Archive of Our Own

Friday, April 1, 1983

The door to the Lacey apartment opened in a gust of warm air and red sauce-scented welcome. Harvey Jr. bounded to the entryway, hollering, “She’s here!” before Christine had even fully stepped inside.

Christine held up the brown paper bag like it was top-secret contraband. “Don’t tell your brother what’s in this,” she stage-whispered, and Harvey Jr.’s grin bloomed wider. He grabbed the bag, already peeking inside.

“Magic worms?” he said, breathless with preteen reverence. “You got us magic worms?”

“Don’t tell him!” Christine called after him, laughing as he tore down the hall toward the bedroom he shared with Michael.

“Hey, Chris,” Harvey said from the stove, giving her the little wave he always did, a casual flick of fingers still pink from chopping onions and garlic.

“Evening, Harv.” She shrugged off her jacket. “Smells amazing in here. Don’t tell me you cooked.”

“I did, I did,” Harvey said, deadpan. “Try to keep your shock contained.”

“It's Friday, you know. Could’ve knocked me over with a meatball.”

“I heard that,” Mary Beth called from the other side of the apartment. She appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her cheeks were flushed, her neckline damp from the heat and steam in the kitchen. Christine couldn’t stop herself from grinning.

Mary Beth’s smile softened when she saw her. She looked Christine over like she always did—just a quick once-over, nothing too indulgent—but Christine felt it like a breeze up her spine.

“You come straight from the precinct?” Mary Beth asked, voice fond.

“I did,” Christine said. “I didn’t want to risk missing out on Lacey family famous Friday spaghetti.”

Mary Beth rolled her eyes. “There’s bread too, and a salad if the boys haven’t eaten all the croutons.”

She passed Christine on her way back to the kitchen and Christine let her fingers drift out, just enough to brush Mary Beth's elbow as she passed. Just enough to feel her. Mary Beth didn’t flinch. She smiled down at the towel in her hands and kept moving.

Dinner was loud and good, the kind of good Christine could never replicate with any man she dated or any solo dinner in her sleek, echoing loft. The boys tore into the prank gifts like they were sacred—Michael’s fake blood capsules were already in use by the time salad was served—and Mary Beth laughed so hard she snorted, once, when Harvey Jr. faked a seizure at the table. Christine couldn’t take her eyes off her. 

She never could.

After the boys were sent off with a firm, “No fake blood on the pillowcases,” from Mary Beth, and Harvey mumbled something about checking the start time for the Knicks game, Christine found herself alone with her again, elbow to elbow at the sink.

She liked the ritual of it—passing dishes, soapy hands, the closeness disguised as domesticity. It made her feel folded into something. Like she belonged, if only for the length of a drying towel.

“You got any plans tomorrow?” Christine asked, voice soft, almost casual.

Mary Beth handed over a rinsed plate. “Just the usual. Laundry. Grocery store. Tryin’ to convince the boys not to kill each other before noon.”

Christine smiled. “So nothing urgent.”

“Urgent is relative,” Mary Beth said, flicking a droplet of water in her direction. Christine laughed, but her pulse thudded in her throat.

“Come out with me tonight,” she said. “Just for a little while.”

Mary Beth paused, hands still in the dishwater. “Where?”

“There’s a place I like in Astoria. Quiet enough to talk. Good jukebox.”

Mary Beth looked up. “You wanna talk?”

“Sure, I always want to talk to you,” Christine said, and her voice came out low, maybe too warm. She knew it immediately but didn’t backpedal. She let it sit there between them, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Mary Beth dropped her eyes. She reached for the next plate but didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Christine watched the blush rise like heat from a stovetop.

Harvey called out from the living room. Something about split rear axles and an auto recall. Neither of them responded.

“I suppose I could come for a drink,” Mary Beth said, her voice quieter now. “If you promise not to keep me out too late.”

Christine grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But she would dream of it. She’d dream of leaning in close across the table, of the way Mary Beth’s eyes got heavy at the corners when she was tired or tipsy. She’d dream of the warmth of her knee beneath the bar, just barely brushing Christine’s. She’d dream of what it might feel like to reach across the booth and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, just to see if she’d let her.

It was probably nothing. Probably just friendship. 

But Christine had made a career of watching suspects too long, listening for what wasn’t said, sensing motive in the twitch of a hand. She knew softness when it was real. And lately, Mary Beth had been so soft with her it made her ache.

Tonight, she wasn’t going to waste the chance.

🟉

In the hallway, Mary Beth leaned into the boys’ room. The overhead light was still on—Harvey Jr. flipping pages of a comic, Michael trying to scare him with a plastic spider that Christine was pretty sure had come from the same bag as the magic worms.

“Bedtime,” she said, arms folded.

“Aww, Ma—”

“No ‘awww, Ma.’ And no blood on the sheets, do you hear me, Michael Emmanuel?”

He grinned. “Yes, Ma. The capsules are in my sock drawer.”

“Mm-hmm. And what do you say to our guest?”

Michael sat up on his knees. “Thank you, Aunt Chris!”

Harvey Jr. echoed it, a bit more dignified, already transitioning into the too-cool stage. “Thanks for the stuff.”

Christine grinned from the hallway. “You’re welcome, you little weirdos. Sleep tight.”

Mary Beth kissed them both on the head, one after the other, her hands combing through hair that was already growing too long again. “G’night, babies.”

“We’re not babies,” they chorused.

She turned to Christine, already rolling her eyes, but something in her face was gentle and glowing. “They’ll always be babies to me.”

In the living room, Harvey glanced up from the couch, folded newspaper in hand, and raised an eyebrow at her coat.

“We’re going for a drink,” Mary Beth said simply, reaching for the corduroy jacket she liked to wear on weekends. “Not far. I won’t be late.”

He didn’t ask who 'we' meant. Just nodded once. “You need cash?”

Mary Beth hesitated. Christine was already digging in her purse. “No, I got it,” she said, sliding a five across the counter toward Harv. “For pizza tomorrow. That’s what a good influence I am.”

Harv chuckled. “Sure. You two have fun.”

And then they were on the stairs—down three flights, the hallway echoing with the sound of Christine’s heels and the rubber squeak of Mary Beth’s flats. Out onto 86th Street, where the chill hadn’t yet broken from the March wind, even though the calendar said April.

Christine unlocked the car with a little flourish, opening the passenger door for her like she always did. Mary Beth made a joke about chivalry, but her voice was soft, touched with something fond and unspoken.

The drive was short, maybe twelve minutes, but Christine took the long way anyway. They both let the quiet fill the car between them like warm water. As she slowed for a red light, she glanced sideways and saw Mary Beth watching the city blur past the window, her mouth just barely smiling.

The bar was one of Christine’s secret spots she cultivated all over the city—a corner joint with wood-paneled walls and booths with high backs that made every conversation feel like a secret. The jukebox played Billie Holiday just softly enough to hear your companion.

They slid into a booth, Christine ordering for both of them—beer for Mary Beth, something darker for herself—and when their drinks arrived, she raised hers in a little toast.

“To pranks and pizza,” she said.

Mary Beth clinked her glass against it. “And to the one person outside this family who knows exactly what to buy for an eight-year-old boy’s heart.”

Christine grinned. “It’s a gift.”

And Mary Beth, cheeks pink, her fingers resting near—but not quite touching—Christine’s on the tabletop, said, “Yeah. You are.”

🟉

The bar was dim, wood-toned, and hazy enough to feel like it didn’t belong to any particular decade. Billie Holiday had given way to Dinah Washington, and Christine had chosen a booth that let her sit with her back to the wall, facing Mary Beth—shoulders angled in, knees close enough to brush if either of them leaned in a little more.

Mary Beth wrapped both hands around her beer glass, letting the chill seep into her fingers.

Christine was telling a story about a guy in Vice who tried to flirt with her using a magic trick—“he pulled a goddamn feather out of my hair, Mary Beth, I thought I was being mugged”—and Mary Beth was laughing, really laughing, the kind that made her lean forward and reach for Christine’s wrist without realizing it.

And then she did realize it, and pulled back just a little too suddenly.

Christine just smiled. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like Mary Beth touching her was was nothing.

Of course it was nothing. Christine flirted with everyone. It was part of her armor—just a little sparkle, a smirk, a shoulder tilt. She used her little-girl voice like a scalpel, her bombshell timing like a weapon. She wasn’t cruel about it, but it worked, and she knew it.

Mary Beth had seen it so many times: on suspects, on Samuels, on the bartender earlier when she ordered their drinks. But she used it on women, too. On the waitress, on secretaries at the precinct, on her sometimes-friend Diane when she called the squad room and cooed into the receiver.

So Mary Beth told herself it was just that. It was Christine being Christine.

But God, it did something to her when Christine touched her. A brush of her hand when passing a file, the way she’d rest her hand on the small of Mary Beth’s back when guiding her through a crowded Midtown street. The soft, “You okay?” she asked whenever Mary Beth drifted too far into her own thoughts. Like she saw her.

Mary Beth felt lit up around her lately. Not embarrassed—Christine would smell that a mile away—but alive. She told herself it was just the job, the rush of partnership, the kind of thing only cops would understand. But that wasn’t quite it.

She glanced over now, beer halfway to her lips, and saw Christine looking at her with that open face she wore when she wanted someone to talk. It undid her, sometimes—how Christine listened. How she made her feel like the smartest, funniest, most interesting person in the room, even when Mary Beth knew she wasn’t.

“Do you ever wonder,” Mary Beth said, surprising even herself, “how come we didn’t have girlfriends like this when we were younger?”

Christine blinked once. “Like this?”

Mary Beth swallowed. “I mean… best friends. I had girls I was close with, sure. But nobody I’d go out for a drink with after work. Nobody I’d tell—” She stopped, heat rising in her cheeks. “You know. Real stuff.”

Christine was very still beside her.

Mary Beth fumbled. “I don’t mean— I just mean I didn’t know it could be like this. With a woman. Like, you could be this close. You could… be seen.”

Christine’s hand brushed hers on the table, soft and quick. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”

The touch lingered in the air even after it ended. Like a warm shadow. Like the moment between lightning and thunder.

Mary Beth took another sip of her beer. Her mother’s voice came to her then, soft and firm, the way it always did: Don’t stare, Mary Elizabeth. It’s not polite. You can admire someone without making them uncomfortable.

Her mother had always known. Or guessed. She’d been kind about it in the way religious women sometimes are—more like a silent shepherding away than a condemnation. A gentle redirection. More hymns. More dolls. More mothers from church who had polite sons Mary Beth's age.

Mary Beth had learned early to keep those feelings quiet. Private. Like folded laundry in a drawer, not to be touched except when the house was dark and still, and sleep hadn’t come yet.

And even now, even now, part of her thought: You have a husband. You have children. You are good. You are decent. You don’t need anything else.

But something in her did want more. She just wasn’t sure what more meant.

Christine tipped her head, watching her. “Where’d you go just now?”

Mary Beth smiled, soft and shy. “Nowhere bad.”

Christine’s eyes lingered. Her hand drifted a little closer on the table.

Mary Beth didn’t pull away. Not yet.

She didn’t lean in either.

She just let it sit there between them, this weightless thing, this ache.

🟉

Christine pulled her bag onto her lap and dug with practiced fingers through the usual chaos—lipstick, loose change, her badge, three pens, a stick of gum with the foil coming off—until she emerged victorious with a slim rubber-banded stack of blank index cards.

Mary Beth laughed, leaning back in the booth. “You and those cards.”

“They’re perfect,” Christine said, already uncapping her pen. “Small enough to hide in your bra if Samuels walks by, stiff enough to write on your knee, cheap enough not to cry if you spill coffee on them. What’s not to love?”

Mary Beth grinned. “You never let me keep 'em, though.”

Christine raised a brow. “Because you doodle lightning bolts and write your letters like you’re practicing for Catholic school penmanship class.”

“That’s all you. I went to CCD. We just learned about the sacraments, no penmanship.”

Christine smirked, but her heart stuttered a little when Mary Beth leaned in to read upside-down as she wrote MOVIES CHRIS LOVES THAT MARY BETH HASN’T SEEN.

“Ready?” Christine asked.

“Go for it.”

She tapped the card twice with her pen and started her list in blocky, deliberate print.

• The Big Sleep
• Belle de Jour
• Sweet Smell of Success
• Persona
• Point Blank

Mary Beth blinked at the last one. “Is that the one with Lee Marvin?”

Christine nodded. “He’s pure menace. You’ll love it.”

Mary Beth looked skeptical. “Do people die?”

“People die, Mary Beth. But they deserve it.”

Christine slid the card across the table with a little flourish. “Your turn.”

Mary Beth huffed. “You’re not gonna like my list.”

“I already like your list.”

Mary Beth took the pen and turned a second card sideways. Her handwriting was neat, round, unmistakably earnest. Christine watched her, soft-eyed, chin resting in her hand.

• Going My Way
• A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
• Friendly Persuasion
• The Ghost and Mrs. Muir
• An Affair to Remember

Christine smiled. “That’s the girliest, most wholesome list I’ve ever seen.”

Mary Beth blushed. “It is not.”

Christine reached out, tapped Mrs. Muir. “You like yearning women who live by the sea and talk to ghosts?”

“I like Gene Tierney,” Mary Beth said, flustered.

“And the ghost.”

Mary Beth shook her head, smiling into her beer. “You’re impossible.”

Christine leaned in a little. “I think they’re beautiful picks.”

Mary Beth’s smile faltered, just for a second. “You do?”

“I do.” Christine tucked the cards back into her bag with the others, not letting Mary Beth see that she slid hers behind the rest—where she could find it later. Where it would wait for her like a pressed flower.

She didn’t always know what to do with the want she felt for Mary Beth. But tonight, it felt good just to be near her. To see her lit up and laughing, cheeks warm from beer and company.

To make lists together. To imagine, in a life that was mostly noise, that this was something quiet and sacred and real.

🟉

The second beer made Mary Beth warm, but the third had turned her limbs loose and liquid, like the bones in her fingers had turned to twine. She kept laughing, high-pitched, nearly keening, one hand over her mouth every time Christine said something only vaguely funny.

Christine wasn’t drunk, not even close. Her body had long ago made a separate category for alcohol—something to file and metabolize without much fuss. Three drinks in, she was relaxed but clear, blood humming in that low, manageable way she liked. The bar was golden and dim around them, soft with the lull between crowds. Dinah had been replaced by Ella, and the high-backed booth felt like a secret tucked into the heart of Astoria.

Mary Beth was leaning on the table now, cheeks pink, chin in her hand, beer bottle tipping in lazy circles on the condensation ring. “Okay, okay,” she said, the way someone did when they were pretending to be serious. “I got a good one. You ready?”

Christine smiled, slow and indulgent. “Hit me.”

“Five foods we’d eat if we could eat anything and not get fat or sick or yelled at by our doctor.”

Christine let out a low whistle. “You are tipsy.”

“I’m not,” Mary Beth said. Then giggled. “Okay, maybe I am.”

Christine took out another card and wrote the list title in all caps:
FOODS THAT DON’T COUNT BECAUSE IT’S OUR FANTASY.

Mary Beth lifted her hand in mock solemnity. “May the calories not be counted, amen.”

Christine tapped her pen against her lip. “All right. First: steak fries. The kind that are more potato than fry.”

Mary Beth’s eyes widened. “From the diner on Eighth?”

“Exactly.”

She wrote:

• Steak fries (Eighth Ave. diner)

Mary Beth leaned in. “Okay, then I say… cannoli. The kind from that little bakery in Astoria, with the chocolate chips and powdered sugar that gets all over your chin.”

Christine nodded, amused. “You know exactly what kind of cannoli you mean. That’s impressive.”

“It’s important, Christine.”

• Cannoli (Astoria, powdered sugar)

Christine added, “Cold leftover lo mein, straight from the carton. Bonus if it’s eaten over the sink.”

Mary Beth looked horrified. “Cold?”

Christine smirked. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

• Cold lo mein (sink-style)

Mary Beth pointed at her with mock accusation. “You are a tragic figure. Christine. Okay, fourth: mashed potatoes. My mashed potatoes. With a whole stick of butter. And the skin.”

Christine blinked. “You leave the skin in?”

“Of course I do. What am I, fancy?”

• Mashed potatoes (with skin, whole stick of butter)

Christine chuckled as she wrote it down. “God, you’re cute when you’re drunk.”

Mary Beth made a noise, blushing instantly. “Chris.”

“What?” Christine said, soft.

Mary Beth looked down. “Nothin’. Just—you’re not, and I am, and it’s not fair.”

Christine smiled gently. “It’s endearing.”

Mary Beth squinted. “That mean I’m sloppy?”

Christine reached out, her fingers brushing Mary Beth’s wrist lightly. “It means you’re sweet.”

Mary Beth didn’t pull away.

Instead, she stared at the final line on the index card, blinking like she was trying to focus.

“Fifth,” she said at last, clearing her throat. “Peanut butter right from the jar. With a spoon. The big spoon.”

Christine laughed. “Okay, that one is legitimately depraved.”

“I like it.”

Christine scribbled the final line.

• Peanut butter (jar. spoon. shame.)

They both laughed.

Mary Beth’s laugh lingered longer. Softer this time. When it finally faded, she looked up at Christine, lashes heavy.

“You ever think about how weird it is?” she murmured.

Christine tilted her head. “What is?”

“That I like being with you more than just about anybody.”

Christine’s heart went silent for a beat. “Yeah,” she said. “I think about that.”

Mary Beth looked down at the list. “We’re so different.”

“I know.”

“But you always make me feel like… like I’m interesting.”

Christine said nothing. Just touched her again, gently, on the back of her hand this time.

Mary Beth looked at their hands. Looked at Christine.

Then looked away.

“God, I’m drunk,” she said, and laughed again—but this time it cracked a little in the middle.

Christine’s chest ached. She wanted to press her lips to the skin just below Mary Beth’s wrist, where the pulse lived. She wanted to kiss her. Desperately. Reverently.

Instead, she said, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Mary Beth nodded, her voice small. “Okay.”

But neither of them stood. Not yet.

🟉

Mary Beth knew she had to pee.

She knew it five minutes ago, probably ten, but had ignored it like she ignored the low oil light on the station wagon—it’ll hold. And anyway, she didn’t want to leave the booth. Not with Christine sitting there like that, lips soft and slightly parted, tapping their stack of index cards against her mouth like she was waiting for a kiss or holding one back.

Mary Beth’s bladder gave a small, bitter protest. She shifted in her seat.

“I gotta…” she started, trailing off, then tried again with a vague gesture. “You know.”

Christine tilted her head. “Powder your nose?”

“I ain’t powdering anything,” Mary Beth said, grinning. “Just plain ol’ peeing.”

Christine smirked. “You want an escort?”

Mary Beth rolled her eyes. “I’m drunk, not six.”

Christine didn’t say anything, just smiled that sideways smile, eyes dark and warm and unreadable.

Mary Beth sat there another second, unwilling to move. Her chest was so full—too full, really. Of warmth and beer and affection, of the sweet ache she never let herself name. Her heart felt big enough to spill onto the floor if she tilted the wrong way. Her face hurt from smiling. She didn’t want this to end.

“You’re so pretty,” she blurted, then froze.

Christine blinked once. Twice.

Mary Beth covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, Jesus, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“You did,” Christine said softly.

“I did,” Mary Beth agreed, muffled by her palms. “God, I’m gonna die.”

Christine set the index cards down gently and leaned her forearms on the table. “You’re not gonna die.”

“I might,” Mary Beth whispered.

“You won’t.”

Mary Beth peeked out from behind her fingers. Christine was still smiling, but it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t sharp. It was so gentle Mary Beth thought she might cry.

“Okay,” she said at last, standing too fast. The room tilted. “I’m gonna go to the restroom before I confess to a murder or something.”

Christine nodded solemnly. “Good plan.”

Mary Beth turned away quickly, muttering, “Don’t go anywhere,” as she wove past the other booths.

Christine watched her go, the sway in her hips more pronounced with tipsiness, her shirttail bobbing like punctuation. The air was suddenly colder without her.

Christine picked up the index cards again and tapped them once, lightly, against her lips.

Then she tucked the list with the mashed potatoes and the peanut butter shame into the back of the stack and smiled to herself.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

🟉

Okay, Cagney, focus.

Christine stared into the puddled amber of her drink, then at the empty space across the booth, then back at the door to the restrooms. The slow swing of it, the edge of Mary Beth’s jacket disappearing behind it. Fuck.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, breathing out slowly through her nose. The buzz was just enough to make her skin feel too tight. Everything inside her thrummed.

She’s too drunk. Too soft-eyed and giggly and unguarded. Christine didn’t want that moment—any moment between them—to feel like something taken. She didn’t want Mary Beth to wake up tomorrow with dry mouth and regret and look at her like she'd betrayed a trust.

She’s your partner, Cagney. Your best friend. You want her looking at you like you’re safe. Not like you’re dangerous.

And maybe it was already too late.

“You’re so pretty.”

From her, of all people.

Christine heard that line every day. On the street, in the squad room, from men she wouldn’t touch with a stolen glove. It was part of the weather of her life, ambient and meaningless. Most days it didn’t land—it just floated past like car noise, like gum on a bench, like something someone wanted from her that they weren’t even smart enough to name.

But from Mary Beth…

It hit low. Deep. Right behind her ribs, like something had cracked open and light poured in. Her heart was still hammering in a steady rhythm of oh, god, oh, god, and other parts of her—more primal, more hopeful—were sitting up and taking notice.

She didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Maybe a walk. That was safer than the car, safer than the booth, safer than sitting here and watching Mary Beth come back flushed and rumpled and loose-limbed with tipsy affection.

She glanced out the window. The night was mild and open. Upper forties, no wind. A waning gibbous moon like a storybook lantern, high and bright enough to throw shadows. The kind of night that invited wandering. Slow steps, shoulder brushes, breath clouds that mingled in the air.

Christine swirled the last of her drink and thought about tomorrow night. The guy—Douglas or Dennis or Darren, something smug and alliterative—was taking her to some new fusion spot in Tribeca. He had slick hair and expensive shoes and said “babe” a lot, even though they’d only met twice. He managed portfolios for restaurateurs, which meant they could cut the line and get a seat by the window. She hated him a little already.

But a girl’s gotta eat. And he wasn’t bad. He just wasn’t—well. He wasn’t Mary Beth.

Christine sighed, set down her glass. Reached for her coat.

She’d walk her. Let the air settle Mary Beth’s thoughts. Let the sidewalk soothe them both.

And then she’d take her home, like she promised.

She could be good. Just for tonight. Just long enough to hold onto this golden hour, the feeling of Mary Beth’s eyes on her, the sound of her laughter tucked behind her throat like a secret.

The restroom door opened.

Christine looked up, smiling without meaning to.

Mary Beth was brushing her hands on her thighs, still a little flushed, still glowing. She looked surprised and pleased to see Christine standing there.

Christine reached for her arm.

“Wanna take a walk before we head back?” she asked.

Mary Beth blinked, then smiled slow and sweet, the kind that always knocked the breath out of her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”

Christine opened the door for her and followed her out into the night, the moonlight wrapping around them like a question neither of them was ready to answer.

🟉

The second they stepped off the stoop, Mary Beth caught the toe of her shoe on a lifted slab of sidewalk and stumbled forward with a startled “oh!”—not quite a shriek, but in the family.

Christine reached out fast, grabbing the back of her coat like she was hauling a kid away from traffic. “Whoa, drunky,” she said, steadying her. “Maybe the walk isn’t such a good idea after all.”

Mary Beth righted herself with the dignity of a proud but deeply wobbly goose and stamped her foot once for emphasis. “Hey. I coulda tripped on that stone cold sober.”

Christine raised both eyebrows.

“No, I’m serious,” Mary Beth insisted, pointing at the offending slab of pavement. “That tree’s roots are making it uneven, see?”

Christine squinted down. “Okay, Perry Mason. I’ll allow it.”

“Hmph.”

But even as she said it, Mary Beth slipped her arm through Christine’s and clutched tight. Not like she was unsteady, exactly—though she probably was—but more like she didn’t want to take her chances letting go.

Christine looked down at their linked arms and then at Mary Beth, whose mouth was set in a defiant little line, cheeks pink and proud. Her body was warm where it pressed against Christine’s, tucked in close, like the curve of her belonged there.

Christine said, “All right, Counselor. Lead on.”

And Mary Beth did—down the block, past shuttered shops and parked cars, under a sky soft with city haze and moonlight. Her steps weren’t the steadiest, but they found a rhythm. Christine didn’t mind the extra weight on her arm. She liked it, actually. Too much, maybe. Probably.

They passed a deli with dark windows, a laundromat with a flickering sign still buzzing even though it was closed. Somewhere nearby, a radio played something old and sweet—Fats Domino, maybe—and Mary Beth hummed a little under her breath.

“I’m glad we went out,” she said after a while.

“Me too.”

“It’s nice. I don’t do this a lot.”

Christine smiled. “Go drinking by the East River with glamorous blondes?”

Mary Beth gave her a sideways look. “Be out with a friend. Like this. At night. Just us.”

Christine’s smile softened. “You could. You could do it more.”

Mary Beth looked up at the moon. “Sometimes I feel like I missed that part. From back when I was younger. My friends got married right away. Had babies before they were even twenty. I stayed in touch for a while, but…”

“Different lives.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was quiet now. “And you?”

Christine shrugged. “My friends from college mostly moved to L.A. Or they got serious about work. Or husbands. Or both.”

Mary Beth nodded, as if she knew. And maybe she did.

They turned the corner. Their shadows elongated in the glow of the streetlamp.

Christine said, “You didn’t miss anything, you know.”

Mary Beth looked at her.

Christine’s voice was low. “You’re not missing anything. You’re right here.”

Mary Beth’s grip on her arm tightened. “Don’t make me cry on the sidewalk, Christine.”

Christine gave her a soft smile. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

But the moon saw. And the night saw. And Christine, more than anyone, saw.

And maybe—just maybe—so did Mary Beth.

🟉

Christine stopped walking.

Just like that.

The air around them stilled, like the city itself had taken a breath and was holding it too.

Mary Beth turned toward her, eyebrows lifted in that way she did when she was puzzled, amused, just barely cautious. But it was all there in her face, open and guileless and golden under the moon—the sweetness, the surprise, the slight flush of warmth that hadn’t left since the bar.

And her eyes.

Jesus, those eyes.

They weren’t saying we’re best friends.

They weren’t saying we’re partners.

They weren’t saying remember my husband, my kids, my life that starts at 6 a.m. with cereal and sock hunts and ends with homework and folded towels.

No, those eyes were soft and searching, a little shy but wide open, and they were looking at Christine like—

Like maybe she hadn’t imagined it all these years.

Like maybe she wasn’t crazy for feeling what she felt every time Mary Beth touched her shoulder in the locker room, every time she laughed at something stupid Christine said, every time she let Christine see her scared, or sad, or brave.

Like maybe she was seeing her.

Christine’s lungs felt tight. She hadn’t breathed in ten full seconds. She didn’t trust herself to.

Say something, she thought. Look away. Crack a joke. You’re going to ruin this.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t look anywhere but there.

Mary Beth’s fingers were still curled around her arm, and she didn’t pull away. She just stood there in her coat, lips parted slightly, and looked back like maybe she wanted something to be ruined, or changed, or named.

Christine leaned in the tiniest bit. Not enough to startle. Just enough to test the air.

And Mary Beth didn’t flinch.

The moon was bright. The sidewalk was cracked. The night suddenly felt impossibly mild for early April.

Christine’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Mary Beth…”

But then footsteps clicked around the corner—two teenagers laughing, the clatter of a glass bottle tossed into the gutter—and the spell broke like a snapped thread.

Mary Beth dropped her gaze. Cleared her throat. Let go of Christine’s arm.

Christine looked away, jaw tight, pulse hammering.

“C’mon,” Mary Beth said, quiet now, more grounded. “We should get back.”

Christine nodded, swallowing it all down like she had a hundred times before.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, okay.”

But neither of them spoke for the rest of the walk.

And Christine didn’t throw away that night. Not ever.

🟉

The car was warm inside, the heater humming low and even. Outside, Queens passed in a blur of amber streetlamps and darkened storefronts, laundromats closed up tight and pizza places with only the neon OPEN signs flickering, like a stuttered breath.

Mary Beth leaned back into the bucket seat, which cradled her more gently than she expected—Christine’s little car always looked so sharp and low to the ground, like it had better things to do than coddle tired detectives. But it felt good. Safe, somehow.

And she felt alive.

So very alive. Her whole body was humming. Her skin still tingled where Christine’s eyes had landed on her. She couldn’t tell if it had been five seconds or five hours ago, the way the moment lingered.

She turned her head, just a little. Watched Christine out of the corner of her eye.

God, she was beautiful. It was unfair, really. The kind of beautiful that men pointed at, leered at, tried to claim like it was theirs to own. But it wasn’t. Christine’s beauty had nothing to do with them. It was elemental. Icy and molten at the same time. The cut of her jaw, the way she drove with one hand draped on the wheel, thumb moving slightly to the beat of a song only she could hear. The way her lips pressed together when she was thinking.

What are you thinking right now, Chris?

Was she regretting the almost-moment? Wishing she’d leaned in all the way? Or maybe kicking herself for leaning in at all?

Mary Beth’s stomach turned gently over at the thought. Don’t go making it into something it’s not, she told herself. But God, she’d been ready. If Christine had moved even one inch closer, she would’ve leaned in and met her halfway, no question.

She stared out the window, let her breath fog the glass. She could still feel that almost-kiss. Like it left a mark. Like it was written on her skin in invisible ink.

And then—because her mind didn’t know how to stop once it got going—she wondered.

Had Christine kissed women before? Had she—had she done more than that?

Christine had gone to one of those Catholic girls’ schools, more like private school than a neighborhood school. The kind with starched uniforms and crests and family money. Mary Beth knew the stories. She’d heard them in locker rooms and beauty salons. The way girls got lonely. Curious. And some of them didn’t stop being curious.

Her cheeks went warm again. She told herself it was the heat in the car.

Okay, Mary Elizabeth, time to stop thinking about this while she’s eight inches away from you.

But it was hard to stop. Christine smelled like scotch and expensive shampoo and the faintest whiff of French perfume. She always did. And her wrist, where it rested against the steering wheel, looked soft. Kissable.

Mary Beth shifted in her seat, subtly crossing one leg over the other, as if that would stop her from thinking about how close they were. As if that would silence the part of her brain that was begging for her to reach out.

She couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Christine cleared her throat, glanced over. “You okay?”

Mary Beth nodded quickly. “Mm-hmm.”

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m just… tired.”

Christine smiled, slow and sideways. “You’re a bad liar when you’re drunk.”

Mary Beth turned toward the window again, heart thudding. “I’m not that drunk.”

Christine didn’t answer. But the smile stayed on her lips. And the road stretched on, golden and quiet, with the night holding its breath all over again.

🟉

Christine eased the car up to the curb in front of Mary Beth’s building, the headlights catching the familiar chipped steps and the dull brass buzzer panel beside the door. Same as always. Charmless, yeah—but home. The kind of place where kids left chalk drawings on the sidewalk and the super never fixed anything on the first try.

She shifted the gear into park and let her hand rest on the stick, her other still draped on the wheel. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the only sound for a beat too long.

Then she turned her head and looked at her.

Really looked at her.

“Want me to walk you up?”

It was soft. No heat, no joke, no angle.

Mary Beth blinked once, then twisted in her seat to face her. Her body swayed slightly with the motion, not drunk enough to fall, but tipsy enough that her center of gravity felt more like a suggestion than a law.

She could feel her heartbeat in her knees.

“You don’t have to,” she said, quiet.

“I know,” Christine said. Her voice was steady. “I'm offering.”

Mary Beth looked up at the building. The narrow front hallway with its faint smell of old radiator and Middle Eastern spices. The stairwell she could climb blindfolded. Harv would be asleep, lights off in the living room, TV flicked to static. The boys down the hall, limbs tangled in mismatched sheets, the door cracked just enough so they wouldn’t feel alone in the dark.

She turned back to Christine.

Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “Would you stay if I asked you?”

Christine didn’t answer right away. Just looked at Mary Beth with those deep-set, dark sapphire eyes. 

“I’d do anything you asked me,” she said.

Mary Beth’s breath caught.

That wasn’t a joke either.

It would be so easy, she thought. Just ask her. Let her follow you up the stairs. Into the quiet. Into the night. You could finally know what it feels like to be kissed like that, touched like that, seen like that.

But she didn’t.

She wasn’t ready. Or maybe she was, and that was the problem.

She reached out, touched Christine’s wrist, just lightly. Let her thumb trace the line of a vein there before she let go.

“Not tonight,” she said, voice tight around the edges.

Christine nodded once. “Okay.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Mary Beth opened the door, stepped out into the spring night, the cool air brushing her skin like a question mark.

She leaned back down through the open window, elbows resting on the edge.

“Thanks for the drinks,” she said. “And the walk. And the lists.”

Christine smiled. “Anytime.”

Mary Beth stood there another beat, then gave a quiet, “’Night,” and turned toward the stairs.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway up.

The car was still there, brake lights glowing red.

Christine hadn’t left.

Mary Beth pressed her hand to the wall to steady herself. Then she turned the key in the upstairs door, stepped inside, and shut it gently behind her.

And in the car, Christine finally exhaled. Let her head fall back against the seat. Closed her eyes.

“Jesus,” she whispered to no one.

It was going to be a long night.

🟉

Back in SoHo, the loft was dark and still; the only sound was the low creak of the old pipes in the wall and the occasional hush of a cab gliding past, three floors down.

Christine moved through her routine by muscle memory—shoes off at the door, jacket slung over the back of the stool, bracelet dropped into the ceramic dish by the sink. The light above the bathroom mirror was warm and too bright, but she didn’t bother dimming it. She liked seeing her face just as it was. Raw, a little pink from the cold air. Lips still bitten-looking, like a secret had just brushed against them and decided to wait.

She washed her face slowly, carefully. Pressed the damp towel to her skin and closed her eyes.

She brushed her teeth humming under her breath, something light and off-key. She couldn’t place the song. Maybe something from the jukebox, or the hum Mary Beth made when they passed the laundromat. It didn’t matter. The feeling was what mattered.

Christine changed into her turquoise silk pajamas—birthday gift from Diane, years ago, chosen more for effect than comfort. But they’d grown soft with washing. She liked the way they felt against her bare skin, the quiet luxury of them. Tonight, they felt… earned.

She climbed into bed, fluffed the pillow with one hand, and curled on her side, facing the window. The moonlight spilled in silver-blue over the brick wall, the fire escape casting long shadows across her sheets.

And she smiled.

Not her usual grin. Not the sly, bulletproof smirk she gave to the world. This was softer. Smaller. The kind that happened behind closed doors and didn’t need an audience.

Because tonight, for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she felt… good.

Really good.

Hopeful.

And not because she’d sealed the deal or made a conquest or pulled off some glitzy sleight of hand. Not because she’d outsmarted a date or dazzled someone at the bar.

No, this was quieter. Truer.

Mary Beth had looked at her like—

Well.

Like she saw her.

Not the lipstick and the swing of her hips, not the wisecracks or the armor or the pedigree. Just her.

And she'd almost kissed her. God, it had been so close. Close enough to feel the pull of it in her bones, in that hollow behind her ribs that always felt a little too empty, no matter how many men she let kiss her, no matter how many nights she came home and let the city blur her edges.

Tonight… it was different.

Tonight, she felt like maybe the thing she wanted wasn’t impossible. Maybe it wasn’t even wrong.

Maybe it was just waiting. Just like she was.

Christine tucked her hand beneath her cheek and let the warmth of the sheets fold around her.

And when she finally drifted off to sleep, it was with a smile still on her lips.

🟉

The apartment was quiet in the way apartments get when everyone is asleep—like the air itself had been tucked in. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator and the whisper-click of the TV remote as Mary Beth flipped it on.

She kept the volume down low. Just enough to break the silence, just enough to keep her company. Some old black-and-white monster movie filled the screen, the kind with papier-mâché claws and visible zipper seams. The boys would’ve cackled at the sight of it. But she wasn’t really watching.

She was still on the sidewalk.

Still under that stupidly bright moon.

Still looking up at Christine and seeing her see her.

She sank deeper into the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her waist like she could hold herself together if she just stayed still enough.

Christine’s face flashed behind her eyes. Not the made-up version from work, not the wisecracking, fast-talking detective who could talk a confession out of a guy with one hand on her hip.

No, she was seeing the version from tonight. That still, soft one. Christine under the streetlight, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and impossibly gentle.

Not tonight, she’d said.

And Christine had said okay.

Not even a beat of protest. No teasing. No, “you sure?”

And God help her, if she had—if she’d pressed just a little—

Mary Beth closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the sofa, exhaled slowly.

They would’ve been here. Right here. Right on this old sunken couch with its creaky frame and the afghan draped over the back. Christine’s knee between hers, Christine’s hand in her hair, Christine’s mouth—Jesus.

Even with Harv asleep in the bedroom. Even with the boys down the hall.

She wouldn’t have cared. She should have, but she wouldn’t have.

Because whatever this was, it didn’t feel dangerous. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt urgent. Like being hungry after a long illness. Like waking up and realizing you hadn’t really been breathing right for years.

It felt good.

So good she couldn’t sit still.

She stood up, paced once, twice, then sank back down again, heart racing like she’d run five blocks. Her body felt flushed, her skin too awake. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and tried to focus on the ridiculous monster on screen—rubber claws, floppy antennae—but all she could see was Christine’s mouth, Christine’s eyes, Christine’s steady hand on the wheel, her soft voice saying, I’d do anything you asked me.

Mary Beth pressed her palm to her chest, right over the heart that wouldn’t settle down.

She wanted to chase that feeling. She wanted to run toward it.

And for once—maybe for the first time since she was a girl sneaking a glance at her babysitter’s smile and trying not to cry about what it meant—she wasn’t ashamed.

She was ready.

Maybe not for everything. Not yet.

But something had opened tonight, and there was no putting it back.

🟉

Monday, April 4, 1983

Monday morning came in on a tide of grit and light.

Christine stood at the mirror in her loft, hair still damp from the shower, bare feet cold on the wood floor. She stared at the row of blouses in her closet, the smooth black pencil skirt that hugged her hips just right, the dove-gray blazer with the sharp shoulders. Her power armor. Her uniform of distraction.

Not today.

She reached for the jeans instead—the worn ones, soft at the seams. The baggy oatmeal-colored sweater with sleeves that fell a little long. She pushed them up to her elbows. Pulled on her Frye boots, the heels worn smooth and steady.

She didn't want to be the woman who entered a room and made every head swivel. She didn’t want to gleam. Not today.

Today, she just wanted Mary Beth to feel safe.

She didn’t want her flinching, or looking away, or laughing too hard to cover something she couldn’t name.

And God, the feeling hadn’t gone anywhere.

Not really.

It had dulled, slightly, Saturday night—dulled behind the bright white tablecloth and the investment guy who talked too much and asked if she spoke French because he’d heard she’d spent time abroad. She’d smiled, twirled her fork, told a story about Paris. Switched effortlessly into the version of herself she wore like silk—fluent in boxing and Baudelaire, fast cars and good wine, whip-smart and conveniently uninterested in depth.

Men loved that version. Always had.

She could see them fall for her like dominos: the flash of awe when she ordered whiskey neat, the way they leaned in when she adjusted her earring with fingers that could pick a lock or reset a carburetor. It was a performance. It always had been.

And Christine could dissociate with the best of them.

But afterward, when she stood at the edge of her bed in her good dress, slipping off her earrings in the dark, she’d felt it creeping back in.

Mary Beth.

The look in her eyes when she said not tonight.

The heat behind it.

The fact that she hadn’t said no.

Christine touched a hand to her chest now, right over where that truth still pulsed, a little raw. She took a breath. Tied her hair back in a loose ponytail.

Then she grabbed her coffee, locked the door behind her, and walked down the stairs into the morning—wrapped in denim and wool and restraint.

She told herself she could do this. Be easy. Be still.

Be Mary Beth’s friend, her partner, the safe place she needed.

But when she slid into her desk at the 14th precinct and looked up to see Mary Beth coming through the bullpen doors, her heart went off like a fire alarm.

🟉

Christine was halfway through a report, pencil tapping rhythmically against the margin, when she caught the faintest whiff of sugar and something buttery-soft curling through the air like a memory.

She looked up just as Mary Beth came around the corner, hair still damp from her morning shower, coat open over a faded sweater she must’ve worn just for comfort, not style. She had that early-hour flush in her cheeks, like she’d run the last block from the subway, and in her hand—

A paper towel, carefully folded, with two small muffins nestled like secrets inside.

“Good morning,” Mary Beth said, setting one next to Christine’s coffee. “Brought you something.”

Christine blinked. “What, not from the vending machine?”

“I baked, thank you very much.”

Christine raised a skeptical brow.

“From a mix,” Mary Beth conceded. “But they’re warm. I timed it just right. Carried ’em in a dishtowel under my coat like a crazy lady.”

Christine looked down. The muffin was plump and golden, a few berries still soft and bleeding faintly into the crumb. But it was the paper towel that caught her attention—a soft cotton print from some old-fashioned roll, pale green line drawings of herbs with their names underneath.

Mint is for virtue.

Her breath caught slightly. She wasn’t even sure why.

Mary Beth sat down, unwrapped her own muffin, and blew on the steam rising from the top. “It’s a miracle none of them got crushed by Michael’s backpack this morning. I swear, that kid lugs around every textbook he’s ever owned, plus four comic books and a granola bar that’s been in there since kindergarten.”

Christine picked up the muffin, slow. “Thanks.”

Mary Beth smiled, soft and pleased, like she hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Like she hadn’t just made Christine feel entirely unworthy of the human experience.

Christine stared at the muffin. At the printed word virtue curling like ivy in the corner. She knew it was a coincidence. Had to be. Mary Beth wasn’t subtle in that way. Not calculated. Not coy.

But still. Mint. For virtue. Jesus.

“Chris?”

Christine blinked up. Mary Beth was watching her.

“You okay?”

Christine nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Mary Beth took a bite of her own muffin. “Thinking about how good I am to you?”

Christine laughed, a little too hard. “Exactly that.”

Mary Beth grinned and wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not going full Betty Crocker on you.”

But Christine didn’t hear that part. She was still holding the muffin. Still staring at the word virtue, thinking about the way Mary Beth had almost kissed her. The way she had wanted her to. The way she hadn’t run.

And now here she was, bringing her muffins wrapped in virtue.

Christine bit into it, slowly. It was soft, sweet, and a little messy.

It tasted like hope.

🟉

On Monday evening, Mary Beth was cutting carrots at the counter, the radio murmuring somewhere near the sink, when Harv came in from the bedroom rubbing the back of his neck in that way he did when he had something he wasn’t quite sure how to bring up.

He opened with, “So Bill Grandy called,” and that tone alone made her set the knife down mid-slice.

“Oh yeah?” she said, not looking at him just yet. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, no—it’s just… his buddy Mike, the one who was gonna go to Gettysburg with him and the kids this weekend? They had a fire at their place last week.”

“Oh no,” she said, instinctively reaching for the dishtowel to dry her hands. “Everyone all right?”

“Yeah, nobody hurt. But the house is a mess. So they’re not doing the trip.” Harv moved into the kitchen, leaned against the fridge. “So Bill called to see if me and the boys wanna go. They already rented a little cabin near the battlefield. Just Friday after school through Sunday.”

Mary Beth looked over at him now, brows lifting. “That’s a big trip.”

“I know. He only called a little while ago. I told him I’d check with you before saying anything definite. Said I’d call him back by seven.”

She folded the dishtowel slowly. “What’re you checking with me for?”

He hesitated. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all right being by yourself for the weekend.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“Harv,” she said carefully, “are you seriously asking if I’d be okay with a quiet apartment and no laundry and no three people askin’ me where their left shoe is?”

“I just meant—”

“Harvey,” she said, her voice pitching warmer now, almost affectionate, “I have not been alone overnight in this apartment since the Nixon administration.”

He grinned. “You sure? I can see if Muriel’s free.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You bring your mother into this and I will revoke your muffin privileges for life.”

He raised both hands in surrender.

She turned back to the carrots, a faint smile settling over her lips as she resumed chopping. She could feel the warmth creeping up in her chest—not just at the idea of a quiet apartment, a weekend to herself, a bathtub all to herself for once—but something else.

Something fluttery and unspeakable that lived behind her ribs.

Christine.

She could see her. See her eyes across that table at the bar. That soft, reckless moment on the sidewalk. The way she said I'd do anything you asked me like it wasn’t a line, wasn’t a dare—just a truth.

And now—two whole nights. Two full days. A possibility.

She kept her eyes on the cutting board.

“I’ll be just fine,” she said, casual as anything.

Harv kissed the top of her head as he passed, heading to the phone. “The boys are gonna be over the moon. Michael’s been reading about Gettysburg at the library.”

“That’s ‘cause he likes the cannons,” she muttered, but she was smiling.

Alone. The apartment to herself.

She hadn’t had a weekend like that since she was twenty.

And now she had one coming.

And maybe—maybe—she wouldn’t spend all of it alone.

🟉

Wednesday, April 6, 1983

The Wednesday night before the weekend trip, Mary Beth sat at the kitchen table long after the boys were asleep, her feet tucked up beneath her bathrobe, the good scissors in her hand and the week’s circulars spread out in front of her. She was pretending to make a meal plan, but her pen had stalled halfway through “chicken thighs” and she hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

The quiet of the apartment pressed in around her like velvet. Harvey had already packed the suitcase—of course he had—and the boys had been bouncing off the walls about the Gettysburg trip since Monday night. Michael had asked if they could bring a fake sword. She told him no, and then corrected herself to “absolutely not.”

It would be the first full weekend she’d had to herself since… well. Her one semester of college didn’t count. You were never really alone in college, not when you had a roommate and a dorm floor full of girls and resident assistants poking their heads in when they heard you crying.

No, this was real solitude. A blank canvas.

And she could just stay here, make a nest of it. Rent a VCR from that little place on Kissena with the dusty display window and that kid behind the counter who always called her ma’am and gave her the good tape rewinder for free.

She’d already been picturing it: Five movies. Christine’s list. She’d watch them all. Persona would probably go over her head, but she’d give it a shot. Point Blank would make her wish she had a gun strapped to her ankle. And Sweet Smell of Success—well, she liked the way Christine said J.J. Hunsecker, like it was something dirty.

Entenmann’s chocolate donuts, the big ones in the box with the clear plastic window. A bottle of that pink wine with the screw cap. Maybe bubble bath. Definitely the flannel pajamas with the tiny flowers.

She could sleep till noon. Eat a donut in bed. Stay in her robe for hours. Maybe write in the notebook she kept hidden in the linen closet behind the extra rolls of toilet paper.

But then her mind circled the other possibility.

She could ask Christine.

The idea came like a hush. Like a held breath.

And every time it did, her heart thumped once, hard. A single drumbeat that set her whole body humming.

It was absurd, really. Christine had seen her in every state of dress and disarray known to man. They’d showered back-to-back at the precinct. They’d changed in and out of riot gear in the same ten-by-ten locker room. They’d shared corned beef on rye from the same sandwich, drank from the same can of Coke, worked side by side through thirty-hour shifts that left them punchy and grease-slicked and blood-tired.

So why, why, did the idea of inviting her over now—just the two of them, in her house, with no men and no clocks and no badge numbers—feel like standing at the edge of a cliff?

Mary Beth pressed her palm flat to the table. Took a breath.

Because she knew.

She knew what she wanted.

And it wasn’t just someone to share the popcorn with.

It was Christine. It was her.

Not the idea of her. Not the fantasy version in Mary Beth’s dreams. But Christine in her jeans and soft sweater and those Frye boots that made her look like she could kick down the doors of heaven and demand reentry. Christine with her voice gone low and her laugh gone soft and her eyes—the way she looked at her.

Her hand slipped over her pulse, like she could quiet it from the outside.

Three times now she’d decided not to say anything. Not to risk it. Three times, she’d nodded firmly to herself and picked plan number one. Wine, video tapes, donut crumbs on the sheets.

But every time she tried to commit, something in her rewound to that moment on the sidewalk.

To Christine’s voice. I’d do anything you asked me.

She set the scissors down. Folded the circulars. Stared at the blank line under “Thursday dinner.”

And then, finally, she smiled.

Maybe she’d pick up an extra bottle of that pink wine.

Just in case.

🟉

Thursday, April 7, 1983

The unmarked car rumbled along the highway, the sun slanting low and gold across the Jersey horizon, casting everything in the kind of late-afternoon light that made even strip malls and roadside motels look a little romantic. Christine drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses on, hair loose at the nape of her neck where she’d tugged out the clip halfway through the interview. Mary Beth sat slouched in the passenger seat, boots crossed at the ankle, half-listening to the radio static and the squeak of the vinyl seat under her coat.

They hadn’t said much since leaving the fence’s house. It hadn’t gone anywhere. Guy had a lazy eye and a nosy neighbor, and all he really wanted to do was tell them about his gout.

Mary Beth had been quiet most of the ride. Christine thought maybe she was still replaying the interview, or just tired. Or maybe—maybe it was that look she’d caught on her face at the precinct the other morning, right after setting that muffin down on a napkin that said mint is for virtue. Christine had spent the rest of the day trying not to read too much into that.

And then, just as the George Washington Bridge started to come into view—

“Harv and the boys are going to Gettysburg for the weekend.”

Christine glanced over, surprised. “Oh yeah?”

Mary Beth nodded quickly, eyes fixed ahead. “Yeah. Bill Grandy invited ‘em. They leave tomorrow after school, come back Sunday night. It’s all settled.”

Christine waited. There was a rhythm to Mary Beth’s speech when she was gearing up for something—like listening to someone hop across stepping stones, not quite ready to make the leap.

“If you wanted to come for dinner tomorrow after work,” Mary Beth said, the words tumbling out now, “I was going to finally try baba ghanoush. There’s that place on Roosevelt where they sell the eggplants already roasted, so I figured that’s half the battle, right?”

Christine blinked. “You’re making baba ghanoush?”

Mary Beth shrugged, but her voice was higher than usual. “Why not? You only live once. And we could get a couple of those movies. One from each list.”

Christine didn’t answer right away.

Mary Beth kept talking. “But you probably have a date or something.”

Christine stared at the road, the steering wheel, her own hands. Say something.

She cleared her throat. “I do, actually.”

“Oh,” Mary Beth said, too fast. “Of course. No big deal—”

“But I’ll cancel,” Christine said, calm and sure.

Mary Beth turned to her. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That stopped the conversation for a second. A beat of silence that Christine let hang there, gentle but unshakable.

Mary Beth exhaled through her nose, soft and shaky. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Christine finally glanced over. Her sunglasses had slid a little, and Mary Beth could see her eyes now—dark blue and warm, steady as anything.

“I mean, if you’re making baba ghanoush,” Christine added, voice low and light, “how could I possibly miss that?”

Mary Beth smiled, cheeks flushing, and turned back toward the windshield.

The bridge rose before them, steel and sun, the skyline glinting like something worth chasing.

Christine felt her chest settle for the first time all day.

Friday night. Just the two of them. No distractions. No kids. No Harv. Just eggplant dip and movies and possibility.

Yeah. She’d break a dozen dates for that.

🟉

Friday Evening, April 8, 1983

Jackson Heights

The apartment smelled like garlic and lemon, warm spices curling into the corners of the kitchen, mingling with the faint floral detergent from last evening’s laundry, which was still folded on the edge of the couch. Mary Beth moved through the space with the quiet precision of someone trying not to think too hard, which of course meant she was thinking too hard.

The baba ghanoush was done and resting on the counter in her good blue bowl—well, technically it was the mashed potatoes bowl, but tonight it was standing in for something more elegant. She’d followed the recipe from Redbook as best she could, even remembered to drizzle it with olive oil and sprinkle it with just a little paprika like the picture showed.

And now, she was laying out the “dipper plate.”

Cucumber spears. Cherry tomatoes. Pita triangles (warmed, not toasted). A few stalks of celery, just in case Christine wanted crunch. And, in a quiet moment of bravery, some thin pretzel sticks, because they were her favorite, and if this night meant anything, it meant not pretending to like only what was refined and expected.

The platter looked beautiful. Colorful. Inviting.

She stepped back, wiped her hands on the dishtowel, and made herself stop fussing.

In the mirror by the hall closet, she checked her reflection. She’d curled just one little piece of hair by her right temple, letting it fall into a soft ringlet that grazed the top of her cheek. It framed her dimple—her favorite part of her whole face—and made her feel just a little more like herself, but the version of herself she used to dream she’d be someday.

She didn’t wear anything new. Just her nicest deep plum blouse, the sleeves rolled up once. Her good jeans. A pair of silver hoop earrings she’d forgotten she loved until this afternoon.

Her pulse was wild. Her knees felt like soft rubber.

She told herself it was just dinner. But it wasn’t.

She moved the laundry piles onto Michael’s bed to put away later.

🟉

SoHo

Christine stood in front of her full-length mirror, shirtless, the dusky blue long-sleeve tee folded neatly on the bed behind her, her closet door yawning open like it knew it had no say in tonight’s decision.

She reached for the flannel—soft navy and gray, worn just enough to feel like skin. It was the kind of shirt that said no pressure, even if her body underneath it was practically vibrating.

She pulled it on over the dusky tee and let it hang open, casual. Strategic. The shirt underneath clung just right, hugging the line from her shoulders down to her waist, skimming her ribs like a secret. Her faded Levi’s—the good Levi’s—finished the job. They made her ass look like the sort of thing that had its own story arc. A whole plotline.

She stepped into the bathroom and leaned close to the mirror. No mascara. No lipstick. Just a dab of Clarins lip lotion, the fancy one in the little gold tube she kept hidden in the back of the drawer.

And then the final move: Guerlain Eau Impériale. She only ever used it when she wanted certainty, wanted to turn heads or lock in a look across a room. She spritzed it once, high over her shoulder, then stepped through the mist like it might crown her with intent.

Then, before she could let herself overthink it—before she could spiral—she reached for the small overnight bag.

Just a change of clothes. Some extra underwear. A toothbrush. Enough socks to get through Sunday.

Just in case.

She left it in the car. Locked the door. Told herself it didn’t mean anything.

But God. What was she doing?

And more terrifying—what if it was real?

She didn’t have answers.

But she had a destination.

She had Mary Beth. And a scent like citrus and ancient gold following her into the night.

🟉

Christine stood outside the apartment door on 86th Street, heart thudding so hard she could feel it in her wrists. She could smell the baba ghanoush before she even knocked. Jesus, she thought. You’re losing your mind over eggplant.

She knocked twice, sharp and low.

The door opened almost immediately, like Mary Beth had been standing on the other side, waiting.

And there she was.

Blushing already.

That little curl by her ear bounced when she moved, catching the light like a hook meant to drag Christine straight into the fire. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes brighter than usual, and she looked—

Adorable wasn’t a strong enough word. It felt like someone had dipped her in light and tied a bow on her spirit.

Christine reminded herself: Do not undress her with your eyes. Do not reach out and twist that ringlet around your finger. At least not yet. For the love of God, Cagney, be cool.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hiya,” Mary Beth replied, tucking that same curl behind her ear. “Come in.”

Christine stepped inside, her boots quiet on the worn hardwood, her baggy flannel brushing her thighs. The apartment smelled incredible—garlicky and lemon-bright, like something earthy had been coaxed into something divine. She couldn’t even see the food yet, and she already wanted to lick something.

Mary Beth closed the door behind her. “I wasn’t sure which one we’d want to watch while we eat, so I rented The Big Sleep and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”

Christine turned to her, grinning. “You picked both Bogart and maternal heartbreak? Bold.”

Mary Beth shrugged, but her eyes were dancing. “I figured one of us should cry and one of us should solve a murder.”

Christine laughed, the kind of laugh that came up from her chest and curled around her tongue.

Mary Beth gestured toward the couch, where two trays were already set with napkins, forks, and little plates. On the coffee table: a big bowl of baba ghanoush surrounded by a riot of color—cucumber spears, cherry tomatoes, pita wedges, even pretzel sticks.

Christine sat down slowly, reverently. “You really made all this?”

Mary Beth made a face. “The eggplant was pre-roasted. But I mashed it. Like a champ.”

Christine picked up a pretzel stick. “I love that you included these.”

“They’re my favorite.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “I wanted to be myself tonight, y'know?”

Christine looked at her, eyes soft. “You always are. That’s the best part.”

Mary Beth blushed deeper and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the wine.”

Christine leaned back against the couch cushions and let herself watch for just a second—the sway of Mary Beth’s hips, the way her dimple tugged into view when she opened the cupboard. That plum blouse did criminal things to her coloring. And she smelled like a bakery and something clean and powdery. Christine wanted to bury her face in her shoulder and breathe for an hour.

Mary Beth returned with two glasses and a screw-top bottle of blush wine that had a little condensation beading at the neck.

“It’s the cheap kind,” she said as she poured, her hand trembling just enough to make the wine slosh.

Christine reached up and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, warm and grounding.

“Hey,” she said, her voice lower now. “Relax. I’m not Princess Margaret. You don’t have to impress me.”

Mary Beth laughed nervously. “You say that now. Just wait till you taste it.”

“I like sweet,” Christine murmured. “It suits the company.”

That earned her a look—a sidelong glance with half a smile behind it—and Mary Beth handed her the glass.

Their fingers brushed. Not an accident.

Christine let her hand linger just a fraction longer than she needed to.

“Let’s go with Bogart,” Mary Beth said suddenly, flustered. “You talk about this one so much I figure I should finally see what all the fuss is about.”

Christine grinned. “I’ll try not to quote every line.”

Mary Beth sat down beside her on the couch, a little closer than she usually might, knees angled slightly toward her. She reached for a cucumber, dipped it, and took a bite.

“Oh wow,” she said. “It’s better than I thought.”

Christine dipped a pretzel. “Don’t act surprised. You mashed that eggplant like a champ.”

Mary Beth smiled, her mouth full, and Christine watched her dimple flicker again. Her whole body was pulsing with restraint.

She had no idea how this night would end.

But she knew one thing for sure.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

🟉

By the time the credits rolled, the baba ghanoush bowl was scraped clean, pita crumbs dusting the plates like confetti from a celebration they hadn’t quite named.

They hadn’t stopped talking the whole movie.

Well—Mary Beth hadn’t.

Christine had mostly watched her, saying very little, answering only when prompted, nodding occasionally, sipping her wine with the slow deliberation of someone who didn’t trust her mouth not to spill something dangerous.

“Oh, would you look at her,” Mary Beth had whispered the first time Bacall appeared on screen, leaning back with a soft thump against the couch cushion. “That walk, Chris. That walk. I’d walk like that every day if I could get away with it.”

Christine had smiled at that, not saying you could because it would’ve come out too rough, too reverent.

And every time Bogart looked at Bacall like she’d just shot him in the chest, Mary Beth would murmur things like, “Mmmhmm. See, now that’s a look.” And, “I don’t even know what’s going on in this scene, but I’d watch it again just to see her light that cigarette.”

Halfway through, Mary Beth leaned forward, pointing with her wine glass at the screen. “Is that supposed to be symbolic? He’s playing chess but she’s the one actually calling the shots, right?”

Christine had nodded slowly, eyes still on the way Mary Beth’s blouse slipped a little at the shoulder. “Could be. Or it’s just a good movie and she’s smarter than every man in the room.”

And then, near the end—Bacall giving that line about not minding if he gets rough—Mary Beth snorted into her empty glass. “This movie’s got Christine Cagney written all over it, all right.”

Christine hadn’t meant to smile. Not really.

But she did. That sly, curling kind that lived in the corner of her mouth and never asked permission.

And Mary Beth saw it.

Her eyes narrowed just a little, mouth tugging into a grin as she leaned closer. “What? It’s your favorite, right?”

Christine turned her head slowly. The lights were still dim, the screen now glowing softly with studio logos and old newsreel clips. But Mary Beth was just a few inches away. Maybe six. Maybe less.

Christine let the smile play, didn’t fight it. “Yeah. It’s my favorite.”

Mary Beth tipped her head, teasing. “So you’re saying you identify with Bogart?”

Christine’s eyes flicked down to Mary Beth’s mouth for a breath, then back up. “No,” she said, quiet but clear. “I’m saying I know what it’s like to want someone who doesn’t play by the rules.”

That hit the air like a dropped match.

Mary Beth blinked. She sat still for a beat, the flickering light from the television dancing in her eyes.

Then she laughed, but it was softer now. Less automatic. She reached for a pita crumb on her plate and popped it into her mouth. “Well,” she said, voice low, “remind me to keep an eye on your queen the next time we play chess.”

Christine didn’t look away.

“Just don’t be surprised if she’s already got her eye on you.”

🟉

The screen went black, and the silence that followed was a soft kind of thunder.

The only light in the room now came from the little bulb over the stove—a faint, flickering gold that painted the edges of the living room in half-shadows. It caught on the curve of Mary Beth’s cheekbone, the curl by her ear, the delicate line of her collarbone beneath the open neck of her blouse.

Christine could still taste the lemon and garlic on her lips.

Mary Beth let out a sound—small and breathy. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Something caught between pleasure and nerves. It made Christine’s stomach flip.

They didn’t look away from each other.

“That was a great movie, Chris,” Mary Beth said, her voice soft but still sure. “I’m just glad somebody else had to investigate and I could just kick back and enjoy it.”

Christine chuckled low, voice still honey-thick. “I wouldn’t mind a case that glamorous.”

Mary Beth smiled, then tilted her head slightly, eyes sparkling. “So. You ready for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, or… do you want to have an interlude?”

Christine blinked once, slow. Then her mouth curved into something dangerous.

“Interlude, huh?” she echoed, voice dipping into velvet. “That sounds considerably more fun than intermission.”

Mary Beth laughed—quiet, caught—but didn’t look away. Didn’t blush this time either.

“Well,” she said, reaching slowly for their glasses and standing, “I was thinking a little more wine. Maybe dessert. But if you’ve got another kind of interlude in mind…”

Christine stood too, a little closer than before. She didn’t touch her. Didn’t reach for the ringlet, though her hand itched to.

“I’ll take whatever kind of interlude you want,” she said. “I’m following your lead, remember?”

Mary Beth’s breath caught again, just a little.

She turned toward the kitchen. Christine followed.

The air between them was charged, warm, full of what-if and oh, please and don’t stop now.

Mary Beth opened the fridge. “There’s strawberry ice cream.”

Christine leaned against the counter, watching her. “Of course there is.”

“You want some?”

“I want everything.”

Mary Beth stilled. The fridge door hung open for a beat too long.

Then, softly: “Start with the ice cream. Let’s see where we land.”

Christine smiled.

She could do patience.

Especially if it tasted like strawberries.

🟉

She opened the freezer compartment too fast and a puff of cold air kissed her face, but she barely felt it.

Okay, deep breath.

The strawberry ice cream was right there, just where she’d left it. She took it out carefully—hands steady now, she told herself, not like before when Christine touched her shoulder and she nearly dropped the wine bottle.

She reached for two dishes from the cabinet above the sink. Not the mismatched cereal bowls the boys always used, not the chipped one from the Halloween fair. She picked the small white ones with the blue rim, the ones she only used when she wanted something to feel special. Which, until now, had mostly meant when she was alone.

She set them down on the counter.

Christine was leaning back against the other side, arms crossed, watching her with that quiet little smile that wasn’t teasing, wasn’t smug—it was just… warm. Like she saw her and didn’t mind the view. Like she liked it.

Mary Beth’s heart fluttered like a bird caught behind her ribs.

What are you doing? You invited her. You opened the wine. You chose the movie with all the sighing and the smoldering and the cigarettes that burn like foreplay.

She found the ice cream scoop and dug it into the container, her wrist creaking with the effort. Harv always makes this look easier. Christine shifted slightly, the linoleum floor creaking just enough to remind her: She is still here. She is in your kitchen.

The scoop dropped into the bowl with a soft sound. Then another.

She smoothed the top of each one with the back of the spoon. Why, she had no idea. She just needed to do something with her hands. You’re being silly. It’s just ice cream. It’s just a Friday night.

But it wasn’t.

She felt that down to the bone.

She wanted her. She wanted to reach across the counter and trace her fingers along Christine’s jawline, ask if that perfume was meant for her. Ask if the overnight bag was in the car. Ask if this was a dream or if she’d finally stopped being afraid.

But instead, she reached for two spoons.

Be cool, Mary Elizabeth.

She took a breath. Let it settle low in her belly.

When she turned around, Christine was still there. Still smiling.

She handed her a dish.

“Interlude,” she said, like it was the name of a chapter they were writing together.

🟉

They sat down again on the couch, the ice cream bowls cradled in their laps, spoons clinking gently as they settled. The TV screen glowed faintly with the paused opening credits of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, casting a pale light across their faces. The room smelled like strawberries and lemon and something else Christine wouldn’t dare name.

She tucked one leg beneath her and leaned back just a little, bowl balanced in one hand.

“I never saw this,” she said, quietly, eyes on the screen. “I love the novel so much I was afraid I’d be disappointed.”

Mary Beth looked over at her, surprised. “You read it?”

Christine smirked. “Of course I read it. Barnard, remember? It was practically a rite of passage. Every other girl in my dorm had a copy with dog-eared pages and notes in the margins.”

“I had no idea.”

Christine shrugged. “I related more than I expected to. You know—tight apartments, complicated parents, feeling like you don’t quite fit in the life you were born into. Plus, I was a sucker for Francie.”

Mary Beth smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

She took a bite of ice cream and gestured toward the screen. “I saw the movie first, actually. Maybe that helped. You won’t get the whole timeline—it only covers a little piece of it. The young adolescent stuff, mostly. But it’s tender. You can tell someone loved the source material.”

Christine looked at her, spoon poised mid-air. “I like when that happens.”

“Me too,” Mary Beth said, softer now.

Their eyes met for a beat, and Christine held it just long enough to let Mary Beth feel it before looking back at the screen.

Mary Beth shifted, angling toward her slightly, her knee brushing Christine’s. “You ready?”

Christine nodded, but her gaze lingered on Mary Beth’s profile a second longer.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s begin.”

🟉

Johnny Nolan’s funeral hymn was fading beneath Francie’s soft voiceover, and the screen glowed silver and gray as grief settled into the corners of the room like dust.

Christine blinked hard and tried to breathe through it, the familiar ache rising like a tide. That particular kind of ache—the kind that knew exactly where in her chest to bloom. Johnny’s laugh, his weakness, the way he’d bent beneath the weight of the world and still tried to sing through it.

She hadn’t cried about her own father’s mixture of charm and trouble in years. Not where anyone could see.

But now—now she was crying for someone else’s. She made a mental note to call Charlie after this weekend had run its course. 

Beside her, Mary Beth sniffled, quietly. Christine could hear her shifting, trying to get her composure back, the scrape of a tissue from the box on the side table.

Then Mary Beth glanced over and caught her.

Christine didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Mary Beth let out a watery little laugh. Not embarrassed—just surprised. “Glad I’m not the only one,” she said, her voice breaking gently on a breath.

And then, with no hesitation, she reached out and took Christine’s hand.

Squeezed.

Christine squeezed back.

And didn’t let go.

“Well,” she said, voice low, rough around the edges, “drunk, charming Irish fathers are kind of a wound for me.”

Mary Beth nodded slowly, thumb brushing along Christine’s knuckles like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I figured.”

Christine didn’t say anything else. She just held on.

Because she could tell—knew—that this was the moment. The one they might never get again if she didn’t show her that it was okay. That they could still be them. That touching didn’t have to break the spell or send Mary Beth running. That it wouldn’t destroy them.

It might save them.

So she stayed. Her hand in Mary Beth’s, warm and certain.

They kept watching. Faces still streaked with tears, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. But now their fingers were laced together, their shoulders just barely brushing.

Christine didn’t look down. She didn’t have to.

She was hanging on.

And Mary Beth wasn’t letting go.

🟉

The music swelled into its final, tender bars, violins carrying the memory of Francie’s voice into stillness. The credits finished rolling and the screen went dark again, leaving only the soft hush of the room and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Neither of them moved.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, fingers still loosely threaded, the empty bowls forgotten on the coffee table, the scent of strawberries and faint perfume lingering in the air between them.

Mary Beth’s breathing had slowed. Her head was tilted slightly, her hair brushing Christine’s sleeve. The weight of her beside her felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Christine let the silence stretch. Let the moment breathe.

And then she turned, just slightly, leaning in so her mouth was near Mary Beth’s ear. Close enough to feel the warmth of her.

“Mary Beth,” she said softly, the words barely more than breath.

Mary Beth turned toward her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

Christine swallowed, the thrum in her chest suddenly louder than everything.

“I’m crazy about you.”

The words hung there like smoke. Like a promise.

She didn’t pull back. She stayed close, just watching Mary Beth’s face in the soft light—how her lashes fluttered once, how her mouth parted, how the dimple threatened to emerge like a secret.

Mary Beth didn’t speak right away. But her hand tightened gently around Christine’s.

And she didn’t let go.

🟉

Mary Beth brought her free hand up to her chest like instinct—fingers splayed just over her heart, as if she could press it into behaving. But it was no use. It was galloping. Winging. There had to be at least a hundred thousand butterflies inside her, and they were all trying to take flight at once. Her ribs felt too small to hold it. Her breath wouldn’t come in full.

She looked at Christine, eyes wide, stunned in the quiet.

Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“Is this really happening?”

Christine’s face didn’t waver. Not even a little.

She didn’t look away, didn’t blink, didn’t make a joke or shrug it off or lean back to give her space.

She just looked at her. Steady. Warm. Real.

Mary Beth’s eyes darted over her—brows, mouth, the curve of her cheek, the slope of her neck—trying to detective her way out of it. Out of the dream, if it was a dream. If this was just a soft-brain fantasy conjured by strawberry ice cream and Bogart and two decades of not asking herself the right questions.

But Christine was here.

Still holding her hand.

Still close enough to feel her breath.

“I wouldn’t joke about this,” Christine said quietly, as though she’d read her mind.

Mary Beth swallowed. Her hand still pressed to her heart, the pressure doing nothing at all to calm the storm inside.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

She didn’t let go.

Christine leaned forward just a fraction more, her forehead almost brushing Mary Beth’s. Her voice was soft enough that it didn’t even echo.

“Can I kiss you?”

Mary Beth gave the smallest nod.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And she waited, lips parted, heart wide open.

🟉

The kiss was gentle at first—barely more than a brush, a breath, a holy question.

But God.

Christine had kissed a lot of mouths in her life. Polished ones. Painted ones. Lipsticked and perfumed, the kind that belonged to women who knew exactly what their mouths could do and men who thought they did. She’d kissed actors and attorneys, cops and strangers and once a French woman whose name she never learned but whose laugh she still remembered.

But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this.

Mary Beth’s lips, soft and trembling and still tasting faintly of strawberries and courage.

Was it possible that her seventy-nine cent Cherry Chapstick was every bit as effective as Christine’s twenty-dollar Clarins? More than effective—devastating. The flavor bloomed between them, bright and sweet, and Christine could have sworn she was levitating. Not metaphorically. She actually felt her toes lift a little from the floor, her chest expanding so wide she thought she might float right out of her own body.

She let go of Mary Beth’s hand and brought her fingers gently to the side of her face, tracing the line from her jaw to just behind her ear, where that perfect little ringlet had fallen loose again.

Mary Beth made a small sound—half gasp, half whimper—into the kiss, and Christine felt her own knees go weak.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against Mary Beth’s, her thumb still brushing the soft skin beneath her cheekbone.

Mary Beth’s eyes stayed closed, her lips still parted, her breathing unsteady.

“I hope that was real,” she whispered.

Christine smiled, kissed the corner of her mouth once more. “It was. Every second.”

Mary Beth finally opened her eyes, dazed and glowing, like someone who’d just stumbled out of a cathedral or a dream she hadn’t dared tell anyone about.

“I can’t believe you kissed me,” she said, her voice barely there.

Christine’s smile widened, soft and reverent. “Baby, I’ve been waiting to kiss you for years.”

Mary Beth’s heart did a somersault. Or a thousand.

She didn't say I'm scared or what about Harv or what does this mean.

She said, very quietly, “I want you to do it again.”

🟉

“I’ll do it as many times as you want,” Christine murmured.

And she meant it—meant it with everything in her.

She lifted her left hand to the nape of Mary Beth’s neck, her fingers sliding into the soft waves of hair still warm from the room and the long night. With her right hand, she curved her palm around Mary Beth’s upper arm, her thumb brushing the tender fabric of her sleeve before finding the heat beneath.

Mary Beth shivered beneath her touch, and Christine leaned in—not immediately for her mouth, not yet. She let her lips trace a path along her jawline, slow and reverent. A kiss. Then a nuzzle. Then a kiss again, just beneath her ear, where her pulse fluttered like a moth.

Mary Beth let out the tiniest sound—caught between breath and prayer.

Then Christine found her lips again, and this time the kiss deepened. Mary Beth leaned in. Opened up. Their mouths moved together in a rhythm that felt older than either of them, as if some part of their bodies had always known how to find each other in the dark.

It was not urgent. But it was hungry.

When Christine finally pulled back a few inches to look at her, Mary Beth’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, her pupils blown wide as moons. She looked drugged. Drunk. Rapturous.

Christine felt it too. That deep, humming heat that started somewhere behind her ribs and moved outward, turning the world soft at the edges.

She smiled, breathless. “You okay?”

Mary Beth nodded slowly, eyes still half-lidded, like she was seeing stars only she could name.

“I think,” she said faintly, “you short-circuited me.”

Christine laughed, low and a little ragged. “We’ll go slow. Plenty of time.”

Mary Beth blinked, focused a little, and brought her hand up to Christine’s jaw, fingers trembling just slightly.

“I want time,” she said. “I want all of it. I want—”

Christine pressed their foreheads together, shushing her with the gentlest smile.

“You’ve got me,” she said. “However you want me. I’m here.”

Mary Beth closed her eyes.

And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe it.

🟉

Christine was burning.

Not with nerves now, or uncertainty, or even longing—not the aching kind that lived in her bones most days she was near Mary Beth. No, this was heat. Real and immediate, radiating outward from every inch of skin Mary Beth had touched and every inch that was begging to be next.

She reached for the buttons at her cuff and shoved the flannel shirt off her shoulders, letting it drop behind her on the couch. Her dusky blue henley clung in all the places she liked, soft cotton tracing the shape of her ribs, her stomach, the shallow hollow above her breasts. The sleeves were too long, so she pushed them up to her elbows with practiced ease, trying to breathe like a normal person.

Mary Beth looked at her like she’d just witnessed a solar flare.

The three buttons at the top of the shirt were already undone—innocently, casually, but enough to show the delicate triangle of her upper chest, skin golden in the warm ambient light, just above where her bra began.

Mary Beth stared at it like it had been calling to her for years.

And then, voice quiet but sure, she said, “Every time you wear this, I think about how much I want to kiss you there.”

Christine’s breath caught. “You think about kissing my collarbone?”

Mary Beth’s eyes lifted to hers, wide and gleaming, shy but proud. “Chris,” she whispered, “I think about all kinds of things. You have no idea.”

Christine exhaled in a laugh that cracked right into a moan.

And Mary Beth didn’t wait.

She leaned in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the placket as she dipped her head and kissed Christine just to the side of it—soft, reverent, precise. Then lower, pressing a kiss to her clavicle. Then another, warmer, just beneath the curve of her neck.

Christine gasped, sharp and involuntary, her whole body jolting in response.

She let her hand slide into Mary Beth’s hair, fingertips trembling now, mouth parted.

“Jesus, Mary Beth…”

Mary Beth smiled against her skin.

Christine had never felt so exposed. Not in a fragile way, but in the real way—like someone had opened a window and let the truth rush in. Like she was being known with every kiss, every touch, every confession they hadn’t made but were making now with their bodies.

And this was only the beginning.

She tipped her head back, giving her more access.

“Where else do you want to kiss me?” she asked, half breath, half dare.

Mary Beth’s mouth hovered just above her skin, warm and trembling.

“Oh, I could make a list,” she whispered. “But wouldn’t you rather I show you?”

🟉