking died in the Iraq war and nobody knew to mourn her.
But the part of Van that’s open to Bigfoot, and Moth Man, and whatever the fuck Lottie Matthews sees out of her third eye knows. Van knows they would have known if Laura Lee died. They would have felt it.
2007
Chivalry is dead. So sayeth Laura Lee Brandt. What is done it's name is boorish at best, and an exercise in cruelty at worst.
When her grandfather reminisced about his time flying planes in World War 2, his stories were always about brilliant high flying battles, and vanquished villains. Comrades in arms who will fight alongside you until the bitter end. Bands of brothers.
Afghanistan is not like that.
Those bands of brothers are about as mediocre at heroism as the boys in her grade were at baseball. The leering eyes and too-friendly hands she’d managed to avoid with the help of her faith, and her friends with long legs and sharp cleats, found their way to her at social functions--both on base and off. She became closer with the other women of their cohort, female pilots being something of a rare breed in of itself, let alone any who will get to see active combat. Something that the men training alongside her are quick to remind her at every turn. Women fly cargo planes. Women do not fly F-15s.
All her life, Laura Lee’s been told when she can and can’t do because of how she was born. Because of her body. Because of her sex. Because of how delicate and harmless she should be. How a woman should be. Laura Lee’s done a lot of things women ‘don’t do’. She’s been a championship soccer player. She’s left a ‘perfectly decent’ husband with no explanation as to why. She’s driven a friend in need to a clinic to take care of a pregnancy that she just can’t afford to have. She’s kissed other women and felt more for them than she has for men (she hasn’t written off the other sex entirely, she’ll just love a man when a worthy one makes himself known). It would probably surprise her schoolmates, but those long shower conversations about sex were much more formative to her coming to terms with the love the lord has for all things--and how by being true to love she is true to Him.
She’s not alone in her… inclinations in the military. There are some women who wear their femininity like Jackie Taylor, and some women who barely hide their desire for other women like Van Palmer, and just like in soccer, Laura Lee joins them with linked arms to create a wall against the men who wish to see their numbers dwindle.
It’s at a Halloween party--the girls dressed like the pilots from Top Gun --when Laura Lee catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror. And, with the lowered inhibitions of a few beers, and the merriment of the season, she sees the man in the mirror and bursts into tears.
Goose was the more fun choice than Iceman, and had the bonus of the moustache and sunglasses as props. Yes, the bagginess of the flight suits fit with the same comfort as formless, modest dresses. They hide her body the same way that her high collars, caps, and shades hide her face.
Standing here though, she likes what she sees.
When one of the cargo pilots mishears her say her name and starts calling her, “Lee,” Laura Lee feels her cheeks flush with pleasure. One pilot becomes a whole base, only knowing her as Lee, and filling out the name changing paperwork once she’s back stateside is easy enough. It’s finding a therapist to begin the process of hormone therapy that scares him.
He’s got seven siblings. He was third daughter and fifth child overall. Eight kids. Five girls, three boys. Mama always lamented the uneven numbers, so many girls to find husbands for and all that.
Turns out God has a funny sense of humour like that.
Testosterone takes to his endocrine system like a duck to water. First comes the vocal cracks, then the spines on his chin and chest. His leg hair grows in, soft and woolly. His chest is mostly hairless, just a few cartoonish curls for his crucifix to rest against. (It reminds him of the sun glinting off the crucifix of the life guard who saved him from splitting his head open on tile and faith all those years ago.)
After a grueling top surgery recovery, and the ability to start exercising again, Lee finds himself wearing tight fitting clothes for the first time in his life. He combs his hair to the right, and trims his facial hair into a conservative moustache. Lee Brandt is a respected man in his community. A proper, godly man. One who just happens to knock back his drinks in the queer district long after he started passing.
2014
Van spots him at a gas station outside of Williamsburg and does a double take because: 1. It can’t be, and 2. It can’t not be, because they watch him catch an oncoming soccer ball with his head and drop it to the ground before kicking it back over the street and the fence. Donkey legs, Van remembers, the best choice for a penalty shot, despite Tai’s insistence on taking them.
They wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the way he still walks like there’s a bible up his ass, and if not for the slope of his nose, and the glint off a golden cross around his neck. Blue eyes. Veterans plates. Broad shoulders thrown back in pride, tight shirt on, no longer hiding a discomfort in his body under the guide of piety.
And, as someone who’s… tangled with the concept of not-being-a-girl, Van just has to say something.
“Hey!” Van says, catching him at the pump and seeing those familiar pale blue eyes widen. His jaw’s filled out, and there’s a golden sheen of stubble on those sculpted angles.
“Fuck, dude, it is you,” they can’t help but reach for him, and he lets them.
“Van?” he says as their bodies tip into each other.
“Holy fucking shit,” Van laughs, pulling back to look at him again, “What do I call you? Larry? Laurence?”
“Just Lee, please,” Lee says, eyes darting around, “Are you here alone or…?”
“Yeah, just uh… heading home after a bad interview and worse hookup.” (Because even if Van wants to be exclusive, they're too chickenshit to say it, and instead keep falling back on old flings. Erica's the picture of mean girl lesbian, but her journalistic integrity is rock solid and her strap game is immaculate.)
His sandy eyebrows shoot up at that, “Oh, are you here for a job?”
Van smacks their head, “Not that kind of… look, I’m trying to write a series that deep dives into the war and the number of civilian casualties and…” Van trails off, “I actually tried looking you up to ask for your expert opinion.”
The moment between them is still all except for a ladybug flying by like some kind of pathetic fallacy or whatever.
Lee looks at them with the same old intense gaze, “It sounds like a good series. Lord knows what we did over there… it wasn’t… it wasn’t what I thought I was getting into.”
“Bought into the American dream, huh?”
He straightens his shoulders, “I signed up to fight bad guys, not to indiscriminately bomb civilian dwellings across Afghanistan and Pakistan.”
“Shit dude, is that what you were doing over there?” Van tips back against the cab of the car, feeling nauseous.
Lee shakes his head and removes his hat to run his hand over his hair, “They only let me fly transport vehicles, but I’m still responsible for what happened.”
“You were a delivery driver.”
“Of death.”
Van lets the heaviness of that statement dangle between them until it snaps and they have to change the subject, “Shit man, can I buy you a cup of coffee or something? It’s been forever and I’d like to catch up.”
Lee loosens up after that, “Still like Denny’s better than Waffle House?”
“You know it, baby.”
“Good, these Vets plates still get me pancake discounts,” he quirks his lip and Van laughs because fuck, they’ve missed him .
They catch up over coffee and carbs.
“I listen to you on the radio sometimes. It’s good for late afternoons,” Lee is saying after pushing aside a half-eaten waffle with a slight sugar wince.
“High praise. So, what is it you’re doing these days?”
“Fishing commercially and studying to be a pastor.”
“Fucking seriously? Do I have to call you Father ?” Van smirks into their coffee.
“Pastor Lee, actually, but I won’t stop you.”
And the fact that that makes Van wet is something the plan unpacking later. In therapy. Or, actually, maybe unpacking never. They quickly redirect the conversation, ignoring the smirk it gets them from Lee, lips against his glass of orange juice.
Topics lead to what everyone else has been up to:
“Shauna did not appreciate the circumcised dildo gift nearly as much as Jackie did, but it’s not the most tense conversion party I’ve ever been to…”
“...which is so typical Taissa…”
“...husband is like, a community leader, which means he watches the kids while she sews peoples’ faces back on…”
“...doing this food truck thing, which I hear is working out. I think they’re sleeping together, which, honestly, good for them. Always felt like a better match than him and Nat…”
“Have you… spoken to Lottie at all?” Lee finally asks after Van deliberately avoiding her name for an hour. He’s been fiddling with the like white milk cups stacked in front of his coffee while he waits.
“Shit, did I not mention Lott?” Van plays innocent, “Right now I think she and Nat are in New Zealand visiting family. Her mom had to get some surgery and she’s doing the dutiful daughter thing.”
“I didn’t know Nat had family in New Zealand,” Lee says with a frown.
“Not Nat, well, legally she does at this point. Lottie’s mom moved to the old Aotearoa to shack up with Lottie’s biological dad. They’ve lived there together for like… shit fifteen years at this point? Nat loves it over there. Would never leave if she could.”
2015
“Okay, so… avoid Mrs. Taylor at all costs…”
“Right,” Taissa says.
“Try to keep Shauna away from her step-siblings…”
“Mmhm.”
“...and don’t ask Charlotte and Natalie about the adoption.”
“Yup,” Taissa completes with a pop of the ‘p’, hands giving the steering wheel a little squeeze, “Even I’m not supposed to know about that. But, Nat finally broke down about it, which means Jackie knows, which means Shauna knows, which means I know, which means you know. You know?” Tai makes eye contact with Simone, then checks Sammy’s car seat. He’s fast asleep in his light blue sleeper and sailboat print blanket. Little trooper loves long drives, which makes their lives easy enough--so long as they do not stop.
“Yes, baby,” Simone replies with a rueful smile, “I know,” and squeezes Taissa’s hand.
Tai smiles before pumping the breaks, as a kid on a bike comes darting out from one of the driveways. Simone throws an arm in her direction as the car lurches to a stop.
"Jesus Christ," Tai exhales shakily.
"Maybe slow it down a bit, we are in a residential area," Simone says, fiddling with her earring and looking at the kid in the windshield.
Tai twists her mouth in her 'of course, babe' smile as she says, "I mean, I do know how to drive."
Nat has held many jobs in this world--from bartender to rock star to animal hospital attendant. So far, none of them hold a candle to being an Auntie. And maybe, maybe it’s for the best that’s all she’ll ever be.
Callie’s getting old enough to sense the unfairness of Jack having his birthday in summer being equal to the big pool party blowout, but for now she’s easily placated with ice cream and trips around the pool on a floaty raft like the princess she is.
It’s the calm before the storm of sugared up seven and eight year-olds, and while Lottie is helping (read: coping by making Jell-O shots for children ) in the kitchen, Nat’s making good on the promise to give Callie swimming lessons. They should have traded jobs. Nat’s the better cook, and Lottie’s the stronger swimmer. Still, Lottie’s really attached to the fifties housewife outfit she found for today, (an outfit so hot, it’s almost enough to give Nat amnesia for how fucking mad at her wife she is) plus Nat feels like she’s been slacking in the ‘cool aunt’ duties lately.
“Auntie Nat! Look! Look! I can do a flip!” Jackson splits her attention from Callie to watch him double bounce on the board and land in a huge splash that nearly sends Callie into the side of the pool.
“Easy, Bud!” she says, “That was really cool, but your sister can’t swim so good yet.”
His little squishy Jackie face twists in dismay beneath his fluorescent green goggles.
Callie is pulling on the straps of Nat’s bikini top and she gently removes the chubby pale fingers as to avoid a wardrobe malfunction around the literal babies.
“Auntie! Auntie! I can do a trick too.”
Jeff’s big blue eyes stare up at her through a fringe of dark brown hair as Callie flaps her adorable pink floaters
“Okay, I’m watching,” Nat says.
“Auntie Nat! Wanna play Marco Polo?” Jackson calls to her from the other side of the pool. Nat’s head darts back and forth between each child.
“Just a second, JJ,” she calls back.
Callie leans forward on her floaties until her forehead touches the water, and her whole body lurches with it in a funny way that makes her torso stick out of the water, while her legs stay inside in an L shape. She blows some bubbles, then sticks her tongue out (gross), “Look! I’m a dead body!”
A bark of a laugh jumps out of Nat’s chest. Unexpectedly wicked and dark. Shauna’s influences at work.
“Auntie Nat!” Jackson slaps the water in his impatience.
“Okay, Cal, mouth out of the pool water. There’s foot germs in there.”
The vapour from Lottie’s little electronic cigarette, though blown out the window, is making Jackie itch for the toasty hit of endorphins that tobacco provides her. For a moment, they’re twenty-three and sharing a smoke on the balcony, enjoying the drone of a Chelsea summer.
The clock spins forward, and instead they’re thirty-seven and preparing for what’s bound to be Bacchanalia for eight year-olds in fucking Hartsdale, because the house in Hoboken was too small.
She’d bitch her out about not sharing--or, not waiting to sneak her a hit while Shauna’s distracted by their mothers and the horde of little boys about to descend on their domicile like locusts, but Lottie’s a piece of broken glass right now. Just as fragile, just as sharp, cutting a figure against the window in red gingham and redder lipstick.
Jackie knows this move. The lovers Matthews are in a fight, which means Nat is over-casual with others and over-caustic with her wife, and Lottie is a sexy, frigid island.
The only new addition to the dynamic is the pathetic wet rag of a dog sitting at Lottie’s feet with beady black eyes and a nose long enough to enter a room a full five minutes before the rest of him.
Safety “Blanket” Matthews is the consolation prize for the child the adoption agency rejected them for. Blanket is an emotional support Borzoi with the uncanny ability to tell when Lottie is experiencing psychosis.
He’s also what would happen if all the nutrients were drained from a horse. Grey fur, wet, wet, stupid, wet, eyes, and a bark that sounds like a seal.
The kids immediately love this dog. Peach is still a beloved mainstay (currently curled up on the sofa like a loaf of pumpkin bread), but Blanket is a baby, and he likes to chase toys and lick the children’s faces.
Lottie flicks her cigarette out the window and closes it, giving Nat and Callie a sulky look before turning back to Jackie. Jackie catches her own reflection in the mirror and sighs.
This morning she woke up and showered as usual. Spent an hour getting ready for the day as usual. Only, instead of being artfully futch, she found herself staring down her senior photo looking back from the mirror.
“Oh, this is what kind of day we’re having,” Shauna said coolly as she busted into the bathroom to pee.
“It’s just to avoid friction with my mom,” Jackie said, avoiding eye contact with either of them in the mirror.
Which is probably connected to why she’s currently strung out on nerves and making a recipe for Fruit Pizza she saw on Buzzfeed.
They make a weird retro suburbanite pair, the two of them. Jackie with her platters of healthy snacks and Lottie with her Jell-O shots.
“I think the gummi tequila worm is my magnum opus,” she says, removing them from the fridge with a flourish.
She hands one to Jackie, jiggling it on purpose and says, dead serious, “Walk without rhythm and you won’t attract the worm.”
Jackie snorts, “I think the new Star Wars is more these kids speed than Dune. ”
Lottie huffs, setting the shot down, “It’s not my fault the only person here who gets my high literary references is Shauna.”
“Watching David Lynch movies with your wife is not a literary reference, Lott. And, pretty sure Dune was considered pulp fiction in its day,” Jackie says.
“Your ‘um, actually’ game has gotten so much stronger. How many Trivial Pursuit leagues are you and Shauna in?” Lottie teases, dropping to stroke Blanket’s ears.
“Says the asshole who won the last Scrabble night with WHIZBANG,” Jackie sticks her tongue out as she finishes dropping halved grapes onto the Greek yogurt sauce… frosting… sticky thing on the watermelon. “Does this look stable to you?”
Lottie regards it with a cold, hollow eye, “I’m not very good at judging things by their structural integrity.”
The sigh that escapes Jackie’s chest comes off as angrier than she means for it to. “Sweetheart, three episodes in sixteen years is pretty good odds for schizophrenia I’ve heard.”
“Doesn’t matter. I fucked everything over,” Lottie says, mechanically petting her dog.
“You’re here on your godson’s birthday. I wouldn’t call that fucking everything over.”
She goes quiet, in classic Lottie sulk fashion, “I wouldn’t call going catatonic on a family camping trip not fucking everything over .”
“Nat’s not mad about that.”
“...the week before the final interview.”
“She’s really not mad about that.”
“She should be."
Jackie closes her eyes to hide the roll. It’s not kind. She doesn’t want to be unkind. She’s just juggling the emotional baggage of two of her oldest friends, all while preparing for the mixed scrutiny of her mother and Taissa Turner.
“If Shauna picked her weird wellness cult friends over me, I’d be pretty pissed too,” Jackie says, taking the ‘fuck it’ route and making a grabbing motion toward Lottie. She needs a fucking smoke.
Lottie helps her put the pizza in the fridge before joining her outside the patio door for a vape.
Lottie lets Jackie hog the vape while she checks herself in a compact mirror, preening the way she does when she’s being a massive bitch.
“She has such a victim-martyr complex, we were doing a group therapy session and she stormed up throwing ultimatums around. She knows I don’t do ultimatums, so I told her to fuck off. Politely.”
“Which I agree with. But, you know how she gets when she’s scared,” Jackie says.
“She fights dirty,” Lottie nods, sighs, and hugs her chest, “She thinks I have a god complex and she said, ‘when she picked me to be her life mate she wasn’t signing up for sexy Jesus’.”
Jackie snorts. If only her problems were that simple, and not that her wife likes to flirt with one student a semester to make her so jealous she wants to string whatever stupid, horny kid is dogging Shauna up by their ankles. And, yeah, she’s noticed quickly a captive audience took Lottie from essential oil salesman to ‘faith healer’.
“I can see things in them, I can actually help people and she--”
“Knew that it would be dangerous for your mental health?” Jackie asks pointedly.
“Told me to shut the fuck up,” Lottie snaps her compact shut.
“Lottie… I’m sorry,” Jackie exhales vapour with a sigh, “So that’s why you stopped talking?”
Lottie shrugs, taking the vape back.
Before they can discuss further, Jack appears, snapping his goggles onto his head. He’s shredded for an eight year-old and when he charges up to them like a baby Hercules she can’t help but laugh.
“Auntie Lolly, wanna see me do a backflip?” he asks with such sincerity.
Lottie smiles to hide a laugh, “Looks like someone didn’t miss a class of Tumbling for Tots.”
And he hasn’t, not him or Callie, they could have a family circus if Jackie feels like taking up the family mantle like her mom did with pageants.
She doesn’t want them in the spotlight at this age, except for their achievements. Not their looks. She just wants them happy and healthy.
“Jacob, why don’t you show your auntie a backflip on the trampoline later? Your friends are gonna be here soon and I want you cleaned up.”
He storms off toward the house because she just can’t fucking win today.
Nat’s staring back at them from the pool, where Callie is making motions to get out.
Before Jackie can get up, Lottie’s off to grab Callie, which is perfect timing because she hears the crackle of gravel and the, “Helloooo, Jackie!” from her mother in the driveway.
Even when they’re fighting, their brains are still working in tandem. It’s why Nat’s bikini matches Lottie’s dress, it’s why she effortlessly scoops Callie up from Nat’s pass-off, and sets her down on the deck. It’s why Nat grabs her ankle, and she squats down to hear what she has to say. Nat’s eyes roam from hers to the obvious flash of panties she can see past her skirt.
Lottie moves on her haunches just so, just like the old game. She likes watching Nat lick her lips. Likes knowing the white panties she put on with this little number are being appreciated by hungry eyes.
“Hey,” she says, voice scratchy.
“Hey,” Lottie mirrors, “Having fun?”
Nat’s hand moves further up her leg, “Not as much as I will when Mrs. Taylor has a fit over how much her grandchildren love us more than her.”
“We do love to torment Marilyn, don’t we?”
They pull into the driveway, pinning the Taylors’ car, but knowing it’s fine, because Marilyn always makes sure she’s last to leave. Deb’s car is parked along the road, and Van turns their head to see Tai pulling in. Wife and baby with her.
“You good?” Harper leans over to ask.
“Yeah, I’m awesome,” Van replies.
It’s true, too. They went to Cannes Film Festival this year. Saw some good gay movies like Carol and The Lobster that they’re already doing episodes on. They’re doing the whole primary partner thing with Harper. AND, most importantly of all, they have an amazing vegan queso recipe. One with a perfectly smooth texture, that’s better than cheese somehow. The very recipe for queso that they’ve brought with them today.
“Hey,” says Tai.
“Hey,” says Van, giving Simone a peace sign, “This is my partner, Harper.”
Harper waves.
Tai frowns.
It’s a whole thing.
The horde of little boys is in full swing when they enter, dodging little heads and hands.
Shauna’s seated at a table, already rolling her eyes at the one upping Deb and Marilyn get to when it comes to gift giving.
“Hey dudes, brought some vegan queso,” Van announces.
“Van!” Shauna sounds so relieved, “Yes, let me help you with that.” Then a hug to Tai and Simone.
“Did you manage to escape Robson’s clutches?” she asks Simone on her way to the kitchen.
“Ugh, I wish. I was stuck listening to him drone for another thirty minutes after you left.”
“Well, once this little guy gets bigger, you can start using him as an excuse to leave early,” Shauna says, taking Sammy for a hug.
They cut through the kitchen to the patio where Jackie and Lottie are entertaining some of the moms while posed like models on some kind of flyer from the fifties.
“Woah, is there some kind of housewife convention in town?” Van asks, cutting in on some, surely very funny conversation.
Jackie’s reply dies on her lips as Harper walks out, both of them losing the colour in their cheeks upon seeing each other.
“The whole fucking Eastern Seaboard was right, Jackie,” Tai’s cackling while Shauna sharpens a knife (with the excuse of cutting the cake).
Jackie’s face is buried in her hands, “She ghosted me after we hooked up.”
Shauna’s knife makes an even louder ‘shing’ just like in the movies.
“Look, dude, when I told you we called them Shaunalikes… we weren’t kidding,” Nat’s saying over a can of kombucha that almost replaces the craving for a beer.
“She doesn’t even look that much like Shauna,” Simone says.
“Thank you, Simone,” Shauna preens.
“She used to have longer hair… no glasses,” Jackie’s groaning as if injured, “Not rocking the Rachel Maddow look.”
“Oh, I could see it then.”
Said Rachel Maddow look-alike has been migrating towards Nat the whole evening. Nat, who is on small child backflip monitoring duty, raises a hand in greetings, “Hey, you’re Van’s girlfriend, right?”
“Harper, yeah…” she twists her hands and Nat hides her laugh in a lit cigarette as she waits for it. “Are you Natalie Scatorccio?”
“I used to be,” Nat says on the exhale, “Now I go by many names. Like…”
“Auntie Nat! Look at my backflip!”
“Not so close to the edge, bud!” she calls back, pushing her sunglasses up, so she has a clear image of the little wrecking balls.
“I uh… really liked the new album. I mean, I know I’m in the minority, but I like Good Bush just as much as the stuff you did with Chance.”
Nat feels her own hackles raise, “Yeah, well, you know if the music’s loud and the lyrics are hard, then it doesn’t matter that I’m slurring through an opium trip on the recording.”
She shouldn’t be so prickly with Van’s new girlfriend. They’re really excited about Harper. Hype her up at every opportunity. They just didn’t mention that she was a fan .
“Yeah! I mean, you could really feel the recovery on Good Bush , and it’s like… your musical and lyrical ideas became a lot more complex. I think other people will come around. The fact that Gutted did so well is probably because of how tame the folk punk scene has gotten since Obama got elected.”
Not a bad analysis. Nat shrugs and goes back to grilling, because no matter the fucking Eye of Sauron Marilyn Taylor has on this party and her daughter, kids are gonna want weenies and burgers. Not fucking… healthy fruit pizza.
“I think part of the backlash to Good Bush was about you getting married to a millionaire. Kind of… ruins the punk cred.”
And, there it is.
As if summoned, Lottie picks her way across the patio like a gentle deer with Blanket in tow.
“Hey, how’s the circus?” she asks, drifting into Nat’s orbit. Nat lets her, she’s probably going to make up tonight. The weather’s right for it.
Harper barely glances at Lottie as she opens her mouth to continue. Nat spots Van through the sliding glass. Van mimes hanging themself, currently trapped in a discussion with Mrs. Taylor. Sucker. Come fetch your girl before I kick her ass.
“Yeah, you know, I wasn’t really thinking about my punk cred when I proposed to the love of my life,” Nat snarks.
Lottie crosses her arms and considers it, like it isn’t her bloody mouth on the cover of Gutted , “I mean, if there was ever an argument for you marrying Chloe Fandango. It’s a lot more punk to lose on the qualifying rounds of American Idol than to marry your girlhood sweetheart.”
“So right, Lott,” Nat says.
Harper looks between them, smiling sheepishly as she holds out a hand, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Harper.”
“Charlotte,” Lottie full names while shaking hands, so Harper has not passed the test. Or, she’s full naming because on Nat’s wikipedia article (she doesn’t look at it too often, okay?) under Personal Life it says:
In 2009, Scatorccio married longterm partner Charlotte Matthews[4], though in a more recent interview Scatorccio admitted to eloping to Canada in 2007.[5] The song Please God, Don’t Make Me Get Married in Massachusetts is about the struggle for marriage equality, and Scatorccio’s distaste for Boston.[5] Though since then Scatorccio has retracted much of the Massachusetts based venom.
“Nice to meet you,” Harper says, “Thanks for letting me hide out here. It’s pretty fucking weird to be at the birthday party of the son of a girl you hooked up with in college.”
That gets Nat and Lottie’s attention.
“Do tell,” Lottie fully drapes herself over Nat. Yeah, they’re making up.
“She took your virginity?!”
“Lower your voice, my parents are downstairs. AND, you hardly have a leg to stand on! I was saving mine for you, but you had to go and fuck Jeff!”
“You were saving your virginity for me?”
“Oh, come on, you already knew about that. I wrote in the damn letters.”
“Okay, we need to send these children and the assholes we went to school with home, because I need to make you forget your name right now.”
“No, we keep the children and the adults around to occupy each other while you do that. Now, where’s your belt? Mine’s downstairs and I get the feeling I’ll need to bite into something to keep quiet.”
“The guy I’m talking to about the war has these amazing insights…” Van is saying when Nat practically slithers into the conversation.
“So, how does it feel to be fucking your dick cousin?” Nat asks Van, teeth clenched around a cigar.
Asshole. They knew this was coming. Yeah, yeah, the board they have in The L Word isn’t inaccurate, considering both Van and their girlfriend have been in the host’s vagina. “I don’t know, Matthews, how does it feel to fuck your live-in chef and act like that’s not a weird power trip?”
“It’s not my fault Mark makes an amazing baked squash, and has boyfriend dick.”
“Ladies! Little ears,” Mrs. Taylor hisses at them.
“Not a lady,” both say.
“Kids, maybe take that conversation a little further away from the little ones,” Deb cuts in.
“Sorry, Mrs. Shipman,” they say instead.
"Did you hear that Mari and Travis got together?" Lottie says.
"How do you know that?"
"Asian moms talk, and Mari's been an honorary one ever since all of our moms mistook her for Filipina for like... ever."
"I can see it."
"Travis must be blissed out. Never has there been a man happier to be henpecked and a hen happier to peck."
2016
“...works in the same Lit department as Shauna. She’s totally this rising star, but don’t mention that I said that because Shaun is a little jealous of the competition.”.
“...which means my foreseeable schedule is going to be spent guaranteeing sponsors for my senatorial run.”
“...weird hybrid vegan diet that apparently is good for like… inflammation and brain fog or whatever. It sounds like horseshit, but hey, if it helps with the… you know, brain thing. Power to her, I guess.”
“...I just think they’re throwing the term ‘rising star’ around too much these days. Her work is brilliant, of course, but I don’t feel like we need to pit the whole department against each other about it.”
“...combination of folk and punk being adapted for Broadway, and it’ll either be some kind of crash and burn experiment like Stomp or it’ll clean up at the Tony’s. It’s an interesting project at least. Misty is thrilled.”
"Dude, your name is Mari Martinez. You're like a fucking comic book character."
"We're friends with people named Shauna Shipman and Taissa Turner, and I'm the one whose balls you're busting about this?"
Fragments of conversations swim past Lottie’s ears as she stares across the crowded gymnasium. Twenty years ago she was jogging through this room with her hair in golden ribbons, playing the role of ‘room for Jesus’ between the honey-eyed sweetheart and the wife she’s currently comforting (or perhaps preventing from breaking the leg of Simone Abarra). Twenty years ago, she was considering her long future in business and prescription medication induced naps. The best days were dangled in front of her: college, and with it, a taste of freedom and experimentation.
The plane crash changed that, but not much.
Right, twenty years ago she was in a plane crash, and that’s not even the most interesting thing about her.
That’s what she likes to think anyway. She’s married to a rockstar, and she’s organized a yoga retreat for famous widows, she has a dog named Blanket, and a dog named Porkchop, and can catch a fly with chopsticks. She speaks three languages well and French like shit.
Charlotte Matthews, pretty interesting lady, for the life of her cannot identify who the blonde man standing by the punch bowl is. There’s familiarity there that has her tipping her head--maybe he’s a spouse in on a day pass, or one of the wallflower jocks she always ignored.
He catches her eye and quirks his lips in that familiar way, raising a hand in a wave.
It’s the curve of his nose and the specific blue of his eyes that finally connects the two dots in her mind and her eyes flick to the name badge, seeing a big chunk of the name blocked out in ballpoint pen scribbles.
Lee Brandt.
“Lottie Matthews,” he says shyly.
“Oh my god, La--Lee hey!” she laughs, greeting him with a hug, “I’m so sorry, I barely recognized you.” His muscles are firm underhand and he smells like English Leather and salt.
“I know, I know, the hair is a big change,” he jokes, running a hand over thick blonde hair that’s been combed into a neat right part.
She laughs over-loud like he’s just said the funniest thing in the world, and instantly feels Nat and Van’s eyes on her.
“Heeyyy Lott,” Van says, leaning into her like they weren't just talking shit not five minutes ago, “Hey Lee.”
“Van,” he dips his head, “Gotta admit I’m anxious to be here. It’s my first time back since…”
Nat bumps into orbit, though not possessively, just catching Lottie’s eye over the lip of her solo cup, “Lee, huh? Suits you,” she says, and Lottie’s not sure who to. It makes her want to dig her heel into her wife’s toe to tell her to shut uuuuup.
“Thanks, Nat,” he says, cheeks pink and looking at Van instead. Interesting. Lottie slides her palm down Nat’s back and stopping at her waist.
“You two…” she looks between Van and Lee, “You’ve been hanging out?”
Van chuckles, avoiding eye contact, “You know that piece I was doing on the War on Terror?”
“No shit,” Nat says, sizing Lee up again, “Should I salute you or something?”
“If you try it I’ll headbutt you harder than Jackie at Regionals,” Lee fires back with a sharp smile.
“Good boy,” Nat says on reflex and Lottie twitches.
“Attention! Attention everyone!”
“Ugh, how the fuck does Allie insert herself into our graduation every time?” Tai can be heard saying.
“Hey,” Tai finds Van hiding out by the old generator. The one they used to stand around and watch it raise the hair on their arms.
“Hey,” Van says back, waving lamely.
They aren't sure if this is the best place for a hook up, though they're not opposed. If that's what they're doing.
(They are doing that, because it typical Taissa fashion, she called Van over to help with some responses to an interview, and got through the first two before sticking her tongue in Van's mouth. And, yeah, Van was down to clown ((emphasis on clown)) because they missed the way Tai's lipstick tasted, and the way their bodies fit together just so. They wanted to know if their youth was a fluke. If they were some destined lovers or just two kids who drank the same arrested development kool-aid that their classmates who married their classmates did. If Van was ever meant to leave Tai's orbit, like the hypergiant of light and energy Tai is.)
Tai’s sizing them up, eyes glowing reddish in the ring light of the Exit sign, “Whatever happened to us?”
Van snorts so hard they shoot the spiked Dunkin’s hot chocolate out of their nose. Just like chocolate milk in the eighth grade.
“What the fuck, man? You don’t just to spring that High Fidelity shit on me at our twenty year reunion. Jesus,” they wipe their nose on their hand and then their hand on their jeans. “You happened to us, if you’ll remember correctly. That’s what happened. You.”
Tai folds into herself, sourly frowning, “I didn’t mean like that… shit. I mean, we could’ve been friends at least.”
“Dude,” Van checks the brick corners of the little alcove before dropping their voice, “First you start booty calling me and now you’re trying to get all buddy-buddy? You are married. I’m… I’m in a good place. I like my life. I don’t need to detonate everything else,” they say, like they're an unwilling participant here and not feeding at Tai's hand.
“I don’t sleepwalk when we sleep together,” Taissa announces, like Van’s supposed to know the significance of that.
“What?”
“You know, how I was telling you years ago that my stuff kept getting moved around? Yeah, well, turns out I sleepwalk. Or, I do, when I sleep at home or at my office--”
Van feels sympathy ebbing out of them and catches it with a closed fist, pushing Taissa back by the shoulders, “Tai, I can’t be your… your comforting teddy bear. I have a life.”
“I know, I know!” her voice raises in pitch, “I just… I need you, Van. I’ve always needed you.”
Van cuts in with a kiss, because with a confession like that, how can they not?
Except, there's a sharp inhale behind Taissa and they pull apart to see Simone standing there, tears stain her pretty cheeks. Simone, the perfect Mrs. Turner. With the Ivy education, and the sophisticated effortless grace made for sitting on the cover of Vanity Fair and Time magazine alike.
Now, she's scowling at them both, but nodding, "No, no, this makes sense."
Tai wilts as she moves forward, "Simone, it's not--"
"You better go over that statement with your press manager before you let it come out of your mouth," Simone snaps, "Lord forbid you fucking this up both ways!" Simone gestures to Van, "You know, you're fucking miserable, don't you, Taissa? You don't want anything you have and you always want what you don't. You're... you're an eater, Tai, you just eat people up and shit them out."
"Don't you dare," Tai's temper spikes.
Despite the height of her spotless white heels, Simone storms away faster than either of them can catch up. She's phone in hand, clearly calling an Uber as Tai trails behind. Van doesn't really want to be involved, but they do want to be around just in case someone needs to intervene. The back door opens, revealing the Matthews' in their matching leather jackets and jeans, bickering about the ending of Swiss Army Man--which Van will definitely revisit with both of them to discuss the trans allegory, but right now they need them as refs.
"Hey, help!"
Both do so without further prompting. Just like in high school, Lottie's always first to throw her stature around to break up a fight, and Nat's the type to know just when a fight should end and begin.
"Hey Jack, some presentation, huh?" Jeff says, holding up his punch, "How are, uh, the kids?"
"Hilariously, Callie's demanding to play teeball," Jackie replies, "Here's hoping she's better than your boys," and, man, low blow.
"Here's hoping. Hey, have you seen Randy by the way? I know he and Doug had plans to rap a Beastie Boys spoof making fun of all of us for being forty..."
Shauna joins the conversations, looking like she just drank bleach, "Thanks for the heads' up, Jeff. Now I know when to take a smoke break."
"Shaun, you don't smoke."
"Not a literal statement, babe."
"Oh."
"No, we haven't seen Randy. Last I saw him he was asking if we wanted to do whippets with him in the bathroom, but knowing Randy--"
Mari appears, summoned at the speed of gossip, "He's probably puking his guts out in the parking lot."
It happens like this:
Simone Abarra lucks out, and 4.8 star Uber driver, Sergei, happened to be pulling out of Dunkin when he got pinged for a ride. One minute away. He met with Simone on the edge of the Wiskayok High (go Yellowjackets!) parking lot, letting her in, even with the circus following. Sergei learned in all his years of driving cabs not to ask about circumstances, only if the rider is comfortable and wants the AUX cord.
"It's fine, just drive."
Taissa Turner, not ready to end the conversation, gets into her car and starts it up without checking her mirrors or periphery.
Van Palmer, following from a cautious distance, takes the time to pause and tie their shoe and spots a figure on hands and knees in Tai's blind spot, "Shit, Randy!"
Lottie Matthews, speed walking towards the source of drama, feels a familar tingle between her eyebrows, and on impulse, grabs her wife and twists their bodies away from a spray of blood and brain matter.
Randy Walsh, learning not to mix whippets with cheap reunion booze, is just getting back on his feet when he sees a Democratic Party sticker on a silver bumper. It's the last thing he sees.
Not a single person screams. Not Simone Abarra, far enough from the parking lot to be blissfully unaware of her wife's vehicular manslaughter. Not Tai, shellshocked as she spots the headless body in the rearview. Not Van, staring in horror, nor Lottie, tears already sticking to her lashes. Natalie's voice rings, muffled by her wife's hand, which she claws at.
One thing can be agreed on: holy fucking shit.
One thing cannot be agreed on: what to do.
"We need to call... fucking, someone to help with this!" Nat gestures to the carnage.
Lottie doesn't say anything, instead looking around with moony eyes and a set jaw.
"I cannot stress how little we need to do that," Tai hisses, "I'm fucking running for senator, I can't have this blowing up on every paper."
"Yeah, Tai, because your political career is so much more important than Randy's life," Van snarks back.
"Isn't it? I can provide real change to marginalized communities, Randy could provide 'pull my finger' jokes to sad middle aged men."
"He was still a fucking person, Tai," Nat growls, taking out her phone.
"Natalie, who the fuck are you texting?" Tai is on her, or, would be, if Lottie didn't shove herself between them.
"Misty, who the fuck do you think?"
"Fine, then I'm texting Shauna."
"Why would you text Shauna? She's literally the worst liar in the world," Nat hisses.
"Because she is my best friend and I'm freaking the fuck out!" Tai hisses back.
"Oh, holy fuck," announces Jackie Taylor as the small party of her, Mari, Travis, Lee, and Shauna appear in the parking lot.
"Jesus, Shauna, did you bring the rest of the fucking graduating class too?!" Taissa hisses at her in annoyance.
Mari stares on in horror as Travis throws up behind a car. Lee's face is impassive.
"Careful buddy, Tai might hit you with her car if you get too low there," Van calls after him, "Maybe put on a high vis vest."
"Van!" Tai hisses.
"Okay, okay, okay, we need to... hmm..." Jackie is stepping into her old team captain cleats, "For starters, we need to not look so fucking suspicious. Everyone, cigarettes out."
"What, we're just having a smoke circle around Tai's car?"
"Yes, Vanessa, now fucking help me move him out of view," Jackie snaps, being insanely hot on three inch cream coloured heels and hefting Randy by his feet.
"Of course you want me on the shoulders," Van sighs.
"I'm wearing a yellow dress, you're in a tux t-shirt, now quit griping. Travis, you good?"
They tuck Randy alongside the SUV just in time for Misty to pull into the parking lot, flashing her lights twice before getting out, another woman piling out of the front.
"Hey guys, so great to be invited, especially because Allie is being such a fascist with the invites these days, like, I graduated two years before her. I have more a right to be here more than she does. She didn't even crash with us. Oh."
The woman next to her just quirks a brow before lighting a cigarette, "You weren't kidding about your friends."
"Misty, who is this?" Nat asks.
"I'm Jessica," she raises a hand, "Misty's date."
"She's my girlfriend."
"Oh, nice to meet you," Lottie reaches out to shake a hand, "Lottie Matthews. We're vagina cousins."
"Charmed," Jessica drawls, "So, who's the messy eater?" she jerks her head in the direction of The Body.
"Our state senator-in-training," Van gestures with a thumb.
"Van!" Taissa turns on them in annoyance.
“What? Are we just gonna not talk about how Taissa decapitated Randy fucking Walsh with her 2013 Subaru Forester.”
“My legal advice is to not namedrop the exact year and make in the presence of everyone’s phones again," Jessica flicks her cigarette.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” Nat fires across the bow.
“I’m Misty’s date," Jessica repeats with a shrug, "Babe, did you pack that luminol proof bleach?"
Misty fiddles with her glasses, blushing and fidgeting, "Babe, don't talk dirty in front of my friends."
"Gross," Mari says, rubbing Travis's back, "I think I'm gonna be sick now."
A horn honks at them, and it's Lee with his own SUV pulling up to block the view of the road from the smoking area outside the auditorium. He hops out of the driver's seat and opens his trunk, returning with a banner from the front hall.
"Good thinking," Jackie says, patting his back as he passes her.
"Yeah, we need someone to run interference on Jeff," he replies, looking at Shauna and Jackie.
They look between each other wordlessly debating before Jackie sighs, "Okay, but I'm not leaving without a plan for everyone to follow."
Misty ticks off on her fingers, "We need several teams. One for body disposal, one for clean up, one for distracting the rest of the class, and finally one for creating an airtight alibi for everyone here, and somewhere for Randy have went to get the cops on that trail instead of ours."
"Why does this sound like this isn't the first time you've done this?" Travis asks, looking at her with a fresh coat of fear.
"Don't worry about it," reply Jackie, Natalie, Van, Taissa, and Shauna. You know, like a normal soccer team.
"Or, we could, just... let Taissa deal with this shit. She's the one who ran Randy over," Mari folds her arms.
Jessica sighs, "Again, not in the range of everyone's phones."
"No," Jackie says, stretching up to full height and glow, "We're Yellowjackets. We're a hive. We protect our own. Buzz buzz, motherfucker."
Just like that, everyone falls in line. Nat nods and squeezes Jackie's shoulder. Mari frowns, then relents, “I mean, we drove the truck here. We could help dispose of the body. It’s just a big ask, you know? If we get caught transporting human meat in a mobile kitchen, not only will we go to jail, we’ll lose our ability to serve food."
“Because that’s the priority here?” Nat exchanges a look with her nauseous wife.
"It's not a bad idea," Lee says, and, man, war does stuff to a dude.
Taissa sighs and runs a hand through her hair, “What is it that you want, Mari?”
“Well, for starters, permits don’t come cheap. So, I want the next ten years of permit fees waived.”
“Ten?!”
“A lot less than you’ll be spending in jail if they find the body.”
“Okay! Okay! Fuck. Fine.”
“And! You’re going to promote us. Give us those plush state catering events,” Mari nods in satisfaction.
Travis is praying in Spanish. Lee, sensing this, has joined him.
“Fine,” Taissa sighs.
“I want it in writing,” Mari huffs.
“You wanna put the terms of you extorting Tai into writing? Really, Mari?” Van squints.
Mari huffs again, settling for a handshake instead, knowing Tai is worth her word… for a politician anyway.
An important part of leadership is knowing where and when it’s best to delegate--leave it up to the pros, you know? Which is why Jackie ducks off to distract Jeff while Misty and Jessica talk the team through the minutiae of covering up vehicular manslaughter.
“Do you think that this sort of thing... do you think our kids will sense this darkness in us?" Shauna asks Mari, who glances at Travis, currently sipping a ginger ale from the cooler.
"If they did then maybe ours will get off my dick," Mari replies, "Wait, have I showed you our baby girl?"
"Is this to guilt me for involving you in conspiracy to--oh she's adorable, Mari. Look at those cheeks!"
"Hang on, let me get one of mine," Shauna fires off a quick text to Deb, who replies with a picture of the kids watching what looks like some kind of haunted doll movie.
“Scary movies and ice cream. Hey, Matthews!” two dark haired heads turn her way, “I think Deb’s trying to compete with you for our kids’ favourite.”
“Deb knows she can try because I won’t roll an old lady,” Nat replies. Lottie nods in agreement, flexing.
While Jessica leaves with Van to break into Randy's office and plant evidence, Misty and Lee are cleaning Taissa's car while exchanging stories. The rest of the team is on disposal, then distraction (Nat, Lottie, and Tai) duty.
There’s always one weak bitch in the murder family, and to mild surprise, at the moment, it’s Travis. (Mari cried. Van’s puked twice. Lottie’s puked once, and Tai's had to stop and gag a few times. They’re doing great.) He’s hyperventilating on the bumper with an, “Oh my god, it’s Randy. We can’t just fucking… hide him like he doesn’t matter. Shit, Tammy used to be my accountant. She deserves to know.”
And, yeah, Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s Nat who intervenes, grabbing Travis by the cheeks, “Trav, look at me.”
Travis looks at her with big sopping brown eyes that she gets lost in for a moment, "Do you remember your dad's ring?"
He sniffs, "The one we buried him with."
Nat nods, "Yeah, the one we dug him up to retrieve."
A shudder goes around the group, clearly taking in the news.
"I broke your dad's finger to take that ring off his soft, rotting bones, and I gave it to you," she says.
His lip wobbles, "And you said, that it was okay, but I'd owe you one."
"Yup," Nat says, "I'm cashing that in. Come on, for the good of the Hive."
Travis shakes his head a few times, then slaps his cheeks as he exhales, "Buzz buzz, motherfuckers."
As if sense this, Nat's phone buzzes. It's Jackie.
"Distraction team, we need you on stage," Jackie says before hanging up.
Lottie, having sensed this, reappears with Nat's guitar, "If Allie tells me I can't vape in the auditorium one more time I'm going to dunk her through the basketball hoop."
"That's fair," Tai sighs, fixing her lipstick in someone's rearview, "Okay, showtime."
The trio head across the tarmac toward the gym.
“I could have given a monologue. I’ll have you know, two time Tony nominee, Kristen Megat told me that my Steel Magnolias is top notch," Misty says, folding up her gloves with a pout.
“Wow, because so many people want to watch Pissty Queefly get up and do live theatre while drunk on shitty booze,” Mari snarks.
Misty looks murderous behind the flash of her old nickname, but Shauna intervenes, "Can we just not? Come on, before anyone else comes."
“Play Stairway!”
“Shut the fuck up, Doug, you’re a grown man and she doesn’t take requests!” and, Nat really appreciates Allie for that. She’s half in Jeff’s lap and he looks chagrined about the whole thing.
They need to keep him chagrined.
Because the unfortunate truth in this world is that the first person to care about the absence of Randy Walsh is Jeff Sadecki. And, since Jeff is respected and well-liked in Wiskayok, people will actually form a search party.
“You know, I can’t believe it’s been twenty years…” Nat begins. Lottie gives her A Look, which, shut the fuck up, Matthews, she’s improvising (Nat skipped drama to smoke weed with Kevyn behind the quad, and Lottie's never forgiven her for doing it the one class they were supposed to play Romeo and Juliet).
For better or worse, Lottie’s the one who can work crowds, but Nat does remember one night after another one of those fucking wellness events, when she asked her wife about it.
“You just… give them a prompt. Let them fill in the blanks. It’s kind of like therapy that way,” she said, switching her contact lenses for the big buggy glasses Nat says make her look like Jackie.
“Give me an example.”
Lottie pulled Nat's hand into her own, removing rings and setting them down on the bedside table before applying lotion. A well-versed ritual, sure, but one that still made Nat's heart flutter like they're passing notes in class.
“Do you remember John Edward? That psychic guy with the public access show?”
“Dude, you weren’t even in the states when he was on TV.”
“I totally was,” Lottie shoved at her, “I was just… usually occupied with other things,” and her eyes moved to rove Nat’s figure.
Nat shoved at her, “The white dude with the pastor vibes who wasn’t nearly as cool as Miss Cleo.”
“Yeah, so, typical con artist stuff… you just say, ‘does anyone here have a dead relative whose name begins with the letter ‘A’?’ and people think you’re talking to Aunt Abigail or whatever.”
So Nat works the crowd, “Who remembers how fucking crazy that year was? I mean…”
“Randy threw up in the pool!”
“Allie broke her leg!”
“Jeff knocked up Shauna!”
“Our plane fucking crashed,” Lottie supplies.
“Our plane crashed,” Nat latches onto that, “And we lost only one team member to it… Rachel Abrams. She uh… she had tickets to see Oasis in concert, and she never got to go. So, for Rachel, here’s Wonderwall .”
They’ve made it as far as Oakview when some sirens flashing pull the truck over.
“Motherfuck--Travis! Are you sure you updated the registration?” Mari yells.
He replies in Spanish, “Los tengo, Marr!”
“Then why the fuck--”
The officer who approaches the truck is burly. Blonde crew cut. Little pig eyes. Black gloves.
He walks slowly, looking at each tire and mudflap before stopping just short of the driver's window. Travis, having lived this a time or two before, exhales long and slow, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel.
"Excuse me, sir," the cop says.
Travis rotates his head to look at him, thinking of the smell of his father's perforated corpse as he smiles tightly, "Yes, officer? How can I be of assistance today?"
The cop smiles, all teeth, “Are you aware that your tail light is burned out?"
Mari darts in from the back, all smiles, "Babe, what's wrong?"
"He says we've got a burnt out light," he says loudly enough to lower some of the hackles in the back.
"Shoot, really? Didn't we just take it in for an inspection?" she says, come on, Travis, yes, and.
"Two days ago, hand to god," he says, "Guy there owes me a hundred and eighty bucks for missing that."
"And right before porkfest!" Mari says, which isn't a lie, it was their plans for this weekend.
The cop clears his throat, clearly put off by the marital discussion in front of them. He removes his hat, "You know, I'm actually a huge fan. Best damn barbecue in the state of New Jersey,” he says, “Say, we’ve got a picnic tomorrow… big baseball fundraiser, and I thought I’d ask if you could show up… bring some pulled pork. You know, the usual. It’s kind of late notice, but I’ll sweeten the deal by forgetting all about the tail light.”
Travis looks at Mari. Mari looks at Travis. Mari leans back to see Misty and Shauna huddled over Randy’s body and hatches a plan.
It’s an awful, terrible plan, but a clean one. One that will let her keep her husband, and her house, and her five children. She’s not going to be spending Felicidad’s quinceañera in a federal fucking prison.
“Yeah, you know, we’ve actually be working on a new recipe. Top secret,” she winks.
“Oh really? Well, now I can’t wait to surprise the boys,” the cop moves to step off, then lingers, almost turning on toe. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Shauna reaching for a cleaver.
“I just wanted to say,” he adds, “You and your husband are some of the good ones. Came to this country the right way. Speak English. Obey the law. Unlike some bad hombres ,” he chuckles.
Actually, Shauna can totally butcher him.
Travis, seeming to sense this, pops out of the back, all smiles and says, “Great to hear, thanks!”
“You get that tail light fixed,” the cop points.
“Sure will, Officer!”
“Please, call me Bill.”
They wait for the car to leave to exhale. Mechanically, Travis starts the truck and turns back onto the road.
"What do you mean, new pork recipe?"
"Randy," Mari replies, eerily calm as she fixes her hair in the mirror.
“We’re not gonna fucking cook Randy,” Shauna hisses.
"Oh, so when we have to sit through Fried Green Tomatoes, like, every sleepover, cooking the body is cool and fine. But, when I suggest it?" Mari whirls on Shauna.
“It’s a remarkably clean solution,” Misty pushes at her glasses as she considers it, "We'd need to deep clean your grill right after to remove any trace of human DNA. One strike like that can ruin your entire business."
Shauna looks back and forth between the other three.
“But, we do have friends in high places looking out for us,” Travis says after a pause.
After another pause, Shauna reiterates, “We are not gonna fucking cook Randy!”
Randy Walsh disappears with a number of calculated traces: a missing sum of money embezzled from his bar, a letter left to his wife Tammy in apology, saying he owed some money to some bad people, and a text to Jeff Sadecki telling him to take care of his wife.
“I still think we could have dumped him in the fountain outside Margaritaville and let the cops make their own conclusions from that,” Shauna says, passing the bottle of Vodka back to Jackie.
“It needed to be air tight,” says Misty, tucking more rubber gloves in her pocket, “Now, keeping this many people air tight on the other hand…” he glasses flash at the implication.
“Raise your hand if you wanna go to jail,” Van says.
No one raises their hand.
“Yeah, seems like enough to keep our mouths shut. Even if Jackie will inevitably need to gag Shauna.”
“Hey!”
Nat leans over to Lottie and says, “You know, maybe it’s a good thing we don’t have kids.”
2017
“Hey Dad, dinner’s ready!”
Nat sees stars as the back of her head hits the hood of the purple Dodge Challenger she’s currently fixing.
She catches view of herself in the mirror and flinches. Her grey silk shirt had been so comfortable and stylish this morning, now, seeing her tattoos peeking out of it, and the patchwork of black, blonde, and silver hair, Nat does look like her dad .
That’s not what Lisa means though.
“You okay?” she asks, rushing over to check the back of Nat’s head, brown eyes fixed on Nat in consternation, “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Zero,” Nat rubs her head, “You called me Dad .”
Lisa bites at her lip, “Lottie thought it would be funny, now I’m not so sure.”
“What, I get the dad treatment and you’re not gonna even call her, Mom ?”
“I was gonna wait for you to be there to do that. See her reaction…” Lisa trails off, “It’s weird isn’t it? I should just stick to--”
Nat stops her with a kiss to the forehead. God, she’s so fucking tall (like her mother) that Nat has to lean up to do it, “Call me whatever makes you comfortable, kiddo,” and rubs Lisa’s hair enough to muss it up.
“Ugh!” she flees the garage, “Come and eat or Mom’s going to end up skipping dinner to hang out in her meditation tent again!”
Nat changes shirts first, finding herself smiling even as she does it. Lisa was an… unexpected blessing. The whole, ‘kid’ fantasy had been given up on, until she got an email from Pastor Lee Brandt mentioning that he’d heard about their adoption troubles from Van, and that he helps run a shelter for at risk LGBTQ youth. One with foster options.
They drove out to the city and found him hanging out on the steps with a few rough-looking kids. They hadn’t seen him since the whole “Randy incident” and he seemed to be even more sunkissed and in his element.
The kids respected him, nodding as they all passed, and not in just a weird religious way. In a genuine way. A Lee kind of way.
“We try to keep their stay here as enriching as possible. A lot of these kids have never had a stable home, or have endured abuse at the hands of foster families and don’t feel safe. Some have never had a birthday party, or a hug from someone they trusted…”
Nat felt the squeeze of Lottie’s hand and wondered if they’d be taking the entire flock of troubled teens home with them. She squeezed back, feeling her own navel tugging. This could have been her. If she had packed up and left Wiskayok after her dad died. Living between half-way houses and shelters, dodging creepy foster dads and creepier dealers on the street.
Lee introduced them around. They met a pair of siblings who were really good at the cup game, a former addict who found God in a greeting card aisle, a graffiti artist (Nat looked through her book approvingly), a busker (he was playing his fiddle in the subway to build some savings), and Lisa.
Lisa was finishing her own smoke when the pair of them went outside, both curious about the girl hiding away in a massive grey hoodie.
“What’re you in for?” Nat asked, like it was Death Row, or something.
“Shoplifting from TJ Maxx,” Lisa replied, and Lottie squeezed Nat’s bicep tight enough to leave nail indentations.
They took her home that day. Lee smiled as he helped with the paperwork, smug little ass knew which one they’d pick.
"You should ask my wife out on a date, by the way," Nat told him after Lottie left the room. His cheeks flushed at the words.
"I didn't think--"
"Yeah, well, you have my blessing," she said, patting him on the shoulder.
It felt like the night before Christmas, and Christmas, as they lay in their bed, knowing that their kid was making herself at home in the room formerly known as guest.
Well, not their kid yet. They were giving everyone a trial period. Just in case.
And, yeah, they both crept around Lisa’s presence in the house, observing her like she was a new housecat, until she snapped and told them to, “Quit being weird.”
Just like that, ‘home’ became a different shape.
Nat remembers the first time she got in from a late night to find her wife and daughter snoring on the couch, still goopy with face masks as Ru Paul was telling two queens to lipsync for their lives.
And yeah, she started hitting the gym harder so next time she could carry them both off to bed. Lisa’s too old for that now, but in another life, maybe… they would’ve gotten her earlier and Nat would get to carry her to bed. Or put her on her shoulders at rock concerts. (Lisa's mom died in a house fire when she was fourteen. She was a donor baby, so there was no father or family to move to. She had a friend's couch for a while, but then her dad started getting creepy, and Lisa ran off to find her own way while waiting for the insurance company payout.)
They took her out for a dinner of her choosing when they all agreed on staying together as a unit. A family.
“Her birthday is in January of 2001… so that would have been nine months after my birthday,” Nat said after the got home, and marking the calendar with "Gotcha Day".
Lottie rolled onto her side, “Well, we didn’t use protection when I came to visit you and Jackie for the first time….”
“You dog! Knocking me up in the first week.”
“You know me… can’t be inhibited by condoms. This stallion’s gotta roam free," then Lottie licked Nat's cheek, pressing closer at the scrunched up disgust it got her.
“You’re so gross. You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”
They laughed and tickled each other before settling onto the same pillow, Lottie playing with Nat’s fingers, “Jackie would have been insufferable about us having a baby.”
“She’d be a great Auntie,” Nat agrees, “Or whatever kind of third parent she’d end up being.”
At age eight, Calliope Jane Taylor-Shipman is already a better baseball player than her father. She pitches like a hurricane and hits balls high and far down the midfield, getting the most home runs out of her team.
At age ten, Jacob London Taylor-Shipman is picked to be the striker on his team. His mom's are so proud they will not stop talking about it.
"Just you wait for Sammy to get to be his age, he'll be giving Jack's record a run for its money," Taissa says over birthday cake.
Jack rolls his eyes and takes a loaded plate into the living room, finding Callie already on the couch and curled against Lisa, watching her play Zelda.
"Lisa, do you want some cake?" Jack says, having picked the best piece for her.
She nods, "Have a seat, dude, I'm just about to beat Farosh."
Jackie's trying really hard not to be overbearing about the sweater swaddled teenager following her best friends around like a baby duck. She wants to see the baby. She wants to know the baby's favourite ice cream flavour.
She is, unprepared for the baby answering the door in a purple flannel and jeans, looking for all intents and purposes, like half Nat, half Lottie. Tall with Nat's hair and Lottie's eyes, and slumping around in a moody, noodly fashion that is somehow the amalgamation of the pair of them in high school.
"Dad's out back," she says quietly, moving aside.
Jackie just hugs her.
2018
"A Lexus is a perfectly appropriate honour roll gift," Lottie asserts, flipping the page of her magazine.
Jackie got the lawn chairs at Dick's (for ten bucks a pop!) and has demanded a magazine and San-gay-a day to wind down from the school year and up for Pride. Lottie even drove Dylan, Rekha, and Mari out with her.
Mari and Rekha are nodding, "My parents got me my first car for sweet sixteen."
"Right? Same. But, I didn't want to get her one for seventeen like it was a make up gift. I mean, she opposed the private academy we got her into..."
"Dalton, right? How did you swing that?" Rekha asks.
Lottie smirks. Dalton was her father's high school, the one she would have attended if not for her... condition--as they put it delicately. She gets it now, wanting for your child what you yourself were deprived, "Natalie knows the dean from the bath house. She pulled some strings."
Mari whistles, "Tornado blowjob?"
Lottie swats her with a magazine the same time Jackie says, "That was totally just a rumour."
Lottie wiggles her brows at her, "To everyone else maybe."
"Rich people," Dylan laughs, refilling their glass, "Where is Natalie?"
"She's running a marathon for charity this fall. Running's been good for weeks when she can't make it to meetings," Lottie says, glancing up the street, "Kids went with her because we raised a pack of jocks, apparently."
"Says the bitch who does an hour of yoga every day," Mari fires back.
Any retort dies on Lottie's lips as the sound of children screaming has her springing up from her chair. Jackie's across the lawn and running to meet them.
"Kids, kids, what's going on?"
"Auntie Nat! She just--"
"We were running and--"
"She must have tripped or something--"
"She fell!"
"She looked all funny before she did!"
Lottie feels the stilling of time around her. There was no warning of this. Not an omen of danger when they kissed Lee goodbye this morning. Nor the angel of death lurking around her wife's shadow. She didn't sense it. She didn't sense it.
She searches her memory, thinking now, about how Nat's been sleeping poorly lately. The headaches and sore limbs. Just from staring at screens too long, and from preparing for the marathon. How could she have... how could they have?
"Jesus, someone call 911."
"You silly bitch."
Nat groans as she blinks herself back into life. Fluffy brown curls are backlit by the setting sun, and a familiar mouth is twisted in half-grimace, "You fucking overdosed on Tylenol."
"This is not my beautiful house," Nat grunts, because she's not sure if she's gonna have another chance, "And you sure as hell aren't my beautiful wife."
"Sure ain't," Tai says, getting up to kiss her eyebrow, "Your wife had to be talked down from blood sacrifice no fewer than three times and is currently on a pretty heavy sedative."
"What was the argument for blood sacrifice?" Nat asks.
"She made some convincing points about how everyone's luck got better after the... pulled pork incident. Then Shauna said that it was bad data because we only had the one instance to go off, and then Lottie reminded us of the other incident, and how it did grant us all a boon that time too."
"Shit, might as well check a third time for data's sake," Nat coughs, "Tylenol, really?"
"Yup. Gave yourself kidney failure. Just like our moms always warned us," Tai sits on her bed to hand Nat a glass of water, new engagement ring shining in the light.
"Fuck me. That's so stupid," she looks at the dialysis machine, "Well, it was bound to happen one way or another."
"Don't say that," Tai tucks her covers around her.
Tylenol. Fucking Tylenol.
See, the thing they don't tell you about aging, and about prepping for marathons, is the pain. It started with the wrong shoes, and staggering home for an ice bath and tape wrappings. Lottie made sure she got the best of everything--made sure she was going about it the right way. But, then she hurt her hip kicking the ball around with Jack, and when Lottie made noises about wanting to bottom after seeing Nat all athletic and sweaty, then Nat just took a handful of the over-the-counter painkillers. Look, the life of an addict sucked. She couldn't take opiates for anything. Not broken limbs or surgery. Tylenol does not do the fucking job, so yeah, she got heavy handed with it and--
"I overdosed on fucking Tylenol."
"They're looking for an organ donor. Luckily, you're rich, white, and have a wife who'd do anything for you," Tai says.
"Way to guilt trip me almost dying, Senator," Nat replies, knuckling Tai's cheek.
"Misty busted in here yesterday, distraught that she couldn't offer you one of her organs."
"She's a universal donor, right?" Nat grabs another sip of water.
"Almost, O positive. She has all of our blood types on file, naturally."
"Naturally," Nat repeats, "Can you go get my wife and kid? I wanna make sure they're okay."
Tai smiles, "Of course. I owe you, remember?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. What the hell brought you out here anyway?"
"Aside from you almost dying, asshole, custody stuff. Simone's new girlfriend, Carla, works in hospital administration and can make pancakes in 'cool shapes' according to Sammy."
Nat bites the inside of her cheek because, it must be a coincidence.
Nat's lived a good life. Honestly, looking at all the bucket lists she's filled out over the years, the only thing really left is to buy Courtney Love a non-alcoholic drink. Maybe she can request it from some of those Make-A-Wish types.
She's been all over the world. Sitting on beaches, playing music, making friends.
She's got a wife and they've traded their many lovers for a sometimes boyfriend (even if it meant Lottie having an existential crisis while giving up her lesbian card and shift her sexual identity to pansexual). They've got a daughter who throws pool parties for her rich classmates once a month (as per payment for any emotional scarring sustained by walking in on her parents and their pastor).
It's been a good run. Really. Not dying in Wiskayok. Not dying on stage in London (though it would be legendary), or OD-ing in some alley.
Hell, she's even covered up two murders.
"Hey shithead," Jackie says, sitting on her bed, "How dare you try to fucking die before me."
Just like that, the acceptance stage of grief turns back into denial as Nat clings to Jackie and sobs, "Captain's supposed to go down with the ship, right?" she jokes.
"Damn right," Jackie kisses her head, "I came to tell you that they found a donor. You're gonna get a healthy kidney."
"Shut the fuck up," Nat whispers.
"Dude, you gotta stop saying that to people."
Nat wipes at her eyes, "Did they say who?"
"No? But you're a rock star, they gave David Rockerfeller like six heart transplants before he finally answered death's call," Jackie pulls her into a hug, "Besides, you're not shuffling off this mortal coil before one of my kids can marry your daughter."
"Jackie, that's so creepy."
Nat wakes up from surgery to find Lottie sitting in a bed across from her, wearing a matching kidney scar, just as groggy as she flips her off, "Till death do us part, you stupid bitch."
Turns out Lottie's A negative too.
Who knew?
Lisa Matthews spends the rest of 2018 looking after her parents', who are like stoned cats post-surgery. They go through most of the Disney catalogue, watching The Jungle Book like eighteen times because they decide that they're Baloo, Bagheera, and Mowgli.
"I'm the cat right?" Dad says, pawing at them, "I'm the cat!"
"Of course you're Bagheera, baby," Mom kisses her head.
Pastor Lee comes by a lot to help, but he confides in Lisa that he's started seeing a girl and they're gettting pretty serious, and it's a weird situation to break up in.
And Lisa, knowing her parents at this point, tells them over dinner, "Lee's got a new girlfriend and it's pretty serious."
"Oh shit," Dad says, "Good for him."
Mom pouts a little, but shrugs it off and says, "He's an unmarried pastor at his age. It makes sense for him to want to settle down."
(His girlfriend it's named Hayden, and she's trans and religious as well.)
Scrolling through the streaming offerings, Lisa lands on Holes, "Hey have you two seen this?"
"A little too old for Shia Labeouf movies," Dad replies crankily.
It doesn't stop them from sobbing at "I can fix that."
"That's Jackie!" Dad exclaimed.
And, when Kissin' Kate Barlow starts killing everyone in revenge of Sam's lynching, "That's Shauna!"
"Is this really a Disney movie?" Mom asks, squinting behind her glasses as she scrolls IMDB on her iPad, the way she does any time she has to respond to a text message.
"You should be going to graduating parties," Mom tells her later as she helps the pair of them to bed.
"I'm okay," Lisa says, handing over a pill bottle, "Parties are boring."
"Lisa, I'm serious, we can get a nurse to come by. No misspent youth under my roof, okay?"
It starts as a thought after watching Holes of all things.
"You know how I wanted to take all the kids home from the shelter," Lottie says. Nat hums in response as they stand up to applaud Shauna walking across a stage to talk about her new book, a sequel to Where The River Split Between You and Me called Where The River Reunited You and Me, starring Georgia "George" Graham, who sent her own hand in an escape pod to let her lover know she was still alive.
"What about it?" Nat asks as they sit, listening to the presenter cover the queer themes in Shipman's literature.
"What if we... made like, a summer camp for helping kids instead of a half-way house or a shelter. Somewhere they could reconnect with nature and learn new skills."
"Like how to build a fire if they get in a plane crash that strands them in the wilderness?" Nat asks, cutting the crap.
"Yeah," Lottie replies, and Nat turns to look at her, appreciating the the pattern of light that makes a pair of antlers above her wife's head.
Nat sits up in bed with a groan. The ceiling’s all big barn wood, but painted white like some kind of Nordic spa. She’s swathed in expensive white sheets, and a grey notted blanket.
“Bad dream?” asks Lottie, wandering in wearing her floaty grey lounge wear and her glasses on her head.
“Yeah… weird one about the crash,” she says, clearing her voice and feeling a funny sense of deja vu.
“Sounds scary,” Lottie tuts, setting two cups of tea down on the bedside table before straddling Nat’s lap, “I found a place. Eighty-four acres, half of it used to be for logging, so there are functional roads, and room for regrowth.”
“Lake access?” Nat asks.
“Wait until you see it,” Lottie smiles, sliding her laptop across the bedspread, “Right here, in the shadow of the mountain. We could build a camp right along the water.”
Nat nods against her shoulder before blinking, “So, this is when this happens.”
Lottie cocks her head at her, half-way between a smile and a frown, "Did you...?"
Nat gathers her hands up in her lap, appreciating the view of their expensive house, and the way Lottie's pulse still jumps at her touch. They haven't been able to resume their usual level or intensity of lovemaking since the surgery, but Nat's horny, and she knows just what to say, "Your blood is my blood now, babe."
Yeah, so what if Lottie Matthews gets off on knowing she's going to have a piece of herself inside her wife until the day she dies? Are you saying you wouldn't?
2021
Natalie Scatorccio wakes up cold and alone to the pattering of rain on the aluminium roof of her cabin. She groans, pulling the covers closer, trying to bring as much warmth as she can to her knee--sore from the wet and cold getting in.
With a glance at her phone she finds it early enough to warrant a lie in (especially with this weather), but upon rolling over she’s greeted with hot, foul breath and a long white snout.
Glossy black boba tea eyes stare at her from fifty miles of hairy muzzle and the panting directly into her nose is followed by a whine.
“Blanket,” she groans, shoving him off, “You smell like beef.”
She blames age and an absence of coffee for the stutter in her brain that causes the chain realisation.
Blanket is here.
Blanket’s legs are muddy.
Blanket isn’t supposed to stray far from Lottie.
Lottie isn’t here.
Nat springs up from bed, pulling on her boots and leggings as Blanket whines and scratches at the door.
She follows him down the muddy road towards the sound of spinning tires and a jerking clutch.
“No, no, now! Jesus fucking Christ, Lisa, you’re flooding the engine.” Lottie comes into view first, hair twisted into a wet rope of a braid as she stands at the crest of the hill, wearing her olive raincoat and matching overalls, winch in hand. Nat only sees the back of her, all sharp angles like a black cat stretching its spine.
She’s alive and she’s safe, and Blanket is barking his annoying little yip to announce their arrival.
Saving the day is something she can do, jogging in and grabbing the winch from Lottie, “That tree’s at a weird angle, it needs to be this one.” and she drags the wire to a gnarled, yet sturdy pine tree. Lottie helps her, worrying her lips and smouldering in rage.
“Hi, baby,” Nat says, teeth gritting as they use their combined strength to snap the carabiner around the wire, “Have you had a frustrating week?”
Lottie huffs, eyes black and white, “Don’t patronise me, Nat.”
“Not patronising,” Nat uses the cleaner back of her wrist to push her hair out of her face, “Merely offering to help let off some steam later. Maybe something involving your face in my pillow and my dick in your ass?”
Tension bleeds out of Lottie’s shoulders with a combination of embarrassment and desire. She nods, cheeks red and lips rolled between her teeth. Nat slaps her ass and kisses her cheek, “Good. Now, go apologise to your fucking daughter, shithead.”
(It's not about Lisa, it's about Mal keeling over from a heart attack last month.) Lottie exhales as she drops into a sulking squat, cleaning her glasses as she goes, “She doesn’t take direction.”
“She’s learning!”
Nat slides down the muddy hill to rescue Lisa from the driver’s seat where she’s got a death grip on the steering wheel and hot, angry tears in her eyes.
“She was a nightmare the whole way up,” Lisa hisses.
“Rain stresses her out,” Nat replies, “Okay, Lee, take your foot off the gas pedal, but slowly.”
The tires spin out, spraying mud. A swear from behind the car has Nat turning to see Jacob Taylor-Shipman standing there, shirt coated in mud and his mother’s blackened temper bleeding out through his pale yellow eyes.
“Thanks for helping out, Callie!” he slaps the back window.
Callie, for her part, sits serenely in the backseat with Porkchop on her lap, stroking the old dog’s floppy orange ears, “What? I’m making sure Peach doesn’t freak out!”
Porkchop (not Peach, no matter how much Lottie and Callie insist it’s a better name for her dog ) looks nonplussed by the whole situation. But, then again, she is blind and deaf at this point.
“We’ll get you a shower once we make it to camp, okay JJ?” Nat says, aiming to soothe to the building temper in her godson.
“Whatever,” he hisses, full of all the toxicity a 15 year-old boy can muster.
“Leese, are you good to keep going, or do you want me to tap in?” Nat asks, leaning on the driver’s seat window.
Lisa takes a deep breath before settling into a determined look that Nat’s used to seeing in the mirror.
“You’ve got this, okay, babygirl?” Nat says.
Lisa nods, setting her jaw just like Lottie does and Nat slaps the side of the car before jogging around back to help JJ push. With the two of them on either side of the bumper, and the winch around the right tree, the car pulls itself out of muddy suction and crawls slowly up the slick hill until it reaches higher, drier ground.
“Good morning workout,” Nat grunts, apologising to her knees as she and JJ stagger up the hill, “Where’re your moms?”
“Visiting the body farm before they come over. They took the Jeep, which is why we’re stuck with your stupid ass Lexus.”
“Don’t be a sourpuss, Junior,” Nat says, taking the lead from the younger, stronger, more capable baby boy next to her.
He huffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. When Nat crests the hill, Lottie’s pressing a kiss to Lisa’s eye socket.
“Good job, sweetheart.”
Lisa’s still sulking, but Nat can see the seeds of forgiveness there. She mouths a ‘thank you’ to Nat who just shrugs. It’s her job after all.
“We’ll get the kids to pour some gravel on that hill to make it less of a hazard,” she says loudly.
The rest of the trip goes without a hitch, just in time for campers to be waking up, and the other counselors (vetted by Jessica Roberts and Misty Quigley) setting up.
"Hi Dr. Matthews!" Mei says, always the most chipper in the morning, "How was the trip up."
"Muddy," Lottie says with a tight smile.
Lisa, Callie, and Jacob are already on their phones and frown as they wander around in search of service.
Camp Green Pine boasts a lot of things, but consistent service is not one of them.
It's been good. Really good, actually. Her wife's amazing at squeezing money from the government and donors alike to get state of the art facilities and teaching techniques for troubled teens.
It's not all smooth sailing, but it makes a difference. Most kids are surly and traumatized when they arrive, and good little bastards by the time they leave.
“Hey Dad, the wifi’s down. I tried restarting the router from here, but it’s still giving me the red light, so I need to call the ISP,” Lisa says, coming down out of the office with a flock of campers following her like baby ducks.
“Okay?” Nat says with a squint.
“Meaning I need you to call them, or I need to pretend to be you on the phone,” Lisa explains like she’s teaching a four year-old to tie shoelaces. Little shit.
Nat looks between her daughter and the pack of wide-eyed youth offenders and cocks her hip, “I trust you to get it done.”
The subtext she hopes to convey is: I thought I raised you better than to tell me when you’re impersonating me.
Lisa chews on her lip ring (Lottie would nag her about this if she weren't currently having a shower in Nat's cabin) before nodding, “Okay, I’ll let you know.”
“This is why we can’t log into the wifi?” one of the kids asks--a heavyset girl with floppy green hair.
“Yeah, but you’re going to being having so much fun you won’t need wifi,” Nat lies.
Jackie and Shauna show up in time for breakfast, whistling the way they do right after blowing off some steam.
"How's the body farm?" Nat asks, handing Jackie a cup of coffee.
Jackie blows at her too-red bangs (early grey hair being aging's comeback), "JJ's got a new coach."
"What happened to the old one?" Nat asks without really needing an answer. Hence, the body farm. A win-win-win for government funding, easy abilis for any grotesqueries the kids stumble across, and somewhere to disappear any other... pulled pork problems.
"Misty found something troubling in his search history," Jackie shrugs, "Mm, are those Margaret's famous pancakes?! Maggie, how ya been?"
"I better not read anything about this in your next book," Nat tells Shauna at the egg table.
Shauna barely spares a glance, "Please, I have more creativity than that."
"Are you sure, Shauna? The hand thing?"
"Shut up."
It's bonfire night, which means Nat and Lottie wear crowns of horns and Jackie and Shauna wear crowns of flowers.
The kids aren't required to participate, though the ones that do are surprised to see Governor Palmer and her wife in attendance, wearing matching half masks. Or, Pastor Lee, with his wife and their newborn, wearing crowns of the sun and moon.
"Every culture celebrates the solstice and the equinox," Lottie says, spreading her hands out, "It's the passage of time visible for our own eyes..."
As she continues with her usual speech, Jackie leans over to Nat, "Good to see you succumbed to the woo-woo shit."
"Yeah, well, there are worse things," Nat says, tilting her head at a branch in the fire that looks like human bones.
"Chloe Fandango's poetry for example," Jackie says.
"Oh, fuck off," Nat shoves her with a giggle.
Jackie shivers as she rubs her hands together, "Fuck, I have been freezing all day. You?"
Nat yawns, "Just tired," ignoring how skeletal their shadows look.
Jackie links their arms, "Love you, Nat."
"Love you too, Jack."
"...and it reminds us of how good it is, to be alive," Lottie Matthews says to faces illuminated by fire, watching the crackle of sparks reflected in wide, animal eyes, "And how grateful we are to be here."
And it's good to be alive
Crying into cereal at midnight
If they ever let me out, I'm gonna really let it out
I listen to music from 2006 and feel kind of sick
But, oh God, you're gonna get it
You'll be sorry that you messed with this
Remember being in that basement with Tom Vek?
Everyone treated us like little pets
Oh, tell me, it's not over yet
And, in my darkest fantasies, I am the picture of passivity
Waiting for you side of stage, suppressing all my private rage
But, as my sister said, I'd probably last six days
Oh, it's good to be alive
Crying into cereal at midnight
And if they ever let me out, I'm gonna really let it out
Girls Against God - Florence The Machine