Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So how do you feel about New York?”

Emilia’s brows shoot up at Celina’s question. She’s been hoping for a bigger project for a while now—the quality of her work at S&R is beyond reproach, has been from the beginning—but not something this big. Not the States.

“New York,” she says. Not a question—never a question, she’s too confident to make it a straight question—but not exactly a statement, either.

Across the huge glass desk, Celina nods. “The board is ready to sign off on a New York campus and I want you to project manage.”

“So it’s mine.”

“You’ll design the office from the ground up.” Celina puts down the pen in her hand. “Dixon will be your architectural liaison, but you’ll be in charge.”

Emilia smiles.

Ever since S&R hired Emilia two years earlier as deputy project manager for operations, she’s thrown herself into the job with singular focus—easy enough to do when you’re trying to block out the image of finding your wife in bed with another woman. At first Emilia was reluctant to even apply: S&R is a search engine optimization company, a low key but critical player in the tech world. Tech isn’t Emilia’s strong suit by a long shot, but operations is—she made it her thing after EWS took what little she had.

She’s always been pretty good with formulas and equations, and pivot tables have never scared her, so when the time came to let go of music and choose a “big girl” job that would pay the bills, she decided on the one thing she’d ever remotely enjoyed in school, besides music: math.

Of all her applications, all across the world, Harvard was the longest shot. But it was amazing how quickly they wanted to scoop a poor immigrant girl with a seductively diverse range of interests. Top of her class and a trained pianist? Sign the Crimson up. The States are obsessed with “saving” people like her, and as a young girl with nowhere to go she was happy to play the part, if for no other reason than the pride on her parents’ faces when she graduated with a major in economics and a minor in French. After that, business school seemed like the next logical step, and it turned out Harvard wanted her for that, too. The consistency was too good to pass up, so she got her MBA.

Sebastian encouraged her to put her fancy American credentials to good use and apply for the S&R position, and now, freshly promoted to global director of real estate and workplace, she has only Celina—the VP of operations—to report to. The two of them design campuses from scratch all over the world—S&R has offices on four continents, and Luka Colucci, the company’s wunderkind founder, wants to keep growing, hoping to build an empire. Until now Emilia has served as Celina’s second brain, keeping track of all the information Celina could possibly need. But now…it’s Emilia’s turn.

“And the board knows it’s my show?”

“Yes.” Celina smiles. “All yours.”

Emilia’s sure Celina can see her vibrating with excitement. She crosses her legs, trying to hold still.

“It’ll take multiple trips, and the first one will be long. But it’s just until you get things off the ground.”

“How long?”

“Six weeks.”

Six weeks in New York. What can possibly go wrong? Hell, what can possibly go right?

A cyclone of panic swirls in Emilia’s head as she imagines every worst-case scenario. She’s good at expecting the worst by now. Some would say a little too good.

But maybe it’s just the thing she needs. Maybe some time away from her life in Sao Paulo—the life she led with her wife for so long—will do her good. She’s been to New York once before, for a weekend in college, but doesn’t remember much of anything. It’ll be practically new to her.

It could be the perfect place for a little reinvention.

“I’m ready,” Emilia says.

“I know,” Celina says. “You leave in two weeks.”

***

Emilia gives Dixon the window seat on the plane. He’s never been to New York before, and she wants him to be able to see the lights glittering in the golden hour as they make their descent to JFK.

The sharp October wind greets them as soon as they step outside the airport, nipping at their faces and bare hands. Emilia wraps her scarf tight around her neck as she enters the hired car and heads to the hotel. How is it so damn cold in October? She was promised cool weather, not…frost.

S&R’s putting them up at the High Line—Luka likes his staff to be comfortable. Dixon’s room is right next door to hers on the eighth floor, with a view of Chelsea that almost makes her tear up a little. Emilia guessed she would probably be happy to come back to the States, but she couldn’t have predicted this feeling. Really, she never stopped to think about it at all. Work keeps her so busy that even though she makes offices all over the world, it’s easy to forget there’s a whole universe outside S&R.

Once she’s alone for the night, she takes off her rings and leaves them on the dresser. She wipes off her makeup, gets undressed, throws her hair in a bun and steps into the glass-walled shower. There’s a gorgeous claw-foot bathtub near the window, which she stares at longingly as she squeezes apple scented body wash into the palm of her hand and works up a lather. She already knows she’ll be too busy to use it. It’s like a fucking symbol of her chronic inability to relax. In her lowest moments Emilia often wonders if that’s what made her wife seek out someone else. Maybe all she wanted was someone to pay attention to her once in a while. To love her the way she needed to be loved.

But I did, Emilia thinks. I did so much to love her.

Emilia busted her ass at work, earning a six-figure salary by thirty-two, all so the two of them could be comfortable and pursue what they loved. Emilia bought an apartment, a car, vacations in Puerto Plata and Scotland and Bali…she did so much. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. Isn’t it?

Emilia pretends she’s soaking in the tub as she lets the steaming water stream down her back. A girl can dream.

After toweling off she puts on a white tank top and a pair of purple pajama pants. When she gets into bed, she plugs in her phone and sets it face down on the bedside table. She turns off the light and closes her eyes.

Thirty seconds later her eyes are open again. Her thoughts are all over the place. It’s always chaotic in her head, but this is particularly unbearable. So she grabs her rose gold laptop and sparkly pink reading glasses and turns to the one thing she can always rely on: work.

Most people find her work breathtakingly boring. Emilia’s literally seen people’s eyes glaze over as she waxes romantic about budgets, fire escapes, cultural competence, event planning, food programs. It’s enough to make her wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with her, but she tries not to dwell on it too much. She loves what she does—it’s like solving a puzzle, cracking a code. Her instincts are so sharp she knows exactly when things have fallen into place on a project. It’s what makes her so good at what she does. Being able to forget herself, to compartmentalize her life for the sake of efficiency, is what’s gotten her so far in her career.

After responding to twelve emails, she finally drifts off to sleep at 3am, only to be woken by the front desk four hours later.

She rolls out of bed, puts on a hotel robe, and props her laptop on the table by the sliding door to her balcony. While she brushes her teeth, she puts on her glasses and reaches for her pastel blue leather-bound datebook. She flips to that day’s page: the first Monday in October.

She plucks a purple sticky note off the page and looks over the to-do list scribbled there. First up: writing a delicately worded email to the human resources director about a male employee getting a little too close for comfort to a female employee. She’s been putting it off for too long, hoping that in time she’d find the right words, but now her back is against the wall. It isn’t normally Emilia’s domain, but the woman in question is adjacent to her team, and even if she wasn’t, Emilia always tries to stick up for the women at work. She scratches her forehead and gets down to business.

She’s clattering away on her keyboard when there’s a knock on the door. She shuffles over to the door and there’s Dixon, already dressed for the day in slacks and a button-down shirt. In the tech world, they both know this outfit is akin to a three-pieced suit, and he’s got a megawatt smile on his face to match.

“Oooh, good morning to you and only you,” Emilia says. “You look good.”

“You look like shit,” he says cheerfully. “What’s with the robe?”

The sun’s fully up and Emilia’s still in the white waffle robe and her favorite fuzzy socks.

She pouts. “A little early for the jabs, no?”

“You can take it.” He holds up a brown paper bag. “Look, I brought coffee. And bagels. And something called a bialy, whatever that is. The guy at the cart said it was good.”

“What do you mean by cart?”

“I mean the guy with the cart outside the building that says COFFEE on it.”

Emilia narrows her eyes. “You bought coffee from a cart on the street?”

“Oh, please, you literally ate snails when we were in Paris last year.”

“Only because we were in front of shareholders and it would have been offensive not to!”

“Whatever.” Dixon slides past her without even asking for permission and settles at the table. Before she can get a word in he hands her a to-go cup of coffee. “Drink.”

She holds the cup in both hands and honestly? The coffee is amazing, but she’s taking that to her grave. Meanwhile Dixon sets up his tablet and starts talking her through the rough blueprints for the campus, the designs that require her approval. Her approval. Just thinking about it makes her smile.

She’s never had this much authority on a project before. The last time she felt this in control, this enthusiastic about a project that required so much discipline and drive, was when she made music. But that was so long ago now…

She can’t remember what it was even like to be that person. She can’t remember having the urge to just create. But frankly, it’s just as well.

The best lesson Emilia has learned in her twenties is that there’s a difference between being passionate about something, and making something your life’s passion. If you work hard enough, she knows now, you can forget about your passion and focus on the things you’re passionate about. With any luck, it’ll clear away the memory of the one thing in your life that makes the world make sense to you—the thing that connects you to the deepest parts of yourself. (The deepest parts of herself are overrated, anyway.)

Sometimes she thinks that principle is the only thing keeping her sane.

After breakfast, Emilia and Dixon spend the morning touring the property and meeting the building management. It’s an open-concept warehouse space with a wall of high windows letting in bright natural light on the east side of the building. Emilia refuses to put employees in fluorescent-lit caves. They deserve better, and anyway her style works better in natural light. Luka loved the space as soon as he saw it six months ago, and she understands why. The vibe will fit the company’s overall style perfectly. She spends the walk-through scribbling notes on her tablet, even drawing a quick sketch of a possible placement for the bullpen of work stations that will serve as the space’s central hub.

At lunchtime she and Dixon walk to Chelsea Market.

The place is a mess: young guys in button-up shirts and Patagonia vests whining about the long line at Los Tacos Numero 1, tourists stopping every five feet for a picture of an elaborate storefront, and young girls pouring in and out of Anthropologie.

They settle on a Jamaican jerk chicken spot, eating at a stainless steel table near the windows. While she’s mid-bite, Dixon asks, “Everything good?”

She nods, enjoying the smoky-cinnamon marinade of the chicken, the way the meat falls right off the bone. She licks a drop of glaze off her bottom lip. “It’s really good, don’t you think?”

When she looks at him, his gaze is too thoughtful to just be about the chicken.

“What’s going on?”

He stirs. “Nothing, nothing.”

She glares at him.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” she says easily, returning to her food.

“You sure about that?”

She nods. Where’s he going with this?

“I just worry about you,” he says. “I know that with everything that happened you could be feeling kinda—”

“Honestly, Dixon, I appreciate your concern,” she says, “but I’m really fine.”

She hits him with the brightest smile she can muster.

“Just making sure. ‘Cause you and I, we’re not just colleagues, we’re friends.” His voice is gentle and thoughtful as he speaks. “Most people think men and women can’t be friends, but I think—”

“Oh my god, did you watch When Harry Met Sally again?”

He grins. “On the plane.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please don’t quote—”

“‘When you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’”

“Oh my goddd,” she whines. “You’re such a girl.”

He shrugs. “At least I own my shit. I’m not the one reading sexy fanfiction under cover of darkness.”

Emilia feels the heat creeping up her neck. “I do not!”

He shoots her a look. “I saw you on the plane! Putting your hands around your tablet so no one could see your screen.” He smiles. “‘As Vanessa conquers the unknown territory of Clare’s mouth, she gasps in—‘”

“Stop it!” Emilia says, leaning across the table and swatting him in the arm.

“It’s all good, Emilia,” he says, not unkindly. “I kinda like that you’re a softy like me.”

“I’m not a—”

Her phone goes off, vibrating dangerously close to the edge of the table.

When she picks up, a voice cries, “You’re heeeeeere!” so loudly Emilia has to hold the phone away from her ear.

She laughs. “Hello to you too, Sebas.”

There’s noise in the background, sounds of traffic, horns honking. “When do I get to see your beautiful face?”

“Depends on what you have in mind.”

“How about tomorrow night? This band I love is playing in Bushwick. Eight o’clock?”

Even now, Emilia can’t turn down a chance to see a live show. “Sounds great.”

“We’ll get drinks first, obviously. You have to tell me everything about this fancy project of yours.”

“It’s not that fancy.”

“Not this again,” he says. “Well, whatever, you do you, but you’re telling me everything as soon as I see you.”

“Sure,” she says around a laugh.

“And come dressed to kill,” he says. “Or at least fuck. Gotta turn it out for all those pretty fish in the New York sea.”

“Sebas, haven’t you heard? I’ve given up on the sea,” she says. She sticks her tongue out conspiratorially at Dixon. “The sea sucks.”

“Only because you haven’t met the right girl,” Sebas says in a singsong tone. “Or guy. I don’t judge.”

She can picture him wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and laughs. “Girl,” she clarifies. “Guys are gross.”

“Got that right,” he says. “Ok, gotta go, I’m meeting one such gross guy right now for coffee. Wish me luck!”

“¡Mierda!”

“Obrigado,” he says, and clicks off.

***

The following evening Emilia heads straight to Brooklyn from the office. The day was packed with back-to-back meetings with contractors bidding on the project, leaving her no time to go back to the hotel and change into more casual clothes. Which means she now finds herself clomping gingerly down the steps to the F train in her silver slingback heels. Dixon was supposed to come with her, but an allergic reaction to their lunch with the building management left him with a bad taste in his mouth—literally.

On the train, her periwinkle wool coat, nude stockings, and inconvenient shoes earn her more than a few glances from other passengers, reminding her that when it comes to fashion in New York, black is the new black. That’s all well and good, but she’s never been one for clean, minimal looks. She found her style at EWS, and while its intensity has softened over time, the core of it is unchanged.

She keeps her hair in long, soft curls with two bright blonde streaks in the front. Her nails are long, almond-shaped and painted green, a surprisingly flattering shade on her. This morning she was feeling a little festive, so she lined her eyes with fuchsia liner, fanning it out at the edges. In a scoop-neck silk blouse splashed with pale pink and orange hues, plus a dark blue pencil skirt and those slingbacks, she knows she’ll be a fish out of water as soon as she walks up to the entrance of Sweethearts. At the door she slips off her coat and trades the biting wind outside for the sanctuary of the warm, dimly lit bar.

Everyone around her seems so young, all of them wearing tired expressions and, as expected, a limited palette of dark colors. They look like people who know something she doesn’t. As she makes her way through the tangle of people angling for a drink at the bar, she touches her right earlobe and the huge mother-of-pearl lily earrings almost grazing her shoulders. She wonders if this is a good idea. This isn’t her scene at all. She’s almost thirty now, and more of a jazz lounge kind of girl these days. This place is giving her “mice in the walls” vibes.

“¡Qué pedo, güey!” she hears a voice yell over the Flaming Lips deep cut playing loudly, and suddenly Sebas is behind her, squeezing her waist.

“¡Nalga rica!”

She whirls around and takes in Sebas’s brown hair, dark eyes, and—of fucking course—black jeans and white t-shirt, before pulling him in for a hug.

The thing about Sebas is that he used to be such an asshole. Back at EWS, he was kind of the worst. That’s what happens when your mother is the most important politician in Mexico: it makes you think you’re the most valuable person in the room. It took a lot for Sebas to understand that the sun does not, in fact, shine out of his ass, and that if he wanted to make it in music he’d have to actually work for it. But he didn’t want it enough, or at least not at the emotional price EWS wanted him to pay. So when it wasn’t handed to him, he did what his mother wanted all along: went to law school. Surprisingly, he ended up loving it. Now he’s a shark at Paul, Weiss & Rifkind, breaking spirits across conference room tables in major mergers and acquisitions. Who knew corporate law would be the answer to his problems? Having a place to put all his assholery has made him a way nicer person in his personal life. Plus, unlike Emilia, he seems happy to just enjoy music without actually wishing he could make it. He’s lucky.

And, as it turns out, coming out after forcing himself to date women for so long kinda helped, too.

When he pulls away she finds herself wishing it could have lasted longer. The comfort of seeing a familiar friend in an unfamiliar place is so grounding. Exactly what she needs.

Now her trip can begin.

“How long has it been?”

“Way too fucking long,” he says. “Last time I saw you, you were still married to Satan.”

He claps a hand over his mouth. “Ah, fuck, I’m sorry, Emilia. I shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says with a laugh. “It’s funny. And you’re right. I hadn’t seen the light yet. Wasn’t quite a spinster back then.”

“You’re not a spinster,” he reassures her. “You’re barely thirty-five. Not even!”

“In two months.”

“Fine, so you’ll be a spinster in two months then,” he says. He puts a hand on her shoulder and bends to find her gaze. His tone turns serious. “Breaking news: being single at thirty-five isn’t a terminal disease. And if it is then I am very, very ill. Stage four single. Let’s put it that way.”

She puts on her best smile, but it hurts.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “You just—”

“I worked so hard,” Emilia says. She feels tears stinging her eyes. “I worked so hard to make it work. And what was the point?”

“Emilia—”

“I thought we were forever,” she says. She squeezes her eyes shut. “I thought we wanted the same things. And then suddenly we didn’t, and now…now I don’t know what to believe.”

When she opens her eyes, Sebas’ gaze is so caring it threatens to make her cry all over again.

“It’s okay not to know everything all the fucking time,” he says. “Even you, Emilia Alo, top of your class, teacher’s pet, epitome of perfection.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Right now, all you need to do is hang out with me. Okay?” He pulls Emilia into his arms and kisses the crown of her head. “Now, let’s get fucked up and celebrate your freedom!”

She doesn’t feel particularly free at the moment, but she’s not about to kill the vibe. “Okay, then.”

“Shots?”

“Why not?” she says, and Sebas claps his hands excitedly.

“Whiskey?” When Emilia nods, he turns to the bar and grimaces. “Send a search and rescue team if I don’t come back in ten minutes,” he says, and dives into the sea of humanity crowding the bar. She tries to keep her eye on him but loses him in the crowd almost instantly.

She takes out her phone and opens Slack. Messages on the Tokyo design department thread require her attention, but besides that things are quiet. It’s mostly things outside her scope. She’s feeling nosy, so she pokes around on the general channel to see if there’s anything interesting. She’s looking at an invitation to a Halloween-themed happy hour when she feels someone bump into her hard, knocking her off balance and spilling cold liquid down her back.

“Oh shit!”

When Emilia turns around, her gaze meets a pair of brown eyes lined with perfect black wings.

All she can do is stare.

The girl has pin-straight black hair parted down the middle, hanging well past her shoulders. Her skin is smooth, and looks so soft; she looks like the kind of girl who tans beautifully in summer. And her mouth. Jesus Christ. Her lips are just…

Emilia means to say hi, but all that comes out is a confused little squeak.

The girl blinks at Emilia.

Emilia’s gaze flicks over her outfit, a quick up and down. She’s wearing loose black jeans with a silver chain hanging from her right hip and a Jane’s Addiction t-shirt doing a terrible job hiding her chest. Emilia can see her nipples straining against the fabric. Silver hoops, two gold nose rings, and battered gray Doc Martens round out the look. She’s got tattoos all over: flowers and butterflies on her forearms, delicate stars and sparks and crescent moons on her hands and fingers. The hem of her t-shirt fails to meet the waist of her jeans, leaving a strip of skin exposed. There’s a big tattoo on the girl’s stomach, front and center. Emilia would kill to find out what it is.

She needs to fucking chill.

She smells alcohol at close range and remembers the liquid slipping down her back. Feels like they’ve been staring at each other for ages, but it’s only been a few seconds. Which is why she’s still very wet—in more ways than one.

She peels her blouse away from her back, finds it damp with…is that Fireball?

“I’m so sorry,” the girl says. “I’m usually not this clumsy.”

“No?” Emilia says. She sends a silent prayer into the universe that the dry cleaners can work their magic tomorrow and fix the blouse without injuring it.

“Not at all,” the girl says. “Just…I’m all distracted today.”

“Ah,” Emilia says, trying to be nice, but the wetness on her back is making her too uncomfortable to really make an effort. She wishes the girl would leave her alone so she can clean up and go back to her Slack threads. Back to where it’s safe.

“Here, let me help you.”

Before she can object the girl grabs a handful of napkins and presses them to Emilia’s back. Her hand cups the small of Emilia’s back with surprising ease, and it fits like a puzzle piece clicking into place. 

Emilia’s sure she’s about to burst into flames. She twists her back away, her lips folding into a tight line.

“No, I’m fine!” she insists, her tone way harsher than she intended it to be. She tries to soften her voice when she adds, “It’s okay. Really. Thank you.”

She plucks the napkins from the girl’s hand and pats herself dry.

“You’re welcome,” the girl says.

Once Emilia decides her blouse is as dry as it’s going to get, she looks up. The girl is staring at her. Openly. It’s weird.

The girl is actually fidgeting, cracking her knuckles over and over. “Look, can I at least buy you an apology drink? Try to make it up to you?”

Emilia resists the urge to roll her eyes, but barely. She knows she’s got her bitch face on but doesn’t even care. “Actually my friend is getting me a drink, but thanks anyway.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry again.”

The girl turns and starts to disappear into the crowd. Good.

Emilia grabs her phone and goes back to her Slack channels, scrolling almost mindlessly. She tries to focus, but nothing really captures her attention. The girl is already living in her head rent-free.

That fucking mouth.

She squints at her phone, forcing herself to look at bullshit engineering notices from the Berlin office that have literally nothing to do with her, but she just can’t take it. Something wells up from deep inside, a voice Emilia hasn’t listened to in years, if ever, telling her to snap the fuck out of it and go find the girl and apologize, because she was shitty, and if there’s anything Emilia hates being, it’s shitty towards women.

She growls softly and drops her phone in her bag, then sticks her elbows out at her sides as she enters the crush at the bar.

As soon as she reaches the bar top, she turns to the right and sees the girl just a few feet away, nursing a bottle of High Life and bobbing her head along to the D’Angelo song playing. The bartender—a blonde guy with a cropped beard and biceps neither under nor over toned; who is, Emilia must admit, an objectively gorgeous man—pours the girl a whiskey shot. The girl leans over the bar and whispers something in the guy’s ear, making him laugh. As he turns to another customer she blows him a kiss.

Emilia looks to her left to see if she can find Sebas. She spots him holding a shot in each hand, trying to find an escape route back to her. She turns away and slides down to where the girl is standing.

“Is there room for one more?”

The girl looks at her blankly. “Sure, I guess.”

Emilia smiles. “Thanks.”

“Whatever.”

Emilia faces the speed well and looks at the back shelf lined with bottles and cans of beer, the mirrored wall stocked full of spirits and 19 Crimes red blend. There are signed dollar bills pinned up behind the cash register, and vinyl records displayed by the wine fridge. The music feels loud, way too loud, so loud she can barely hear herself think, but one thought manages to make itself heard well above the fray.

Look at me.

She’s so painfully aware of the girl standing next to her she can barely speak. She feels her face getting hot—beyond hot, scorching now—and she’s sure the girl can see the red flush, which only makes her blush harder, but when Emilia looks at the girl she’s staring at her phone, mindlessly scrolling Instagram.

“Don’t you want to know why I came over?”

The girl doesn’t even look up. “Not really, no.”

The rudeness of it all! But Emilia chooses to be graceful. “Because I didn’t thank you. For the napkins.”

Silence greets her in reply. She adds, “And I wanted to apologize for how I acted. I was pretty rude.”

The girl looks at her. She’s quiet, thoughtful. And then her face opens up into an understanding smile. A peace offering.

“So, I’m sorry,” Emilia says. “Maybe I can buy you an apology drink now?”

The girl holds up her beer and gives it a tiny shake. Emilia sighs.

“Right. Okay. See you around—”

“No, wait, hold up.”

Emilia looks up.

“What’s your name?”

“Emilia Alo,” she says, immediately kicking herself—who the fuck says their whole name when they introduce themselves? A nerd, that’s who. God, what is wrong with her today?

“I’m Andi,” the girl says. “It’s nice to meet you, Emilia Alo.”

Watching her name come out of Andi’s mouth threatens to make Emilia’s knees buckle. She holds onto the edge of the bar to busy her hands.

“Nice to meet you, Andi with no last name.”

“Agosti,” she says.

They lock eyes again. Andi’s eyes are so interesting—for some reason she looks like she’s having a hard time keeping a really good secret. Emilia’s busy wondering what that might be when Andi speaks again.

“So what are you doing in New York?”

“What makes you think I’m not from around here?”

Andi smiles. “No one in New York is actually from New York. Everyone knows that.”

“Prove it,” Emilia says.

“Well for starters, I’m not.”

“No?”

“No,” Andi says. “And before you ask, I’m from Mexico.”

“Yeah?”

Andi nods. “What about you?”

“Brazil. Sao Paulo, actually.”

Andi shakes her head slowly. “Damn. You were doing so well.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Brazil?”

“Just your national soccer team.”

Emilia puts on an intentionally pompous tone as she says, “Well, it’s not my fault we’re destined for greatness.”

Andi rolls her eyes. “Greatness, my ass. It’s selfish, is what it is. Fucking pentacampeão bullshit.”

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it…güey,” Emilia says, cocking her head and pursing her lips.

“Oh, and the girl’s got jokes, too!” Andi says with a laugh.

“You’d be surprised. I contain multitudes.”

“Oh, do you?” Andi asks.

“Of course,” Emilia says. “Unlike the Mexican national team.”

Andi sucks air through her teeth. “Ouch. You know exactly how to break a girl’s heart.”

Not at all, Emilia thinks. Not even a little.

Andi smiles and shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re so pretty, Emilia Alo.”

Emilia feigns mock surprise. “Little old me?”

But Andi is serious when she says, “Yeah, you.”

Andi holds her gaze, and suddenly Emilia understands what people mean when they talk about being struck by lightning.

“Plus your outfit doesn’t exactly scream ‘local,’” Andi says. “But I think it’s pretty. Color looks good on you.”

Emilia has to work hard not to flinch.

“I need to order!” she says too loudly, turning to the bar.

“Let me.” Quietly, Andi raises two fingers and a moment later the gorgeous bartender is back.

He looks at Andi. “What can I get you, babe?”

Andi turns to Emilia and looks at her expectantly.

“Oh! Um…a martini?”

Andi shoots her a look that lands somewhere between confusion and concern.

“What?” Emilia asks.

“You sure you want to do that?” the bartender asks.

“There’s literal sawdust on the floor,” Andi says. “Not sure this is the place you want to get a martini.”

Emilia scrunches her lips. “Fine. A beer and a shot, please.”

“High Life okay?” the bartender asks.

“Perfect.”

“Well for the whiskey or something else?”

“Maker’s, please,” Emilia says.

“High Life and a Maker’s, coming up.”

“On my tab,” Andi says.

“Done,” the bartender says.

Emilia frowns. “No, I can’t—”

Andi shushes her gently. “Less complaining, more thanking.”

“Okay, fine. Thank you.”

“That’s the spirit.” Andi cups a hand around her mouth and calls, “Thank you, my love!” to the bartender.

“Anything for my baby,” he says over his shoulder.

Now Emilia really wants to roll her eyes.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Andi shoots her major side eye but moves on. “You didn’t answer my question,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a business trip, actually.”

“Fancy,” Andi says. “What do you do?”

“I work for a tech company.”

“Oh, so you’re a nerd,” Andi says.

“Not exactly. It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

She shoots Emilia a smirk. For a second Emilia can’t help but imagine kissing the smirk right off her face.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

The rush that surges through Emilia’s body makes her grip the bar again.

But…

She knows friends call each each other “baby” and other pet names all the time—hell, she and Sebas are a prime example. But now, watching Andi do it, she feels…disappointed?

She feels frustrated that Andi calls people by that name.

Before Emilia can even process it the bartender comes back. “High Life and Maker’s, sorry for the wait.”

“It’s okay. Thank you.”

Andi beams at him. “Thank you, honey.”

The bartender winks and goes back to work.

Emilia’s frustration and curiosity—mostly frustration—make her bite the bullet. “Your boyfriend’s—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No?”

“Nah. We just go way back.” Andi sips her beer. “I don’t play for that team, if you know what I mean.”

Emilia is embarrassed by the relief that washes over her. “Oh.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Play for that team.”

Emilia licks her bottom lip. “No.”

“Good,” Andi says.

“Good?”

“Yeah. Means my gaydar is still intact.”

Emilia laughs. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I take great pride in these things.”

“Oh, yeah?” Emilia asks.

“I can spot a queer a mile away.”

Emilia makes a face. “Yeah, right.”

“Oh, you don’t think so?”

“I know so.” Emilia takes a sip of her whiskey. “Everyone looks gay these days.”

Andi laughs. “True. But still. If this was an Olympic sport…”

“You’d actually bring home a title for Mexico, for once?” Emilia says, earning a laugh. The sound of Andi’s laughter makes Emilia feel like she’s won a prize.

“Try me.”

“Try what?”

“Pick someone here, and I’ll tell you if they’re queer or not.”

“Game on,” Emilia says. Before she loses her nerve she decides to take a chance. “Let’s make a bet.”

“Explain.”

“If you’re right, I’ll buy you a drink. But if I’m right…”

I get to kiss you.

Oh my fucking god she needs to relax.

The pause goes on too long. Andi asks, “What?”

“You can buy me another drink, of course,” she says. “A fancy one this time.”

Disappointment seems to flicker across Andi’s face, but only for a second. Or maybe Emilia is projecting. It wouldn’t surprise her.

“All right,” Andi says. “If you dare.”

Emilia sips her drink and scans the room, looking for the straightest person she can find.

“And no dudes!” Andi says, reading her mind. “They’re gross.”

“Facts,” Emilia murmurs, her eyes roving the bar.

Finally Emilia zeroes in on a woman at a high-top table towards the back of the bar. She’s wearing black skinny jeans, a dangerously low cut white t-shirt, and black stiletto ankle boots. Her lips and nails are cherry red, and she's wearing gold hoops and a few gold rings. She’s sipping what looks like white wine—very, very slowly, clearly trying to make it last.

“Her,” Emilia says smugly.

Andi looks over. “Gay.”

“What?!”

“Gay,” Andi affirms. “Trust me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Don’t you have any experience with these things?”

Emilia shakes her head and takes a long sip of her drink. “Why do you say she’s gay?”

“The nails,” Andi says. “They’re short. A woman dressed like that would never have such short nails if she were straight.”

“That’s such a cliche.”

“Not if—”

Emilia holds out her left hand and wiggles her fingers at Andi, showing off her green claws.

“Well…there are always exceptions,” Andi says.

Emilia starts to smirk, but the look in Andi’s eyes makes her stop. Her stomach tightens. Andi’s mouth opens softly, like she’s about to say something, but thinks better of it and licks her lips instead. Emilia watches Andi’s tongue move like it’s her job.

There’s a moment—a split-second—when Emilia feels the tension crackling in the space between them, short-circuiting the conversation, and she’s ready to think she’s wrong, maybe it’s all in her head, but it can’t be, not when Andi’s looking at her like that, her eyes darker than before, almost like…

Can’t be. No way.

Andi shakes her head fast and the moment is gone. “Still,” she says, “go ahead and name three of your fully, absolutely, completely hetero friends who have nails as short as that woman.”

Emilia pauses to think. “Look, just because I can’t think of any doesn’t mean—”

“See? Told you. Even if they’re just a little bit bisexual—and I’m convinced ninety-nine percent of women are at least a little bit bisexual—it counts. Oh hey, look.”

Just then, a woman in corduroy pants and a heavy Carhartt jacket approaches the table, takes the woman in the black jeans, and gives her a long, deep kiss. Then they nuzzle noses briefly.

When Emilia turns, Andi’s breathing on her closed fist and wiping her knuckles on her shirt front with a smug look on her face.

“Feels good to be a winner.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Emilia says. “It’s the only title Mexico will ever win.”

Andi makes a motion of a knife stabbing her in the heart. “And I thought we were friends.”

Emilia pouts in mock pity. “Maybe I’m not here to make friends.”

She’s giggling until Andi takes one step and fully closes the gap between them.

Emilia goes silent. Now Andi’s so close Emilia can smell her—she’s clean, like good plain soap. Like she just stepped out of a long shower. Simple, uncomplicated. Emilia likes it right away.

“You know,” Andi says, “nobody likes a sore winner.”

Emilia opens her mouth to retort, but all she’s got is a tiny exhale, with a whine at the end.

So flattering.

“I think,” Andi says, her voice low, “maybe we need to do something about—”

“Andi!” a voice yells. “Andi!”

Andi winces. “Fuck.”

A girl with dark curly hair, wearing red lipstick and a blue eyelet dress, rushes up to Andi. “Jana’s losing her mind, we’re starting soon, and you’re out here doing…” She waves her hand around, encompassing Andi and Emilia. “…whatever this is.”

Andi bites her lower lip and looks at Emilia apologetically.

That mouth should be illegal, honestly.

“Emilia, this is MJ. MJ, Emilia.”

“Yeah hi nice to meet you,” MJ says, her face and body completely turned towards Andi. “Can we go now? Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“That’s my cue,” Andi says. She places her untouched whiskey shot next to Emilia’s. “Nice to meet you, Emilia Alo.”

She shoots Emilia a lazy smile and heads into the crowd before Emilia can even ask where she’s going. As Andi disappears, Emilia gets a good eyeful of the girl’s hips and ass, and now she’s certain she’s dead. Just completely deceased. Her heart clocked out early. It’s a done deal.

“Emilia what the fuck?” Sebas calls from behind her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You can’t just disappear like that.”

She turns around. “Sorry, Sebas, I just…”

He narrows his eyes for a moment, then looks in the direction Andi headed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were talking to someone.” When Emilia doesn’t answer he breaks into a wide grin. “You were, weren’t you? Was she cute? Do you like her?”

“Oh for god’s sake—.”

“I love this for you,” he says. “It’s perfect. We can double date with the guy I met yesterday!”

“Whoa whoa whoa, it’s not like that,” Emilia says. “It’s no big deal.”

Sebas sniffs the air. “Do you smell that?”

“What?”

“The bullshit.”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “Seriously. We were just talking. No big deal.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll get you later. Now come on, the band’s starting soon.”

***

At the back of the bar, a set of doors leads to a wide open space with a stage and standing room only. Emilia and Sebas stand against a thick column on the left side of the room, close enough to see the dust motes dancing in the glow of the stage lights. The room is filling fast; it seems like everyone at the bar came specifically for this show.

“These guys seem really popular,” Emilia says.

“Girls,” Sebastian corrects her. “And yeah, they’re finally blowing up. It’s exciting. I’ve been listening to them since they were in college uploading covers on Soundcloud.”

“Well, I hope they live up to the hype.”

“When have I ever led you astray with my music choices?”

Just then a skinny brown-haired girl wearing a pink minidress, white go-go boots, and heart-shaped sunglasses with pink lenses approaches the microphone at the front of the stage.

The crowd blows up.

She grins. “Hey guys! What’s going on?”

A moment later, a woman with wild curly hair splaying in all directions, wearing bell-bottom jeans and an orange tube top, jogs out and picks up a guitar, slinging it over her shoulder and strumming a chord.

And then the girl Andi introduced as MJ comes out and takes her place behind a keyboard and groovebox set up towards the back of the stage. She taps a few keys, making sure things are working as they should be.

Emilia’s stomach sinks. It can’t be. No way.

No no no no no—

Andi walks out, wearing an expression of extreme focus, and positions herself on the stool behind the drum set. She picks up the drumsticks.

Emilia’s jaw drops open.

“Emilia? Hello?” Sebas snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Emilia!”

She flinches. “Wh-what? Did you say something?”

He glances at the stage. “Are you looking at someone?”

“Of course not!”

“Is it the the drummer?”

How does he know these things? It’s insane. “No,” she says, her voice reedy and thin and convincing literally no one.

“You’re totally looking at the drummer!” he says. “Hey, I don’t blame you; she’s pretty cute. I guess you still have good taste after all.”

“Asshole,” Emilia mutters.

Sebas laughs. “I’m just glad you’re shopping.”

Emilia snorts. “I’m not even browsing right now, dude.”

“Why must you always crush my dreams?” He’s quiet for a moment, then cries, “Why don’t we meet them after their set?”

Emilia grimaces. She’s not sure her heart can take any more Andi right now, if ever.

“I don’t know…I was kinda hoping we could just get dinner or something.”

“They’re usually super chill and hang out after shows and talk to people. Come on, please please pleeeease?”

“Sebas…”

“When have I ever asked you for anything?”

“Really? You sure you wanna take it there?”

He gives her his best pout, somehow magically making his eyes glassy with longing.

She sighs. “Fiiiine. But then you’re buying me dinner.”

“All right, everybody, listen up!” the girl with the sunglasses says.

The crowd settles down. In the sudden quiet a voice calls, “I love you, Jana!”

The girl with the sunglasses giggles. “I love you, too!” With a flourish of her hand she gestures to the group onstage. “Okay, on bass and guitar we’ve got the spectacular, singular sensation Laura! On keys we’ve got the incomparable, inimitable MJ! On drums it’s the undisputed legend known as Andi! I’m Jana, we’re Las Ingratas, and we’re gonna play some songs for you, what do you say?”

As the crowd cheers, Andi calls “Un, dos, tres, cuatro,” and kicks things off with big, punchy drums. After two eight counts Laura comes in with the guitar, MJ whips out a tambourine, Jana starts vibing to the melody, and Emilia realizes it’s a cover of—god help them—Joan Jett’s “Do You Wanna Touch Me? (Oh Yeah).”

Emilia is ready to cringe, but then Jana starts to sing. Her voice is so sweet and pliant Emilia can imagine her singing anything from Frank Ocean to Elis Regina, and here it lends the lyrics an ethereal touch, if that’s even possible on a song so rough-and-tumble. On the chorus, Jana loosens up. She jumps up and down and calls out “Do you wanna touch?” to which the girls reply “Yeah!”

The crowd loves it, and when Jana repeats the line she holds the mic out to them and they call “Yeah!”

Sebas is bopping along with a huge grin on his face, and Emilia can’t help but get caught up in the good vibes all around her, even with such a cheesy song. Soon they’re singing along together, “My my my, whiskey and rye,” when she finally lets herself glance at Andi.

Andi looks in her general direction and Emilia wonders if she’s going insane or if Andi is actually staring at her. Andi probably can’t see shit from the stage, except darkness. But still. Somehow—and she can’t even figure out how—it feels like everything around Emilia is melting away and Andi is playing just for her.

It’s magic.

Andi starts adding flourishes here and there, extra punches, clashes of cymbals, seamlessly blending into the song while still adding an unexpected twist. She starts smiling wide, the look of stern determination fading as she dives headfirst into the music and loses touch with everything except the drums. Emilia can tell. She knows the feeling. She used to feel it all the time—back when she made music, when she was creative, when she wasn’t so…restricted. It’s better than any drug on the market.

She takes a long sip of her drink and pushes the thought away.

After the second chorus, MJ presses a button on the groovebox and suddenly an electronic track starts to play. It’s the opening riff of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood,” just loud enough to flirt with the central melody of “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” Oddly enough, it fits seamlessly with Laura’s guitar. Laura starts to loosen her grip on the guiding melody, grinning at MJ as the two of them start a friendly riff-off between synth and guitar, their flourishes intertwining and pulling away and intertwining again in a kind of dance. A battle of the bands between Joan Jett and electro Glenn Miller. Emilia doesn’t know what to think. It’s weird as hell.

It’s also amazing.

The whole group is pretty solid. Jana’s a great leader, adept at knowing when to take center stage and when to fall back to let the band shine. Laura has great composure and a steady hand while she steers the melody on the guitar. MJ is adorable with her tambourine and backup vocals and infectious cheer; Emilia is curious to see what she does on the keys later. But Andi…

Andi is the core, the anchor of the band. She’s the one that makes the magic happen. Without those drums, without her setting the pace, they’d be all over the map. She’s the heartbeat. And the rest of the band knows it.

Oh my god Emilia needs to get over herself.

The girls repeat “Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah” a few times, and the song ends with a crash of cymbals. The crowd loves it.

Sebas cheers loudly. Emilia doesn’t really care about Joan Jett, and actually finds this song kind of embarrassing, but that cover was just so undeniably fun she can’t help but tuck her beer in the crook of her elbow and clap for them. “Okay,” she yells at Sebas. “You were right. They’re really good.”

Sebas looks taken aback. “Can I get that on video?”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs and goes back to clapping.

She allows herself another glance at Andi, and this time…this time she can’t even try to deny it: Andi’s looking. At her.

She bites her tongue to stop a stupid grin from spreading all over her face.

Chapter Text

The moment Andi walks onstage and takes her seat behind the drum kit, she spots Emilia standing in just the right light, close enough for her to sneak glances without getting caught. At first she thinks she’s doing a good job, but then at the end of “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” she could swear she sees Emilia looking at her, almost like she’s hoping to make eye contact. And then, just as fast, Emilia’s gaze moves on. 

After “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” comes an acoustic cover of “Ciega, Sordomuda” arranged by Laura and performed by Laura and Jana. The first time Laura played it for the band, after spending three days secretly transposing the composition, Jana was so excited about it she insisted on adding it to their set list. Laura agreed, on one condition: if Jana would join her on ukulele and create a two-part harmony on the vocals. 

Andi loves this cover, the way Laura’s chest voice, strong and smoky, is balanced by Jana’s delicate middle range. They kept the tempo the same as the original, with Jana replacing the horn lines and synth flourishes with ukulele while Laura handles the main melody on guitar and vocals with incredible finesse. The thing about Laura’s singing is that she makes it look so easy. Andi’s seen maybe two artists—both at the Met opera—who can do that. Andi would be jealous as fuck if Laura wasn’t part of the band.

When the bridge hits with its rapid-fire lyrics, the two of them stop playing and sing the fiery words so loud it almost feels like they’re yelling, but Andi knows it’s not. It's voice control. The crowd cheers them on, and immediately afterwards Jana fingerpicks her ukulele, controlling the tempo exactly how she wants it, crushing the trumpet solo from the back end of the original song. Then they gather momentum again for the final chorus.

In the wave of applause, the band transitions into a cut written in English by Jana herself. As MJ starts off the ballad with shimmering piano arpeggios, Andi trades her sticks for brushes and swirls them gently over the drums. 

It all started at the conservatory in Monterrey, when MJ, Laura, Jana, and Andi showed up to the same practice room one day and the coordinator didn’t realize he’d overbooked it. They argued over the room for about five minutes before MJ went to the piano and threw her elbows down on the keys to get their attention. Once they were quiet, she played the opening progression of Stevie Wonder’s “Knocks Me Off My Feet” in a way that was so earnest and full of yearning it left them at a loss for words. Then she glared up at them expectantly.

Immediately they wanted in. 

At first it was a mess. They were strangers; they’d barely seen each other across lecture halls and in dorm lobbies, let alone talked to one another. They couldn’t be sure of each other’s talent or basic skill set. But once Andi’s percussion pinned down MJ’s freewheeling piano, they all fell into place. Jana looked up the lyrics on her phone and started to sing. Laura found her footing with the bass line, cushioning the melody. One by one the pieces started to fit. 

Instead of playing a bridge, MJ blindly trusted the girls and flowed right into the chorus of “Isn’t She Lovely.” Jana missed the first few words and cried “Ahhh!” in a panic, but then listened closely to MJ’s melody and found her way back, mumbling the two or three words she didn’t know, but getting the cadences just right. By the time MJ switched back to “Knocks Me Off My Feet” Jana understood her rhythm and brought the lyrics exactly where she needed to, surprising everyone by opening up her voice and leaning into the emotion.

As MJ swept her right hand down the piano to lead the way into a huge key change, Andi noticed a huge smile on her face. Goosebumps pricked Andi’s arms as she tightened her grip on her sticks to control her volume and let MJ’s piano shine. Laura added gentle vocal flourishes from “Isn’t She Lovely,” acting as backup for Jana. Everyone crescendoed together, a bit clumsily, but with enough meaning to make the sour notes forgivable. And then MJ guided them to a soft landing, ending the song as gently and plaintively as it had begun. 

When it was over they all stared at each other. Andi knew what had happened. One of her music history professors had described it during a lecture on the Miles Davis quartet. The feeling of finding your people, musically speaking. These were her people. 

They agreed to meet for another session the following week. At that point, Jana brought a song she’d written herself, a love song with big Colbie Caillat energy. At first Andi was reluctant to play something so cutesy, and written by Jana Cohen Gandia no less. But she had to admit it was a good song—still a rough draft, but with good bones. The foundation was there. And Jana played her ukulele with a sense of maturity, gaining Andi’s respect for an instrument she had previously thought was kinda stupid. After they played the song, the air seemed full of possibility. They all felt it. And Las Ingratas was born. 

That was over a decade ago. They spent months writing songs in their bedrooms and begging the few neighborhood bars with stages to take pity on them and let them play a couple nights a week. Andi and Laura lost weeks of sleep editing tracks on GarageBand, while MJ and Jana mostly took care of song structure and lyrics. Eventually they built a social media presence, or tried to. No one seemed interested in a girl group that played original songs in a random assortment of genres, not to mention relying on a huge catalog of covers, mashups, and samples from Babasónicos to Funkadelic to Hamlet Minassian. Andi knows there are artists who whine and claim their music is “weird” when it actually isn’t, who wear their tortured obscurity like a badge of honor, but Las Ingratas as a band actually doesn’t make sense all of the time, or maybe even—Andi worries—most of the time. A mashup of “I’m Like A Bird” by Nelly Furtado and “Nada Valgo Sin Tu Amor” by Juanes has a miniscule demand at best. And back when they were in school, it wasn’t like people were clamoring for reinventions of Las Ketchup deep cuts. Times were rough. 

Still, the band kept at it. Even when Andi’s frustration at their lack of traction finally boiled over, Jana insisted on everyone throwing any and all kinds of spaghetti at the wall to see what stuck. “If you want to do a cover of ‘Swan Lake’ on synth, we’ll do it,” she said during one memorable practice. “Or at least die trying.” At least they would be making music they actually enjoyed playing.

And then, just when the tension was about to reach a breaking point, one of their songs caught the attention of an A&R rep from Matador Records: “El Centro de Todo.” The center of everything. It was, to Andi, one of their best: a song about MJ’s conflicted relationship with her mother and her faith. MJ handled vocals, Jana played the principal melody on ukulele, Andi played cajón drum, and Laura finger-picked the adagietto from Mahler’s “Symphony No. 5 in C Sharp Minor” on acoustic guitar. They don’t play it as often as Andi thinks they should. MJ can’t always handle the pain in the lyrics.

Eventually things with Matador got so serious the girls came to New York when the label promised them a contract. There were talks about them opening for Monogem and Kinto Sol on a joint summer tour. And then everything went to shit.

Andi hates to think about that time in her life now, when the band—and the friend group—almost split up for good. It was MJ who rallied them all, who miraculously found a four-bedroom apartment in Bushwick so they could live together to save money while they pieced their lives back together. And now here they are, playing for an audience of at least 120 people at a dive bar six blocks from the apartment. They’ve come a long way. 

And yet. 

It’s not that Andi doesn’t like it! She loves it, she loves their small but mighty following, loyal almost to a fault. She loves getting to make music. But it’s not a label. They’re not secure just yet. They’re all still barely scraping by with their day jobs: MJ’s a piano tutor, Jana’s a bar-back at Golden Hour, and Laura’s a yoga instructor. Andi’s a server at Evangeline. Jana doesn’t even have health insurance, and she needs it the most out of the four of them. But their time will come. Andi hopes. Between Jana’s leadership, MJ and Laura’s knack for composition, and Andi’s skill on the drums, they’re too good for it not to come. 

Now MJ breaks into her solo, closing her eyes briefly as her hands move up and down the keys with a feather-light touch. Jana literally takes a step aside so the audience can see her better. 

The wild part is that Jana could do anything, be anyone. She could have had a huge solo career by now. But when her father offered her the world, she didn’t want it. It had a price, like everything else in her life: give up Las Ingratas and make it big, or stick with her “little girl band,” get cut off, and try to make it on her own. To Andi’s surprise, Jana didn’t take long to turn him down. The “little girl band” mattered more to her. 

So they backed her up. They always back each other up, no matter what. They’ve seen each other through family drama and relationship drama, through MJ’s push and pull with her evangelical mother and Laura’s dad’s cancer diagnosis. They take each other to the emergency room, cook each other meals, and cover for each other when bills pile up. And they rally for Jana when no one else seems to care: every time Esteban comes back, they pick up the pieces without question or complaint. The band is there when no one else is. Sticking with the girls cost Jana so much, but she always says it was a no brainer. What she has now is worth so much more. 

Watching her sing now, hitting a high note on the big key change leading into the final chorus, Andi knows it’s the truth. Jana looks infinitely happier now than when she was under her dad’s control. 

As the song winds down, Andi brushes over the cymbals, punctuating MJ’s arpeggios with a gentle swish. The crowd erupts into cheers and Jana giggles. “Thank you, thank you. All right, enough feelings. Let’s switch it up!”

They play two songs written by MJ, one with Laura on lead vocals by herself, and one with MJ and Laura engaged in a call-and-response duet. Both songs are synth-heavy, danceable tracks tinged with reggaeton vibes. Sometimes Andi wonders if that’s why the deal with Matador fell through: the band has never been able to just pick a lane and stay in it. It frustrates her more than she would ever dare to tell the girls. 

Then Jana turns to Andi, and she knows it’s her time to shine.

She steps out from behind the drums and approaches the mic up front. She looks back at MJ and nods once. MJ starts pressing buttons on the groovebox, and a series of bleeps and bloops echoes through the room, signaling a change in mood. Then drums mixed with handclaps come in, followed by a set of classic, almost iconic, plinking notes on the keyboard. As soon as MJ plays them, everyone cheers—it’s the riff from “Toxic.”

When MJ suggested doing the song with Andi on lead, Andi said “Absolutely the fuck not,” until MJ showed her the concept she had in mind. MJ didn’t turn it into a ballad by any means, but this version is slightly slower, more seductive, the sex in the lyrics finally coming through unapologetically. When MJ unveiled the arrangement, and the subtle rewrite of the lyrics, Andi wolf-whistled and said maybe Christian girls really are secret freaks after all. MJ punched her in the arm so hard it hurt for a whole day. 

Andi leans into the mic and begins to sing. The song sits perfectly in the middle of her range. And when she smirks and sings “a girl like you should wear a warning,” the crowd cheers in surprised approval. 

The piano cradles Andi’s voice as she slides into the chorus, and Laura pops in with artfully placed guitar strums. Now they’re gaining momentum. Andi smiles wide. 

On the oohs and ahhs in the breakdown MJ and Jana take over, kicking things up a notch and leading into a flawless four-part harmony with the rest of the band on the words “Taste of her lips, I’m on a ride/ She’s toxic I’m slipping under,” which makes the crowd go insane, exactly the way MJ predicted during practice. That girl is a genius with this shit.

Andi’s vibing out now, so completely immersed in the rush of pulling off this arrangement—their first time doing it at a show, in front of anyone except each other—that it isn’t until the song is over and everyone is screaming and clapping that she hears, “Nossa!” in the crowd, and when she turns, Emilia’s right there, cupping her hands around her mouth and cheering.

Andi’s cheeks hurt from smiling like an idiot but she can’t do anything to stop it. 

Jana gives the four of them a chance to take it all in, absorb the vibes. They have the best crowds, no question. 

“We’re Las Ingratas, you guys are fucking amazing, goodnight!” Jana yells, and the four of them wave at the crowd as they walk offstage. MJ curtsies a little (it’s adorable). Laura flashes a peace sign. 

As soon as they’re offstage MJ says, “O-M-G that was great! Andi, you crushed it! I knew the song would work!” She starts doing a happy dance, moving from side to side. 

“It was pretty good,” Andi says. 

“Pretty good?” Jana says. “I’m sorry, were we at the same show just now?”

“Everyone looooved it,” MJ says, twirling in a circle on the word ‘love’. 

Laura nods in agreement. “You kinda killed it, man.”

Jana pulls them in for a group hug and says, “Love you guys.” When she retreats she adds, “Okay, where’s the tequila?” and disappears. 

Laura takes Andi aside. “We need to talk.”

“What’s up?” 

“Let’s keep an eye on her,” Laura says. “She’s not in the best place right now.” When Andi shoots her a confused look, Laura adds, “Before the show, when you were gone, he texted her.”

Andi’s stomach sinks. “Shit.”

“Shit is right, my friend.”

Andi groans. “I thought they extended the order last time they were in court.”

“They did.”

“So what the fuck’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Laura says.

Andi pinches the bridge of her nose. “When does it expire?”

“End of the month.”

Andi narrows her eyes, the gears of her mind turning too fast, her performance high ruined by the thought of Esteban breaking the order. Again.

They all learned a long time ago that the order of protection means absolutely nothing. It’s about as helpful as an umbrella in a Category 4 hurricane. Andi’s surprised Esteban’s back, but she knows she shouldn’t be. This is what he always does. Doesn’t matter how often they report him, how many hours they spend at the precinct filing complaints against him. What he does is too vague for the cops to really nail him down for it, and he knows it. And without Jana’s support…

“I don’t even know how he got her new number,” Laura says. “We’re supposed to be the only ones that have it.”

“Fuck!” Andi yells. The sound crew and stage manager stop what they’re doing and look over at her. “Sorry, guys, I’m okay.” Once they go back to work, she turns to Laura. “Fuck.”

“I know.”

“We have to talk to her.”

“Yes,” Laura says. “But not right now. Let her enjoy this. She worked hard. We all did.”

Andi scrunches her lips. “But she can’t—”

“Andi,” Laura says in a warning tone. “She has to come to us.”

Andi groans in frustration.

“She’ll come around.”

“You sure about that?”

Laura doesn’t respond, just folds her lips into a tight line, and Andi knows what she’s thinking.

“Doesn’t he have anything better to do than blow up her phone?”

“You know how men are.”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Andi says. “Thank god.”

“You’re a lucky girl.” 

“Hey, it’s never too late,” Andi says, holding her hands out and beckoning Laura with a smirk. “All you need is one girl to change your mind.”

“Oh, like how all you need is one guy to change yours?”

Andi sticks out her tongue in disgust and Laura laughs. 

“Okay, we need to find her before she gets too messed up.”

They wait in the back until the stampede has thinned out. Once they’re back in the main bar area they spot Jana with a glass of tequila on the rocks, holding court with a group of guys hanging onto her every word. Andi almost wants to go and wipe the drool off their faces. MJ is busy texting her mother, and ends up stepping outside to call her. A guy Laura’s been talking to for a minute approaches and steals her away to a booth. Andi’s impressed—she wasn’t expecting him to actually show up for her. Andi doesn’t really expect much from people these days. Better not to.

Alone now, keeping a distant eye on Jana, she heads to the bar for another drink. While she’s waiting, she looks around, not exactly looking for Emilia, but…if she happened to see her in the crowd…would it be such a bad thing?

She feels a tap on her shoulder and turns around. 

“I’m mad at you,” Emilia says. 

Andi’s heart drops. “What? Why?”

“How dare you make me like Joan Jett?” 

Andi smiles. “So I guess I can take that as a compliment?”

Emilia nods. “You were good. Great, actually.”

“Thanks. And for the record, I didn’t make you like anything. That song was Jana’s idea.”

“Thank god,” Emilia says. “I can’t be out here associating with a girl with bad taste in music.”

“Oh, no?” Andi sucks in air through her teeth. “Just wait until you find out about my ‘Your Body Is a Wonderland’ cover.” 

“Yikes,” Emilia says, but her lips curve into a smile. 

Andi turns to the bar, hoping to capture one of the bartenders’ attention, when Emilia says, “Whose idea was the Glenn Miller sample?”

“Nice catch, first of all,” Andi says, and Emilia beams. “And second of all, that was all MJ. She’s really into mixing weird stuff together.”

“It wasn’t weird,” Emilia says. “I mean, it was at first, but only because I never would have thought to put those two songs together. But then…it started to make sense.” She rocks back on her heels. “I thought it was cool.”

“I’ll tell her you said that,” Andi says. “Or maybe not. It’ll just give her like three months of I told you so’s.” 

Emilia laughs. “Oh, she’s one of those.”

“Every band’s got one,” Andi says. “The misunderstood genius.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. See, Laura’s the dark horse. Doesn’t like to show off much, but when she does it’s amazing. MJ’s the tortured prodigy, like I said. And Jana…she seems like an airhead pop star but she’s actually way smarter than that.” 

“And what are you?”

“Me?”

Emilia nods. 

She’s not sure what to say. Nice of her vocabulary to swiftly exit her brain right this second. Lovely.

“Can I tell you what I think?” When Andi nods, Emilia gets on her toes and whispers in her ear. “I think you’re the best part.” 

The heat that surges through Andi’s body makes her feel like she just finished running a mile: scorching cheeks, totally breathless. She wants to reach out and touch Emilia again—her hands, her waist, anything. But something tells her to resist. For now.  

“You think so?”

“I know so." 

If Andi were to turn her head she could probably brush her lips across Emilia’s own. She keeps her eyes straight ahead, not daring to even glance at Emilia. Emilia’s hair sweeps over Andi’s shoulder, her scent clouding Andi’s better judgment. She smells like apples, like fruity lotion, sticky sweetness. Andi wonders if she tastes as good as she smells. The thought makes Andi feel her own pulse between her thighs. 

Jesus Christ get your shit together, Agosti. She’s just some random girl. 

“Oh my god the line for the bathroom was insane,” a guy says, approaching Emilia and laying a hand on her elbow. “In what world is there a line for the men’s room?” 

Emilia gets off her toes and turns to the guy. Her cheeks are dark pink. 

It’s probably—definitely—the cutest thing Andi’s ever seen. 

The guy’s jaw drops open. “Oh my god, it’s Andi Agosti!”

“Guilty.”

“I just want to say, I love you guys. I’ve been following you since you were making covers in school. I was so bummed when you faded for a while but I’m so happy you’re back!” 

“Thanks, man.”

“Andi, this is my friend Sebas.”

“Thanks for coming,” Andi says. “Always nice to meet a real one.”

Sebas looks like he has stars in his eyes. Emilia chuckles. “I think you knocked him out with that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s going to be talking about this for weeks.”

He looks back and forth between Emilia and Andi. “Wait. Do you two know each other?”

“You could say that,” Andi says with a wink at Emilia. Emilia clasps her hands together but doesn't say anything.  

Sebas shoots Emilia some side eye but keeps it moving. He starts babbling mindlessly about the band, about their history, about how much he loves them…Andi’s flattered that he’s fangirling this hard. He’s so wrapped up in his monologue that she’s able to lean in and whisper to Emilia, “If I recall correctly, I was promised a victory drink.”

“You were,” Emilia confirms. 

“But I would like to amend our deal.” 

Emilia tilts her head. “How?”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“No? So what do you want?”

When Emilia licks her lips all Andi can think is, you. 

Oh, this is not good. 

If this girl works in tech she must be a huge nerd, no matter what she says, and Andi doesn’t do nerds. Nerds are the farthest thing from her type, her type being “emotionally unavailable starving artist with a primordial black hole where her heart should be,” a maddeningly abundant type in New York. And Emilia…her shoes have glitter on them. Actual glitter.

But every time Emilia smiles, damn if Andi doesn’t wish she knew exactly what to do to make it happen again.

Emilia is gorgeous. And not straight. And it’s been so long. And maybe…maybe Andi deserves a little fun. It’s not like she has skin in the game. 

Fuck it.

“Dinner.”

Emilia raises both brows. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” Andi says. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of it; it’s this thing people do in the evening, sometimes they get together with other people and share a meal, sometimes there’s wine involved, it’s pretty fun when you—”

“Oh my god I know what dinner is.”

“So what do you guys think? It’s true, right?” Sebas says, suddenly back on planet earth. 

Andi widens her eyes at Emilia. Emilia snorts softly, bending her head and covering her mouth with her hand. Andi turns to Sebas. “Yeah, that’s…that’s great, man.”

He beams. “So who wants a drink?” 

“I got it,” Emilia says quickly.

“Let me help you,” Andi says, and when her gaze meets Emilia’s, Emilia looks…relieved? Happy?

Relieved. Probably.

They slide along until they’re in front of the speed well, and Emilia leans over the bar top, balancing on her left foot while drawing little circles in the sawdust with the toe of her right shoe. 

Andi can’t help but stare, but she doesn’t even know where to start. The long waves falling over Emilia’s shoulder, the green nails on the bar top tapping out the beat of the music playing overhead, the creamy skin of her neck and chest, the huge flower earrings she pulls off so well. The intersection of her waist and hips, the spot Andi touched earlier, that perfect curve. 

A beer and a shot appear in front of Andi. 

Emilia looks up at her. “I made an educated guess on the shot. Maker’s good? I’m too old for well shots.”

Emilia licks her lips, and Andi knows she’s going to have a stroke soon. Just knows it. 

“Thanks.”

“And about what you said. Dinner, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“I told you, I’m here for work,” Emilia says. “It’s six weeks, but I’m going to be so busy…”

Andi’s heart sinks. “I understand. I don’t want to inconvenience you so if you can’t—”

“Excuse me,” Emilia says. “Did I say no?”

She puts her hand on her hip indignantly, and it’s so fucking cute Andi has to breathe deeply to keep from reaching out to touch her. 

“I'm a busy girl, but I think I can fit you in somewhere." 

When she smirks, Andi laughs gently. “Okay.”

Emilia smiles wide.

Andi takes a sip of her whiskey. “Just promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don’t fall in love with me, Emilia Alo.”

Emilia laughs. “O-kay,” she says in a joking tone. “I promise. But only if you promise not to fall in love with me.”

Andi holds out her pinkie. “Swear.”

Emilia laughs. “What are we, twelve?”

“Just do it. For me.”

When they lock eyes Emilia’s laughter falters. She looks down at Andi’s hand long enough to make Andi wonder if she should have offered it at all. But then Emilia extends her hand.

When they intertwine fingers Andi feels her stomach tighten all on its own.

“Swear,” Emilia murmurs.

Andi squeezes Emilia’s finger to make the promise final, and Emilia finally looks up. She won’t let Andi’s hand go. She blinks at Andi, tips her chin up slowly, bites the corner of her lower lip, and Andi thinks maybe if she tilted her head she could just—

“Let me give you my number,” Emilia says, jerking her hand away. “That might help.”

Andi forces herself to switch gears, taking her phone out of her back pocket to hand it over. Emilia’s nails click across the screen as she types fast. 

“There.”

Turns out Emilia typed her full name and added two emojis: a martini glass and the Brazilian flag. 

“So you don’t forget who’s the champ around here.”

“Something tells me I won’t have a problem with that.”

Emilia’s lips curve, but her hand slips a little as she reaches for her whiskey. 

“Andi!” 

Andi hears MJ’s voice, and then suddenly there she is, looking annoyed. 

Andi loves MJ to death, but right now she wants to strangle her. 

“Always disappearing,” MJ says. “We have things to do.”

Andi winces. “I’m being summoned.”

“Yeah, I need to go find Sebas—”

“Today, please, Andi!” MJ says. 

Andi downs her shot, grabs her beer, and follows MJ. When she turns to look back, Emilia is already gone.

***

“Just say that I told you so and I’ll let it go.”

Andi hears MJ’s voice in the kitchen as soon as she rolls over in bed the next morning. Next to her, Selena, the girls’ Corgi mix, is on her side, snoring and wiggling her left hind paw. Andi strokes the dog across her back, then gets out of bed. But as soon as she’s upright she feels a headache explode between her eyes. It’s enough to make her want to climb back into bed and stay there for three days, but she’s on dinner service at the restaurant and can’t miss it. 

She throws on a hoodie and basketball shorts and shuffles into the kitchen. MJ and Jana are sitting at the old round table under the pineapple-shaped light fixture, notebooks and laptops spread out around them. Laura’s at the counter fixing a cup of Oolong. MJ’s in her floral pajama set, Laura’s wearing her silky teal robe, and Jana’s in black sweatpants and a pink Champion sweatshirt. MJ’s got her giant headphones around her neck. The smell of coffee swirls through the air. 

“Fine. Maria José Sevilla, you told me so,” Jana replies. 

“That’s all I wanted,” MJ says sweetly. 

“Hey, Andi,” Laura says. She pours a huge cup of coffee from the pot, adds milk and sugar, and hands it to Andi. “Good morning.” 

“Hey,” Andi mumbles.

“You’re alive!” MJ beams. “Thank goodness.”

“You okay, buddy?” Jana asks. 

Andi takes a long sip of the coffee. It feels like a balm. “I will be soon.”

Jana winces. 

“Sooo…” MJ says. “You gonna tell the class about that girl from last night?”

Jana perks up. “What girl?”

MJ takes an extra-long sip of her coffee, peering at Andi over the edge of her mug. 

Andi feels her head start to throb even more. Words are hard before caffeine. 

“Is anyone going to explain, or are we just going to have to guess?” Jana asks. 

Andi stays silent. Unable to take it anymore, MJ says, “Andi talked to a girl at the bar last night. Twice!”

Laura nods slowly and smiles in approval. 

Jana gasps in delight. “Yesssss, about time!”

Andi hangs her head. “I don’t know…”

“Was she cute?” Jana asks. 

“Very,” MJ says with a big smile. “Not Andi’s usual type, though. I was surprised.”

“So, not an underfed redhead with an inferiority complex?” Jana asks.

Andi narrows her eyes at Jana. “Very funny, Cohen.”

“She’s not completely wrong, though,” Laura says. “You do have a tendency to date…well…”

“What?” Andi asks. 

The three girls look into their mugs in silence. 

“What?”

“Well,” MJ says, “let’s just say you’re not exactly famous for your good taste in women.”

“Yeah, girl. They always seem kinda…” Jana trails off. 

“Kinda what?”

“Insane,” Jana says. “Psychotic, actually.”

Andi’s laugh lands somewhere between a cough and a gasp. “They are not!”

Jana almost spits out her coffee. “Dude! The burlesque dancer who trashed our front door when you didn’t text her for three days?”

“And what about the painter who didn’t tell you she was poly until she showed up to the fourth date with her three boyfriends?” MJ asks.

“Those were exceptions!” 

“And then there was the girl who wouldn’t sleep with you because you weren’t vegan and she could never let someone who ate meat go down on her,” Jana says. 

“And the girl who pronounced 'lingerie' 'linguine,'” Laura says.  

“And of course…Paloma,” MJ adds. 

“Oh my god, Paloma,” Jana cries. “How could I forget her?”

“You guys done yet?” Andi asks. 

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Jana says. 

Andi leans back against the counter and scrubs a hand over her face. 

“It’s okay,” Laura says, patting her on the shoulder. “You’ll get it right…someday.”

“Maybe with this girl,” MJ says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. 

“Nah,” Andi says. “We just talked, I don’t know.”

“Did you get her number at least?” Jana asks. 

Andi looks down at the tiled floor and shrugs. 

“You did, didn’t you?” Jana says. Together, she and MJ chant, “Andi got her number, Andi got her number, Andi got her—”

“All right, all right, so I got her number,” Andi says. “And we kinda maybe agreed to hang out or whatever. So what?”

“I mean…aren’t you going to text her?” MJ asks. 

Honestly…that’s a tough question. The things that felt so good last night seem stupid this morning. It was fun, but…Andi’s asked women out to dinner lots of times without actually acting on it. And who knows what Emilia’s thinking?

That fucking pinkie promise is gonna haunt Andi for days, though.

She’s a complicated person, okay?

“I don’t think so,” she mumbles. “She’s cool but…I don’t know. Whatever.”

The room goes so quiet the only sound Andi can hear is Selena waddling over to her water bowl by the fridge. 

And then there’s chaos. 

“Dude! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jana cries. “You literally agreed to hang out and now you’re gonna ghost her?”

“Romance is dead,” MJ says with a sigh.

“How could you?” Jana asks, narrowing her eyes.

“And she was so cute, too!” MJ says. “Nothing like the other girls. Dressed all business-y but with lots of color, looks like she has a legit job—”

“Painting is a legit job,” Andi says weakly. 

Jana glares at her.

“She was just so pretty,” MJ says. “But that wasn’t even the best part.”

Andi frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You actually looked…happy,” MJ says, her voice suddenly small. “When you were talking to her, you actually looked like you were, you know, enjoying it.”

Andi just shrugs. 

“Did you like her?” Jana asks. 

“I mean, I guess.”

“Then text her!” Jana practically yells. 

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“Bullshit,” Laura says quietly, and Andi turns in surprise. 

She shakes her head. “The disrespect,” she says. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” MJ says. “And friends don’t let friends not text gorgeous women they actually like talking to.”

Andi takes a long sip of her coffee, almost burning her tongue. “Okay, sooo…let’s say I do kinda like her, and maybe I do kinda want to hang out or whatever. Am I supposed to text her, like, today?”

“Yes!” Jana and MJ cry. 

“Why waste time?” Laura asks. 

“But aren’t you supposed to wait like three days or some shit so you don’t seem—”

“No!” Jana and MJ cry. 

“That’s what a dick would do,” Laura says. “And trust me, I have dealt with more than my fair share of them.”

Andi rolls her eyes. “This is what I get for living in a hetero household.” 

“Oh, stop whining,” Jana chides. “Just text her. If it’s ‘no big deal,’ and you ‘just talked,’ as you say, then it shouldn’t be a problem. It shouldn’t make you nervous. Right?”

Jana shoots her an evil smile. 

“You’re a sociopath, Cohen, you know that?”

“No, I’m not,” Jana says. “I’m just brilliant, that’s all.”

“And who knows,” MJ adds, “maybe she’ll even like hearing from you. Not sure if you know this but sometimes, when people give you their number, it’s because they actually want you to use it.”

“Why, why did I agree to live with you people?”

“Because we love you,” Laura says, slipping her arm around Andi’s shoulders. She gives Andi’s arm a squeeze. “Now do the damn thing already so we can move on.”

“And we want to watch,” Jana says. 

“Why? I’ll do it later.”

“Mmmm, no you won’t,” MJ says. 

“If we don’t make you, you’ll never do it,” Jana says. 

Andi settles into a chair across from Jana and MJ. “And would that be such a bad thing?” 

“Yes!” MJ says. “Despite your many…car crashes..."

"That's generous," Jana cuts in.

"...you should never give up on love.” 

“Says the one who hasn’t been on a date in over a year," Andi says. 

MJ purses her lips and frowns. “Excuse me, when did this become about me?”

“Yeah, nice try, Andi,” Jana says. “Here’s what you’re gonna say. Hi, I—”

“No, no, no, no,” Andi says. “I don’t trust either one of you.” She turns to Laura. 

Laura, mid-sip of her tea, lowers her mug. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, you,” Andi says. “You’re the wise one in this household. That’s how this works.”

“Well,” Laura says serenely, “maybe you should just be honest. Try to speak from the heart, and you’ll be just fine.”

There’s a heavy silence in the air. Then Andi bursts out laughing. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Laura nods. “Just be real with her. It’s not that complicated.”

“Fiiiiine.” Andi slides her phone across the table to Jana and MJ. “Do your thing.”

***

Andi spends the whole day feeling like she’s about to pass out. 

Checking her phone has become her new obsession. Before getting in the shower. As soon as she gets out of the shower. As she gets dressed, puts on her makeup, and pulls her hair into its slick, requisite low bun. 

On the train to Columbus Circle, every moment she has signal. In stolen moments during dinner service prep, barely listening to the evening’s tasting menu. During the actual tasting. And—something forbidden by management—all through her shift, keeping her phone in her back pocket instead of storing it in her locker. She keeps slipping away to look at it whenever she has a minute, which is rare, but still.

Her coworkers notice, and glare. But it feels like there’s nothing she can do except check. And check. And check again. Because it’s not just that she can see that the message had been delivered. Andi knows Emilia read it, because Emilia keeps her read receipts on. 

Of course she does. Andi hates to admit it, but it kinda makes her even hotter.

And, as if to torture her, Emilia read the message only ten minutes after receiving it. And all morning, afternoon, evening, and night, she didn’t reply. There’s nothing. Nothing at all. 

Fucking Jana and MJ and their bullshit.

For some reason it’s crushing. But why? She only met the girl yesterday, and for a few minutes at that. What does Andi care about some stupid girl on a business trip? This is all crap, she’s just—

While she’s clearing away the last dessert dishes from the last table, she feels her phone vibrate in her back pocket. 

Emilia.

Re: dinner: pizza on Friday?  

Well, fuck.  

A whole stew of emotions bubbles up inside Andi. What to do? Give in to rage and leave Emilia on read right back? Go full ice queen and tell her she’s busy? (She’s not; she’s on lunch service on Friday, but it's the principle of the thing.) Tell her to fuck off?

Except she doesn’t want Emilia to fuck off. She knows exactly what she wants. 

She wants a white slice and a beer and that fucking smile. 

Sure. Mike’s Finest at 7:30? 

The read receipt pops right away, and so do the three gray dots. They appear, disappear for a minute, and appear again. 

Brooklyn again?

Andi smiles. So she looked it up. Good. 

Good to get out of your comfort zone 

More gray dots. 

For a cute girl I guess it’s worth it

Andi feels her heart squeeze. 

And then another message from Emilia. 

Goodnight

Christ, this girl has zero finesse. All practicalities. All business. 

Okay, Andi thinks. We’ll see how long that lasts. 

See you Friday

Andi looks around and, seeing there’s no one in the dining room, pumps her fist one time before going back to the dishes. 

Chapter Text

For the first time in over a decade, Emilia is actually running late. 

As soon as she gets off the G train on Friday she sprints along the eight blocks between the station and Mike’s Finest, dodging parents with strollers and dogs on extendable leashes (the worst thing ever, by the way) along the way. She can hardly feel the wind pushing her hair away from her face, or her crossbody bag thumping against her hip. All she feels is sweat gathering at the small of her back. 

It’s all Sebas’ fault. 

He’s the one who told her to go back to the hotel and change after work. She wanted to do it, and she knew he was right—her lilac sheath dress and hunter green velvet heels would be just a little too much for a Bedford Stuyvesant pizza place—but it had created a major time suck. Emilia can’t just “go home and change.” Not for a…whatever tonight is. 

Sebas told her to wear dark jeans, a casual t-shirt, and some flat shoes. She told him to fuck off. 

To be fair, she is wearing jeans. Loose light blue jeans, cuffed twice at the ankle; a light pink cashmere sweater with a big Comme des Garçons heart in the center, with a little bit of the hem tucked in at the front; her favorite pale blue belt with an etched silver buckle; and white patent ankle boots with a square toe and block heel. To accessorize she tried to keep it simple with clear lucite hoops and her favorite colored glass rings. And then her periwinkle coat, paired with a dusty pink scarf. It may seem thrown together, but this is the third outfit she tried on, not to mention the second eye makeup look. 

Three outfits. For a random girl she just met. 

As she runs, she tries to rationalize her effort—and, more importantly, her excitement—with the novelty of the experience. It’s probably just a case of sensory overload. The weather is too cold but it’s her first weekend in New York, her inbox is down from forty emails to six, Dixon went to meet up with some friends at a sports bar…she has the city to herself. It could actually be…fun. 

Except she doesn’t even know what that looks like. Emilia doesn’t do “fun.” Not anymore, anyway. “Fun” these days is wearing sweats all day and binge-watching documentaries about random things: stock market crashes, professional volleyball players, endangered falcons (she knows way more about birds than any one human being should). Or it’s playing the Goldberg Variations on the record player over and over and crafting quarterly budgets until she gives herself a migraine. It’s whatever she can do to forget…everything. 

Weekdays are so much better. Thank god there are five of them every week. Emilia might be the only person on the planet who likes the week more than the weekend. And she’s so good at weekdays. Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have time to be alone in her head during the week. There’s always someone or something demanding her attention. Always something new to think about. 

And then along came Tuesday night. Goddamn motherfucking Tuesday night and the pinkie swear from hell. 

She didn’t leave Andi on read because she was tied up with work. She didn’t treat that text message like a business email because she was busy. 

She’s spent the last three days typing out messages to Andi and hitting delete at the last second.  

Now she stops at the door, takes a breath, and steps inside. Andi’s at the counter in black jeans, a short brown teddy coat, and her Doc Martens, talking to the guy behind the register. 

When she turns around, her face opens into a reassuring smile. Her hair is in this perfectly messy bun, and she’s wearing the same silver hoops from the last time. Her makeup is so simple, just a little winged liner and bronzed cheekbones that reflect the light just right. It’s all she needs. 

Great. Emilia’s already out of air and now this. 

She wheezes and grabs her left side where a stitch has taken up residence. This is what she gets. Fucking Sebas. “Hi, sorry, I–”

“Hey, slow down.” Andi approaches, gently puts her hand on Emilia’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry I’m late, I…” Emilia wheezes again, and Andi’s eyes widen. 

“You’re good. I got here like five minutes ago. Take a breath.”

Emilia takes a few deep breaths and the stitch starts to fade. “Okay,” she says, straightening up. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Andi opens her arms just a little bit for a hug–a hug, of all things– and Emilia wishes she could offer her hand instead, keep her distance, avoid Andi’s touch— but not because she doesn’t want it. 

That’s not the problem at all. It’s never been the problem. 

It’s just a hug.  

You can do this. 

Don’t think. 

She leans into Andi and they embrace. 

Emilia’s not sure what she was expecting. Maybe all her time in tech has left her jaded when it comes to greetings—icy handshakes and half-assed side-hugs and tight smiles across sterile boardrooms. But this…

Andi leans in with her whole body, her arms slipping around Emilia’s waist with ease, her palms landing in the center of Emilia’s back. Her chin tucks over Emilia’s shoulder and she gives Emilia a gentle squeeze, just hard enough to press their bodies together. Emilia feels the chill on her coat melt away as Andi’s warmth presses against her. 

Heat bursts from the center of her chest, radiating outward and warming her whole body. 

Andi pulls away and turns to the guy behind the register. “This is Alejandro.”  

Emilia grips her purse strap with both hands. “Hi.”

“Hi!” He glances at Andi. “You said she was cute but damn—”

Andi glares at him.  

“I mean, nice to meet you, I know nothing about you, you are a complete mystery to me,” he says quickly. “What can I get you guys?”

Andi looks up at the menu board hanging over the register. “All right, let me get a...” She turns to Emilia. “You like spicy stuff?”

Emilia nods. 

“You sure?” 

“I can handle a little heat.”

“Well, okay then.” Andi turns to Alejandro. “Let me get a slice of the Sicilian, slice of white, slice of vodka, slice of Pauline’s.” 

Emilia finds the Pauline on the board. “That has wasabi on it. And crab.”

“And?”

“It just sounds wrong.” 

“It sure does,” Andi says, her gaze focused on her wallet as she takes out some cash. “But it’s actually the best thing on the menu.”

Before Andi can pay, Emilia finds her card and hands it to Alejandro.  

“Emilia–”

“I left you on read for an entire day.” 

“You don’t have to—”

“Please. Really. It’s no problem.” 

Andi raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. “If you insist.” Then she leans into Emilia, letting their hips touch. “You look nice, by the way.”

Emilia swallows hard. “I…thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“I just hope this place meets your ridiculous, stratospheric standards.”

Emilia rolls her eyes. “Oh, my god, it was just a martini.” 

“Mmm-hmm. Hope you’ll be okay eating with us peasant folk.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I trust you.” 

When Andi pulls away she’s smiling.

In the drink fridge Emilia notices the shop carries Pony malta. She gasps. “Can we get this?”

“What is that?”

“You’ve never had Pony?” When Andi shakes her head Emilia adds, “It’s only the best soda, like, ever. I can’t believe this place has it.” 

“Does that score me extra points?”

“Depends.”

Andi looks at her indignantly. “On what?”

“On how good the pizza is.”

“What happened to, ‘I’m sure this will be good, I trust you’?” 

“Someone has to give you a hard time around here, Ringo Starr.”

Emilia winks and bends down to grab two bottles of Pony off the bottom shelf of the drink fridge. When she gets up and turns around Andi’s biting her lower lip with this weird look on her face. 

They walk past the counter and the pizza ovens and enter the main seating area. It’s a little hokey: red and green Christmas lights strung up around the crown molding and dangling down the walls, mismatched Formica tables and chairs, random dusty baseball memorabilia, and an actual jukebox in the corner. Plus a ton of autographed pictures of celebrities posing with a beefy guy Emilia presumes is the eponymous Mike himself. 

They pick a table in the center of the room, and when they take off their coats Emilia sees Andi’s wearing a completely sheer black long-sleeved top. Emilia can see her bra right through it: black, simple, smooth. Her shirt highlights the leanest parts of her: her upper arms, her chest, her stomach. Every inch of her is so tightly contoured. Emilia knows it comes from constant practice: Andi needs all that core strength to keep the percussion steady. And it’s made her…well…damn. 

She didn’t quite notice at Sweethearts, but she can see everything now.

Just imagining Andi’s upper back muscles is enough to make her wet.

Oh for fuck’s sake, she needs to get her shit together.  

They settle down and Andi dives right in.

“It’s interesting that you enjoy spicy food,” she says. “Brazil’s not really known for it.” 

“Are you fishing for information?”

“Maybe.”

Emilia laughs. “Okay, well, if you must know, I lived in Mexico for a while. That’s where I learned to like spicy stuff.” She shrugs. “I kinda went to school there.”

“What do you mean kinda?”

“I studied music for a while. I went to El—”

“Don’t tell me you went to EWS,” Andi says. When Emilia doesn’t answer, she says, “Okay, so you just kinda went to the best music program in Latin America.”

Emilia winces. 

“What’d you play?”

“Piano.”

“Do you still play now?”

All Emilia can do is shake her head. 

“What happened?”

Emilia clasps her hands in her lap. 

Everything was so much easier at the bar. The whiskey and the lights and the music made her bold after a while. And anyway it was just words. It wasn’t like they meant anything. She wasn’t offering any real part of herself. But now the lights are brighter, the questions sharper. 

“Couldn’t afford it,” she says. “I was on scholarship and they cut it so I had to quit.” 

“Oh?”

“Budget cuts,” she says. It’s not the worst lie ever. Easy enough to believe. She’s even started to believe it, after all this time.

“I didn’t mean school,” Andi says. “I meant, why’d you stop playing?”

“I told you. I lost the scholarship–”

“Not good enough. It’s two different things,” Andi says. “Quitting EWS doesn’t mean you had to stop playing altogether.” 

“I didn’t quit.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t keep it up afterwards.”

Andi reaches for one of the bottles and sets the lip of it against the table ledge. She holds the bottle tight and brings her hand down hard on the ledge. With a satisfying click and whoosh the cap comes right off. Emilia makes a mental note to ask her to teach her how to do that. 

Andi hands Emilia the open bottle, then does the same for her own.

Andi takes a sip of her drink. “Oh my god that is so sweet,” she says with a grimace. “Not bad, though! Just sweet.”

Emilia takes a sip. When the malt hits her tongue she closes her eyes for half a second, enjoying the fizzy sweetness. It’s been a long time since she had one of these. Feels good to find it in such an unfamiliar place.  

When she opens her eyes Andi’s staring at her. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just…cute, that’s all.” 

Emilia presses her thighs together to keep from squirming. 

“Anyway, you don’t need a fancy degree to give you permission to make music. It’s just a piece of paper.”  

“Yeah but not everyone is like you, Andi.”

“What am I like?”

“You’re…” Emilia looks up at the ceiling, as if the right words might be lodged up in the stucco. “Gifted.”

“Oh, please,” Andi says. “You and I both know it’s ninety percent busting your ass, ten percent talent. Actually, not even: more like ninety-five percent.”

“Okay,” Emilia says. “You win. Ninety-five percent busting your ass. You did that. Still do. And I didn’t.” 

I couldn’t. 

“That’s not what this is about, Emilia.”

“So what is it about?”

Andi’s gaze softens. “Not trusting yourself.”

The look they share makes Emilia’s heart skip a beat. Or three. 

The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just full of something Emilia hasn’t experienced in a long time: a challenge.

No. It’s a challenge with an equal. 

Emilia arches a brow. “Are you accusing me of that?” 

When Andi doesn’t reply, she laughs, more out of shock than anything else. “Screw you.” 

Andi shrugs. “If the shoe fits…wear it.”

Emilia rolls her eyes. “All these ridiculous American phrases. I’ve never understood where they come from. That one doesn’t even make any sense.” 

“There’s a bunch of weird ones,” Andi says. “Like: there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“What?”

“I had to google it. Apparently it has nothing to do with cats. Americans are so weird.”

Emilia makes a face. “I know a few, but I should probably know more. I mean I went to school here and didn’t even bother to–”

“You went to school here? Where?”

Damn it. She always hates this part. Turns out telling people you went to Harvard always makes them uncomfortable. 

“Harvard.”

“No fucking way.”

“I mean, I was only at the Cambridge campus for a couple years, then it was mostly at the Sao Paulo campus once I got to business school, so I mean, I guess it kinda makes sense that I didn’t really learn all those expressions after all? I don’t know, I think…”

When she notices Andi’s weird expression, she trails off.

“Undergrad and business school?”

Emilia nods. 

Andi scratches the back of her neck. “Shit.”

Emilia frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Talented and smart as fuck,” Andi says, her eyes fixed on the table, almost like she’s talking to herself. “What am I going to do with you?”

For some reason hearing Andi say that makes Emilia’s heart wobble. 

When Andi looks up, her eyes are bright with something Emilia’s never seen before–at least, never directed at her. 

She’s seen people on the street with that look, though. She’s seen people holding hands and pulling each other close and looking at one another like that. Like…like they matter to each other.

Like they’re special. 

Emilia swallows hard. “Going to Harvard doesn’t mean you’re smart.”

“Right, just like how going to MEP doesn’t mean you’re talented.” 

Emilia frowns, feeling cornered. “Well, at any rate, if you know MEP, then you must have gone to music school, too.” 

“Monterrey Conservatory,” Andi says. “EWS wouldn’t take me.”

“Then they’re fools with no taste.”  

Andi’s lips curve. “They took you, didn’t they? So they must have a little good taste.”

“Monterrey is amazing, Andi. The resources, the research grants for the ethnomusicology department, the concert halls and forums and the sheer amount of musical instruments they have… they have an oud section in their student symphony. An oud section! And you know how many huge artists have come out of there recently? Way more than EWS, that’s for sure, at least right now. It’s…”

When she looks up, she sees Andi staring at her. Hard.

“Are you…geeking out over my school?”

Emilia blushes. “I just…”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“I researched it,” Emilia says. “When I was applying to music schools, I mean. They rejected me.”

“Then they’re fools with no taste.”

“They took you, didn’t they? So they must have a little good taste.”

“All those artists now…they might have made it big regardless,” Andi says. 

“Yeah, but a fancy degree doesn’t hurt.”

Andi tilts her head. “At least they all trusted themselves enough to keep playing.” 

Ouch. Emilia feels her cheeks burn even more. “Okay, well, enough about me. Tell me about you.” 

They cover the basics: Andi’s time at the conservatory, how the band came together, how they’re doing now, how they recently adopted their Corgi, Selena, after seeing her on an Instagram account for abandoned dogs in Manhattan. She even shows Emilia a couple pictures, almost like a proud parent. One of the girls in the band likes dressing Selena up in little sweaters, which the dog absolutely hates. Emilia has so many questions about everything Andi says, but all she can do is look at her mouth while she talks. 

It’s a distracting mouth, okay? 

And then suddenly it’s her turn to share. 

Mercifully, before she has to figure out how to even begin, the food arrives. It looks great, if a little messy. 

“Here, try this one first,” Andi says, passing her the crab slice. 

Emilia takes a plastic fork and knife and cuts the tip of the slice into a bite sized piece. She spears the piece with her fork and brings it to her mouth. She’s usually not down for wasabi, or crab for that matter, but this is actually perfect. Somehow it’s all balanced. It doesn’t just taste like heat, her chief annoyance with most spicy foods. The spiciness feels like an enhancement, not an obstacle. 

She watched a documentary about sushi while she was packing for this trip, whatever. 

When she looks up, Andi is staring at her. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Are you seriously eating that with a fork and knife?”

“How else am I supposed to eat it?”

“Oh, god, okay. Time for a lesson.”

“Lesson?”

“Yup. I’m going to teach you the correct way to eat pizza. And yes, there is only one correct way,” Andi says sternly. 

“Show me.”

Andi picks up the slice in front of her, the white slice, with her right hand. “Pick it up with one hand,” she says. “And then…” Andi folds the pizza lengthwise in her hand, until it’s bent like a taco. “Voila.”

Then Andi bends her head and takes a bite off the tip. “See?” she says. “Perfect. And you can do it with one hand.”

“Oh, I see,” Emilia says. She lifts the slice, folds it as instructed, and takes a bite.

While she’s chewing, she looks up, and Andi’s staring again. 

“What did I do now?”

Andi puckers her lips. “Your pinkie’s out.”

Sure enough, Emilia’s first four fingers are holding the slice but her pinkie is busy elsewhere. 

“Oops. Is that gonna hurt my chances?”

“With what?”

Come on.

Don’t think. 

“With you,” Emilia says casually, leaning in for another bite. Her heart is about to burst out of her ribcage, but no big deal. She’s fine. This is fine. 

“I…what do you mean?”

Emilia laughs. “I didn’t come here for the pizza, as yummy as it is.”

“You like it?”

Emilia nods. “Not bad.”

“So what are you here for, if not the pizza?”

“If you have to ask, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought you were.” 

Andi smirks. “So let’s get down to business. What kind of fancy job do you have that brought you to New York?”

“I build offices for a tech company. They do business marketing, search engine optimization, stuff like that,” Emilia says. “People think it’s like Google or something, but it’s not. And my job’s not really glamorous. I travel a lot, but it’s not for fun.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” Andi says. “Fuck everyone else.”

Emilia smiles wide. 

“Tell me more.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Lots,” Andi says, “but we can start with what your job is about.”

“You sure you want to know?”

Andi nods. 

Emilia launches into her most recent puzzle: the food and beverage program for the Berlin office. They were having issues with the coffee selection. During her cultural competency research she discovered that even though Germans drink more coffee than beer, there’s no such thing as “German” coffee per se. It’s mostly imported from other countries, primarily Brazil. She was about to choose that for the office–it was the perfect nod to her homeland–but then, on a whim, she searched for national roasters on social media instead of through her regular business channels, just for fun. She knew it was a reach, but she had nothing to lose anyway. 

After falling down the Instagram rabbit hole at 2am, and watching way too many reels about the art of making cappuccino, she hit upon a woman-owned roastery in Bremen. Emilia’s Google Translate worked overtime that night as she read everything she could find.Tiny company, twenty employees handling the roasting process and admin work all by themselves. Their website barely made sense stylistically. They only sold their product online and in three local grocery stores. She was certain the company barely broke even, if at all, but despite that they still donated almost forty percent of their proceeds to a local deaf community center—one of two in all of Germany. She couldn’t figure out why, until she discovered that the company’s founders and their children were deaf. 

So Emilia fell down yet another rabbit hole as she read about the deaf community in Germany. The company donated to a center that offered special activities for hearing parents of deaf children, and made people feel safe enough to speak German sign language, a respite from their daily lives where they were often forced to talk, as if they weren’t deaf at all. Emilia didn’t know anything about the history of the community, but being a lover of research, she did a deep dive and found that Germany’s treatment of deaf people through the years was a shit show. German sign language wasn’t even legally recognized until two-thousand and two. 

By the time she was done with her research, she was pissed. 

The company had 80 Instagram followers and three posts when Emilia found it. None of her staff had heard of it before. When she traveled to Germany during a tour of the European offices she couldn’t make it to Bremen, but she did have a few bags of their beans delivered to Berlin in advance. By the time she arrived the coffee was already gone. The staff had finished it in three days. 

When she called the company on FaceTime to offer them a deal with S&R, plus a donation match for the community center, the founders openly cried on camera. They were planning to file for insolvency in three days. This would pull them out of the hole. 

This is why Emilia loves her job. 

Right now it’s a little expensive to transport the beans to Berlin, but it doesn’t matter too much. Emilia gets to make decisions about details like this all the time, as long as she can pitch her ideas in a way that makes them sound valuable. This one was pretty easy to do. Celina’s usually chill and has grown to trust Emilia’s taste. (Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Luka loves being able to brag about S&R’s altruism to potential investors.) 

Now the company has almost eighteen thousand Instagram followers, two roasteries, three coffee shops (two in Bremen, one in Hamburg), one hundred and twenty employees and counting, and five different blends of coffee. The community center opened a second branch, this one in Bielefeld. They offer German sign language classes and interpreter training programs for free. 

Oh, and the company website is beautiful now– designed by Emilia herself. 

When she finishes the story she takes another bite of her pizza. That crab slice really is a work of art. Who would have thought?  

As she chews the last bite she nods along to the Ray-J song playing overhead. People still remember this guy? She hasn’t thought about him in forever. Listening to “Sexy Can I” after all these years is kinda cheesy, but she has to admit it’s pretty fun, too.

She swallows and resumes talking. “So yeah, it’s—”

“You’re amazing.”

Emilia looks up. 

The look in Andi’s eyes makes her cheeks burn right away. 

“I mean…I don’t know.” She makes a face. “I’m just obsessed with my job.” 

“Emilia. You’re amazing.”

“Andi, no—”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get scared of a compliment.”

Emilia works hard to hold back a grimace. She’s never been good at this. 

“Okay, well…thank you.”

Andi offers a small smile. “My pleasure.”

God, things are already hard enough and then she has to go and say stuff like that?

Emilia’s about five minutes away from losing her mind. 

She squares her shoulders. “So anyway, now I’m here.”  

“So now you’re here.” 

“And it’s my project. One-hundred percent. From the ground up. First time ever.” 

Andi nods in approval. “That’s awesome.”

“If I can pull this off…”

“Not if,” Andi says. “When.”

Emilia takes a shaky breath. “When.” 

“When you pull this off…”

“It’ll change everything for me.”

Andi smiles. “You’re going to crush it.” 

Emilia bites her tongue. She wonders how Andi can believe in someone she barely knows— doesn’t know at all, really. 

She forces herself to breathe. She pulls the vodka slice over, folds it with ease, and takes a bite. 

“Well done,” Andi says. She reaches for the Sicilian slice and folds it, but when she holds it up to her mouth her hand slips, and the slice crashes tip-first onto her plate.

“Ooooh,” Emilia says. “Looks like the student has become the master.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, okay, not so fast,” Andi says. “Just a slight error.”

They both laugh, and then it’s quiet while they’re both chewing. 

Emilia swallows, and then, too caught up in her food to pay much attention, says, “So, being a drummer is pretty hot. Have you always known you wanted to–”

“Oh, so you think I’m hot?”

She looks up right away. “No!” she cries. “I mean…yes, but that’s not…”

Andi laughs. “It’s okay, I get it.” She winks, and it might just be the best thing Emilia’s seen her do. “I’ve pretty much always known. My dad loved music, got me into it pretty early on.”

“You prodigy, you.”

“Nah,” she says. “Just…I don’t know.”  

“Is you dad a musician, too?”

“Was.”

“What happened?” 

When Andi doesn’t answer, Emilia’s eyes go wide. “Sorry.” 

“It’s all good.” Andi sips her drink. “This is pretty good, by the way,” she says, holding up the bottle. “I’m probably going to get like four cavities, but it’s good.” 

Emilia beams. “Told you.”

“Yeah, okay. So back to the part where you called me hot.”

Emilia opens her mouth to correct herself, but then stops. “Yes?”

“What made you say that?”

“Honestly? That ‘Toxic’ cover,” Emilia says. She decides to take a chance. “I thought you were cute from the beginning, but that cover…it was pretty genius.”

“That was all MJ,” Andi says. “She’s a mastermind.”  

“That might be true, but the song doesn’t work without you.”

Andi bites the lower corner of her lip. “I don’t know. It could just–”

“Don’t do that.”

Andi blinks at her. “Do what?”

“Get scared of a compliment,” Emilia says with a smirk. 

Andi pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue. 

“Now, what I don’t get is, you could be with anyone,” Emilia says, suddenly contemplative. “How come you’re all alone?”

Andi coughs. “Jesus, you kinda just go for the jugular, don’t you?”

“Sorry! Sometimes my social skills are fine, and sometimes they're not exactly... high quality." 

“I noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

Andi raises a brow. “‘Re:dinner: pizza on Friday?’”

Emilia winces. “Yeah, not my best work.”

“No kidding,” Andi says. “I’ve gotten better text messages from my doctor’s office.” 

“All right, all right, you don’t have to come for me like that,” Emilia says with a laugh, and for some reason Andi laughs too even though it wasn’t that funny, and it feels like the laughter lasts so long, but not in a bad way, not at all, and Andi tries to speak but she’s laughing too hard, which only makes Emilia laugh harder, and when it finally dies down and they’re both breathing hard Andi keeps her eyes on her and smiles in a way Emilia’s never seen anyone smile before, and she wants to hold it for as long as she can because when Andi looks at her like that…there’s no way to be lonely. 

C-E-G. E minor vi. That’s what that smile is.

A perfect chord played just for her.

“Anyway,” Andi says, “I’m single because it’s easier.” 

Emilia snaps out of it. She takes a sip of her drink, regaining focus. “I’m sure you could have anyone you want.” 

“Yeah, well, the girls I usually want are the worst, at least according to my roommates,” Andi says. “Apparently I have terrible taste in women.”

Emilia smirks. “That’s not entirely true. You’re on a date with me, aren’t you?”

Andi doesn’t smile but her eyes light up, her expression vivid and bright and full of something Emilia can’t quite place. Her face just…blooms. There’s no other way to describe it. 

Before she can brace herself Emilia feels something shake loose in her chest. Something that was supposed to be immovable. Something big. 

But it’s only a slight dislocation, isn’t it? Has to be. She can fix this. With a little skill, she can reset, and resist caring about…whatever this is. Whatever tonight is supposed to be. 

Just a mistake. That’s all it was. 

Right?

Has to be.   

“Oh, sorry, well, no, not really, it doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be, it’s really not a date, it doesn’t matter, but you’re doing just fine anyway.” 

Just like that, Andi’s eyes go dim. “Okay,” she says, barely audible over the music.   

And then…silence.

Andi’s quiet for a while, picking at the label on her bottle. The condensation made it wet. Easy to scratch off. She’s so focused on that, Emilia wonders if it’s game over. It wouldn’t surprise her. It wouldn’t be the first time she screwed up like this.  

But did she even screw up at all? 

This is what she wanted. Isn’t it?

Finally–after what feels like thirty years–Andi looks up at her. “How come you’re alone?”

Emilia swallows.

“It’s just easier.” 

Andi seems satisfied with her answer, ready to move on.

But for some reason Emilia’s not.

“And actually I wasn’t. Single, I mean. Until pretty recently.”

“Did it end okay?”

“‘Okay’ is a strong word.” 

The thing she always remembers about the night everything changed is the sound of her house keys landing in the bowl on the entry table when she got home from work. The click of the brass keys against the red Murano glass bowl she got her wife on their anniversary trip to Italy. Emilia carried it back to Brazil in her arms like a baby. It looked gorgeous in the dining room by the door to the balcony, refracting blades of golden hour light across the surface of the table where they ate most meals. Juicy shades of cherry and strawberry. Perfectly ripened fruit. The kind of thing she never imagined she’d be able to afford. Something owned just for its beauty, just for the way it could look on a dining room table. 

And in the end it held keys. 

“You don’t have to explain,” Andi says. Her voice is so kind it feels like another hug. Then she smiles and says, “So what’s Harvard like? Is it like Legally Blonde?”

“You know, for not being from America you sure do talk like an American.”

“What do you mean?”

“Americans are so obsessed with what people do,” Emilia says, “they never bother to ask each other who they are.”

“Fair enough.” Andi sits back and says, “Tell me who you are, Emilia Alo.”

What a question. But she can’t even complain: she walked right into it. She asked for this. She has no one to blame but herself.  

Maybe Emilia brought it up out of politeness, or wanting to be witty. Or maybe she asked because she wanted to be asked. Because she has something to say. 

Maybe the truth is she always has something to say. She just doesn’t have anyone to say it to. 

Don’t think. 

“I’m…a music student who went to business school because she was poor and needed to pay the bills. My favorite things include pivot tables, nice shoes and bags, and rare vinyl records. My–”

“Oh, so you are a nerd after all.”

“Hey!” Emilia says. “A well-made pivot table can be very sexy.”

“Said no one ever.”

“Okay, well, if you’re so cool, go ahead. Who are you, Andi Agosti?”

“Let’s see…I’m also a music student who stuck it out and now barely pays bills waiting tables at the third most expensive restaurant in the world.”

“Ooh, interesting.”

Andi shrugs. “It’s just a job. I do have to eat a lot of weird stuff, though. So much caviar. I’ll never understand why everyone’s so obsessed with it.”

She sits up a little in her chair and keeps going. “I’m a drummer. A songwriter, kind of. A night person, which works out well for my job most of the time. Atrocious at dating.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“None of my relationships have worked so far.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re atrocious,” Emilia says. “You’re doing a pretty good job with me so far.”

She offers Andi a small smile. Andi opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. Her lips curve, but her eyes are heavy with something Emilia doesn’t quite understand. 

Emilia moves on, keeping her tone bright as she says, “Everyone else could be the problem, you know.”

“Nah. I’m not Taylor Swift. I’m not naive.”

Emilia laughs. “Taylor Swift isn’t naive, she’s…”

Andi waits for Emilia to elaborate.

“She’s…”

“Naive, Emilia. Completely naive. I mean, it’s not that complicated: what’s the common denominator in all her relationships? Her.” 

Emilia makes a face. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“Either she’s naive, or she’s insulting her audience’s intelligence, which is way worse, in my opinion.”

Emilia takes a sip of her drink. “But what would pop music be without singers insulting our intelligence?”

“Good, that’s what it would be,” Andi says. “Actually good.”

“Mmmm, I don’t know. What’s that thing Americans say? Variety is the spice of life?”

Andi rolls her eyes, but she’s kinda laughing. Emilia adds, “So what’s your angle? Las Ingratas isn’t a pop group, but you’re not exactly rock and roll either.”

“Most days I don’t even know what we are,” Andi admits. “The girls kinda just do whatever they’re feeling, and I mostly try to just roll with it.”

“What do you want to do?”

“It’s not about what I want.”

Emilia frowns. “What do you mean? Of course it is.” 

“It’s Las Ingratas, plural, not La Ingrata,” Andi says.

“What you want matters just as much, too.” Emilia takes a bite of her pizza. “The ‘Toxic’ cover was pretty cool. Maybe you need to stick up for yourself more. You’re a good singer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you know,” she says, “a really smart woman once told me that it’s all about trusting yourself.”

Emilia hits her with a pointed stare. Andi groans, and Emilia laughs. 

While she’s giggling Andi asks, “Do you miss it?”

She stops. “Miss what?”

“Playing piano.”

God, yes. 

Emilia rolls her shoulders back, squaring up against the grief that always hits her like a punch. “Not really. It’s been so long now, life happened, and I…you kinda just move on, you know?”

“No,” Andi says. “I don’t.”

“Well you’re lucky,” Emilia says. “And you’re almost as good a singer as you are a drummer.” 

“Whoa,” Andi says. “We’re just handing out compliments like candy tonight, are we?”

Emilia feels a rush again, something a lot like a sugar high, and maybe it’s the Pony, or the Christmas lights twinkling all around them, or the music cocooning them, or the wind whistling past outside, reminding her that it’s autumn in New York and her senses are on fire, but something makes her want to press her luck. 

Don’t think.  

“It’s only because you’re so pretty,” Emilia says. 

Andi blinks at her. “Oh.” 

Emilia sips her drink, watching Andi’s reaction, feeling herself. 

“By the way,” she adds, riding on her momentum, “Nice t-shirt the other night. I love Jane’s Addiction.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. In fact, I am that rare breed that thinks Nothing’s Shocking is a better record than Ritual de lo Habitual.”

Andi looks surprised. 

“Don’t look so shocked,” Emilia says. “I can like rock, too.”

“Of course you can,” Andi says. “I guess I just figured you were…”

“I was what?”

“Kind of a music snob, that’s all,” Andi murmurs. 

“A music snob? Me?”

Andi smirks. “Can you blame me? Who the hell orders a martini at a dive bar?”

“Point taken, yet again,” Emilia says with a glare, “but your judgment feels premature. Just because I like martinis doesn’t mean I’m a snob. It just means I have good taste.”

“That’s exactly what a snob would say!” Andi says with a laugh. 

“Okay, so let’s settle this,” Emilia says. “Top five albums, start to finish. And we’ll decide who’s the real snob here.”

Andi lists her favorites and surprises Emilia not just with her taste—among her favorites are both Mama’s Gun and Zii e Zie— but the conversation itself. And when she explains the parts of each record that made her fall in love with it, the chord progressions and crunchy drums and lyrical textures that only a meticulous ear can find, her body seems to move differently. She takes on a vivid energy, that same targeted focus Emilia saw onstage. Andi gave herself to music—at the expense of so much, Emilia thinks. But she had to do it. Emilia understands that now. She didn’t have a choice. It’s not dramatic, it’s not egotistical. It’s just the axis of Andi’s world. 

Emilia could talk to her like this for hours. 

There’s something about the way Andi speaks to her that doesn’t make her feel like her whole sense of the world is wrong. Every conversation Emilia used to have with the person she thought would love her forever somehow made her feel small. Her work took her just as she was, but her home was a place that rejected the things that made her, her. Is it any wonder, then, why her career became her sanctuary? 

That was all she had to show for her marriage. Two insecure little girls, too young, too intense, too caught up in emotions neither one of them fully understood. Neglecting the conflicts Emilia should have seen a mile away. And then: a slow humiliation. A splintered home. Wounds patched up with money and promises and sex, and even then…

She’s forgotten that maybe she can still have moments like this.

It feels so fucking good to remember. 

Maybe the best way to describe it is that they end up getting along so well they can close down the restaurant and not even realize it.

Alejandro approaches the table while they’re in the middle of a heated discussion about cumbia, practically tiptoeing. 

“Ladies, I hate to break this up, but we need to close.”

When they look up they realize they’re the last two people in the entire place. It wasn’t crowded to begin with but now it’s totally desolate. 

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” he says with a wink. Andi shoots him a look. 

They gather their things and head to the door. Andi gets there first, holds the door for her, and Emilia steps out into the cold. 

“Oh my god, who let this happen?” Emilia asks, turning her face up to the sky. 

“Who let what happen?”

“This cold,” Emilia says. “I signed up for autumn, not a preview of winter.”

“Oh, this? This is nothing,” Andi says. “You should see this place in January.”

Emilia fake-cries. “I might, actually. The company says I need to come back once or twice to check on the progress.”

When she turns around Andi’s got a weird look on her face. 

“What?”

“Nothing. What train did you take?”

“The G.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“It’s eight blocks away.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But you said you were taking a different—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Somehow her tone is gentle but firm at the same time, and she smiles a little. 

They start walking to the station in silence. 

At first, Emilia likes it. She likes hearing Andi’s steps beside her own as they both focus their gazes straight ahead, the wind picking up just enough to make Emilia put her hands in her pockets. The neighborhood is quiet now, resting for the night. They walk down a block lined with trees and brownstones, the stoops littered with leaves, carved pumpkins, scarecrows, spiderwebs. Lights are still on in some windows, little squares offering a warm glow. In one bare window she sees a TV on; someone’s watching the news. Leaves rustle in the gathering wind. Street lights offer a dim path down to the corner. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable. She feels accompanied, somehow.  

But then the air between them grows too tense. It’s too quiet for too long. Emilia can’t take it. When she glances over after three blocks, Andi’s totally distracted. Her mind is working overtime, Emilia’s sure of it. It’s almost like Emilia isn’t even there. 

Emilia opens her mouth to say something when Andi suddenly stops walking and turns to face her. 

When she speaks, her tone is so strained it makes Emilia wonder if she’s in physical pain.

“I can’t do this.”

Emilia gasps softly. “What?”

“I don’t like being confused.”

“I don’t understand.”

Andi sighs. “Never mind.” 

“Andi—”

“You know what? It's fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, it does. I don’t understand what’s going on here. Did I do something wrong?” 

Emilia wishes Andi would at least look at her, but her gaze is on the pavement now. For some reason it stings. “Don’t worry about it. I should go. See you around.”  

With that, she jams her hands in her pockets and leaves. 

What the fuck?

Emilia can take a lot of things, but not Andi treating her like this. Not anyone treating her like this. But it feels like all she can do is watch Andi walk away, without ever knowing what she did wrong. 

The wind picks up, and Andi hunches her shoulders against the cold. 

After a minute, Emilia realizes what’s wrong.  

“Fuck you,” she says, her tone as hard as she can make it.

Andi turns around. “What?”

“I said: Fuck. You.” 

Andi walks back to her, closing the gap.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t get to walk away like that just because I made a mistake.” 

“Oh, so when you said this wasn’t actually a date, you meant it.” 

Emilia doesn’t know how to answer that.

“I don’t like being confused,” Andi says. “So, if it wasn’t a date, fine. But just….”   

The look on Andi’s face makes Emilia think that maybe, if she could just find the right thing to say, she could make it right. But the words aren’t there.

All she has to give are the feelings she works so hard to forget: the panic and the confusion and the fear. They’re all supposed to be blunted by one of her many shields, but tonight has been completely sharp. There’s nothing but jagged edges here. Nowhere to hold on that won’t cut deep. 

The silence between them swells. 

Andi smiles tightly. “Right. Well, good luck on the project. I meant it when I said you’re going to crush it.”  

“So that’s it,” Emilia says, unsure if it’s a statement or a question. 

“Yeah. That’s it.”  

Andi starts to walk away again, and Emilia feels herself crumbling now, and she doesn’t understand why she can hardly breathe, let alone speak, but somehow, deep inside, she knows that she can’t reset herself. She can’t come back from this. 

Andi’s at the corner when Emilia yells, “I don’t go out with musicians.” 

Andi turns around. She looks at Emilia for what feels like forever. 

Finally, she comes back. 

“They’re immature, irresponsible emotional vampires, and I’m not here for that.” 

“Ouch, first of all,” Andi says. “And second of all, who gives a shit, because according to you, this wasn’t even a date. This was just, what, two friends getting dinner and catching up?” 

Emilia presses her lips together. “I…no.” 

“No?” Andi asks. “So, was it a date or not?” 

The Venn diagram of the answer Emilia wants to give, and the answer she knows she can’t give, is a circle. A fucking circle. 

But something is pushing her towards this. The documentaries and the vinyl records and the quarterly budgets and the loneliness. Sometimes keeping the loneliness at bay feels like cupping water in her hands, all of it seeping through her fingers no matter how hard she tries to hold it in. 

But when Andi looks at her there’s no way to be lonely. 

She knows this is going to ruin her, but she can’t keep her guard up. She knows that in six weeks she’s going to hurt like she’s never hurt before, but she can’t stop herself. There’s no going back.    

She doesn’t have a choice anymore.   

When she speaks her voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Yes.”

And just like that Andi’s close, so close Emilia doesn’t even have time to react. 

She closes her eyes and her head fills with static as Andi brushes her lips across her jaw, so gently Emilia can hardly feel it, but she knows Andi’s there the way she knows middle C on the piano. Like she’s been here before. Like maybe she never left. 

Andi takes her hand. It sets Emilia’s skin on fire the way only one other thing in her life ever has. 

Music. 

And then, slowly, Andi turns Emilia’s hand over, opens her fist, and traces a shape on her skin. A dot in the center of her palm, spiraling outward, then swirling up at a soft curve towards the base of her index finger, then looping back down in a straight line crossing the spiral, reaching the heel of her palm, and curving gently into a second dot like a punctuation mark. 

A treble clef.

A beginning. 

She lets go and grabs Andi’s face but before Emilia can kiss her Andi pulls back. 

“Uh-uh,” she says. “Not like that.”

Emilia opens her mouth to object but can’t find the words she needs. Her head, usually full of noise, is suddenly quiet. Her world, usually full of motion, is finally standing still. 

There’s only one thing on her mind. 

Slowly, Andi’s left hand glides up Emilia’s hip until it finds her waist. Her right hand reaches up to hold Emilia’s face. She brushes Emilia’s lips with her thumb, then slides her hand up to hold the back of Emilia’s neck. 

Andi tilts her head and leans in close with a lazy smile. 

“Like this.”

When their lips meet everything goes fuzzy, Emilia’s heart crashing into her sternum over and over as Andi’s tongue gently teases her mouth open and slides past her lips and teeth. Emilia feels Andi squeeze the back of her neck ever so slightly, just hard enough to send a wave of heat coursing through her. Then she catches Emilia’s bottom lip between her teeth, sucking slowly until Emilia sighs. 

When Andi pulls away, she presses her forehead to Emilia’s and closes her eyes again. Emilia closes hers, too.

She likes that part most of all. 

When Andi finally pulls away completely, Emilia wants to draw her back in but doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what she can do to make the moment last without seeming overly eager, overly interested. She doesn’t know how to do it without scaring herself even more. 

But she wants—no, needs—Andi’s mouth again. 

They start walking, their sides brushing gently as they walk. Andi says, “So are you switching trains at—”

Emilia takes Andi’s right hand, lets her walk two steps ahead, then yanks her back so she stumbles over her feet before catching herself and landing right up against Emilia. 

Before Andi can say anything Emilia smiles and leans in. 

As soon as their lips connect Emilia slides her hands under Andi’s coat and reaches for Andi’s belt loops. Her hands brush Andi’s stomach by accident along the way and Andi flinches at her touch with something that sounds like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. Emilia pulls away but Andi draws her back in. “Just cold, that’s all,” she says quickly, the words landing against Emilia’s lips, and Emilia threads her fingers back through the loops and pulls hard, until their hips bump and their chests align. The sudden closeness makes them both moan at once, and then Andi’s hands slide around to the space between Emilia’s shoulder blades, pressing her close, holding her tight. 

After a while Andi pulls away, gasping for air. 

“I need to breathe,” she says. “You’re going to suffocate me, woman.”

Emilia giggles. “There are worse ways to go.”

“I just don’t want to end up on an episode of Sex Sent Me to the ER, okay?”

“That’s a real show?”

“Sure is,” Andi says. 

“Enough people end up in the ER because of sex?”

“Enough for two whole seasons.”

“Damn.” 

Andi reaches for Emilia’s hand and threads their fingers together, and they start walking again. 

“I should warn you now,” Andi says, “I don’t go out with nerds.”

Emilia frowns.

“They’re condescending, judgmental snobs, and I’m not here for that.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we established that I’m not a nerd. Or a snob, for that matter.”

“You listed pivot tables as one of your favorite things, Emilia,” Andi says. “You’re definitely a nerd. But I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

“Oh, no?” 

“Not at all.” Andi stops walking, slips her arm around Emilia’s side, and pulls her close again. Holding Emilia by the waist, she leans in and whispers, “There are always exceptions.” 

And then she smiles. 

C-E-G. E minor vi. 

A perfect chord played just for her. 

Before Emilia can say anything Andi tightens her embrace and then they’re kissing again, and the wind picks up and they’re caught in the eye of a spiral of bronze and amber and deep red leaves falling all around them, and Emilia knows her hair will be matted later and she’ll have to spend way too much time brushing out the knots before bed, but it’ll be worth it. 

It already is.  

Chapter Text

Well, the good news is, Emilia doesn’t leave Andi on read anymore.

The bad news is, now Andi does.

On Thursday, just after six o’clock, she’s balancing a glass of orange juice on her chest as she lays on the couch. Below Deck is playing on TV just loud enough for her to hear. Selena’s curled up right next to her, snoring softly.

It’s been quiet all day, just the way Andi likes it on her days off. She’s been camped out in the living room since lunch, self-soothing with all her favorite things: soft clothes, orange juice with obligatory curly straw, junk food, cuddles with Selena, and trash TV. She’s been so lazy she hasn’t even bothered to open the curtains.

Laura had three classes at the studio this morning, came home in the afternoon, and went straight to her room. MJ’s been in Manhattan all day supporting one of her students at his Juilliard audition. And Jana…when Andi got home last night Jana was nowhere to be found. Andi’s not even sure if Jana’s home at all. Not that that’s any of her business. Sort of. 

So far, no one’s grilled her about her date with Emilia. No one has come for her neck–yet. They’re all too busy: MJ working overtime all weekend to prep her student for the audition, Laura filling in for another instructor at the studio, and Jana…off somewhere, Andi guesses. She doesn’t even want to know where. Probably because she has three guesses as to where Jana’s been going the last few days, and only one of those guesses is anywhere near “good.” 

There’s just so much bullshit in Andi’s head right now. She’s trying not to think about any of it. Normally Below Deck would solve the problem, but there’s one thing that keeps slipping through the cracks of her usual defense systems.   

Friday night was…well. 

Kissing Emilia felt like seeing a familiar face in a room full of strangers. Like getting wasted on your birthday. Like acing a test you were sure you were going to fail. Like finding twenty bucks in the back pocket of your favorite jeans. Like the universe saying, I made this for you. I made this moment for you.

She fucking hates it.  

“And you are being such an asshole to her,” the yacht captain snaps at one of his crew members on TV. “There is never, ever, a valid reason to treat a woman like that. Do better. Otherwise, I will personally make sure that this is your last charter. You hear me?”  

Andi slurps her orange juice and sighs.

She walked Emilia to the station, kissed her goodnight, and went home. Well, wait, hold on–that’s not entirely true. She walked Emilia to the station, made out with her for so long that Emilia let three trains go by, and then went home. She didn’t run any game, didn’t invite Emilia back to her place…nothing. She didn’t even want to.  

Well, wait, hold on–that’s not entirely true, either. It’s not like she didn’t want to—of course she wanted to; just kissing Emilia made Andi desperate to know what might be under that sweater– and with a different woman, under different circumstances, she might have done just that. But there was something about the way Emilia let Andi touch her that made Andi get the same vibe she’d gotten on Tuesday. Something kept telling her to slow down and let Emilia decide how much was enough. 

She’s never felt that before–this intuitive understanding of another person’s body. She kinda just…knew what to do. It wasn’t perfect (at one point she got so into it they knocked into each other’s teeth; at another point she accidentally caught Emilia’s earring between her fingers and tugged on her earlobe), but it felt right regardless. She knew how to hold Emilia, how to press her close without scaring her away, how to reach for her hand and walk in step with her. More importantly, she knew when to stop doing all those things. 

But the real problem–the big problem–is that they talked about music. Andi opened a door for Emilia, someone she met a little over a week ago, without any hesitation. She hasn’t done that in forever. She’s not good at it. Or she’s not supposed to be, anyway. But Emilia made her feel like she could be.

To an extent, Andi can talk about music with anyone. But the way she talked about it with Emilia was different. It went beyond favorite songs and meaningless hits on the radio and weird covers she wants to try. It’s one thing to talk about art, another to talk about artistry. She could feel herself riding the rush, her body humming again as she dove deep into things she’s only ever really discussed with the girls, and even then, not to this degree of…what? She’s not even sure what to call it. 

She showed Emilia the way her mind works, the way she processes her favorite things, the way she’s been changed by the music she loves. And she felt…heard. She offered an intimate part of herself, and she felt wanted, not despite her way of being, but because of it. It felt like she finally met someone who understood how much she sacrificed for this, and why she did it. Somehow, she could feel Emilia…admiring her? Liking her? 

Wanting to know what she had to say. 

And that’s why Andi hates the whole thing. 

In fact, she hates it so much she hasn’t even seen Emilia again since Friday, though not for lack of trying, technically. Then again, maybe technically is a strong word. Hell, maybe trying is a strong word.

Emilia texted her when she got back to the hotel, and Andi said okay and goodnight, and that was it. The next morning Emilia texted to see if Andi was free the rest of the weekend, but Andi had to work doubles on Saturday and Sunday, so she said no. So then Emilia asked if Andi wanted to hang out on Monday night instead, and Andi was on dinner service, which she could have just said outright, but instead she just…didn’t respond. And they haven’t talked since. 

Look, it’s not like Andi doesn’t want to talk to her! It’s just that she’s always been useless with this shit. And Emilia’s…Emilia. And anyway it was a date, yeah, okay, cool–a date that Andi herself asked for; she can own up to that—but maybe all they did was have dinner and shoot the breeze and make out, just like Andi’s done with countless other women. If she tries hard enough, she can convince herself of anything, even something as blatantly stupid as that. She can push the fear away. She can pretend she didn’t feel hurt when Emilia said it wasn’t a date at first. She can pretend she doesn’t care. 

Right?

Right. 

Okay, you know what? Fine. She’s not a complete dumbass. She knows they didn’t just “have dinner and make out.” And, much to her dismay, Andi already knows Emilia’s not “countless other women.” 

She knew it the second she wrapped her little finger around Emilia’s. 

See, this is the problem with liking people: the squishy stuff. The feelings. This is why Andi avoids this shit. She doesn’t do squishy, and she definitely doesn’t do feelings. Feelings are confusing, and she doesn’t like being confused. If you want to get deep about it (which she does not, thank you very much, but we’re too far gone now so might as well), it could very well be the reason she dates the way she does. It could be exactly why she got involved with the burlesque dancer, the painter, the vegan, the linguine girl…she knew from the jump that those relationships were going nowhere fast. There’s a difference between getting involved and getting invested. It’s easy to stay in the game when you keep your cards close to the vest. 

But Friday though.

On Friday there were cards all over the table. Feelings all over the place. A goddamn festival of investment. And when Emilia yanked her back and grabbed her belt loops and kissed her like it mattered, Andi started to understand what people mean when they say the r word. The word she’s usually such an expert at avoiding. 

Romantic. 

She traced the treble clef because she had to. She had to tell Emilia something important but didn’t know how to say it out loud, not without scaring herself, or worse, scaring Emilia. Words are terrifying, and they never come out the way Andi wishes they would. Words have cost her everything too many times to count. 

So she took Emilia’s hand and did what she could to explain herself. 

And Emilia understood.

It’s the fucking worst. 

“David says he wants ground lamb for Kippie’s breakfast,” a crew member tells the yacht chef on TV. 

“Ground lamb?” the chef asks. “He didn’t put that on the list.”

“Yeah, well,” the crew member says with a shrug. “He wants it now.”

The chef groans. “Not sure if you noticed, Kayla, but we’re in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea; where the hell am I supposed to find ground lamb?!” 

“Can we get it airdropped?”

“What do you think this is, the Red Cross?” the chef asks. He groans. “It’s just a stupid dog.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Kayla replies. “He’s been looking for an excuse to throw you overboard for days.” 

Another slurp of orange juice, another handful of Doritos. 

Selena wakes up and adjusts herself on the couch, putting her head in Andi’s lap, the usual signal for a belly rub. She turns over on her back and Andi starts stroking the white fur on her chest. Then the dog closes her eyes and relaxes again. 

Andi’s debating lighting a candle (choices: Laura’s tobacco or MJ’s vanilla bean, neither one particularly appealing) and Selena’s snoring gently when the front door bursts open. 

MJ crosses the threshold, takes two steps into the kitchen, and promptly collapses on the floor. 

The sound makes Andi jump, sending the Doritos flying in all directions. Selena leaps off the couch with a bark and runs to the kitchen. When she finds MJ, she starts whining softly and nudging MJ’s arm with her snout. 

Andi crash-lands beside MJ, lifting her head carefully to make sure she’s not hurt. “Oh my god! Are you okay? Did–”

“I’m fine, Andi,” MJ says. “Well, not really, but you know what I mean. Ugh.”

She lays flat on her back and covers her eyes with her wrist.

“What happened?” 

“He froze.”

Andi just blinks at her.

Laura appears in her bedroom doorway, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going–” As soon as she sees MJ on the floor she runs over, but Andi stops her.

“She’s fine,” Andi says. “Sort of.”

MJ makes a sound that lands somewhere between a groan and a whine. 

Laura adjusts her robe and settles down next to MJ in lotus position. “What’s going on?” 

“He just…froze.”

“Who froze?” Andi asks. 

“Christopher,” MJ says. 

Christopher? Andi mouths at Laura, and Laura mimes hands moving across piano keys. 

“Right!” Andi says. “Christopher.” 

MJ moves her wrist off her eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “He just totally blanked. They asked him to play the Schubert sonata, and he started fine, and then ten minutes into the molto moderato he just stopped playing.”

MJ raises her arms, and Andi and Laura help her sit up. “He says he just forgot the notes. Had no idea what he was supposed to play next. Just completely blanked.” She sighs. “We worked on that sonata for months. It was his strongest piece. And he just…” 

Andi sees tears filling MJ’s eyes and pulls her in for a hug. “I’m really sorry, buddy. Sometimes things happen outside our control.” 

“Yeah, well…his parents don’t see it that way.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asks.

“They’re already saying it’s my fault.”

“So? Fuck them,” Andi says. 

“It’s not that simple,” MJ says. “If other parents hear stuff like this, it’ll ruin my reputation. Everyone knows everyone and the Juilliard applicants pay so much more…how am I going to survive tutoring seven-year-olds who couldn’t give less of a fuck about learning scales and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”?”

Andi and Laura lock eyes over MJ’s head. They both know the apocalypse is just around the corner whenever MJ swears. 

“Look. You don’t have enough information to panic right now,” Laura says. “For now, you just have to remember that it’s not your fault. It’s not really anyone’s fault. We’ve all had those moments when we’re playing. I know I have.” 

“Yeah, but not during your audition to the most prestigious music school in the world,” MJ says, and starts to cry. 

Andi’s trying to figure out a game plan when Jana comes out of her room in red boy shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled all the way over her hands. Her hair’s in a messy ponytail, a few greasy strands framing her face. Her eyes are red. “What’s going on?”

Andi frowns. “You’re home?”

“Obviously,” Jana says. She turns to MJ. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” Laura says. “Or will be, anyway.”

“What happened?”

MJ groans. “Nothing, just the death of my tutoring career as we know it.”

“What’s up with you?” Andi asks Jana.

Jana looks down at the floor. She crosses her legs, puts one foot on top of the other. “I’m good.”

“Bull.”

When Jana looks up Andi could swear there’s shame in her eyes, but they both let it go. There’s no space right now, not with MJ’s tears filling the room.

“MJ, it’s going to be okay,” Laura says. “Let’s get you out of these clothes and into some pj’s, hmm? We’ll order ramen and watch Érase Una Vez.”

“Oh my god, again?” Andi mutters, and Laura shoots her a look. 

“Can we get extra chashu pork?” MJ asks between sniffles. 

Selena sits up straight, seeming to ask Laura the exact same question. 

“And gyoza,” Laura says with a gentle smile. “Let’s go wild tonight.” 

MJ nods, and Laura helps her up off the floor. “Take a shower first; that’ll help you feel better. Andi will make you some chocolate milk.” 

Andi pulls herself to standing and opens the cabinet over the sink. She’s reaching for MJ’s Princess Jasmine mug when MJ says, “Actually…can we have mezcal?”

Andi raises a brow. “Since when do you drink mezcal?”

“Since my star student lost his shit during the most important moment of his fucking life.”

Andi and Laura share a wince. 

“I don’t know about mezcal, but we can probably make pisco sours,” Laura says. “I think we have enough eggs.”

“Or maybe,” Jana says, finally stepping into the kitchen, “instead of holing up here like a bunch of bitter old ladies, we can actually do something fun.”

“Tell me more,” MJ says with a sniffle. 

“Excuse me?” Andi says to MJ. 

Jana shoots the group a wicked smile. “When’s the last time we raged?” 

“Latin night at Banana Cow two months ago,” Laura says easily. 

“That was quick,” Andi says.

“Yeah well…” Laura shrugs. “It was a good night.”

MJ gasps. “Oh, yeah, I remember! ‘Cause you made out with…” MJ trails off when Laura glares at her. 

Andi frowns. “Made out with who?”

“None of your business,” Laura says.

“It sounds to me like we’re overdue for a rager, ladies,” Jana says. “And I know exactly where we should go.”

“If you say Cameo I will vomit right here on this floor,” Andi says. 

“Gross,” MJ murmurs. 

Jana grins. “We have a winner!” 

Andi shakes her head. “You remember what happened the last time we were there?” 

“If I recall correctly, you hooked up with that architect,” Jana says. 

“If I recall correctly, we got kicked out because MJ danced on the fucking bar. And I got the worst yeast infection of my life after that girl, by the way.” 

“Oh, that’s right,” MJ murmurs. “On the bar.” 

“That’s what you get for messing with a Scorpio moon with acrylic tips,” Jana says. 

Laura shakes her head slowly. “What do I always say about Scorpio moons, Andi?”

Andi rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You guys can go rage if you want, but MJ and I–”

“‘MJ and I’ nothing,” MJ says, scrolling through her phone. “I’m going out. And I’m getting wasted.”

“Fuck yes,” Jana says. “Miss Vega?”

Laura taps her lips with her index finger. “I have a sunrise class tomorrow. But fuck it, I’ll be fine. I’m in.” 

“You’re going to go all the way into the city, Laura?” Andi asks. “All the way to Chelsea?” 

“I’m sorry for not wanting to have $5 well shots at Painted Daisy again.”  

“Hey! $5 is a great deal.”

“Yeah, because those shots are basically ethanol,” Laura says. 

Andi shakes her head. “I thought you were better than this.” 

Jana turns to Andi. “Guess it all comes down to you, buddy.”

“O-M-G guys, it’s 90s night!” MJ cries. 

She shows Andi her phone and sure enough, Cameo’s Instagram story has a bubblegum pink ad for 90s night. Gin and juice, Spice Girls, the whole bit.

“The stars are aligning,” Jana sings, wiggling her fingers at Andi.  

Laura and MJ start singing “Oh, it’s just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby,” and dancing around the kitchen together. 

“And who knows? Maybe Emilia will come, too,” Jana says. “If you ask her nicely, of course.” 

Andi frowns. “Why would I do that?” 

“Because you like her,” Jana says. She heads to the fridge and grabs a bottle of blue Gatorade. 

“How do you know?”

“Easy,” Jana says. “You haven’t talked about her. Like, at all.”

“So?”

Jana cracks open the bottle and takes a sip. “It’s been like four days and you haven’t told us anything about your date. Anything to say for yourself?”

Andi presses her lips together.

“Exactly.”

Laura and MJ stop dancing and sit at the table. “We always know when you’re not super interested in a girl because you’ll tell us all about her,” Laura says.

“It’s kinda weird, actually,” MJ says. She beckons to Jana, who hands over the Gatorade. “When you don’t really care, you’re totally open about it.”

“But when you actually like someone…” Laura trails off. 

“What?”

“You treat it like it’s a government secret or something,” MJ says, sipping the Gatorade.

“I do not!”

Jana laughs. “It’s not a crime to like someone, Andi.” 

“It’s nice, actually,” Laura says.

“I…she’s okay, I guess.” Andi draws her phone from the pocket of her hoodie, pretending to check it. “I’m not pressed about it.” 

Jana narrows her eyes. “Bullshit.”

“Oh, yeah? You wanna go there, Cohen?”

“I sure do,” Jana says. “What happened on Friday?”

Welp. Time for the firing squad. 

Choosing her words carefully, Andi begins. “We…had dinner.” 

“And?” MJ asks. 

“And…” 

On the platform, when they found themselves alone for a minute, Andi got a little bold and unbuttoned Emilia’s coat. She finally got her hands under Emilia’s sweater and ran her fingers along Emilia’s skin, just below the hem of the cashmere. Then she traced down past the zipper of Emilia’s jeans, over the denim, and pressed her index finger on the spot where the seams gathered in the center. Emilia tilted her head back and gasped softly at the sudden pressure. When Andi pressed again, harder this time, Emilia moaned just loud enough to get her wet. 

To say Andi wore out her vibrator later would be a bit of an understatement. 

“...it was fine, I guess.”

Jana, MJ, and Laura go silent. Selena waddles over to Laura and plops down on top of her feet. 

“That’s it?” MJ asks. “Fine, you guess?”

Andi frowns. 

“Oh, so you really like her, then,” Jana says.

“She’s in deep,” MJ says. 

“She’s in deep, Selena, did you hear that?” Laura says, bending down to scratch the dog’s chin. Selena barks once in reply. 

“Even Selena approves,” MJ says, beaming. 

Andi tightens the strings on her hoodie and groans. 

“Believe it or not, this is actually good for you,” Jana says.

“Maybe now you’ll actually get laid and stop being such a dick all the time,” MJ says, to the surprise of everyone.

Laura’s jaw drops. Jana gasps. Andi just stares.

MJ takes a sip of Gatorade, ignoring everyone’s reactions. “So, are we getting ready to go, or what?” 

Goddamn it. 

Andi sighs. “Yes, okay, fine, we’re going.”

MJ jumps up and heads to her room to change.

Andi glares at Jana. “You’ve created a monster.” 

Jana shrugs. “Serves you right.”

“What? How is this about me?”

“Oh, grow up, you two, let’s go rage!” Laura says. She scoops Selena into her arms and goes to her room. As she closes the door Andi hears her say, “We’re going out, Selena! Help me pick out what to wear.” 

“Are you going to text Emilia?” Jana asks. She reaches for the Gatorade. “She might–”

“What’s going on with you?”

Jana blinks at her. “What do you mean?”

Suddenly Andi kinda regrets asking the question. But she needs answers. She’s not as patient as Laura. 

“I mean, I heard about Esteban texting you last week. Right before the show.”  

Jana purses her lips.

“Don’t fuck with me, Cohen.” 

Jana smiles but it looks too fake. Too angry. “I’m fine. Really.”

Here we go again, Andi thinks. Standing at the fault line, gathering weapons, preparing for combat. Another round of snarky comments about men being trash, another set of cute little explanations for the bruises on her wrists, or the scrapes on her knees, or the sharp half-moons on her forearms. Andi hates this part, because there’s nothing she can do to change it. She can’t stop the war between her and Jana, the fracture that widens every time Esteban comes up. The only person who can choose an armistice is Jana. 

And Andi knows that if she’s hurting right now, Jana must be in agony. 

After Jana and Esteban slept together for the first time, Jana came home scrubbed clean. That was how she looked: as if she’d spent the night rinsing off all the things that had ever made her sad. As if she’d washed away the parts of herself she never liked anyway.

Esteban dropped her off at Moonstone to meet the girls for breakfast. The three of them watched from their booth as he kissed her for a long time across the street from the diner. He touched her like she was art, something built by the most careful, patient hands. He watched as she looked both ways and crossed the street, her hair blowing just right in the breeze. He was smiling the whole time. He didn’t leave until she was at the table with the girls. 

For the next three weeks they barely saw her. She missed every practice session. They had to have a meeting to talk to her about it. Jana said they didn’t understand. MJ, of all people, said there was nothing to understand: either show up to practice or leave the band. Jana said MJ was just bitter and repressed and why couldn’t they all be happy for her. For a whole week she didn’t speak to them. 

And then, as Andi was going to bed at the end of that week, Jana came to her room and said she didn’t want to be alone. In a low voice, she asked if Andi would come sleep with her. Andi was surprised, but knew she had to do it. Jana wouldn’t ask if she didn’t really need it. This was her way of apologizing.  

Bundled in Jana’s orchid-scented sheets, they stared up at the stick-on stars on the ceiling and listened to “Nikes” on repeat. With her eyes on the stars, Jana told Andi that being with Esteban made her feel like she’d just been granted access to a special club. Like she was a platinum member of adulthood now. One of love’s chosen few. 

She said that she knew everything was going to change. Esteban was going to fix everything that was wrong with her. 

Andi should have told her there was nothing to fix. 

She puts her hands in her pockets. “If something’s wrong–”

“Nothing’s wrong. I handled it. Okay?”

“‘Cause Laura said–”

“Laura doesn’t know shit,” Jana snaps. “I’m fine.” 

But the look on Jana’s face hurts. Usually Andi’s good at reading her but now…she has no idea what’s going on in there. 

He showed up at a gig. That’s how it started. A sleeve of tattoos, a generous smile, and compliments for Jana. That was all it took, or seemed to take. 

That’s what bothers Andi about the whole thing. Jana’s a mystery: no one sees much of who she is beyond the surface, and that’s completely intentional. After a lifetime of dodging attention, she’s learned how to run deep. But there’s a difference between attention and care. And Jana would give anything for a little care. 

He came up to her, told her she was the best part of the band, and she fell for him. Like prey. Like a trick. Like a joke. Except she’s the punchline. Andi knows it’s not that simple, but sometimes it feels that way.

Sometimes Andi tries to imagine what it’s like. She understands it’s a cycle: favorite songs, little gifts, inside jokes, lazy mornings, long walks, cups of coffee, cigarettes, longings and kinks and moods and dreams…and then one tiny fracture cracks the whole facade. And just like that it’s rage, exasperation, one drink too few, five drinks too many, three days of silent treatment, hands on places they should never be, not like this, not with that pain behind them. 

Suddenly that touch is filled with all the wrong things. 

“If he’s hurting you–”

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to play savior right now.”

“Jesus Christ, Jana. I just…” She wonders how much she should admit. “I get worried when you’re not here sometimes. You could be…” 

Jana narrows her eyes. “I could what?” 

Andi doesn’t answer.

“I could be what?” Jana repeats. Her voice is a blade now. “I could be texting him? I could be seeing him behind your back? I could be fucking him?”

“Jana, please.”

“Please, what?”

Andi twists the hem of her hoodie between her fingers. “There’s a court order, dude. For your safety.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.” 

Andi sighs. “I just want to help.” 

“You know how you can help? By fucking off.” Jana pulls her sleeves down over her wrists. 

That’s it. That does it. 

“You know what sucks?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You don’t even need this shit,” Andi says. “You don’t need this guy. And the worst part is, you fucking know that, but you choose not to listen.”

“Oh, I choose not to listen? Sometimes it feels like all I do is listen to you guys preach to me about how I’m ruining my life and how you’re all so much better at relationships than I am.” Jana takes a big sip of her drink. “But you know what? You’re just as fucked up as me, if not more so.” 

“Lime in the coconut.”

Jana opens her mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it and backs off. 

Lime in the coconut. That’s their thing. It’s what they say whenever they want to stop the play clock. Put the pin back in the grenade. Take a time out before things go too far. They came up with it in the middle of a fight at the conservatory and have used it ever since. 

When Andi first saw Jana at school, before they met in the practice room, she figured Jana would be the personification of nails on a chalkboard. And who could blame her? Jana is only the daughter of the most in-demand music producer in Mexico. Her grandfather ran EWS back in the day, for crying out loud. She could have been a total pop princess, crowned queen of Tik Tok duet chains, protected from unpopularity just by virtue of her last name. She didn’t need school, or any musical training for that matter. But she surprised everyone and chose not just to go to music school, but to go to Monterrey, because she wanted to prove that she was good enough to do this on her own. 

Andi could respect that. They bonded over a lot of late nights in each other’s rooms, borrowing each other’s books, making each other playlists, debating about composition and poetry and song structure and leitmotifs. Las Ingratas is about the four of them, and they’re all tight, but Andi and Jana are a unit unto themselves. That’s just how it’s always been. They can gas each other up, knock each other down a peg, and talk each other off the ledge. There’s no one else Andi will let give her shit the way Jana does. 

A long time ago Jana and Andi used to spend a lot of time together. In a sense the four of them got paired off because of their jobs: MJ and Laura were the day crew, tutoring kids and teaching at the studio; Andi and Jana were the night owls, at Evangeline and Golden Hour. So whenever Jana wasn’t with Esteban, they’d test out a different subway line and spend the day exploring the city end to end. 

Andi remembers the first time they went to the Natural History museum and walked with their arms looped together. They shared earbuds and listened to Smashing Pumpkins and Ana Gabriel as they wandered through the biodiversity dioramas, admiring the smooth bright coats of the lions and tigers. Then they went to the Hall of Ocean Life and lay down under the blue whale model and played music that reminded them of water. They talked about Mexico and the things they missed, good and bad: playing to ten people in shitty basement bars, sitting on the curb eating esquite at two am, kissing boys and girls they thought they’d love forever. After a while, when they were quiet, listening to the music and the footsteps of tourists all around them, Jana held Andi’s hand. They never really talked about it; there was no need. Now it’s something they do from time to time, whenever Jana needs to reach out but doesn’t know how to do it out loud. 

That’s the part that stings. Jana, who’s strong enough to tell her father to fuck off, strong enough to move to New York with no money, to work at a shady bar for practically no pay, to spend her time eating, sleeping, breathing music…isn’t strong enough to reach out anymore. 

Andi knows it’s not a matter of strength or weakness. But it doesn’t stop her from grieving the change, or from wishing things were different. 

Lime in the coconut. It feels like such a long time ago now–a decade and an instant all at once. She can’t even remember what they were fighting about. It’s been so many days and nights of music and writing and affection and secrets and drugs and drinking and arguing and making up and protecting each other. They used to be able to do that. Sometimes Andi thinks she can pinpoint the exact moment she stopped being able to protect Jana, and sometimes she has no idea when it happened. 

So much around them has changed, but that reference has stayed exactly the same. Those words have defused countless bombs over the years. 

They’re the closest thing Andi’s got to an armistice. 

“Lime in the coconut,” Jana says, finally. “I’m sorry.” 

The relief hits Andi like a high. 

She goes to the couch and sits down. Jana follows and sits beside her.

“Jana, we both know I’m a mess. I could never preach to you.” 

“It feels like all of you do, sometimes.” 

“I’m sorry,” Andi says. “By the way: Laura’s been really fucking nice to you because she wants to treat you like a responsible adult who will tell us when something’s wrong. But I’m not like that. I’m a shithead.” 

Jana smiles gently. “You’re not a shithead.”

“Oh, yes, I am, and I accept my fate,” Andi says. 

Jana shakes her head and takes Andi’s hand. 

He makes me special. That’s what Jana told her once. They shared an edible and went to see Fuerza Bruta one night two summers ago, and as they walked to the train after the show with confetti in their hair Jana stopped her in the middle of the street and said those exact words. 

Not: he makes every day special. Not: spending time with him is special. No.

He makes me special. 

Andi was too high, from the brownie and the show, to say what she needed to say. That the word special is infinitely complicated, but also mind-bendingly simple. That Jana already has all the special she could possibly need, all of it waiting for her in her music: in the songs she writes for the group, and the ones Andi knows she writes in secret in a completely separate notebook. But those private songs are so raw that Jana barely gives them room to breathe. She refuses to let them coexist in her creative reality. So she uses only the roughest tools: her pen, her ukulele, and her memory. She doesn’t trust anyone with the sound of her own mind. Not even herself. 

The only reason Andi even knows is by accident. They were arranging a track late one night, and Jana needed her phone charger from her room. Andi went to get it for her, and that’s when she saw the old conservatory exam book lying open next to the charger. 

Love is the presence of acceptance, not the absence of pain. 

There were plenty more words on the page but no chords, just brackets and dashes and quotation marks around different lyrics, some kind of secret melodic code known only to Jana. The page was crumpled from too much writing and erasing and rewriting. 

Andi wished she could hear the melody. She still does. Not knowing what her best friend sounds like devastates her. 

Jana closes her eyes for just a second. When she opens them, her hard shell is back with a vengeance. 

“Look,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m always going to worry about you.”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“Worse,” Andi says. “Your best friend.”

Jana laughs. 

“Just…”

Jana squeezes Andi’s hand. “I know.”

“Okay.” 

Jana smiles. “We good?”

They both know nothing is settled, not by a long shot. But they can give it a rest for now. 

Until next time. 

He makes me special. 

Andi squeezes Jana’s hand back, hoping she can hear the words spoken under the surface. “Yeah. We’re good.” 

Andi lets go and starts picking up spilled chips. While she’s crawling under the coffee table she hears Jana say, “Soooo…are you going to ask her to come out tonight?”

“Who, Emilia?”

“No, Morgan Freeman. Yes, Emilia!”

Andi grunts as she stands up, her hands full of Doritos. “Nah. I actually…”

“You actually what?”

“I didn’t text her back.” When Jana frowns, Andi adds, “She asked if I wanted to hang out on Monday, and I…” She shrugs. 

Jana shoves Andi so hard she drops all the Doritos again. “Dude! You left her on read?! What the fuck?”

Andi makes a face. 

Jana gets on her knees and starts gathering chips. “After all the work MJ and I did for you, you left her on read. Unbelievable.”

“Not really that hard to believe, Cohen. We all know I’m a certified fresh, grade-A asshole.”

“Andi.” Jana stops what she’s doing and shoots Andi a serious look. “You’re not an asshole. Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that. Only I get to do that.”

When Jana smirks at her, Andi smiles. It feels good to smile now. 

“So I guess it’s over, huh?” Jana asks. “I mean, since you stopped responding to her messages…”

Andi shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, she’s definitely not going to want to talk to me after I…”

When she looks up, Jana is practically staring at her.

“After you what?”

Andi sighs. “After we kissed. A lot.”

Jana groans. “So you had everything going for you, and then you didn’t text her back.”

“Pretty much.”

“That feels very on brand for you, actually.”

“Hey! I resent that.”

Jana smirks. “Is she a Scorpio moon?”

“Fuck you,” Andi says around a laugh. 

Jana stands and takes her armful of chips to the trash. “Okay, so…maybe not certified fresh, but in the general realm of asshole, I think.” 

Andi laughs, and Jana does, too. 

Jana’s walking away when she turns around all of a sudden and says, “Just so you know: there will be a third-degree grilling later. I just can’t focus on giving you shit when I need to pick out an outfit.” 

Andi smiles. “Can’t wait.” And it’s true this time. 

It’s actually true every time, but Andi will never admit that out loud. 

Jana goes to her room and shuts the door. After a moment Andi hears the shower start to run, and MJ’s voice rings out, singing “Come on over, come on over, baby…”

Andi sits at the kitchen table and takes out her phone. 

Maybe the girls are right. Maybe it’s not so bad to like someone. Maybe she should text Emilia and invite her out. Maybe she should grow up and say what she feels. 

But what does she feel? 

The truth is that on Friday, as those leaves fell all around them and the wind picked up and she pressed Emilia close, Andi felt settled. Usually on every date there’s a missed opportunity, a sour note in the song, a moment that reaffirms Andi’s rule of not trusting people. But with Emilia, nothing happened. Every expression fit the way Andi had secretly hoped it would. Every note landed right where it was supposed to. 

When she took Emilia’s hand after they kissed, the sparks between their fingers made Andi feel steady. Anchored but not heavy. It made her feel like she was right where she needed to be. 

The truth is that the treble clef meant: Please. Be here with me. 

Show me that you feel it, too.

But what if she’s alone in this? 

She puts her phone back in her pocket. 

Time to pick out an outfit. Ugh.  

***

She can feel the wind crawling up the sleeves of her jacket. She hates it.

Andi wanted to leave the house in the clothes she was already wearing, but the girls insisted she at least try not to look like a bum. Which is why she’s now standing in line at Cameo wearing tight jeans, a long-sleeved backless bodysuit, and a leather jacket. 

At least she got to wear her Docs, because damn it, nobody gets to boss her around that much. 

Once again, she hates it. 

MJ shivers next to her in a bodycon dress, short pea coat, and platform boots. “Okay, who let me wear this?”

Jana reaches over to rub MJ’s hands with her own. “You’re the one who said you wanted to look like an Instagram baddie. Or something.” 

Jana, meanwhile, is in a white crop top, blue Adidas track pants, Air Force 1s, and a short down jacket. Fuck her. She looks cute, but fuck her. Why does she get to be warm?

Laura seems unfazed by the cold. She went full “Crunchy Granola Suite” and opted for a long-sleeved high-low floral dress, a big infinity scarf, and ankle boots. Somehow, it looks great on her. It’s almost unfair. 

Andi cranes her neck around the people in front of them. The line is just long enough to annoy her. “Okay, what are we doing here again? We could have been home eating ramen.”

“We are here,” MJ says between shivers, “because I need to get blacked out.”

“A noble cause,” Laura says serenely.

“I think we should drink to that,” Jana says. From her tiny fanny pack she manages to extract a silver flask. “Anyone?”

MJ snatches the flask and takes a long pull. When she swallows, she grimaces. “Oh, Jana, no. What is that?”

“Two-Buck Chuck,” Jana says with a smile.

Andi frowns. “You put wine in your flask?”

“I sure did,” Jana says. “Desperate times…blah blah blah.”

“Didn’t realize times were that desperate,” Andi says. 

“Gimme,” Laura says, and takes a sip. “Fuck, Jana, is this your divorced white lady wine?”

“Hey! Charles Shaw Chardonnay is a perfectly acceptable wine, thank you very much.”

“Yes,” Laura says, “for forty-year-old divorced white ladies waiting for their kids to come home from school.”

Andi laughs. “All right, hand it over.”

She takes a sip. It tastes like a world drained of joy.

“God, that tastes like giving up,” Andi says, and Laura laughs. 

Jana makes a face, and MJ starts laughing too, and they’re all kinda giggling like idiots when suddenly a voice calls out, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ringo Starr.”

Andi turns around. 

Emilia’s wearing a peach-colored sweater dress that’s so short and tight Andi’s not even sure if it can be called a dress at all. Cream suede boots reach all the way up to the middle of her thigh. Her hair’s up in a high ponytail, with two wavy tendrils around her face highlighting her cheekbones, and she’s wearing these giant star-shaped earrings that look like sparklers. Like champagne fireworks framing her face. She’s carrying a little purse shaped like the Eiffel Tower. 

She looks perfect, and perfectly herself. Because of course she does. She is, Andi thinks, physically incapable of looking any other way.  

Andi feels her pulse all over her body.

Emilia comes right up to Andi. Her eyes are dusted with pale pink shadow and lined with bright blue liner. She smells like apples again, and vanilla lip gloss. That scent should be heavy and annoying, but it’s not. Not on her. 

“Heyyyyy,” Andi says. It sounds like a squeak. Ugh. 

“Hi,” Emilia says, but her tone is less than pleased—at best. “Good to see you.” 

“Good to see you, too,” Andi says, her voice barely steady. 

Somewhere behind her, Andi hears Jana say, “Is that her?”

“Yup,” MJ says.

“She’s pretty,” Laura says.

“Told you,” MJ says.

Emilia smiles tightly. “So are you an asshole to all the women you go out with, or am I the lucky one?”

“Ouch,” Jana says, just loud enough for Andi to hear.

“Right in the self-esteem,” MJ says.

Andi swallows hard. “Emilia, you…” 

She trails off. 

“I what?”

“You…”

Suddenly she has no idea what the fuck to say.

Emilia tilts her head and looks at Andi expectantly. 

Andi knows she needs to say something but her mind is crowded with all kinds of dangerous thoughts right now. The way Emilia’s skin felt when her fingertips grazed under that sweater. The way her tongue felt inside Emilia’s mouth. The way she spent the rest of the night imagining how her tongue would feel inside Emilia. Would Emilia’s legs shake if Andi were to put her mouth on just the right spot? 

Oh my god she needs to cut this shit out. Now. 

Emilia steps back, and that’s when Andi notices she’s with someone. A tall dude with a blonde mohawk, wearing jeans and a button-up shirt. And then she sees that he’s holding a purple fur coat that has about a three percent chance of belonging to him. And then she sees his protective glare. And then she sees him put his hand on Emilia’s back. The back she touched on Friday. 

Nope. Now she’s fucking done.

She knows her feelings are one hundred million thousand percent unjustified, but that doesn’t stop her from yelling, “Hi! I’m Andi. Who are you?”

The guy raises both brows, looking reasonably surprised by Andi’s tone. She cringes to herself, but it’s too late now. 

“Hey,” he says, so politely it makes her feel even worse. “I’m Dixon. How are you?” He bends down a little and says, “This is her?” to Emilia.

“Yeah,” Emilia says, looking squarely at Andi. “This is her.”

Dixon goes back to glaring at Andi. Great. 

“Look, Emilia–”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Emilia says, though her tone clearly indicates it is not, by any stretch of the imagination, okay. “You don’t have to say anything. Glad you have the night off. See you around.”

She heads to the back of the line with Dixon. Andi watches her go.

That dress skims every inch of Emilia’s body perfectly. It’s infuriating. But what’s more infuriating is that Dixon’s hand is still on her back as they walk. The back Andi touched on Friday. The back she doesn’t want anyone else to touch. 

Jesus Christ what is wrong with her? 

When she turns around the girls are glaring at her with varying degrees of annoyance.

“What?”

“So you’re just going to let her go,” Jana says. “That’s it.”

“She made it pretty clear she’s done with me.”

MJ frowns. “Andi, what do I always say? You have to–”

“Believe in love, yeah, yeah, yeah. And that’s adorable, MJ, but I’m not a creep. She said no.”

“I mean, she didn’t exactly say no…” MJ trails off with a shrug.

“That’s exactly what a creep would say.”

Laura purses her lips. “I mean, yes, where is the lie, but just…I think you should at least go and apologize. Admit you’re a dumbass, and see how she reacts.” 

“Maybe she’ll take pity on you and your abysmal communication skills,” Jana says. 

“All right, all right, enough,” Andi says. She crosses her arms over her chest and heads to the back of the line.

She sees Emilia and Dixon laughing about something and wants to walk away. 

But then something tells her she should just go for it. This dude looks like a total joke. What a stupid haircut. And what a stupid name. She can take him. 

Verbally, at least. 

“Emilia.” 

They stop talking and look at her.

Emilia blinks at Andi. “Are you lost? Your friends are up in front.”

Dixon stays quiet.

“I just…I wanted to come and apologize.”

“Why?” Emilia asks. 

Andi frowns. “Why?”

Emilia nods. “I already told you: you don’t have to say anything.” 

“Yeah but I was the worst. I should have texted you back. I just didn’t know…”

She trails off. Emilia’s eyes are so full of hurt it makes Andi mad. The fact that it’s her fault makes it even worse. 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you.” 

“Okay. Whatever.” 

“Oh, is that my phone?” Dixon asks, loudly. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Uh-oh, gotta go take this call. Sorry, guys!”

Emilia laughs just slightly as he rushes off, looking over his shoulder at them the entire time.

Once he’s gone, Emilia speaks. “Andi, I think you’re…nice, or whatever.”

Oh, here it comes.

“But I can’t.”

Andi feels the wind get knocked out of her, and her skin gets hot and cold at the same time. She can barely get enough air without feeling this weird rattle in her chest. But it doesn’t make any sense. 

Emilia’s gaze is suddenly icy, and Andi is desperate to look away but she knows that if she does, it’s over.

“I thought maybe it wouldn’t matter, but…” Emilia presses her lips together. “Turns out I don’t like being confused, either.” 

Ouch.

“Okay,” Andi says, but it sounds like this weird croak she’s never heard before. 

“So…yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Have fun tonight.”

Andi feels her stomach contract, and she has no idea what’s happening, but she does her best to hide it. She knows she’s not doing a good job, though, because Emilia’s got this weird expression on her face, like maybe she’s hurting just as much as Andi, but that doesn’t make any sense, either. 

“You, too.”

Emilia looks down at the pavement and before she can lift her gaze Andi runs back to Jana and Laura and MJ.

“Code red,” Laura says.

Andi balls her hands into fists and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Triage time,” Jana says.

“Need a Charles Shaw I.V. and back pats, stat!” MJ says. After a moment MJ opens Andi’s mouth and pours wine into it. Laura rubs Andi’s back, starting with slow little circles in the center that fan out until they cover her whole upper back.

Andi opens her eyes. She swallows the wine and says, “More, please.”

Jana leans over to look at the line. They start moving a lot faster now, and then they’re almost at the door. She reaches into Andi’s pocket and grabs her wallet, takes out her ID. 

Then Jana gets cash from her fanny pack, starts counting out bills. “I got the cover.”

“I got the first round of shots,” Laura says.

“Fireball,” MJ says.

“Love you to pieces, Andi, but if I’m paying, I’m not torturing myself with that,” Laura says. 

“Yeah, MJ. She can do Fireball, we’ll do something else,” Jana says.

“But we have to,” MJ says. “It’s her favorite.” 

“God, she has terrible taste,” Jana says. 

“Says the girl who brings two-dollar Chardonnay to the club in her flask,” MJ shoots back.  

“Not the time, ladies,” Laura says, still patting Andi’s back. “Completely one hundred percent true, but not the time.” 

“We’re officially out of Chuck,” MJ says, handing the flask back to Jana.

Andi swallows the last sip of wine. The girls look at her with worried expressions on their faces.

“It’s okay, Andi,” Laura says. “Wasn’t meant to be.”

“That bitch is officially canceled,” Jana says.

“Jana, no!” MJ says. “You can’t say things like that! It’s bad luck.”

“Since when?” Jana asks.

“Since forever,” MJ says. “You don’t want to give Andi bad luck, do you? Not when we’re about to go inside. She could meet someone special.”

Except Andi doesn’t want to meet anyone special.

She already did. 

Infinitely complicated. Mind-bendingly simple. 

Look. Andi’s not a crier. The last time she cried was two years ago, when MJ tricked her into watching Up (that opening scene goes way too hard, okay?). She doesn’t do squishy, and she doesn’t do feelings. But right now, she can feel tears welling up from that deep place inside her that she always pretends doesn’t exist. And the worst part is, she can’t even fully explain why she’s about to cry, which makes her want to cry all the more. 

Shit. 

She squeezes her eyes shut to ward off the tears. The girls go completely silent. 

Then Andi feels a hand on her elbow guiding her forward. She smells Laura’s patchouli perfume right next to her. She starts walking, almost tripping on the pavement. 

God, she needs a drink.

Suddenly they stop. She hears the music, muffled at first, and then she hears the giant metal door open and “Back That Azz Up” rushes at them like a wave. 

“Hi!” Jana says brightly.

“IDs,” a gruff voice calls. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and then the voice says, “Miss, I need you to open your eyes.”

Andi does, and that’s when she starts to cry in earnest, hot tears burning tracks down her face.

“Have a good night, ladies,” the bouncer says, and the girls step inside the club.

***

She’s two shots and two vodka sodas deep when she finally starts to feel better. 

Andi drags Cameo a lot, but the truth is that it’s not terrible. The drinks cost an arm and a leg and your first born child, but that’s almost mandatory in the city at this point. It’s not a queer club per se, but it is much more welcoming than other straight places. They have occasional Drag Race watch parties in the upstairs lounge, and a lot of queer screamo and crust punk bands have shows here on Sunday nights. The bathrooms are clean, the floor’s not sticky, and the music is usually good. 

Tonight, luckily, it’s great.

It’s wall to wall crowded, but they manage to score a spot on one of the coveted velvet couches near the bar (Andi’s tears of distress probably help immensely). It’s a mix of crowds, but it looks mostly like acid-washed Tik Tok kids who are way too young to have heard of the music blasting in here, let alone grown up with it. Usually Andi would complain about that, but she’s not in the mood.

She’s too busy getting blacked out.

Jana’s lounging on the couch texting like crazy while MJ and Andi are dancing to “This Is How We Do It” and singing along, and Andi finally feels like she can get over this. There’s nothing to it. Nothing a few nights of raging can’t fix. Nothing a few more double shifts in a row can’t solve. Nothing a few one-night stands can’t erase from her mind. 

Laura comes back from the bar expertly balancing four shots in her hands. “Round three, bitches!” 

The four of them each take a glass and look each other dead in the eyes. Superstitious to the end. Then they clink glasses and down the shot. 

“Aww, you guys,” Andi says. “Another Fireball?”

“The things we do for love,” Jana says with a grimace.

Laura takes Andi’s elbow to get her attention. “Look.”

When Andi turns around, there’s Emilia at the bar, looking at her phone, all by herself. Dixon’s nowhere to be found. 

“Maybe she could use some company,” Laura says. 

Andi shakes her head. “Dude, she said no. It’s over.”

“I know that normally I am a very vocal critic of the infuriating patriarchal trend of chasing women until their ‘no’ turns into a ‘yes,’ effectively smashing the rules of consent and basic human decency to bits,” Laura says. “But something tells me you shouldn’t give up so easily.”

Andi frowns. 

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” Laura says, “or call it the fact that when I was over at the bar, I caught her looking at you more than once.”

Laura winks at Andi and then turns to MJ, taking her hand and giving her a little spin.

Andi looks at the bar, and when she does, she catches Emilia right in the act. They lock eyes for what feels like an hour but is probably just a few seconds, and then Emilia turns away and goes back to her phone. 

MJ gathers the empty shot glasses and hands them to Andi. 

Andi touches her hair and Laura says, “You look great. Go.”

Andi turns and heads to the bar. As she arrives, a gap opens up next to Emilia. She slides in just in time.

“Is there room for one more?”

Emilia doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Sure, I gue–”

Then she seems to recognize the voice and looks up.

Andi puts the shot glasses on the bar top. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Emilia goes right back to her phone. 

“Can I talk to you?”

“No.”  

Well then.

“Okay,” Andi says. She’s going to kill Laura.

She knew this was a terrible idea. She should have listened to her own instinct. This is what she gets. Emilia already said she didn’t want to–

“I don’t understand you.”

Andi looks at Emilia.

“You kissed me,” she says. 

Andi blinks at her. “I did.” 

“And you said you don’t like being confused.”

“I did.”

“But you confused me,” Emilia says. 

“I did?”

“Yes,” Emilia says. “Andi. We kissed.” 

Even in the near-darkness, with only the strobe lights to guide her, Andi can see that Emilia’s eyes are exhausted. She looks like she’s been carrying around too much pain for too long. Old wounds. Old scars.  

“It’s hard for me,” she says. 

“What is?”

Emilia twists her hands together. “Connecting like that.” 

Andi feels her chest tighten. 

“It’s hard for me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But you made it look so easy,” Emilia says. “Like you’ve done it a million times.” 

That takes Andi by surprise. She laughs. “I mean, thanks, maybe? But I really haven’t.” 

“Can I tell you something?”

Andi nods.

Emilia leans into her and whispers, “It made me feel good.” 

Andi feels her heart squeeze, but not in an exciting way. It’s the ache of knowing how badly she messed up. 

“It just sucks, though.”

Andi frowns. “Why?”

“Because I have this big problem, and you’re the only person who can help me fix it.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Emilia says. “Actually, it’s two problems.”

“What’s up?” 

Emilia bites the corner of her lower lip. “The first problem is, I’m pretty sure I still want to see you again, against my better judgment.”

“Uh-huh,” Andi says slowly. “And what’s the second problem?”

“The second problem is…” Emilia stops for a moment, like she’s debating whether or not to say what she wants to say. “I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

Andi feels her heart speed up. 

“When I said I was with someone, I didn’t just mean ‘with’ someone.” She pauses. “I was married.”

Andi’s brows jump before she can stop them.  

“We got divorced pretty recently.”

“Okay…”

“And I know how that sounds, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but you know what? I don’t actually have anything to apologize for because it’s none of your business and really you should be the one apologizing to me, because you made me feel so safe and then you went and–”

As soon as Emilia says that, Andi can’t resist anymore, so she cups Emilia’s cheeks and pulls her in. 

Emilia’s mouth softens right away, her lips granting Andi’s tongue immediate access. Then Emilia’s arms circle Andi’s hips, and she hums in satisfaction as the palms of her hands find all that exposed skin on Andi’s back. As Emilia slides her tongue into Andi’s mouth, she presses harder into the kiss and digs her nails into Andi’s back.

Before she can fight it, Andi feels her whole body shudder. 

She pulls away completely. She needs to stop for a minute, before she goes off the deep end. 

Emilia licks her lips. “Well.” 

“Well?”

“You’re an asshole, but you’re a very good kisser.” 

Andi smirks. “Two things can be true at the same time, you know. And you’re not half bad yourself.” 

Emilia smirks back, but after a moment her gaze turns serious.

“I like you.”

“Based on how you just kissed me I would say that’s a pretty accurate observation.” 

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” 

Emilia holds Andi’s gaze, and she could swear Emilia’s trying to tell her something, but she can’t quite figure out what it is. 

And then Emilia says it out loud.

“Don’t hurt me.” 

There’s that ache again. Andi will do anything not to feel it anymore. 

She shakes her head.

The look on Emilia’s face makes Andi’s lungs seize up, and somehow everything and nothing makes sense at the exact same time. It’s the weirdest thing. 

Instead of trying to understand it, Andi slips an arm around Emilia and they both fall into place like they’ve been doing this for years, Emilia pressing her hips into Andi just right. They’re quiet for a minute, and as the music swirls all around them Andi kisses Emilia’s forehead just because she can, enjoying the apple scent. She’ll probably never get tired of it. 

“Is it okay?” 

Andi frowns. “Is what okay?”

“That I’m divorced.” 

Andi’s sure her face is completely covered in shock but she hopes the low light will hide it at least a little. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. It’s a lot of…” Emilia waves her hand around and it’s so cute Andi wants to kiss her again, but she manages to hold back somehow. “You know, baggage or whatever.”

“Everyone has something. Doesn’t change what I think of you.”

“Oh, no?”

“Nope.”

“And what do you think of me, Ringo Starr?” 

Emilia looks so beautiful now, with her pink blush shimmering across her cheekbones, and her eyes lined in blue, and her lips curved into a smile, all the gloss kissed off. 

“If you have to ask, you’re not nearly as smart as I thought you were.” 

Emilia punches her lightly in the arm and laughs. “Fuck off.”

Andi laughs, too, and then Emilia puts her hands in Andi’s back pockets and pulls her even closer, and she can feel Emilia smiling even as they kiss, and suddenly there’s something there. Andi could swear there’s something between them, something filling the spaces between the words they say out loud. 

When she comes up for air, Andi says, “You know, I thought—“

Emilia puts her lips close to Andi’s ear. “Less talking, more kissing.”

She can take direction. 

***

A minute later Andi guides Emilia to the dance floor, and she could swear that she sees Dixon approach them and then turn right around and disappear into the crowd.

There’s a crush of people but Emilia doesn’t want to stand at the edge; she takes Andi deeper into the crowd until they’re so close to people they can feel the sweat on the bodies around them. Somehow it’s not gross or weird; everyone’s just close together. Nothing really matters. 

When they reach the middle of the floor "Crush on You" transitions, somewhat awkwardly, into Mariah Carey. It’s “Always Be My Baby,” a song Andi has always found pretty cheesy, but the second the lyrics kick in Emilia’s singing along to every word. 

Emilia starts swaying in time with the beat and somehow Andi knows what to do. Her hands find Emilia’s waist, but then Emilia’s dress rides up just a little. Andi goes to pull it down but Emilia pushes Andi's hand away and shakes her head. Leave it, she mouths, and guides Andi’s hands to the newly bare skin on her thighs. It’s so soft Andi feels her pulse in her crotch. 

Emilia’s smiling wide and having so much fun it’s contagious, and now Andi’s having fun, too. She can tell Emilia’s singing full-out. She probably has a bright, ample chest voice, and Andi wishes she could hear it. 

That’s when she gets an idea. 

In the rush of the music and the lights she makes an effort to make a mental note, hoping she’ll remember it once she leaves the club. 

Before she can really process it, Emilia turns around and presses her back against Andi’s chest, and she moves her hips side to side, then bends over just a bit and slides her ass back up Andi’s center in time with the music. Andi can hardly take it so she wraps her arms around her, and Emilia puts her arms right on top like a hug, threading her fingers with Andi’s. She leans back and turns her head and kisses Andi’s cheek, and still the music drowns her out, but Andi can feel her diaphragm pushing air, still helping her sing.

And now Andi's completely wet. 

She starts silently praying she charged her vibrator. 

Over the bridge, Emilia turns back around and pushes up against Andi until her center is aligned with Andi’s hip bone, until her legs straddle Andi, and as she moves her hips back and forth Andi can feel the friction of Emilia’s skin, the way she rides her thigh just a little bit, and when Andi feels the wetness on her hip, gathering between Emilia’s legs, she realizes there’s a possibility Emilia’s only wearing a little bit of underwear underneath her dress. 

The thought is way too much, sensory overload, and Andi knows she should probably course-correct before she does something incredibly stupid in the middle of this sea of people, but she just can’t. Not completely, anyway. And Emilia doesn’t seem to want her to. So Andi lets her hands go where they’ve been dying to all night. 

She skims the hem of Emilia’s dress and lingers just under the edge, her fingers teasing along the tops of Emilia’s thighs. When she cups Emilia’s ass and squeezes just hard enough, Emilia stops singing. Her chest rises and falls hard, and Andi wonders if she should just go for it and take what she wants. 

First she steals a kiss, just because she can. 

Then she brings her right hand around and slips it easily under Emilia’s dress. 

Andi only needs one stroke of her index finger to find just a bit of lace and not much else. 

And with her hand still under Emilia’s dress, with the vodka and the Fireball and the music and the lights, Andi leans forward and says, “Come home with me.”

Emilia blinks at her.

“No.”

Andi lets go of Emilia completely, but before she can go far Emilia leans into her, pulling her back. 

“It’s not because I don’t want to,” Emilia says in her ear. 

“It’s not?”

“Of course not.” 

She touches Andi’s forearms gently. 

Andi licks her lips.

“But you’re drunk,” Emilia says. 

Duh. That’s kind of the point. “So?” 

“So, I want you sober.” 

“Sober?”

“Completely.” Emilia kisses Andi just under her earlobe, the place where her jaw and ear meet. Then Emilia leaves a little trail of kisses down her jaw, until she reaches her mouth and kisses her slowly. 

“How come?”

Emilia squeezes Andi’s forearms just enough to get her attention. 

“Because when we fuck, I want you to remember exactly what I do to you.”

Andi’s knees buckle, and she’s certain she’s going to keel over in about ten seconds, so she grabs Emilia’s shoulders, hoping she doesn’t seem completely clumsy, even though she knows that’s basically impossible at this point. 

She needs air. 

She straightens up, takes Emilia’s hand, and guides her out of the tangle of people, and then a minute later they’re standing by the bar, breathing deep, relieved to have some space around them.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” 

“Tomorrow night? I don’t know,” Emilia says. “I think Dixon and I made plans to get a drink after work but I’m not–”

“Fuck that guy,” Andi says, then claps a hand over her mouth.

Emilia frowns. “What?” And then it seems to register, because she adds, “Andi, are you jealous? Of Dixon?”

“No,” Andi says, knowing she is convincing absolutely no one with that tone of voice.

Emilia laughs. “He’s my coworker. And we only came here tonight because he found this place on Instagram and it’s so close to the hotel we figured…” Emilia shrugs.

Andi hangs her head. 

“He’s a great guy, but not quite my type, if you know what I mean,” Emilia says. 

She sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth and it’s so goofy and sweet it makes Andi want to kiss her. 

Emilia cups Andi’s face and strokes her cheek with her thumb. “Cutie.”  

Andi scrunches her lips.

“Why are you asking me about tomorrow?”

“I want to take you somewhere,” Andi says. 

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Emilia frowns. “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

“Can I?”

“Yeah, I…”

She stops. 

The look on Emilia’s face is serious. Her eyes are heavy. 

“Yes.”

She can tell Emilia’s debating. Considering. 

Andi waits. 

“Okay,” Emilia says gently. “Surprise me.” 

Her lips curve, and Andi can’t help but press their foreheads together. 

In school Andi had a music theory professor who used to say that music isn’t really about secondary dominants, or rootless voicing, or the circle of fifths. Those things have their place, but that’s not what music means. It’s about the way notes rise and fall together. The smallest crest, the largest abyss. It’s curiosity, determination, instinct. It’s purpose. And in the end, every song will be the answer to a question. 

Right here, completely intertwined, a song waits for them, question and answer alike. 

And god only knows how this will end, and there’s no denying it will. Every reminder of the end threatens to crack Andi’s chest open, and maybe when the end comes she’ll crack beyond repair but it’s too late now, because when they touch it’s like floating and falling all at once, and when they kiss it’s the fucking worst and the fucking best. It feels like nothing she’s ever wanted, and everything she’s ever needed.

Show me that you feel it, too. 

And Emilia does.

Chapter Text

At ten o’clock the next morning, Emilia’s on her knees with her head in the toilet. 

“And all these models are NAECA compliant?” she asks, peering at the curve of the bowl. 

“All of them,” the showroom clerk answers. 

Emilia looks up at Dixon, standing nearby.

“So? What do you think?”

Without looking up from his notebook, he shrugs. 

“I’m gonna need a little more than that from you.”

He sighs. “This is the fifth one we’ve looked at.”

“Sixth,” Emilia says, pressing the handle a few times, testing the bounce. “Rating?”

“I’d say…three out of five stars. You?”

“Four. It’s not the prettiest, but it’s super cost-effective. And one of the smoothest flushes, apparently.”

Dixon gags a little, and Emilia laughs.  “But we can’t just pick the most practical one. It has to look nice, ” he says, emphasizing the last two words with an annoyed expression.

Emilia purses her lips. “I just don’t understand why he cares so much about a toilet, though.”

“Who among us can understand the caprices of King Colucci?”

“You’re not wrong,” Emilia says, and Dixon beams. “But it’s not like he’s going to spend all his time staring at it, or something. Right?” 

“Once again: who among us can understand the caprices of King Colucci?”

“In that case, we should go see the first one again.” 

Dixon’s shoulders go slack. “That’s all the way on the other side.”

“Pretty please? I’ll treat for lunch.”  

“The company pays for lunch, but nice try.”

“Fine. How about one of those girly drinks you like so much? Something with a flower in it.”  

“Sold,” he says. “And girly drinks are elite, just so we’re clear.” 

All around them, the second floor of the Keller Montgomery showroom is in full force, corporate office planners and residential designers battling over Carrera marble countertops and imported Japanese bidets. Usually, Emilia’s game to take on any task required; the nature of the job sometimes leads her to unusual places. Today, though, there’s a million other things she’d rather be doing: going over electrical wiring, discussing HVAC and air conditioning, devising a solution for the water damage on the ceiling in the employee pantry… but instead she’s here. Looking at toilets. Specifically, one toilet: the one to be placed in Luka’s office suite.

This morning, Emilia and Dixon were minding their business, having breakfast at the cafe across the street from the office and going over their to-do list, when all of a sudden Dixon got an email from Luka marked High Priority. Not a big deal; Luka labels all his emails high priority and writes the whole thing in the subject line to boot, because why bother being courteous when you’re Luka Colucci, center of your own universe? The subject line read: “u & e: c-suite b-room 4 samples COB.” Luka-speak for: I want to see four bathroom models by the end of the day…or else. And with a single email, their plans for the day were effectively derailed. 

She doesn’t mean to be whiny, but this isn’t even part of her job, technically. She oversees the contractor’s choices, sure, but normally she doesn’t chime in unless he or the interior designer makes a totally egregious decision (chartreuse wallpaper in the Tokyo office cafeteria required an emergency intervention and nearly set off a cross-cultural crisis).

Emilia knows why Luka is making her do this: it’s a power move. It’s his way of telling her to remember her place. He’s done it before, to different staff members in different ways (some fully overt, some more insidious, all of it deeply embedded into S&R’s culture), and she’s learned to just ignore it and keep it moving. What matters is the job, not the politics. But this is a new tack, and it bugs her. 

She learned early on that nothing is ever a coincidence with Luka. Every “urgent” email, misspelled name on an employee badge, meaningless 7:30 am meeting, off-the-cuff dick joke, and harebrained stock market investment is just a single thread in a larger web. Everyone’s playing checkers and he’s playing 3D chess, exactly the way his father used to. He learned from the best–or the worst, depending on how you look at it. It’s how he gets what he wants. Always. 

Sending the email to Dixon and not even CC’ing Emilia, the actual project manager, thereby forcing her to go on this pointless side quest without even telling her directly, is what some would describe as a “dick move.” Maybe that’s why she’s currently what some would describe as a “hot mess.” 

But the worst part is that as much as she wishes her mood was all Luka's fault (there’s nothing she enjoys more than focusing her annoyance on him), he’s not the only problem today. There’s something– someone –else getting in the way, too. 

Damn it, why did Andi have to be such a good kisser? 

Dixon offers Emilia his hand and pulls her up off the concrete floor. “Jesus, I should’ve worn knee pads,” she says. “Or at least made you do this part.” 

“I keep telling you not to get down for every single one, but you don’t listen.”

“How come I’m the one stuck doing this?”

“I take stuff off the high shelves, you look at stuff closer to the ground,” he says. “I think they call that feminism.”

“Feminism is a cancer on society,” she says, and Dixon laughs. 

She puts on her glasses and writes down the catalog code of the last model. “Okay, so our official sample list for Luka is now at…three.”

“Oh, for the love of Christ.”

“I know.”

“Can we please, please take a break from the toilets and look at something else? I’m begging you.”

Emilia pushes her glasses up on top of her head. “Yes, please.” 

“Faucets?”

“I’m down.”

As they start back across the showroom, Dixon adds, “You know we’re going to be back here in two weeks when he changes his mind.”

Emilia groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic here.” 

“Maybe he’ll like whatever we show him?”

Dixon doesn’t even need to reply. 

She sighs. “I know.” 

“It is what it is.”

“As always.” 

See, this is usually the part where she loses people. Plumbing. Heating. Electricity. Square footage. Toilets now, apparently. Andi is the first person in a long time who actually wants to know more.  

She wants a lot of other things, too. 

Remembering the sensation of Andi’s hand between her legs last night almost makes Emilia shudder. 

It seems like Dixon probably (definitely) notices because he says, “So, are we going to talk about last night?”

Goosebumps ripple over Emilia’s skin immediately. Thank god her arms and legs are all covered up in pale blue palazzo pants and a snow-white tweed blazer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Look, I was drunk, but I’m pretty sure I saw you and Andi having a moment at the bar.”

Emilia quickens her pace, hoping Dixon won’t see her blush. “You saw nothing,” she says over her shoulder. 

Dixon starts to jog to catch up with her. “Emilia, get real. She's into you." 

The words make her heart do a weird flip in her chest. “I don’t know,” she says, her strides getting even longer now as she pretends to walk with purpose. “We were just... fucking around.”

“If that’s what you call fucking around I’d love to see wha—"

She stops and whirls around, and Dixon trips over his own feet and almost falls into her. “Like I said, you saw–-”

Just then her phone rings in her pocket.

Emilia sticks her tongue out at him and answers the phone. “Hello?”

“This isn’t over,” Dixon whispers. 

Celina’s voice greets her. “Hi, Emilia.” Her tone is less than happy.

“Hi, Celina. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Celina says. “Is Dixon with you?”

Emilia puts the phone on speaker and as soon as Dixon says hello, Celina dives in.

“I have good-ish news and bad-ish news. What do you want to hear first?”

“Bad news,” Emilia says, right as Dixon says, “Good news.”

Emilia frowns. “Good news first? Who does that?”

“Makes the bad news easier to stomach because you already have a solid foundation from the good news,” he says. “And I could say the same thing about you. Who likes bad news first?”

“I like to end on an optimistic note,” Emilia says. “Makes more sense than–-”

“Would you two like to do some work now?”

“Oh! Right, yes, go ahead,” Emilia says, glaring at Dixon, but still kind of laughing.

“Good-ish news first, since the two of you can’t seem to decide,” Celina says, and Dixon shoots Emilia an annoyingly pleased grin.

“Men always get what they want,” Emilia says under her breath, and Dixon snorts.

Celina says, “We got an extension on the project.”

Emilia’s taken out of the moment right away. Her body tenses immediately.

An extension? 

That means more time in New York. More time away from home, away from her creature comforts and her routine. More time to ignore the loneliness, too. More weeks so deeply overstimulated there won’t be space in her head for anything else. 

It might also mean more time with her hands on Andi’s upper back, finding all that bare skin in the dark and digging her nails in harder just to make Andi moan into her mouth and–

“Emilia?” Dixon asks. “You good?”

She flinches, almost dropping her phone. “Yeah, sorry, can you repeat that?”

“We got an extension,” Celina says. “Extra month.”

Another month? Fuck that shit. 

What will she do about her mother, all alone in Brasilia? The home health aide can only do so much. 

What will she do about Andi?  

“How come?” Dixon asks.

“Luka landed himself another potential investor last night,” Celina says. “Some guy I’ve never heard of before. Okane. You guys know him?”

Emilia opens the browser on her tablet. “Okane what?”

“That’s it,” Celina says. “Apparently he doesn’t have a last name, or if he does he’s not a fan of it.”  

Dixon perks up. “Wait, I think he’s part owner of Cortuluá.” When Celina and Emilia don’t reply, he adds, “Colombian soccer team; they’re not the best team but they still…whatever.” 

“Oh,” Celina says, evidently unimpressed by this information. “What else?”

A quick search pulls up Okane’s photo. He’s got a mop of curly hair, a full sleeve of tattoos, and a gaze Emilia can only describe as hypnotic. It’s like the guy is staring into her soul, mining her for secrets he can use against her later. It’s unnerving. 

His style is…interesting. Generally it looks like a lot of sweater vests with nothing underneath, loudly printed bowling shirts, tiny silver hoop earrings, and ropes of pearls worn as bracelets and necklaces. They seem to be his trademark. 

The paparazzi can’t get enough of him. There are pictures of him all over the place. One at the Cannes Film Festival in a midnight blue tuxedo holding hands with Nerea Camacho. One at the Azerbaijan Grand Prix smoking cigars with Max Verstappen. Another one in the front row of the Loewe men’s show at Milan fashion week, whispering in Pietro Boselli’s ear with a filthy smile on his face. Another on a yacht in Zanzibar, sporting white rectangle sunglasses and floral swim trunks, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and an unidentified woman’s bikini-clad ass in the other. He’s not wearing a shirt, or shoes, because of course he’s not. But he is sticking his tongue out, looking just like…well, like an asshole. Ugh. 

There’s also an assortment of articles about him. He’s got stakes in a sustainable clothing brand, a record label, and an antiretroviral manufacturer, not to mention the partial ownership of Cortuluá, plus real estate developments in Mexico and Baku…it’s kind of a lot. But most of the press focuses on his personal life, especially his passion for people. Lots of them. He clearly has a type: rich, reckless, and temporary. 

“He seems…meh,” Emilia says flatly. “What’s his deal?”

“Apparently he wants to start investing in tech,” Celina says. “And I guess Luka really turned up the charm last night, and now he’s interested in the company.”

Emilia frowns. “I mean, that’s nice I guess, but what does that have to do with us?”

“It looks like he wants to expand his portfolio in North America, and Luka told him we’re about to open a New York office…”

Emilia’s frown deepens. “And?”

“And he wants to go to New York to see it.”

“Celina…”

“Probably in a couple months or so.”

Emilia takes a deep breath.

“Can you guys be ready by then?”

“How ready is ready?” Emilia asks. 

“Plug and play staff,” Celina says in a small voice. 

“Is there any way we can push that forward?” Dixon asks. “That’s cutting it a little close, even with the extra time.” 

“Luka wasn’t exactly flexible on this,” Celina says. 

Emilia frowns. "But can't we at least ask if--" 

“It's okay,” Dixon says. “We’ll make it work.”

“Dixon–”

“We’ll make it work, Emilia,” he says gently. “It’ll be okay.” 

“And Luka wants me to go to the opening, plus a couple random guys from sales, so I’ll be there, too,” Celina adds. “I’m really sorry, guys, but it’s out of my hands at this point.”

“It’s okay,” Emilia says. “We’ll do what we can.”

They make plans to have a proper meeting in a couple days. When they hang up, Dixon gives Emilia’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “We got this. It’s going to be okay.”

She exhales loudly. “If you say so.”

“I know so.” When he smiles back she can’t help but feel the tiniest bit more confident. 

It's weird. The whole thing should feel like a crisis, and under different circumstances it would, but this time it doesn’t. For some reason it feels closer to good news. 

Emilia can already see that smile. That chord playing again. 

She’s going to lose her shit any minute now. 

They turn to a row of sinks, and an undermount ramp sink carved in slate catches her eye. She likes it; it’ll look good in the employee bathrooms. 

“By the way,” Dixon says, turning the page of his notebook, “you have the worst poker face.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you go off into outer space when Celina was talking,” he says. “You were thinking about her, weren’t you?” 

Emilia pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue and makes a mental note never to play cards with Dixon. Or anyone, really. 

“I knew it!” he says with a grin. "'We were just fucking around,' she says. Please.” 

She looks up at the ceiling, hoping to dodge the impending line of questioning. “That tile is broken.” 

Dixon follows her gaze and finds the badly dented ceiling tile, located right over an elaborate bathtub display. “Yeah, I wonder why they haven’t—hey! You're deflecting.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “Look, the world won’t fall apart just because you like hanging out with someone.”

“Yeah, it will,” she says under her breath. 

“Sorry?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Anyway, it’s not a crime to be interested in her.” When Emilia narrows her eyes, he adds, “What? I haven’t seen you act like this in a long time. Not since you had a crush on the IT girl in the Sydney office.”

Emilia glares at him. “Everyone had a crush on the IT girl in the Sydney office.”

“True,” he concedes, “but that’s not the point here.”

“So what is?”

“That you looked like you were having fun. Why do you think I disappeared for so long?”

Emilia feels her heart squeeze a little bit but tries to push the feeling away. 

“Also, don’t think I didn’t notice this.” 

He tugs on the silk scarf around her neck. She thought she’d done a good job covering the hickey. Apparently not. 

(Not that she’s super mad about it.)

God, there’s so much drama in her head. How does her brain have this much capacity?

“Okay, that’s enough,” she says with a laugh. 

“I’ll drop it now,” Dixon says. “But you can always talk to me. ‘Cause you and me, we’re not just coworkers, we’re–”

“Oh for god’s sake, not this again.” 

“I will say, though, it looks good on you.”

“The scarf? Yeah, I got it at Le Bon Marche—”

“No, not the scarf, silly.” He smiles. “Your crush.”

I don’t have a crush, she wants to say, and she’s about to, but the look on his face is so sweet she can’t bring herself to burst his bubble.

And anyway, there's a chance he's not wrong. Shit. 

“Back to work now. For real this time.”

“Copy that.” He starts scanning the sinks, looking for something interesting, and Emilia finds herself feeling adrift. She wishes she could put the whole night aside and focus on work. Work always rescues her in moments like this. 

But just thinking about Andi’s mouth is enough to unravel her concentration.

There was nowhere to hide last night. Nothing to protect her when the space between them finally collapsed and every moment building up to that instant suddenly made sense. Maybe she’s making it up in her head, but it felt like there was some invisible force holding her in the moment, keeping her from drifting away. There was something about Andi that made her want to stick around. 

At first, while the rejection from the last few days was still fresh, she had thought going to the club would straighten her out. If nothing else, she could at least listen to N*SYNC and Big Pun, have a quick drink, and bury the humiliation of checking her phone obsessively for the last few days, wishing Andi would say something, anything, even just a quick, “Hey, I don’t think this is for me…”

Emilia was embarrassed about caring so much, so she did what she always does. She shut down and pretended to be above it all. She babbled to Dixon about how she was only pissed off because Andi had wasted her time, and she wasn’t really hurt at all, it was a matter of efficiency and time management, and she didn’t really care, because she was fully over it. All they did was hang out one time. Right? 

Emilia promised herself she was done. But then Andi had to go and show up looking the way she did, wearing that absurd outfit. Worse still, she had to go up to Emilia in line, and be so fucking genuine with that hurt look on her face. 

And then, once they reconnected, there’s all the crazy shit she said. 

Because when we fuck…

An epic lapse in judgment, first of all, but Emilia couldn’t get enough of the look on Andi’s face when she said that, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a sudden burst of confidence. Or maybe it was the tequila shots she’d done with Dixon. Either way, the words were kind of just there, waiting for her. 

It’s enough to make her head spin. How could she tell Andi so much about her life? And where did she get off saying Andi made her feel safe? She should know better. 

And then, the worst part. Or best, depending on how you look at it. She’s not really sure which way she should look at it, actually.   

I want you to remember every single thing I do to you.

It surprised her, the perfect ache that coursed through her body when Andi’s fingers traced along her inner thigh. She was only bare last night because everything she tried on kept ruining the lines of her outfit. She definitely wasn’t expecting… that.

Emilia would be lying if she said she hasn’t been wildly curious since that first night. Finally seeing the tattoo on Andi’s stomach, tracing the sparks and butterflies on Andi’s arms, arching her back when Andi’s mouth—

Okay, enough. 

She takes out her phone, finds the number she wants, and makes the call.

It goes to voicemail without even ringing, that deep, reassuring voice instructing her to leave a message after the beep.

Well, shit.

Emilia slips her phone in her pocket, forcing herself to look at the dimensions of a ceramic farm sink she knows will never get picked for the office. Then she opens her tablet cover and starts doodling on a random crumpled sticky note with the words “GPT mtg 3/10?” written on it. She stabs the paper with her pen, tearing a hole in it. She's so stupid. Who even calls people anymore? Maybe business calls, but not–

Her pocket starts to vibrate. Celina again, probably. She tucks her pen away and picks up the phone. 

“Hey, Celina.”

“Not Celina, sorry. Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

She scrunches up her face for a second. “No, I…hi.”

“Hey,” Andi says. “Sorry I didn’t pick up, I was on the train. What’s up? You okay?”

Emilia swallows hard. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just…”

Just what?

Just called to cancel? To confirm? To ask Andi to please kiss her again like she did last night?

Just what?

Emilia squeezes the edge of her tablet. “Just wanted to make sure we’re on for tonight.”

“I’m still in if you are. But is there a specific reason you called me?”

“I…what do you mean?”

“A text would have gotten the job done, you know.”

She’s right. Damn it.

“I…uhh…”

“Emilia Alo,” Andi says, and Emilia can practically hear her smile over the line, “did you call me because you wanted to hear my voice?”

Emilia’s face gets hot right away. How did she lose control over the conversation? Does she ever have any control when it comes to this girl?

(Don’t fucking answer that.)

She puts on her best business voice. “Calling is very efficient, you know. Immediate response and all.”

“So’s texting.”

“I just wanted to make sure I don't get ghosted again.”

Andi sucks in air through her teeth. “Ouch.”

“Too soon?”

Andi laughs. “Nah, I deserved that.”

“Can’t say I disagree.”

“Well damn, tell me how you really feel.”

Emilia considers doing just that. On second thought--better not to.  

“Anyway,” she says brightly, “I just wanted to ask where we’re going since you didn’t tell me last night and I’m not in the mood to get kidnapped.”

“I told you, it’s a surprise.”

“And I told you, I don’t like surprises.”

“You said you were going to trust me,” Andi shoots back.

Well, fuck.

“I was hoping you forgot that part.”

“Not at all,” Andi says. “I make it a point to pay attention when I'm interested.”

Emilia finds herself smiling wide, unable to answer. 

“I can always pick you up if you–”

“No!” she cries. “I mean, no, it’s okay. I’ll meet you.”

She hears Andi sigh, but not unkindly. “So stubborn,” she says, and somehow it’s so sweet it confuses Emilia completely. “Okay. It’s called À Deux.”

Emilia writes it on the destroyed sticky note even though she knows she'll remember it, just to give herself something to do. “French.”

“Yup. I figured you can order all the food,” Andi says.

“So it’s laziness, then.”

“We can finally put you to work. Make you earn your keep around here.”

Emilia laughs. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you happen to be fluent.”

“Don’t you work at some fancy restaurant? Can’t you do the ordering for us?”

“It’s my night off,” Andi says. “Come on. For me?”

Emilia smiles. “For you, anything.”

Suddenly there's complete silence. Maybe she said the wrong thing.

“I’ll see you at seven. Don’t be late.”

She hangs up before Emilia can say anything else. 

*** 

When Emilia finishes work (four toilet samples picked, plus sinks for all the bathrooms for good measure) she’s desperately craving a nap, but instead spends her time on the couch answering emails and putting out various fires. She can’t leave for a second without everything imploding. While she hops on a call with the Berlin office she stares at the bed longingly, the fresh sheets calling her name so loudly she’s tempted to turn off her phone and curl up in a ball. 

She starts getting ready right after her call, taking her time. She washes her hair, and while she’s busy drying and curling it she tries to listen to music but can’t decide what she wants. She can’t sit in silence, though, so she puts on Bach’s Unaccompanied Cello Suites performed by Yo-Yo Ma– the least sexy music she can think of. She needs to focus. 

She pins her hair back and starts on her makeup while the strains of Bach fill the air. She’s taking it easy, at least by her own standards: highlighted cheekbones and shimmering gold eyeshadow with flecks of glitter. No Technicolor eyeliner or bright blush tonight. And just her pink NARS balm with cherry vanilla lip gloss on top. She doesn’t want to have to think about it too much. Especially not if it’s going to get kissed off anyway.  

Oh my god she needs to stop.

Then it’s time to pick out her outfit. After a quick Google search of the restaurant she knows what to wear. Over two thousand reviews on Yelp (and three dollar signs under the name), a glowing review from the New York Times, and a plush, polished interior in the pictures on the website. She knows she has to bring it. No jeans this time. Andi is just full of surprises. 

She chooses a dusty rose bustier dress that pulls in tight at the waist and hugs her hips and thighs, landing at her knees. The cups push her chest up and make her look…well... 

She stands in front of the mirror, debating. 

Why not?

She’s not in the mood for a lot of accessories: just a pair of double pearl drop earrings and a few thin gold bracelets on her left wrist. No watch, no rings. Just keeping it simple with her periwinkle coat, lilac iridescent So Kate 120s, and a thrifted lambskin clutch. Nothing actually matches, but the point is that it all goes together. 

As she sprays perfume into the air and walks through the mist, she feels the anticipation humming through her. It's been a while since she's had a night like this. She was trying to keep herself in check with the music, but Bach was absolutely no help, the bastard. Apparently there are some problems even Yo-Yo Ma can't solve.  

The dress, the heels, the lipgloss…those things are bad enough. They’re enough to make her feel some type of way. But there’s one thing that pushes her fully over the edge: her hair.

You know how long it takes her to wash and style her hair? To call it a process is an understatement; it is a production. But she knew she was going to do it as soon as Andi answered the phone this morning. 

It’s one thing to wear jeans to a pizza place. It’s another thing entirely to do…this.

She’s inspecting her makeup for any stray flecks of glitter on her cheeks (and double-checking the concealer on her neck) when her phone rings and Sebas’ name and picture pop up on her screen.

She turns back to the mirror and lets her phone ring. 

She knows he’ll want to hang out, and she’ll have to say no, and he’ll ask why, and then…she can’t possibly explain herself now. What would she even say? Sorry, can’t meet up, I’m going to go see that girl from that band you’re obsessed with, and she’s…

She’s what?

Impossible, that’s what. Totally impossible and highly infuriating and completely irresistible.

She’s all over the place, and she knows it, because as she puts on another coat of lip gloss she has to be extra careful not to smudge it all over her chin.  

Well, what do you know? It looks like she just might be thirsty. 

Look. Emilia’s a human being. Just because her marriage withered away doesn’t mean she did, too. Yes, she works herself into the ground, and watches so many documentaries she could be her own trivia team, but it’s not like she’s been living la vida Heathcliff since the divorce. She did, in fact, try her hand at the apps (at her mother’s behest, but still). And among all the swipes and messages and missed connections, she managed to find someone she actually kinda liked, and it was nice. Getting ready for that first date felt kind of like tonight. She was all over the place that night, too, feeling way too ready for sex. She knew she couldn’t show up to dinner all bent out of shape, so she dusted off the lipstick-shaped vibrator she’d gotten as a bridesmaid gift a year earlier. It was awkward as hell at first, but she touched herself for a bit, just to see if it would clear her head. 

It did not. 

Now she wonders if she should try the same strategy. 

It would probably make everything a million times worse. 

The last time was easy. Her worrying came to naught: her attraction exited as soon as the second course arrived. There was nothing between them (less than nothing, actually: fiscal conservatives make Emilia want to throw up; does no one hear how stupid they sound when they support trickle-down economics out loud?), and when the woman refused to say thank you to the waiter because “it’s his job, isn’t it? If he wants extra attention he can go work somewhere else,” the dumpster that had until then been merely gathering embers finally burst into flames. Emilia remembers sneaking off to apologize to the waiter and tipping him fifty percent to make up for it. It still embarrasses her to this day. And the thing that really got her was that when they were messaging before the date, she seemed fine. Better than fine, actually. Finding out this girl was secretly a capitalism stan was not, in fact, on Emilia's annual bingo card. 

The whole thing made her wonder: where is everyone? Where are the morally sound people who can talk about the deep stuff but also get a little stupid, too? Because if she thinks about it--really digs deep, the way she does whenever she's in the mood to do some damage and spend time with her own thoughts--she actually does want more than this. More than shoes and bags and pivot tables and planes and an endless cycle of meetings that could have been emails. Maybe it’s okay to want more. 

Maybe it’s okay to want the real thing again. 

There. She said it. She would not be devastated if she had someone in her life to tell her that her hair looks great, yes she can get the truffle fries, economic determinism is a perfectly good conversation topic for long car rides, and the spreadsheet will still be there on Monday so please turn off your laptop because we’re going to go play pool and do shots at the dive bar down the street.  

Emilia kicks ass at turning inward. She has polished her loneliness into a crown jewel. She has a PhD in solitude. These are known, immutable facts. Occasionally, they are points of pride. But she's ready to belong to someone just the same as everyone else. Why else would she have gotten married? Why else would she have tried so hard to make it stick?

She wanted it so badly. She picked a lot of fights. She wanted the two of them to fight, because fighting meant that they still cared about saying their piece, even if their piece was just to harm each other. At least when they fought they still wanted something from each other, which meant there was still a chance they could make it work. 

And then, the night Emilia tossed her keys in the bowl, the night she climbed the stairs and heard two people in her bedroom exchanging words in a private language she didn’t understand, a fluency built over months of connection…that was when she knew it had been a long time since anyone had wanted anything from her. Not money, not love, certainly not respect. 

Nobody wanted to hold her heart. And nobody wanted her to hold theirs back, either. 

She has so much to give. So much love. That’s what loneliness is, really: a surplus of love with nowhere to go. No heart that will hold it except your own. 

She knows how to have fun and be silly and get stupid. She knows how to be a human being. It’s just been forever since anyone’s wanted to do that with her. 

Fuck, it’s been a long time since any of this really got to her. 

She kicks off her shoes and tumbles onto the bed, curling into a ball. 

What brought all this to the surface, anyway? And more importantly: is she out of her fucking mind? Here she goes, getting ready for a date with someone she’s actually attracted to, someone who makes her want…a lot of things.  

What the hell is she doing? She’s not in New York to meet women and go on dates. She’s not here to upend her life, for fuck’s sake. 

But it’s too late: everything’s already upended. Shit's been fully upside down ever since that stupid pinkie promise. (Andi’s either a dumbass or a genius for that move; Emilia’s still not sure which one.) 

It’s all going so fast. Unnaturally fast. Nonsensically fast. The fact that this is even happening at all is beyond human comprehension. The moment those shots landed on her blouse she should have just gone back to her corner of the bar and waited for Sebas and pretended she didn’t feel anything. She should have insisted Sebas take her to dinner instead of sticking around after the show. Sebas didn’t really care about Andi in particular; he would have fawned over any of the girls. He wasn’t the problem. Emilia was. 

God, she’s so ready for this. 

Or is she?

What if everything lines up just right and they come back here and…it’s not what she hoped it would be. What if she’s not what Andi hopes she’ll be? Maybe she's kidding herself. Maybe she won’t be ready at all. Maybe she’ll just end up embarrassing herself. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

This is a terrible idea.

She gets off the bed and smooths her skirt. She brushes the underside of her curls again, then puts her shoes on. 

Suddenly, there's nothing left to do. No more tasks to take the edge off. She stands in the center of the room for a moment, laptop and notebooks stacked up on the coffee table, clothes put away, shoes lined up in the closet, cosmetics sorted on the counter, heels on, coat on, hair done, scarf looped around her neck. 

Her piano instructor used to say it was good to be nervous. “That means it matters. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be nervous.” 

Her phone goes off.

See you soon

And that’s all it takes for her to get up and go. 

***

The entrance to A Deux looks as good as it did in the pictures. There’s scaffolding right out front– an occupational hazard of doing business in New York, Emilia knows now– but they’ve wrapped twinkling gold lights around all the poles, bathing the sidewalk in a pretty champagne glow. In the front window she can see a long polished bar, and green velvet couches filled with attractive, well-groomed people. It’s just her speed.

She’s about to walk in when she hears a voice behind her. “Hey, you.” 

When she turns, Andi’s leaning against a pole with a smile on her face. 

The first thing Emilia notices is her hair. It’s down, framing her face in perfectly slept-in waves. And her outfit is… unexpected. But then again, what should Emilia have been expecting?

She’s wearing an open black wool coat, showing off a nice suit: a loose blazer, skinny suit pants, and a black lacy camisole loosely tucked in. Two delicate gold necklaces, tiny earrings, a cigar band ring on her left hand, and a pair of loafers, and she’s all set. The only thing that looks out of place is the hot pink umbrella in her right hand.

“What’s with the umbrella? Not exactly your style.”

“It’s my roommate’s,” Andi says. “This is what I get for living in a house full of straight girls.” 

“Watch it,” Emilia says. “We’re supposed to be allies. You know their community needs us.” 

Andi laughs as she approaches. “What’s under your coat?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Andi shoots her a questioning look. “I thought you said you don’t like surprises." 

“There are always exceptions.” 

Now Emilia can smell her—that perfect, uncomplicated scent. She has to squeeze her legs together to keep herself upright.

Andi smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She tilts her head down until she’s just close enough to drive Emilia crazy. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

With her left hand, Andi cups Emilia’s cheek and leans into her. As soon as their lips meet Emilia feels her whole body unlock, and before she can do anything Andi’s hands reach for her hips and lock her into place--that touch she likes so much, that scent all over her.

Andi pulls back just enough to frustrate her, then leans into the spot right below her ear. “How do you always look so pretty,” she says, more a statement than a question, and when they kiss again Emilia can feel Andi’s lips curving into a smile.

Damn. 

When Andi tries to pull away, Emilia drags her back down, sliding her tongue gently into Andi’s mouth until their lips connect just right and they both moan at once. When she pulls away completely, Andi’s face is flushed.

“I do what I can,” Emilia says. “You look…decent, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, you clean up okay.”

“Oh, I clean up okay, huh?” Andi asks, her eyes lighting up as she laughs and pinches Emilia’s waist. 

Emilia squeals, dodging Andi’s touch. They’re both laughing so hard and chasing each other that Emilia almost doesn’t notice when Andi slides her arms around to hold her at the small of her back. She pulls Emilia in tightly, and Emilia slides her arms around Andi’s neck to run her fingers through her hair. It’s so soft.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel close enough. Not with their coats between them. Emilia needs…more. 

Emilia wants another kiss but before she can get one Andi says, “I’m so…”

She stops mid-sentence and looks down at her shoes. 

Emilia can’t wait.

“Yes?” 

“I’m…” When Andi looks up she’s got a dirty smile on her face. “I’m glad I’m not the one who needed a phone call this morning—“

“Hey!”

“Don’t worry,” Andi says. “I was kinda flattered. I would have…talked longer, if I could have. If I didn’t have to work.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Emilia can’t handle the smile on Andi’s face so she slips out of her grasp and heads to the door. She’s about to open it when Andi says, “Nope.” 

Emilia turns around. “What do you mean, nope?”

“We’re not going there.”

“We’re not?”

Andi shakes her head.

“So where are we going?”

Andi jerks her thumb over her shoulder. Directly across the street there’s a windowless iron door with red neon lights spelling the words “On the Rocks" above it.

“There?”

“Yup.”

“So I am getting kidnapped after all.”

Andi ignores her. “You’re gonna love it.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Oh my god, Alo, live a little bit.”

“You tricked me!”  

“Tricked is a strong word.” 

“Why didn’t you–”

“Tell you where we were actually going?” Andi glares at her. “I knew you’d look it up and try to prepare in advance. You look like the kind of girl who does her homework. You probably looked up Mike’s, too, so your outfit would match the vibe, which is probably why you were late.”

Emilia hangs her head.

“It’s okay,” Andi says. “I love that about you. But I wanted you to be legit surprised.”

She…loves that?

“You okay?”

Emilia flinches. “Oh! Yeah, I’m good.”

Andi opens her umbrella and holds it over Emilia’s head. She takes Emilia’s hand and they step off the sidewalk.

Emilia leans into her side and without missing a beat, Andi slips her arm around Emilia’s waist and pulls her closer, keeping her under the umbrella. Andi looks both ways to check for oncoming cars, then absently kisses Emilia’s temple and guides her across the street.

How is this even happening right now? And how can Emilia be expected to resist?

Is she expected to resist?

At the entrance, Andi knocks on the door in a rhythmic pattern. After a moment, the door opens and a man greets them, hugging Andi and chatting for a moment before showing them in. He pulls back a black curtain, revealing a tight candlelit staircase leading to a lower level and another door.

"A basement. Great. Not creepy at all." 

Andi rolls her eyes, but she's laughing a little as they walk down. When they reach the door, she puts her hand on the antique knob, then stops herself. She turns to Emilia, gives her a kiss, and opens the door. 

This place is the farthest thing from a creepy basement. 

The walls are lined in ruby red velvet, edged with glossy oak trim that matches the lattice beams along the ceiling. One side of the room holds a row of cozy leather booths, each walled off with panes of frosted glass to resemble little nooks. The main floor of the lounge is scattered with small tables with cognac leather seats matching the booths. And against the soundproofed wall, facing the whole audience, there’s the centerpiece of the room: a raised platform holding instrument stands and sheet music stands and speakers and amps. But Emilia damn near misses all of that, because all she can look at is the perfectly polished black Steinway grand piano standing tall on the platform.

“It sounds even better than it looks,” Andi says, somehow reading her mind yet again.

Emilia blinks at her, the surprise of it all giving her whiplash. “Oh. I…”

Andi shoots her a quick wink and heads to a small podium in a nearby corner. Behind it, a tall woman with her hair in a French twist cradles a corded phone between her ear and shoulder as she scribbles something on a notepad. 

“…right, of course. I understand. But our policy is very simple, we… well, we have tables for the late set on Sunday.” A pause. “Okay, sure, no…”

When she sees Andi, she stops mid-sentence. 

“…problem,” she says into the phone. “Okay, thank you. Bye.”

As soon as she hangs up she runs to Andi. “Oh my god is it really you? Alex said you were coming but I didn’t believe him. Now I owe that motherfucker twenty bucks, so thanks a lot.”

Andi laughs as the woman pulls her in for a hug. “Hey, Lourdes.”

Lourdes squeezes Andi’s chin as if to inspect her face for signs of wear and tear. “Oh, you look great, kiddo.” Then she frowns and the squeeze goes from affectionate to irritated. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Ow! I just got caught up with stuff.”

Lourdes shakes her head. “Look at you. A couple shows at Sweethearts and suddenly you girls are too good for us.”

Andi snorts. “Please. Hardly.”

Lourdes smiles warmly. “It’s good to see you.” Then her gaze lands on Emilia. “Who’s your friend? I—”

“She’s not my friend,” Andi says, so fast Emilia’s surprised for the millionth time in the span of five minutes. “This is Emilia.”

Lourdes arches a brow. “Where’s the dancer? She was so pretty.”

“Here we go,” Andi mutters. 

“Okay, so what about the cocktail waitress? I liked her; what was her name again? Penelope?”

Andi shoots Emilia an apologetic look before turning to Lourdes. “Paloma,” she says. “And she was a sommelier, not that it matters to you.”

“Eh, same difference. What happened? Did you fuck it up? You two were cute together.”

“It was…a lot.”

“It’s called passion,” Lourdes says. “I thought you liked that.”

“Oh, she does,” Emilia says suddenly, taking Andi’s hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “But I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Lourdes looks taken aback. “Well, then.”

“Okay!” Andi says. “Are we done here?”

Lourdes nods. “Second from the right.”

“I owe you one.”

“What you owe me is a Manhattan and a pack of Camels,” Lourdes calls as they walk away.

They’re halfway through the room when Andi speaks up. “So that was…interesting.” 

Emilia grimaces. “She’s going to hate me for that, isn’t she?”

“Not at all. Lourdes loves that shit.”

Emilia feels Andi squeeze her hand back and can’t help but smile. 

“You seem to know everyone,” she says as they reach the booth. 

Andi shrugs. “You play in New York long enough, you make a lot of friends.” 

Before they can say anything else, Andi moves around behind Emilia, and suddenly her hands land on Emilia’s shoulders. 

Emilia whirls around. “What are you…” She trails off when she sees the panicked look on Andi's face.

“I thought maybe…”

It hits Emilia right then, making her feel so stupid. Andi was going to take her coat.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“No…go ahead.”

Emilia turns back around. Andi’s fingers slide under the collar and gently pull the coat off Emilia’s shoulders. Emilia slides into the booth and Andi does the same after shedding her own coat. 

When Emilia looks up, Andi’s got this look on her face that just makes her want to—

“Interesting dress.”

Emilia pretends to be distracted with her purse even though her face is on fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just…interesting dress.”

Andi settles in next to Emilia and slides her arm around her shoulder. Emilia takes Andi’s free hand and places it gently on her own thigh, just high enough to draw attention to it.

Emilia leans over. “It's not not for you.” 

Andi raises a brow, looking curious. She settles the conversation with a kiss, just gentle enough to annoy Emilia, and while she’s teasing Emilia’s tongue she grips Emilia’s thigh ever so slightly harder, exactly as hard as Emilia wishes the kiss would be right now.

When Andi pulls away, Emilia feels almost grumpy. Maybe it shows all over her face because Andi giggles. “Oh, you wanted more?”

Emilia can’t help but pout. Andi laughs gently and leans into Emilia completely, until they’re perfectly curled into each other, but her mouth is still too far away. When Emilia tries to kiss her again, Andi has the audacity to pull away again.

Emilia frowns. “I’m sorry, are you enjoying this?”

Andi shoots her a dirty smile but doesn’t move. 

Emilia has to work hard to arrange her face into an expression of maturity, trying (and probably failing) to hide the knot in her stomach. 

All she needs is everything. All she wants is more. More of this. More skin, more closeness… she wants her nails in Andi’s back, she wants Andi’s tongue on her—

Yeah, so, she definitely made a mistake back at the hotel. 

“So anyway,” Andi says, and Emilia wants to deck her for changing the subject. “I’m sorry about Lourdes. She’s kind of out of pocket sometimes.” 

"It's all good," Emilia says. With a grin she adds, “The real question is: who's…Paloma ?"

Andi sucks in air through her teeth. "I knew this was going to happen.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.” 

"No, it's okay." Andi considers her words briefly, then says, “Paloma was my last serious girlfriend. She’s a sommelier. A really good one, actually. We met working at the restaurant.”

“Why’d you split up?”

As soon as it comes out of her mouth Emilia hates herself, but Andi doesn’t seem to mind.

Andi puts her elbow on the table and scratches her forehead. “We just had a lot going on. The band kinda ate my life, she was going back and forth to Europe studying for her Advanced exams…plus working together and dating at the same time sucked.”

“Really? It sounds kinda fun to me. Commuting together, eating lunch…”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Andi says, so sternly Emilia can’t help but laugh. “It's so stressful. You’re never truly alone. You don’t get to just…be.”

When she looks at Emilia now, there’s something new playing across her face, something Emilia’s never seen before. It looks a lot like the sadness of remembering something good. 

“When it was good, it was really fucking good, but when it was bad…” she trails off. 

“Like all relationships.”

“Like all relationships.” After a moment she says, “She was a lot. But it’s not her fault. She’s just a really special person. And I never owned my shit. I spent most of the time feeling like I wasn’t enough. I still kinda feel that way.”

“Yeah. It’s like…” Emilia starts, then stops herself.  

Don’t think. 

“You try your best,” Emilia says, “and even though they say you’re enough, even if it’s actually completely true, you can’t help but feel like…”

“Like they’re settling for you.”

“And then by the time you realize you were just all caught up in your head…”

“They’re long gone.” 

When Andi finally looks at her, Emilia meets her gaze head on. 

“Do you regret it?”

Andi shakes her head. “Weirdly, no. I regret fucking it up, because she deserved way better than my dumb ass, but I don’t regret being with her.” 

“No?”

“Nah. It was really hard sometimes, and it hurt like a bitch when we broke up, and I don’t know if I can do it again anytime soon, but no,” Andi says. “No regrets.” 

“Why not?”

“Because it was for real.” 

The look on Andi’s face is so complicated Emilia can’t bear to look at her, but she can’t turn away, either. For a moment, she wonders if there’s a chance that when Andi says it was for real she means— 

“It’s just one of those things, I guess,” Andi says, her expression suddenly changing. “The point is, no sex is worth living in a constant state of low-key chaos.” 

They both laugh, and when they quiet down again Emilia watches the bar fill up, people taking their seats, ordering cocktails, laughing together, couples holding hands. Peggy Lee is playing overhead: “You Deserve.” It’s not a bad vibe.

Suddenly Andi breaks the silence. “Why’d you get divorced?”

Emilia considers her answer. She wonders if she should be witty, but she doesn’t want to be. Something about Andi always makes her want to get serious.

“We stopped looking at the world the same way.”

“How long did you last?” Andi asks. 

“Seven years. But I should have known we were done by year six.”

“What made you stay?”

“Denial,” Emilia says. “And money. I felt like if I could just…I don’t know, throw money at the problem, we could forget the fact that we weren’t getting what we needed from each other.”

“And what did you need?”

Somehow Andi’s whole body is turned towards her now, one hand gently holding Emilia’s, and it feels so protective it makes Emilia want to tell the truth.

Don’t think.

“I—”

The waiter arrives right then. Andi pulls away and makes small talk with him. Then she turns to Emilia.

“Okay, this is the place to order a martini,” she says.

“Finally,” Emilia sighs.

Once he’s gone, they look at each other again, but the moment is broken now. 

“So!” Andi says suddenly. “On the Rocks.” 

Emilia takes a breath, reluctantly switching gears. “What about it?”

Andi moves away from her and launches into the story. “This place is an institution. Everyone from Buena Vista Social Club to Bootsy Collins to Diana Krall has performed here. Some of them actually got their start here when they were really young,” Andi says. “Smalls, Village Vanguard…there are a few good spots in the city. But this place is my favorite.”

“How come?”

“It started as a lesbian bar.”

“No fucking way.”

Andi grins. “Way. The mob owned it, because that’s how they used to do things back in the day in New York. They owned a lot of the queer friendly clubs,” she says. “Of course nobody really knew what it was until it got raided. And then it was an empty property for a minute, until a queer couple bought it and turned it into this.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, they just started scouting talent, inviting people to perform…they brought in a lot of cool people before they hit it big. These days you can always find some interesting people in the mix. Especially for the late sets.” Andi scratches the back of her neck absently and adds, “Jon Batiste comes sometimes, usually on Tuesdays. Sometimes he’ll play a little piano if he’s feeling up to it.”

The respect in her eyes makes Emilia want to kiss her, but she holds back.

“So, yeah. It’s a cool spot.”

“And you know half the staff.”

Andi laughs. “Like I said, you play long enough in New York, you meet people. Big city, small town.”

“How do you know them?”

“Long story.” 

“I have time.”

Andi looks at her for a second, then back out into the crowd. “Lourdes gave Jana a job when she was in a bind and really needed the money, and we all kinda ended up helping out here and there. We played a couple shows here, actually, but it didn’t really stick. Not our scene.”

“Why was she in a bind?” 

Andi shakes her head in a gesture of finality. “That’s not my part of the story to tell.”

“So which part is?”

She doesn’t answer. 

Emilia decides not to push anymore. “So why’d you bring me here? Besides the history, and the martinis.” 

“Well…” Andi trails off, and Emilia watches a sweet smile drift across her face. “The drinks were part of it, for sure, but mostly because you put Stone Flower in your top five records and the guys playing tonight do Latin jazz, so I thought… maybe it would make you happy.” 

Emilia doesn’t quite know what to say. 

Before she can come up with an answer, the drinks arrive, and a moment later the lights start to dim. She notices the place is full.

Lourdes heads to the platform and picks up the mic. 

“Good evening and welcome to On the Rocks! We’re delighted to have you with us tonight. Now, time is the only resource we can never get back, so let’s get down to business. You already know who it is, and if you don’t, your taste in music is about to get a serious upgrade. It is, as always, my absolute pleasure to introduce tonight’s ensemble, the Alejandro Bedoya Group!” 

The room swells with applause and even a few whistles and cheers as Alejandro, the guy from the pizza place, steps up to the podium with several other musicians. 

“You never said–”

“We met in Monterrey,” Andi says. “He’s amazing. You’ll see.”

“Good evening, everybody!” Alejandro says. “Thank you for braving this weather to be here tonight. This will only hurt a little, I promise.” 

As light laughter wafts along the room, the band settles into place: a tall woman at the upright bass; the violinist guiding her wheelchair up a ramp to the platform with her instrument in her lap; the flutist standing behind his mic and double checking the tightness of the flute; someone else nearby with a sax; one person at the percussion corner complete with timbales, vibraphone, and maracas; and one at the piano. Alejandro slips an acoustic guitar over his shoulder and stays up at the front mic.

A moment later, he starts to strum gently, announcing his presence and demanding silence. After a few chords, Emilia recognizes the song: “Tons e Semitons.” 

She knows it the way people know their mother tongue: you don’t remember ever learning the language, you just know that you’ve known it forever. You know what sounds right and what doesn’t from a lifetime of instinct.

A single guitar can seem like the easiest thing in the world, until you listen to a song like this one and realize the melody isn’t so much a melody at all, at least not at first. It’s a conjuring of notes, rippling one after another in a way that feels completely unnatural and wholly organic all at once, as if there’s no way the notes should connect that way, but also as if there’s no other way they could possibly align. It feels like improvising and crafting at the same time. Emilia always imagines that the song is the story of loving someone and letting them go. 

Alejandro takes his time, sinking into each chord, delivering the notes with bliss. It’s the only word Emilia can think of to describe it. He melts into the music, drawing the audience close, pulling them into the story. 

He closes his eyes when he reaches the midpoint of the song, the heated ascent, the change in tone, the pace slowing, and then, the high, grating strains, the sudden cry of grief. Loving and losing. Meeting and parting. Being let go and letting go in turn. 

The chords flutter to a halt, and stop. A single breath that feels like forever. When the notes begin again, they’re slow strums, the story taking its time, wandering its way back to the core of the song.

Over time the pace picks up again, finding new footing, the notes reinvigorated after the break, climbing another thrilling crescendo, into the last cycle of rushing and falling, the final longing, made even more poignant now because the audience knows what comes next this time— the joyful rush and bittersweet fall. A rush that makes the fall worth it.

And then, as quick as it began, the ending arrives, the chords left unresolved. The story lingers on, unfinished. Because real love is endless.

The room is silent for a moment, basking in communal awe. And then the thundering applause, the cheers, the whistles, all hit in a wave, and Alejandro smiles and tips his head in a slight bow. 

Then the piano chimes in, the percussion comes alive, and a bright, cheerful rendition of “Doralice” begins. Alejandro steps aside to let the violinist guide the melody and become the star of the show.

But there might as well be total silence as far as Emilia is concerned because she’s still stuck on the first song. She wishes she could rewind and watch him play it again and again, until she understands how he lived the music. She can’t understand how he did it.

She used to be able to do that.

***

The show is beautiful, a mix of jazz and soul and Mexican ballads and bossa nova deep cuts, everything from “Llamarada” to “Brigas Nunca Mais” to “As Rosas Nao Falam,” a song Emilia hasn’t heard since childhood on her mother’s beat up radio, and threatens to bring her to tears. 

The group’s original compositions leave her breathless; a vibraphone solo midway through a ballad gives her chills. And to close out the program, a shimmering cover of Sade’s “War of the Hearts,” with Alejandro and the violinist engaging in a call and response duet until the very end, when all the voices join together for a set of harmonies that hold the audience in thrall as the instruments soar to a final explosion of sound.

When the applause dies down, Emilia finds herself dragged back to the surface of reality, blinking herself awake, feeling disoriented after the highs and lows of the last two hours.

Now there’s only a cacophony of general exit sounds, the tide of humanity turning towards the door, and after a little while Emilia realizes the place is completely empty. But instead of reaching for her bag, collecting her belongings and her thoughts, all she can do is prop her elbows on the table and think about the show, wishing she could go back to the beginning and replay it immediately. 

“What are you thinking?”

Emilia turns at the sound of Andi’s voice. She’s sitting back against the booth, eyes closed. 

“Nothing,” she says, convincing no one, Andi least of all.

“Liar.”

Emilia hiccups, feeling just the right amount of tipsy. “Why didn’t you tell me Alejandro was a musician?”

Andi opens her eyes and shrugs. “It just never came up. He’s pretty low key about it, too.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be. He’s amazing.”

“That’s what we all keep telling him. He just started producing for Samara Joy. Hopefully it sticks.” 

“So,” Emilia says, changing the subject, “either those martinis are very strong, or I’m a lightweight.” 

“Not a lightweight. They have a heavy hand here.” 

She wants to make a joke, lift the mood. So she smiles and says, “So you brought me here to get me tipsy and take advantage of me, huh? That was your big surprise?” 

Instead of teasing back, Andi tenses up right away. “No way.”

Emilia’s not sure what to say. 

“That’s how you hurt people,” she says. “And I would never hurt you.”

Emilia feels her stomach tighten. 

“No?”

Andi shakes her head. 

“And what would you do instead?”

Andi opens her mouth as if to say something, her mouth so close to shaping words, and Emilia feels a fever building inside her chest. 

She needs to grab something, some object to anchor her, so she reaches for her clutch. Her fingers are weak as she reaches inside for her lipgloss, and the tube is closed too tightly. She gives up and looks up from what she’s doing, and when she does her gaze meets Andi’s right away.

“I would ask you if you want to try something.”

“You would?”

Andi sits up and nods. “So…do you want to?”

“What, now?"

“Yeah, now.” 

Emilia fusses with her purse again, trying to buy herself some time. After a moment, she says, “Okay.” It’s not like Andi could have anything terrible in mind. Right?

“Excellent.” Andi slides out of the booth. 

“What are you doing?”

Andi starts weaving her way through the tables until she reaches the platform. 

“The thing that’s great about music,” she says, “is that you can always pick it back up right where you left off.” She sits down at the piano. “It’s always there.”

Emilia tilts her head, confused. “I didn’t know you play piano.”

“I don’t,” Andi says. “But you do.”

Oh, no. No way.

“Andi…”

Andi pats the bench.

“Absolutely not.”

There’s a beat. It’s only a few seconds, but to Emilia it feels like forever. 

“Okay,” Andi says. “If you’re sure.” 

Andi turns to the keys and cracks her knuckles. She throws her hands down on the keys and starts playing a wobbly rendition of “Chopsticks” that makes Emilia want to scream. 

“Oh my god, no,” Emilia cries. She jumps up, bumping her hip on the edge of the table as she gets out of the booth. She rushes to the platform and places her hands on top of Andi’s to hold them still.

“Please, never do that again.” 

Andi frowns. “What do you mean? I thought it sounded great.”

“That was offensive.” 

“Excuse me!” Andi says, but she can’t help but laugh.

Emilia laughs, too. “You made the piano sad.”

Andi pouts and crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” Emilia says. “Jesus Christ that hurt.”

“Oh, you think you can do better?”

“I mean…”

She’s not sure. Probably not. At least not anymore. 

She sits down, but just before she puts her hands on the keys, she stops herself. 

“When’s the last time you played?”

“Three years ago, I think,” Emilia says. “Maybe a little more.”

“Damn. I don’t know if I could go a few days, let alone years.”

Emilia laughs, but it’s bitter. 

She stares at the keys. They look like people she hasn’t seen in forever. Friends she lost touch with and doesn’t understand anymore— because she didn’t bother to stay connected.

She was so good at music. So fucking good. That’s all gone now. 

Standing in the wreckage after what happened at EWS, Emilia wondered why she didn’t feel angry. After all, conventional wisdom said it wasn’t her fault. He was the one who had done something wrong. There was no way Emilia could have expected this to happen to her. And the parade of social workers and psychiatrists who poked and prodded for months on end all said the same thing.

The thing is, she didn’t sit in dark corners or refuse to shower. She didn’t feel depressed. What Emilia felt, more than anything, was lost. Leaving EWS meant leaving music, the only thing she was ever good at. Music was home, and without it, nothing tethered her to the world. She couldn’t move forward without the piano, but after what happened she couldn’t move forward with it, either. The only way she wanted to heal was by playing, but it hurt too much. She donated her piano– her Yamaha P22 that her mother had worked two jobs to afford– to the local church. She allowed music to exist in her life, but not like before. She stopped listening with an artist’s ear, searching for craftsmanship, the perfectly fitted gears making a song or a score run like a Swiss watch. That was over, and that was okay. Music became wallpaper. Filler. A way to round out a room. Not art.

But then Emilia found math, or maybe it found her. The logic of numbers, the safety of equations, the comfort that there could only be one right answer every time, gave her the solace she needed. Math was a quiet room where she could decide who she wanted to be. It turned out she wanted to be Emilia the Nerd, exactly the kind of girl she’d spent her time mocking. Isn't it funny how life always comes back around?

Later on, after the welcome blur of college, with no time to think about anything but numbers, she found her work. She built a new self, a castle with walls strong enough to keep out the loss. She made money, enough to buy a P22 three times over, enough to buy her mother a house of her own and let her retire at 57. She married someone comfortable, someone who liked the mindless filler of sound, preferred it even. And she willed herself to be happy. She made sure she was happy being the new self she had created from the ashes of the girl she burned to the ground. She worked hard to be happy. Because happiness is work. Happiness is a problem to be solved. Right?

But somehow the solution keeps escaping her. 

“I understand,” Andi says. 

Resentment flares up inside Emilia, surprising her. 

“Do you?” she asks, but instead of sounding the way she wants it to, it’s sharp, biting. Mean.

Andi’s eyebrows jump. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I…” she stops. “You’re fine. It’s my own shit. I’m sorry.”  

Andi tilts her head down, trying to find Emilia’s gaze. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

But what if she does? 

Emilia looks down at the keys again. She could swear they’re sneering at her. Daring her to fail. Her hands are tingling, and she hates herself for it. The last time she did this, it was as easy as breathing. Just as vital, too. 

When she was trying to fall asleep on the plane she put on Ravel’s “Jeux d’eau.” The water games. He wrote it as a metaphor for water streaming and jumping in a fountain, soaring through open, sunlit air. Sometimes she can’t help but marvel at that: the way people can notice and reflect and understand and create. She used to do that every day. That was a long time ago, she says sometimes, when people discover she can play. So nonchalant, as if it were a random occurrence in her life. A way to pass the time. Careless. 

There used to be so much care there. Because that’s what art is, at the bone: care. The deepest kind of care. People sacrifice their lives for that care. There are only so many things a human being can care about at once. 

What have you ever cared about, she asks herself now. Why did you stop caring about this the second you had a chance? 

The first time he heard her voice—heard her at the piano in class, singing in Portuguese, a gentle cover of a brassy pop song she’d loved for a while—he knew. She could see it all over his face. She knew he wanted to own her. 

“I was expecting something more personal,” he said, his tone snappish and cold. “Not a cover. Thank you, that’ll be all.”

Every time she thinks of him, her face scrunches up, remembering his sudden invitation to office hours. She convinced herself she’d be a fool not to take it. Here was the chance to make amends for her cover, to show him exactly what she was made of. Gus Bauman had everything she could ever want, everything she could never get on her own. A poor girl from the ugly part of San Paulo was never going to make it without knowing someone with influence, no matter how smart or talented or attractive she was. It’s never about what you know; it’s always about who you know. And Gus Bauman knew everyone.

Miss Favela, they called her. Queen of the Slums. Trailer Park Princess. She would do anything to make sure they never called her that again. 

She can still remember the smell of his office, his obnoxious cologne filling the air.  She felt it all over her skin; afterwards she scrubbed herself so hard in the shower she hurt her arms and legs and knew she needed lotion but couldn’t bring herself to touch her own body beyond what was absolutely essential. She hated having to touch her skin. It brought her to tears. 

Had she given him any permission? Did she allow it to happen?  

Did she say yes just by not saying no?

And then he cornered her in a hallway, asked her why she never came to class anymore, why she never talked to him. I’m hard on you because you’re talented, he said. You have to be hard on talent. 

And then a month later he found her in the practice room, stretching at the barre by herself. He wandered in, locked the door behind him. Everything you have is because I gave it to you, he said. You know that, don’t you? 

When she said no—when she finally denied him, when she finally spoke up and demanded more for herself—nothing happened. 

But Mr. Bauman is such an asset to the school.

What would this mean for his career?

This is a huge win for EWS.

Are you perhaps misremembering what you did?

What you did.

You.

As if she had wanted him to pull her hair and—

Emilia needs more time, time she doesn’t have. She’ll never have enough. She’ll always take too long. And people…people don’t like it when you take too long to be yourself with them.

“Dona de Mim.” That was the cover she sang the day she was so desperate to prove herself to him. She kept her voice tightly controlled on the verses, until she reached the chorus and let it run free, sliding up and down to create her own progressions. She could infuse as little or as much of herself as she wanted.  

She could live the music.

“Dona de Mim.” Mistress of Myself. A song about control. My fate is my own. I hold my life in the palm of my hand. The only thing stopping me is me. She never was able to sing that song after he touched her. 

Now she lays her right hand down in the center of the piano, finding middle C. 

She adds the rest of her fingers on the keys she wants, at exact intervals. 

She places her left hand on the keys, mirroring the right one. She cups the keys gently. Like a bubble is resting on top of the keys and you can’t let it pop. That’s how she was taught. 

And then she presses both hands down. Hard. 

The explosion of notes echoes through her chest, a sonic boom radiating from the center of her heart. 

The piano opens up to greet her.    

Welcome home. 

She closes her eyes for a moment, absorbing the sound. And then, remembering herself, she pulls her hands back as if she burned her fingers.

“Do you want to play something?”

Emilia presses her lips together. It would be a religious experience to play on a Steinway, are you kidding? It’s like the musical equivalent of being asked if you want to make out with Aubrey Plaza. Now that she’s here she’d be an idiot not to do it.

And yet.

You can’t fail if you don’t try. 

But…the only thing stopping me is me. 

She nods. 

She racks her brain, trying to pick a song, but she’s drawing a blank. She brushes her fingers across the black keys, her nails clicking along the surface. Then she presses the right keys with the pads of her fingers, light as air, playing one of her favorite songs, just for fun. Just the slightest taps on the keys. “I guess you wonder where I’ve been…” she sings, so softly she can barely hear herself, and she feels her face break open into a smile. “I searched to find a love within…”

And just like that, she stops. It feels too good. 

When she looks up, Andi is watching her, her eyes soft and patient and filled with something that looks a lot like what Emilia saw in the restaurant last week. 

“I came back to let you know…” she murmurs, playing the rest of the chords gently, “...got a thing for you, and I can’t let go…”

She fades out gently, and stares at her hands. 

When she looks up, she can tell Andi’s working overtime to contain her excitement. She’s even sitting on her hands and bouncing her foot. It’s sweet. But it can’t last. Emilia wishes she understood. Nothing can last. Nothing that feels this good is meant for her anymore.

The passion, the force that drives a person to create, can often be hard to explain to those who aren’t burdened by it. It swings back and forth like a pendulum, a measure of balance. Chaos and clarity on either end, and stasis in the center. Most days are lived on one end or the other, since art is most often inspired by extremes. Finding the stasis, the place where chaos and clarity come together to raise the mind above the curve—that’s the reason. The reason for coming back to the practice again and again and again, drawn to the elusive magic of understanding yourself outside of yourself, of feeling a hand on your back guiding you in the exact direction you need to go. The voice telling you, this is where you needed to be all along. All the tears and sleepless nights and broken hearts, they brought you here. Everything brought you to this. 

Emilia can’t find the balance. Some days music is the fork in the road of her whole life, and some days it’s nothing but a roadside sign passed by on the way home. Most people don’t understand that. But maybe that’s because Emilia shuts them down before they can get a chance to understand. 

She was so good at fighting it. You can resist it forever if you take the right measures. But now… now she wants the passion so badly she can taste it. 

So she starts over. She plays the first notes of a Chopin nocturne: op. 9, no.2 in E flat major. She keeps her eyes focused on the keys, where it’s safe to look. 

For a moment she’s worried she won’t remember the notes at all, but her hands remember for her. Muscle memory. 

Still, the first four measures are too stiff, too tight. The nocturnes aren’t meant to sound like this. They’re supposed to be dreamlike, reminders of nighttime and rest. Her hands fall too flat against the keys. It sounds like she’s working on a math problem. Solve for x. Too much logic here. 

As she works through the next four measures she forces her hands to float up off the keys, fluttering gently over the instrument between notes. Up and down, up and down, she tells herself. Better now. But still not quite right. 

She checks her posture. Her shoulders are up by her ears, her neck compacted to the point of pain. She forces her shoulders down, rolls them back, opens up her chest even though it makes her feel exposed. Vulnerable to attack. 

More fluttering, and she wades into the twelfth measure. She keeps her spine straight. Sit as if a string were pulling you up toward the ceiling, her piano teacher used to say. She can feel her hands trembling, threatening to hit the wrong keys, and she tightens her jaw in response, her face seizing up. 

It sounds better. But she’s fighting it. She knows that. She’s supposed to be limber. 

But it’s more than that. When you play the nocturnes, you’re supposed to know how to relax. 

She gets through the beginning, the softest part. Now to the midpoint of the song, where the mood shifts and the energy intensifies. Her hands get her there right away, changing their motions almost effortlessly, almost without her help, pressing on the keys harder than before, but not hammering down.   

The melody evolves, climbing steadily, nearing the biggest turning point, where the composition reaches some of its highest notes and loudest tones, and the music is meant to ring out clear as a bell. Emilia finds herself swaying back and forth in rhythm, and part of her wants to stop moving so much, but she’s so busy guiding the song to completion she doesn’t have time to focus on whether or not she looks cool while she’s playing. And maybe…maybe it doesn’t matter. 

She lets herself go for it, lets herself work smarter for the notes she needs, turning textures inside out, loosening her grip on the composition, and somehow that unlocks the music and it finally sounds right now, flowing as easily as water, as the moonlight it's meant to evoke, the way it’s supposed to. It clicks into place. Her instinct just knows it sounds right. Her face relaxes, and the relief of letting go of the tension in her cheeks almost makes her cry. 

And then suddenly they’re here, the notes she’s been so afraid of reaching, and as she hits the keys she finds herself smiling wide and opening up like she hasn’t in years, her chest squaring up to grab the air she needs to keep her core engaged, and it courses through her entire body, all the way down to her feet, as she sways harder and soars into the final measures with everything she has left. 

She feels her shoulders burn, her fingers at their breaking point, her nails bending uncomfortably at times, talons not made for playing like this, and it almost makes her want to stop, but the rush is too hard to control, the height too sweeping. The view from the final measures is too captivating to abandon now, so open and full of promise she can’t believe she ever let herself forget what music can look like when you open your mind’s eye. She can see every note now, each one a spark bursting in a clear night sky, creating constellations glittering through the darkness. Her diaphragm lashes out from the demands she’s making of it, her throat straining to the point of tears, so thick with anger it almost suffocates her. She gives up on perfect posture and lets herself lean in, her shoulders lifting and hunching and lifting again, her hands spreading like wings in perfect extensions, spanning across the keys to hit each note right on the mark. 

This is where you needed to be all along. 

And then, on the last four measures, she gathers the edges of the melody and pulls them all back to center, back to where it began. She lets the notes unravel differently now, bittersweet, battle-scarred, pressing the keys as gently as she can, guiding the song to a quiet, perfectly resolved chord. A story spun from each note she just played. 

Her hands linger on the keys, the echo in the room bringing her down from the high as she closes her eyes and breathes deep. The tears she was fighting come anyway. 

Welcome home. 

She drops her hands at her sides, palms on the bench. She feels Andi’s left hand land gently on her right one.  

She finally opens her eyes. Andi’s looking at her with a brand new expression all over her face. Emilia doesn’t know what it means, or how it makes her feel.

No. Stop it.

She knows exactly what it means.

She’s being admired.

Andi presses her forehead to Emilia’s.

“See?” she whispers. “Trust.”

Emilia takes a shallow breath, then cups Andi’s face and draws her close for a kiss. When they meet now it’s something new and familiar all at once, the high of the music crashing into the high of the kiss, and she wishes Andi would put her arms around her but she knows Andi knows better. Andi understands the feeling, the desire for closeness and distance that performing can create inside you all at once, and she’s trying to protect Emilia from overstimulation, and that makes Emilia want her arms even more, but she doesn’t know how to ask for them without scaring Andi away. 

So she pulls back, and when she does their gazes meet, and both of them are breathing hard, chests rising and falling deeply. 

She hopes Andi can see what she’s trying to say. 

“That was crazy stupid amazing, by the way,” Andi says finally. 

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah. I don’t know what made you quit music, but whoever it was…I just want to talk to them real quick.” When Emilia giggles, she adds, “Just real quick! Just give me like two minutes. That’s all I need to get a good punch in.” She considers the number briefly, then adds, “Or seven. Yeah, seven sounds about right.”

Emilia imagines seven punches in his throat and finds it strangely satisfying. But just as quickly, the satisfaction makes her feel compromised. Dirty. This isn’t supposed to involve him. Andi is supposed to be kept away from this. 

Except now the rush of the evening and the music and the drinks and the piano drives her over the edge, and she can’t hold back anymore. 

“Come back with me.”

Andi frowns. “What?”

“Come back with me. Please.” 

Andi’s frown deepens, until the realization spreads across her face. “But you said–”

“I know what I said.” Emilia swallows hard. “Come back with me.”

Andi pulls away completely. “You sure?” 

She nods. 

Andi doesn’t seem to notice, and keeps rambling. “Because I don’t want to go with you if you’re not one-hundred percent sure that—”

“Oh my god,” Emilia says, and pulls Andi close to silence her with a kiss. But it’s different this time. It’s a demand.  

When Emilia pulls away, Andi’s quiet. Then she nods, as if convincing herself Emilia is being serious.

“Okay,” she says. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Emilia feels the anticipation course through her, and then just as quickly, the need to fight it. But there’s no time for that. Not anymore. 

They hold hands in the car all the way back to the hotel.

***

As soon as they get inside Emilia’s room, she’s a mess.

It’s a frantic tangle of limbs as she struggles to take off her coat without disconnecting her mouth from Andi’s. When it turns too clumsy, Andi pulls away. 

“Hey,” she says. She tips Emilia’s chin up with her finger. “Hi.”

Emilia’s breathing slows down, her coat halfway off her shoulders. “Hi.”

“How about we arrive first?” Andi says. She takes Emilia’s coat and hangs it in the closet by the door, then takes off her own. 

Emilia kicks off her shoes and as soon as her feet are flat on the carpet she feels a little more grounded. They take a minute to wash their hands, and while they’re at the sink side by side Andi winks at her in the mirror.  

Back in the room Andi finds the dimmer switch and turns the lamps to the second lowest setting, a deep golden glow blanketing the room. Emilia watches her take her wallet, keys, phone and lip balm out of her pockets and leave them on the dresser. It’s all so organized. So deliberate.

Is it possible to be turned on by the way someone moves?  

Andi slips off her blazer, revealing her spaghetti-strap top, the lacy trim. Her arms are so nicely carved, her chest so tight. Emilia just wants to–

“Excuse me,” Andi says sternly, without even looking up from what she’s doing. “Just because I’m cute doesn’t mean you get to objectify me.”

“I was not!” 

“Sure,” she says. She leaves her shoes by the door. “Out here treating me like a piece of meat. I have feelings too, you know.”

Emilia smirks. “Oh, yeah?”

Andi turns to her. “Yeah.”

Emilia wants it to be playful, but Andi’s gaze changes in a split second, turning so serious Emilia doesn’t know how to respond.

Andi solves the problem for her. In three steps she reaches Emilia and pulls her by the hips and then they’re kissing again, slowly at first, then urgently, and Andi’s hands spread across Emilia’s shoulder blades, then slide down her back until she’s cupping Emilia’s ass. 

“You like it?” 

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

“What took you so long?”

“I didn’t want to overstep a boundary!” 

Emilia pulls away to glare at her. 

“Listen, women are complicated. Just because it looks like a thirst trap doesn’t mean you can just touch–”

Emilia shuts her up with a kiss, and when they separate for just a second Andi walks Emilia backwards to the bed. When her knees hit the mattress she falls back and Andi follows, landing on top of her. 

Andi props herself up with her left arm, and uses her right hand to brush her hair over her shoulder. 

Emilia’s eyes go wide. 

It’s time. 

Oh, god.

What the fuck was she thinking? 

She shouldn’t have done this.

She’s not ready. 

She’s so ready, she’s not ready, she’s so ready, oh my god–

“You okay? I—”

Before the voice of reason can take over, Emilia pulls Andi down for a rough kiss, because now all she wants is to just finish this so she can say she did it and Andi can go, because she wants this so fucking badly but she just can’t let herself–

Andi pulls back and gets off the bed.

She goes to the wall of windows and skims her fingertips over the glass, looking out at the view.  

She asks, “Am I doing something wrong?”

Emilia frowns. “What do you mean?”

Andi turns around. “I mean, you bring me back here, you practically jump me as soon as we walk in, and then you look terrified when I’m about to touch you. So, I’m not sure what’s going on here.” She looks so worried it makes Emilia’s heart ache. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Emilia sits up. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I thought I was ready, but I don’t know anymore. I guess I figured…”

She trails off when she sees Andi walking back to her.

Andi stops at the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“But you planned this whole thing, and I brought you back here, so I owe you–”

“Nope,” Andi says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Yes, I do,” Emilia insists. “I should have told you more.”

“More?”

“I just…it’s been a while.”

“What does that…” Andi trails off when it hits her. “Oh. Okay.”

Emilia feels her cheeks get so hot she can hardly stand it. Andi bends down and kisses her forehead. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

She folds her hands in her lap and waits for the tears to pass. 

She remembers going out with her mother after the divorce. They spent a lot of time together then, when Emilia was busy swallowing her pride and recovering from her life. Wading through the day. Her mother was right there, picking up the pieces and gluing her back together. Except there was something about this time that felt completely different. 

She had allowed herself to be touched. That was the thing, the energy that powered her pain. She had trusted someone else’s skin against her own. She had made someone else’s body her second home. She had found the deepest parts of herself within the deepest parts of someone else. She had written a story with someone. Something indelible. She had made a shared history, for better and for worse. And now they no longer shared anything at all. 

Intellectually, on paper, she knew what the separation meant. And physically, it was simple: dividing the estate, relinquishing the things she had tried to use to fill the spaces where love should have been. Emilia stayed in a hotel while the movers gutted the apartment, giving up every Egyptian cotton sheet and Waterford wine glass. The objects that had solidified her maturity, sealed her adulthood, made her a grown-up. Gone. 

Emotionally, she had no idea what this was supposed to be. 

She remembers a shopping trip with her mother in the spring. Retail therapy. She was trying on a pair of pink suede heels when her mother said, “You could never just be yourself.”

She turned from the mirror in surprise. “What?”

“That’s how I knew.” 

“Knew what?”

“That it would never work.”

Emilia folded her hands together, her thumb rubbing her left ring finger, instinctively seeking a diamond that didn’t live there anymore.

“You always had to fold yourself up nice and small,” her mother said. “You never got to just be. ”

Emilia swallowed, kept quiet. 

“That’s how I should have known your father and I wouldn’t work, either.” 

She went to her mother and sat next to her on the couch in the middle of the store. 

Her mother shook her head, almost as if this fact had caught her off guard and was only now making sense to her after all these years. Emilia felt a burst of pain in her chest, different from the constant ache she’d been feeling lately. She reached for her mother’s hand, gnarled by arthritis but still perfectly manicured.

“Don’t do that again,” she said. 

“Do what?”

“Don’t waste time giving your whole self to someone who only wants certain parts of you.”

Strange how, out of all the moments she spent with her mother back then, that’s the one reaching out to her right now. 

Now Emilia’s eyes are still burning when she asks, “Is that okay?” 

“It’s always okay.” Andi smiles gently. After a moment she says, “We can get a bunch of stuff from Bonetti’s and bring it back here and watch a movie–I’m sure there’s a shitty rom-com playing on one of the cable channels. We’ll do a whole wine and cheese thing.” In a much smaller voice she adds, “If you’ll still have me.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re really uncomfortable, I can go.” Suddenly Andi’s the one who’s nervous. “I understand if you want to be alone.” 

That’s the last thing Emilia wants to be–- even after her reaction, even after freaking out, even after remembering her mother’s hands. 

Not when she could have this instead. 

“Stay. Please.” 

Andi smiles wide. “Okay. Let me get my stuff and we can go.” She goes on while she puts on her shoes and gathers her things on the dresser. “You’re going to love Bonetti’s. Best cheesemonger in the city. People think it’s overpriced, and the salad bar leaves a lot to be desired, but good cheese deserves to be expensive, you know? And they have these Cerignola olives that are just amazing; do you even like olives? I think they’re so–”

“Why are you doing this?”

Andi opens her wallet, flips through a few bills. “Because I want olives. And some Belle Saison if the cheese counter is still open. Why?”

“No, I mean, why are you doing this?”

Andi looks at her for a moment, then goes back to the bed to sit next to her.

She folds her hands together. “I feel like this is the part where we’re supposed to do the whole feelings thing, and I’m not a feelings person, so I can’t give you that.” 

Emilia feels her heart drop and has to sit on her hands to control herself. 

“I can’t sit here and be all poetic about it or whatever. It’s just not really my thing.”  She shoots Emilia an apologetic smile. “All I know is that I'm doing this because it’s you, and it's been you for a minute now. I don’t really care if we sleep together. I just want to watch a shitty rom-com and eat some olives with you.” 

Oh.

 Oh.  

“Now get your shit together, Alo, we’re on a tight schedule. They close at midnight, so we have to–” 

Andi’s barely off the bed when Emilia pulls her back down and they land together, Andi’s thighs straddling Emilia’s hips. Emilia slides her arms around Andi’s neck and pulls her down for a kiss—deep, slow. 

When Andi pulls away she bites her lower lip. “Okay, so I’m gonna take that as a no on the olives.” 

“Correct.”

“Got it.” 

Between kisses Emilia tugs on Andi’s top and pulls it over her head. 

She’s wearing a sheer black bra barely concealing her nipples, now pebbled and straining against the fabric. Emilia runs her thumb over one and likes how Andi reacts. 

Now she actually gets to see the tattoo on Andi's stomach: a set of cherubs arched over the word ANGEL in very serious-looking capital letters.

“Finally,” she whispers. She drags her nails across the ink, and Andi shivers at her touch.

“Oh, were you looking forward to that?” 

“I mean…I wasn’t not looking forward to it.”

Andi bends down to kiss her, but Emilia decides to move on to more important pursuits. 

She reaches for the zipper of Andi’s pants but gets stopped halfway there. “Uh-uh.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Andi runs her thumb along Emilia’s collarbone, then presses it to Emilia’s lips. 

“You first,” she says. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Well, shit. 

What do you say to that? 

Before she can come up with an answer, Andi adds, “No expectations. If you don’t like it, we stop.”

Fuck.  

What is she supposed to do now?

Emilia is deeply aware of the fact that there are infinite ways people can touch. All this time, ever since the end of her marriage, she’s been trying to grasp everything held in that infinity. But rewriting the map of her desire has been acutely painful, the knife twisting deeper every time she thinks she’s finally understood the borders of herself, how to let someone give her what she needs, only to find that she’s wrong yet again. Always wrong, always the mistake, always the problem. 

What are you craving right now, she wonders. 

How long has it been since you got what you needed? 

Emilia puckers her lips, kisses Andi’s thumb. 

What if she gives herself away and it changes nothing?

Andi teases Emilia’s mouth open and waits. 

She shouldn’t. It’s selfish. Being taken care of is selfish. She doesn’t deserve to be selfish, or spoiled, or satisfied. 

But she wants it so fucking badly she can barely get the words out. 

“Okay.” 

“No," Andi says. "Not good enough.”

Emilia frowns.

“I need a yes,” she says. “A ‘fuck yes,’ ideally, but a regular ‘yes’ is also acceptable, as long as it’s for real.” 

For real.

“Fuck yes,” Emilia whispers. 

She feels her pulse raging inside her as Andi pulls the straps of her dress off her shoulders and pushes down the cups to expose her chest. Then Andi flicks her tongue over her nipple, and Emilia’s back bows hard as Andi swirls her tongue around and then pulls back. “This fucking dress,” she says, and Emilia wants to laugh but all she can do is sigh because Andi’s finally touching her, pushing up her skirt, and then her hand is skimming her inner thighs and finally reaching up to–

Andi’s hand stops short. “Do you ever wear legit underwear?”

“I think this counts.”

Andi glares at her. 

Emilia rolls her eyes. “It’s just that sometimes with certain dresses it doesn’t look…”

She stops talking when she sees Andi sucking on her fingers. Then Andi slides her hand under Emilia’s dress again and two fingers land right on her clit. 

She does not mean to moan so loud but she can’t help it. 

She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god I’m so sorry.”

“Never apologize for that,” Andi says. 

Emilia wants to say something else but words are hard when Andi’s fingers start circling and retreating over and over, and Emilia can’t decide if she wants to arch into her or away from her but Andi’s right there, holding her down. When Andi starts getting closer to the right spot, pressing harder with every stroke, Emilia’s wetness stops being subtle and coats Andi’s fingers in a sudden rush. Andi moans instantly, sounding taken aback, and suddenly there’s no air in the room.  

What if she gives herself away and it changes everything?

Don’t think. 

Emilia opens her legs wider and Andi accepts the invitation right away, but her hand just keeps teasing. When Emilia whines, Andi just giggles. It’s practically diabolical. If she could just...Emilia tries to turn her body so Andi’s touch will land exactly where she wants it, but Andi is surprisingly strong. 

And then, just before she can get what she wants, Andi slows it all down and holds still, capturing Emilia’s attention. 

When she speaks her voice is just above a whisper. 

“I got you,” she says. “I promise.”  

It’s so earnest and open that Emilia wants to say something but there’s nothing left to say, nothing left to do except arch up so that Andi can open her up completely, stroke her down, and finally slide both fingers inside her. 

Chapter Text

All right, who the fuck decided it was okay to make dresses so complicated?

Andi draws her fingers out with a low sound of annoyance. Emilia reaches for the waistline of the dress but Andi stops her.

“Let me,” she says, and she doesn’t mean to sound so demanding but fuck, she kind of needs to get this thing out of the way immediately.

She finds a skinny little zipper along the side seam of the corset but it’s so tight it doesn’t open right away. She tugs on it but it just won’t move.

“Do you like this dress? Because I’m about to–”

“Rip it and I will end you.”

Andi winces. “Okay, so…maybe I do need some help.”

Emilia sits up and unzips the dress with ease.

“I loosened it for you.”

“Sure.”

“Whatever,” Andi says, and Emilia laughs. While she’s laughing Andi tips her chin up to kiss her, sucking on her lower lip when she pulls away.

With Emilia still sitting up, Andi slides her hand into Emilia’s hair and tilts her head back even more, tracing her lips along Emilia’s jaw and down her neck…until she sees the bruise.

“Oh, shit, was that me?” When Emilia nods, she adds, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all good. Although Dixon did give me shit for it this morning.”

Andi covers her face with her hands.

“Aww, it’s okay. You’re fine. It doesn’t hurt…anymore.”

“Oh my god–”

“I’m just messing with you. But…” Emilia drags her nails across Andi’s collarbone and down her chest, sending chills over her skin. “Maybe you can do me a favor.”

“Oh, yeah? What kind of—“

Before she can finish her question, Emilia leans up and sucks on the skin under Andi’s jaw, leaving a mark.

“There,” she says. “Now we match.”

“Very mature, Alo.”

“You started it!”

Emilia bites her lip and hits Andi with a dirty look that makes her stomach tighten up.

Let’s go.

Andi taps Emilia’s shoulders so that she’ll lay down, and right away Emilia falls back and wiggles out of the dress the rest of the way until she’s completely bare.

Fuck. That apple smell drives Andi crazy. Emilia’s so soft all over Andi doesn’t even know where to start. She straddles Emilia’s waist and leans in to mark the skin down Emilia’s chest, finding spots to scrape and tease, enjoying the way Emilia reacts to her touch. Andi lingers at the swell of Emilia’s breasts, the curve of her waist into her hips, then shifts down and catches details: a little dark birthmark on the side of her ribcage, a long pale scar on her shin, a tattoo of a leafy flower on her calf (Andi has no idea how she missed that), a bruise on her left hip. Andi gently runs her thumb over the mottled skin.

“I bumped into the table at the bar.”

“You always bruise easy?”

“Pretty much.”

Andi’s dying to kiss it better but manages to resist the urge just in time.

“All right, no more teasing.”

Andi arches her brow.

“You heard me,” Emilia says, her voice small but deeply commanding.

When Andi takes too long Emilia hooks her ankles around Andi’s waist and pulls her down close. “Much better.”

Before Andi can respond, Emilia holds her by the back of her neck to bring her in for a kiss. Emilia’s nails dig into Andi’s skin, and fuck, that feels good, and she ends up moaning into Emilia’s mouth, making Emilia tense up and dig her nails in harder.

When Emilia pulls away, she glances down at Andi’s legs and bites the corner of her lower lip. “Pants, please.”

Andi gives in and unzips her pants, kicks them off. Emilia’s eyes light up when she sees what’s underneath.

Andi owes the girls her life for insisting, in their infinite wisdom, that she wear the sheer black set.

Emilia grabs Andi’s wrist and tries to guide her hand down between her legs, but Andi pulls back in the nick of time.

“Let me,” she says gently. “Please?”

Emilia nods.

She watches Andi suck on her index and middle fingers, and her eyelashes flutter as Andi slides both fingers inside again; she’s already slick well beyond what Andi needs. Andi curls her fingers, teasing now, and Emilia gets frustrated; she keeps turning her body to try to get the angle she wants.

“Please,” Andi says again, and Emilia grits her teeth but stops moving.

When Andi finally pulls on the raised nerves Emilia throws her head to the side and whines, and that’s all it takes for Andi to feel her pulse between her thighs. As Andi moves over Emilia, curling and pulling, she presses her thumb on Emilia’s clit just enough to get her attention, and Emilia gasps at the sudden pressure. Andi circles her thumb over and over, and Emilia makes a noise caught between a laugh and a sigh.

Andi leans in to kiss her, but Emilia’s too distracted. “Harder,” she whispers, the word landing against Andi’s lips. But it’s not good enough— Andi kisses Emilia’s mouth open, then gently scrapes her teeth over the flesh of Emilia’s lower lip just as she strokes her thumb right where Emilia wants.

“Shit,” Emilia swears. “I can’t—“

Emilia digs her nails into Andi’s shoulders and scratches all the way down her back; it feels so good Andi’s back bends and she can’t help the sound that comes out of her mouth. Emilia arches harder, needing more, and when their bodies connect just right it makes them moan at the same time.

When Emilia looks up, Andi forgets how to breathe.

Emilia’s gaze softens, and her lips part gently, and the golden light around the room makes the rest of the world disappear, and suddenly there’s nothing left to hold them apart.

Andi knows she needs to move, let go of Emilia and switch to something else, just get her off and go home, because something new is taking hold of her, something she hasn’t felt in forever. It keeps pushing her deeper into this, insisting on staying in this place that feels so scary and so safe all at once.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

She can’t keep going.

But what if she can’t stop, either?

She has to close her eyes for a second to keep from spinning out.

When she opens them, Emilia is right there, cupping her face, and the look in her eyes is just so fucking—

“Hey,” she whispers. “Don’t go.”

Andi knows Emilia means don’t get distracted, don’t lose focus, but somehow she wishes it meant something else, something bigger, something she promised herself never to want again.

Andi tries to lean into Emilia’s neck, desperate to get away from her gaze, but Emilia stops her.

“Don’t do that,” she whispers.

Andi can barely keep her voice from shaking when she asks, “Do what?”

“Don’t hide from this.”

She makes a point to hold Andi’s gaze, and the look on her face is so raw it makes Andi feel like she’s been scraped wide open.

Show me that you feel it, too.

Done.

Andi crushes her mouth against Emilia’s, making her gasp at the roughness, but she answers in kind, kissing back so hard it almost hurts but Andi knows it’s okay. It’s the only way they can speak to each other right now, sucking each other’s lips so hard they have to stop from the pain only to crave it all over again as soon as they pull away. So they give in, letting it happen again and again, and when Emilia tenses up and cries out Andi worries it might be too much, but all Emilia does is bury her hands in Andi’s hair and bring her in for more.

When they move together it’s slow and deep and rough around the edges, and the friction of Emilia’s skin hits Andi right at her core at the perfect angle. When Emilia tightens her hold around Andi’s fingers, the combination of sensations threatens to push Andi right to the edge.

Emilia can’t seem to find the right place for her hands, until she reaches up and spreads her palms clumsily over Andi’s shoulder blades, too preoccupied to press hard enough into Andi’s skin, but it seems like even just touching her there is enough.

Before Andi can ask, Emilia offers the answer. “Your back,” she says. “You’re so…fuck,” she sighs.

“What?”

“Your shoulders.”

Andi raises a brow. “You like my–”

“Shut up,” she says, bringing Andi down for another kiss that feels so demanding–like none of this is enough for her.

Andi leans into Emilia’s neck and sucks on the skin under her jaw just enough to make her groan, and she sounds almost angry but Andi knows she’s not, not in the slightest.

“Can you…”

“What?”

“Another one,” Emilia says. “Please.”

Andi draws her hand out slowly so she can add a third finger. When she slides back inside, Emilia arches her back and moans hard. Andi feels slick heat dripping down her fingers and has to work to keep her legs from giving out.

Now Andi follows Emilia’s lead, letting her push and pull the way she needs to as she wraps her legs tighter around Andi’s waist and tries to bring her closer. Andi stays back, trying not to hurt her, but soon Emilia can’t take it anymore and she yanks Andi down. The collision of skin and sweat and heat makes Emilia exhale hard, like a sigh of relief, and she looks so fucking satisfied at just having Andi’s skin all over her that that alone drives Andi to her absolute limit, and she’s so close she has to work overtime to keep herself from coming.

So Andi hits the raised nerves on purpose, pulling exactly where she knows Emilia wants, and it’s clear it’s all too much now as Emilia starts to whine, already at her breaking point, but Andi can’t let her go. Not yet.

Andi finds herself breathless as she curls her fingers around the nerves again, her thumb circling Emilia’s clit with just the right pressure as Emilia keeps rocking against her, faster now, impatient, whimpering as she drives her hips as hard as she can, until even Andi can’t hold her back and she finally falls apart.

She lets go and throws her head back with a moan, exposing her throat, the bruise from last night, the mark Andi made.

Mine.

Andi knows it’s beyond wrong but she still can’t help the feeling that courses through her. She also can’t help the way her legs shake as she watches Emilia unravel into her.

A second later Andi’s body can’t take it and she falls on Emilia as she comes, groaning into Emilia’s neck completely by accident. Emilia responds right away, somehow knowing exactly what Andi wants: as Andi cries out, she wraps her arms around and holds her close, her right hand landing gently in Andi’s hair.

As the air settles down again, Emilia drops her legs with a sigh. For a minute the sound of their breathing is the only noise in the room.

Andi keeps her eyes closed, slowing her heart down. She can feel Emilia’s pulse raging, too, as well as her own efforts to bring it down (mildly unsuccessful, Andi notices; though whether that’s something to be proud of or concerned about remains to be seen).

Soon Andi props herself up on her left arm. She finds Emilia lying with her eyes closed. When she opens them, they’re glassy. High.

“Hey, you,” Andi whispers.

Emilia just sighs.

“Good?”

Emilia nods. Andi draws her hand out very slowly and lays down next to Emilia, but something tells her not to get too close.

Emilia stays on her back, covering her eyes with her wrist. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on her chest. Andi would do anything to touch her but somehow she just knows not to do it.

After what feels like forever, Emilia removes her wrist from her eyes and turns over to face Andi. She reaches for Andi’s hand, places it on her hip, right over the bruise. Andi holds it and threads their fingers together.

“You okay?”

“It was just a lot at the same time,” Emilia whispers.

Andi doesn’t know what to say to that, and she’s ready to assume Emilia just means the sex was too much but then it hits her: maybe it’s everything else, too.

The drinks and the music and the conversation, the way they almost found the nerve to share the most fragile parts of themselves. Andi felt it. Maybe Emilia did, too.

It was right there on the tip of her tongue. Andi knew Emilia was ready to answer the moment she asked the question.

And what did you need?

She’s still dying to know. But maybe she got part of the answer already: the piano.

Once Emilia stopped trying to play it cool she was so beautiful, letting the notes flow right through her, almost floating off the piano bench the longer she played. Andi could have watched her forever.

Andi knows what it’s like to need to make things. To need to exist outside of yourself, to carve something out of nothing. Music is her way of making something out of nothing, of adding something to the universe that wasn’t there before. One more step toward cosmic completion. Maybe it’s dramatic, but that’s what art means to her: spending each day challenging the permanent impermanence of the world in an effort to reach the moment when one of your creations will leave a lasting mark. You never know which painting, which lyric, which photograph, which song, will be the one that brings you face to face with your inner truth, which one will be the one that says, this is the story of who you are. This is who the world wants to get to know.

You can always tell when you’ve hit that mark. A secret instinct leads the way, and though nothing you make will ever be truly perfect, everything you make will always be truly yours. The expression of real truth seldom requires perfect communication. Your fingerprints will mark the universe, if you trust yourself enough to open your hands and begin.

All this time it seemed like Emilia didn’t know the feeling, given the way she refused to talk about it. But watching her at the piano, Andi knew it immediately: she’s an artist, too.

Maybe that was the hardest part tonight: sitting at that piano and being reunited with the truth of herself. Stripping the layers and showing Andi what might just be the most fragile part of herself.

Maybe she’s holding a lot more than Emilia’s hand right now.

It’s such a big feeling Andi has to look away.

Emilia asks, “Was that okay?”

“What?”

“Did I do okay?”

“Did you…” Andi stops. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

“I used to get told I wasn’t,” she says. “Doing okay, I mean.”

Andi can pick it up almost right away. “She used to tell you you were bad at sex?”

“Not in so many words, but it was pretty obvious what she meant.”

“Well, she’s an idiot.”

“What makes you say that?”

She didn't love you right.

The words hit Andi like a punch, almost knocking the wind out of her.

Slowly, she takes both of Emilia’s hands, and it’s electric now, the way their fingers meet and intertwine. Andi has to be careful not to let the sparks overtake her.

Just say it.

Fucking tell her.

Emilia looks so hurt. Andi wonders what it must have been like, to be humiliated by the person who promised to protect you and take care of you. It’s never happened to Andi, not like that.

Maybe, as long as Emilia’s in New York, Andi won’t let it happen to her again. If she can at least give Emilia a few weeks of care, maybe it won’t hurt so much when she leaves.

Or at least, even if it breaks Andi’s heart, it won’t have been for nothing.

“I just know these things,” Andi says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Emilia offers a tiny smile, and the glimmer of tears subsides.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” Andi says. “Un—“

Emilia giggles. “Ha. Straight.”

Andi rolls her eyes, and it makes Emilia laugh even more.

It’s crazy how good it feels to make this girl laugh.

Andi clears her throat dramatically, and Emilia makes a fuss about settling down to pay attention.

“Unless you’re hurting me,” Andi says, “you’re always doing okay. Better than okay, actually.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Andi considers this. “Remember how you said I’d remember exactly what you did to me?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Emilia says, covering her eyes.

“Not unfortunately.” Andi guides Emilia’s hand between her legs, still sticky. “That definitely won’t be a problem.”

Emilia gasps softly, teasing her index finger along Andi’s slit. When she pulls her hand back, she sucks on her finger and suddenly Andi is completely wet again and damn it, she needs to check herself. But she can’t.

Before Emilia can say anything Andi pulls her closer for a long kiss. Emilia rocks her hips almost automatically as she reaches for Andi’s face. Andi takes Emilia’s thigh and wraps it around her waist, gripping Emilia hard to keep her from getting away.

She just needs more.

After a minute, Emilia pulls back. “What was that for?”

“You know what that was for.”

Emilia shoots her a dirty smile. “Oh, this?” She slides her hand between Andi’s legs again, catching slick heat on the length of her finger. As she draws her hand back she drags her nails along Andi’s inner thigh, making Andi shiver. Then she sucks on her finger, never breaking eye contact, and it’s all too fucking much. Andi has to do something, so she rolls over onto Emilia and straddles her hips.

Andi leans down for a kiss, but Emilia presses her index finger against Andi’s lips to stop her.

“My turn.”

The look they share is so charged—-Andi can see Emilia’s eyes darkening with something new. It looks a lot like need.

Andi gets off and lays down again, and just like that Emilia’s on top of her, running a finger down the space between her breasts.

Andi reaches for Emilia’s hands to thread their fingers together, but before she can do that Emilia takes Andi’s hands and holds them up like she wants to inspect them. She runs her thumbs over the sparks and stars tattooed on Andi’s knuckles, then turns them over to trace her palms, the deep grooves of her heart line, the calluses from her drumsticks.

Emilia is beyond gorgeous. A sheen of sweat on her chest, soft curls all tousled, golden eyeshadow falling from her eyelids and dusting her cheekbones, her cheeks flushed deep pink, her lips bitten red. Andi feels the heat gathering between her thighs and her heart crashing into her ribcage. The experience of both at once is almost too much to bear.

Emilia arches forward and leans in completely. Andi holds her by the back of her neck to bring her in for a kiss.

Then Emilia shifts over to place Andi’s right thigh between her legs. Right away, Andi feels Emilia dripping on her thigh. Emilia teases her finger along the length of Andi’s slit and opens her up. Then Emilia rocks against Andi, just once, and when she does her thigh presses right on Andi’s clit.

Andi gasps, arching into Emilia’s touch. Emilia rocks her hips again, harder this time, and Andi whines. Emilia bites the corner of her lower lip, clearly liking what she sees, and Andi is desperate to pull her close and kiss her but she’s too far away on purpose.

Andi needs more, so she cups Emilia’s ass and squeezes hard. Emilia moans in surprise, arching back, and while she’s distracted Andi reaches between her legs to touch herself.

“No,” Emilia says, batting her hand away. When Andi tries again Emilia laughs. “So greedy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Emilia stops moving. Her gaze turns serious, and Andi wonders if she screwed it up. But then Emilia smirks.

“Do you want me or not?”

Andi has to fight the word threatening to burst out of her mouth. She doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. All she knows is that it’s the one thing she would say if she was sure Emilia would answer her in kind.

Always.

Emilia looks at her, waiting expectantly.

All she can do is nod.

Emilia kisses her, then traces her mouth down Andi’s neck, her collarbone, the space between her breasts, scraping and kissing just hard enough to make Andi shiver. She stops to tease the skin just below Andi’s navel with her teeth and Andi’s muscles jump at the contact.

She moves down until her head is between Andi’s legs. “Can I?” she asks, and they both know it’s rhetorical but the question still lingers.

Andi watches her. She kisses Andi’s inner thigh, sucking on the sensitive skin there, threatening to leave a mark.

Oh my god, yes.

Emilia traces her finger along the branded skin, waiting.

“Please,” Andi begs, and that’s all it takes for Emilia to hold Andi’s thighs apart and open her up with a long, slow stroke of her tongue.

Andi forgets her entire vocabulary as she throws her head back and moans.

She’s so wet all Emilia has to do is circle her clit with the tip of her tongue, building just enough of a pace to hold Andi’s attention but also make her whine in frustration. Andi opens her legs more, pushing her hips up so Emilia will take her in, but Emilia holds Andi’s thighs still, keeping her mouth just out of reach on purpose.

Emilia tilts her head and wraps her lips around the bundle, sucking slowly. Andi inhales sharply and Emilia moans in response, and when Andi looks over she can see Emilia’s hips moving without any prompting at all, seeking pressure against the bed.

That’s when Andi starts throbbing against Emilia’s tongue, and Emilia squeezes Andi’s thighs, her nails digging into the skin, making Andi suck in air through her teeth.

As the heat between Andi’s legs builds, Emilia finally increases the pressure, sucking more and scraping ever so slightly with her teeth, and Andi can’t help but grab Emilia by the back of her head to hold her in place so she can follow through harder with her hips. It’s fucking selfish and wrong and Andi knows better but she can’t stop herself, not when Emilia’s doing that thing with her mouth. If it’s uncomfortable Emilia doesn’t show it, just gives Andi more and more of her tongue. Soon Andi feels a new rush of slick heat coat Emilia’s tongue, and Emilia hums in satisfaction, lapping her tongue up in long strokes that send Andi into overdrive.

Emilia pulses her tongue and keeps up the pace, and Andi whines with every breath, and just when Emilia can tell Andi’s close she draws her mouth away and slides her tongue inside, curling hard.

Andi arches her back and groans so hard it sounds like she’s in pain. Emilia seems to read her well because she looks up and narrows her eyes in concern, but Andi shakes her head.

“No, no, don’t—-fuck,” Andi whines, and now her head is all over the place and her senses are on fire and she wishes she could resist for a little longer, but her body can’t fight it anymore and she has no choice but to let go.

She pushes up into Emilia one last time, needing as much pressure as she can get as she squeezes her eyes shut and loses her breath. And her mind.

She sees sparks behind her eyelids as she tenses up and cries out, and static shouldn’t burn through her body like this but it does, and she’d be so scared if it was anyone else making her feel this way but there’s no way to be scared here. No way to feel unsure.

And what did you need?

When she’s done she tries to calm herself down but the aftershocks are too strong and she’s still whimpering. Head still between her legs, Emilia makes a sound that makes Andi want her all over again immediately. And she fucking teases: she presses the tip of her tongue right on Andi’s clit and Andi, oversensitive now, shudders at the touch.

When Emilia finally pulls back, she looks up at Andi with a dirty smile. Her lips are sticky wet as she licks them clean, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. It’s almost enough to make Andi come again.

Emilia climbs up and strokes her down.

“Hi,” she whispers. “Don’t worry. It’s me. I’m right here.”

It’s her.

It takes a minute, but eventually Andi’s breathing slows down. Emilia holds her gently, bringing her down from the high, and soon Andi can form words again.

“Fuck,” she sighs.

“Pretty sure we just did,” Emilia whispers back.

Andi laughs weakly. “Whoever told you you were bad at this has no idea what they’re talking about.”

“Yeah?”

Andi glares at her. “I’m sorry, did you not see me just now? Were we not in the same bed?”

Emilia giggles and nuzzles Andi’s nose.

And that’s when Emilia’s stomach makes a huge noise.

Andi starts laughing, but Emilia blushes. “We need to eat something.”

She gets out of bed and grabs her phone. “So late…nothing will be open.”

Andi watches her scroll briefly, her nails clacking against the screen. “Oh, room service is until 2:00, perfect.”

Emilia holds the phone way too close to her face and starts squinting at the screen, reading out the different menu items under her breath. Then she stops and says, “God, why do they always make everything so small; who even makes non-responsive sites anymore,” before going to the dresser, opening her clutch, and drawing a pair of giant sparkly pink reading glasses.

It’s the cutest fucking thing ever.

Without looking up, still scrolling, she says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Andi says. “Just, when were you going to tell me you’re basically blind?”

“Excuse me! I’m not blind.”

“Your glasses are bigger than your entire face. And that’s saying something.”

“Hey!” Emilia says with a laugh. “Not cool.”

“I just tell it like it is.”

Emilia’s brows knit together for a moment. “If the shoe fits…wear it?”

“Or the glasses, apparently.”

Emilia giggles, leaning over for a kiss. When their mouths meet Emilia’s lips curve, and Andi finds herself smiling into the kiss.

Emilia goes back to the menu. “Don’t worry about anything; the company pays for it and no one cares. I don’t see any olives, though. Maybe we can just order martinis and ask for extra ones? And I don’t know about your fancy cheese; do you think we could find it on UberEats? Or is that too extra?”

She stops when she sees Andi’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“No, just…”

It’s always a tricky conversation, explaining how she’s usually pretty much broke most of the time, and Emilia…she doesn’t exactly lead a low-key lifestyle. She works for a company that apparently pays for her olives, for fuck’s sake. Andi had to put everything on her credit card tonight, already stretched thin with debt. Looking at her accounts always makes her nauseous: between her student debt from Monterrey and her own expenses here in New York, it’s not easy. And it’s not even her fault–not completely, anyway.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I…”

“Are you sure?”

But she can’t answer.

Somehow Emilia reads her mind. “Andi, if you’re worried about money, don’t be. I’m not like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t keep score.”

“No?”

“Of course not,” Emilia says. She moves closer to the edge of the bed. “Did I give you that impression?”

“No! I just…I don’t want it to feel like I’m…”

Andi can feel the shame reddening her face.

“I know you’re not taking advantage of me,” Emilia says. “This…it’s different.”

“Different?”

Emilia nods. “At least to me.”

“What do you mean?”

She takes off her glasses. “I…I want to treat you right.”

That’s unexpected. Andi’s not sure what to say.

Emilia’s eyes are so vulnerable again, looking up at Andi from beneath thick lashes, and somehow her gaze makes Andi’s stomach tighten up.

“It’s a gesture,” she says. “People make gestures when they… when a person is special.”

Andi’s heart flips over.

Infinitely complicated. Mind-bendingly simple.

Yes.

Andi gets off the bed and takes Emilia’s hands, leaning down to kiss her long enough to make her sigh.

When they pull apart Emilia scrunches her mouth to one side, confused. “What was that for?”

Andi presses her forehead to Emilia’s. “You know what that was for.”

Emilia looks up at Andi, and her face breaks open into a smile that’s so sweet it makes Andi want to kiss her all over again. So she does.

Emilia puts her glasses back on. “If you insist on keeping score for some absurd reason, you already paid for tonight. And not just at the bar.”

“I did?”

Emilia shoots her a little wink and goes back to her phone. “I think it works out great. You give me orgasms, I give you food.”

Andi laughs. “Oh, orgasms, plural, huh?”

“If that’s okay with you.”

Is she joking? “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

Emilia keeps her gaze low. “Isn’t it selfish?”

Without even thinking about it, Andi skims her fingers over Emilia’s waist, landing at her hips and holding her in place.

“It’s okay to let someone take care of you, you know.”

Emilia looks up, and Andi makes a point to hold her gaze.

Emilia opens her mouth again and Andi could swear she’s about to say something.

Please. Say it.

Say something.

Anything.

But then she thinks better of it and kisses Andi instead.

Damn.

Emilia gives her the phone. “Pick what you want. You earned it. And I eat everything.”

“You sure do.”

“Oh, here we go,” Emilia says with an annoyed look on her face, and Andi laughs.

After they pick out their food, Emilia leaves her phone on the dresser and heads to the bathroom. As soon as she walks away, her phone lights up and buzzes with a million notifications. Andi can’t help but sneak a peek at the subject lines of some of the emails.

Re:Tokyo Flatware Selection

Martland Sec. Check-in mtg

Re:FTP Ltd. Contract redlines

Okane Pitch Deck

Anita’s Birthday Happy Hour!

Déjeuner avec DH&C

Suddenly a text message comes through.

Her blood panel looks stable. Call her.

“What are you doing?”

Andi flinches. Emilia’s in the bathroom doorway, frowning.

“Nothing! Sorry! I was just…”

Emilia walks over. “It’s fine. It’s just work stuff, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” she says. “I knew I should have just left it on do not disturb, it was so much better, but I just wanted to check–”

“You put your phone on do not disturb?”

Emilia nods, swiping across the screen to clear the notifications. “I kinda just wanted to relax.”

“With me.”

Emilia purses her lips. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird!”

“Yes, you are,” Emilia says, laughing.

Andi leans in and stops her with a kiss. When Andi pulls away, Emilia sighs, and while she’s distracted Andi picks her up and she squeals, wrapping her legs around Andi’s waist and sliding her hands to the back of Andi’s neck.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks as Andi starts walking.

“Guess.”

###

“He looks like someone scooped him off the top of a sewer and you know it.”

Emilia laughs. “Oh, come on, he’s not that bad.”

“Emilia. Please. It’s bad.”

Freshly showered, dinner finished, lights low, they’re in bed wearing matching hotel robes and watching Call Me by Your Name. Timothee Chalamet is center screen, squinting up at the noonday Italian sun with a miserable look on his face.

“He does always look a little nauseous,” Emilia admits. She takes a piece of popcorn from the bowl nestled between them and tosses it at Andi, who catches it in her mouth with ease.

Andi grins in satisfaction, then adds, “Did you see that article about how women are obsessed with actors who look like rats?”

“Stop it.”

“Yeah. It talks about that guy from that show The Bear, too, I don’t know his name.”

Emilia considers this. “Actually, he does look kind of ratty, now that you mention it.”

“The exact term is ‘rodent men,’” Andi says. “If we’re being precise.”

“And when are we not?” Emilia says. “But men plural, though?”

“Yup.”

“Ah, TikTok, the beacon of knowledge.”

Andi scoffs. “I’ll have you know, I found out about this trend through a New York Times article.”

“I actually can’t tell if that’s better or worse.”

“The cup of the information age runneth over with many wonders.”

“But see, this is how you know sexuality isn’t a choice,” Emilia says. Using the remote as a pointer, she adds, “There’s no way a straight girl can be attracted to this face right here except by divine intervention.”

“My roommates are actually kinda down for this stuff, believe it or not. It’s weird.”

“There’s boyish charm and then there’s…whatever this is.”

Andi laughs. “You suddenly have very strong feelings for someone who doesn’t even like dudes.”

“Anymore,” Emilia clarifies absently, turning back to the screen.

Record scratch. “I’m sorry, what?”

Emilia rolls her eyes. “When I was young and stupid, before…before a lot of things, I thought I liked boys. Then I realized I just liked feeling…”

“What?”

“Protected.”

Andi frowns. “But boys are the worst at protecting.”

“I had to learn that the hard way.”

Their eyes meet.

Andi could swear she sees something there, but she can’t quite put it into words.

Or maybe she can.

“That’s the thing,” she says. “You always have to learn the bad things the hard way.”

“If you didn’t,” Emilia whispers, “they wouldn’t be bad things, would they?”

“Yeah.”

Emilia swallows. “Maybe sometimes it’s hard to learn the good things the easy way, too.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard,” Emilia says gently. “Intimacy.”

“Is that the word?”

She nods. “I don’t…I don’t even know what that’s supposed to look like.”

What can Andi possibly say to that?

What’s the truth of it all?

Gestures? Sex? Attention?

What’s beneath the words? What’s in the spaces between the notes?

They don’t know each other. But maybe they could.

Something about this moment makes Andi want her deeper.

The contours of Emilia’s body, the way she can barely see Emilia’s face now, only traces of light and shadow in the glow of the TV screen, the way she knows Emilia’s shapes now, the way she’s seen so much and let herself be seen in just a few weightless hours.

Hope and want and need. Emilia’s mouth on so many different places. The offering. The light. The skin of Andi’s hands, her arms. Emilia traced the sparks and stars and butterflies, each stroke of ink a universe to explore. Maps.

To where?

Where’s the universe Emilia wants to get to know? Where’s the universe Andi wants her to know? Are they the same place?

How do you know when to give someone your world?

How long is it supposed to take?

“I think everyone has issues with it,” Andi says. “I know I do.”

“How so?” Emilia asks.

Andi tilts her head back and forth, hyping herself up.

Jump.

“My dad,” she says. “He taught me certain things. Music. I think I told you. He was a drummer, and he pushed me into it. But then he had to quit. No choice.” Andi presses her lips together for a moment. “OxyContin will do that to you.”

Emilia’s eyes go wide in surprise.

Andi stops. How do you explain this?

Why give it up?

No. Giving it up implies surrender to circumstances beyond your control. A force outside your own.

Why do this?

Because this is her heartbeat.

Emilia should know what it sounds like.

“He was so good at music,” she says. “Because he worked at it. We didn’t have much money but he made everything so fun. And he taught me how to think. How to drive column shift. He liked to read, and he got me into books, too. And he fucking loved my mom. They met in middle school. He used to say he knew he was going to marry her the moment he saw her in seventh grade. I always thought that was weird, but he was for real.” She laughs at that.

She notices Emilia smiling, and she can barely take it.

It feels so good to have him back in the room. To get to introduce him to someone new. Someone who can see him the way she did.

“When I was a kid, some nights we had to eat these cookies,” she says. “I mean, my dad used to call them cookies, but they were just flour and water mixed together and baked in the oven. He pretended it was like eating dessert for dinner. That’s how little we had sometimes. But it didn’t matter. He made it work.”

Andi has to look down at her hands, twisting her fingers into a knot so hard it makes the skin go angry red.

What the hell is she doing?

This was a mistake.

“Anyway!” she says, making her voice as bright as she can, “Can you pass the popcorn? I’m—“

“No, fuck that,” Emilia says. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Trust me halfway and then try to walk it back.”

“It’s just…it’s like you said, right?” Andi says softly. “The hard things.”

They’re quiet for a moment. And then Emilia says, “I’m sorry I pushed. You don’t have to tell me any more. But if you want to keep going…you can.”

When Andi finds Emilia’s gaze again, her eyes are so caring it feels like an embrace.

Emilia reaches over and untangles Andi’s fingers, then holds them up so she can kiss them.

“Don’t do that to your hands,” she whispers. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Andi has to close her eyes to ward off the tears. To ward off the weight.

But now she wants to do this. She wants to give him to Emilia. Because deep down he’s a gift. No matter what happened, how it ended, he’s a gift. The best one she can give.

She has no olives. But she has this.

“He got me this Art Blakey record when I was twelve,” she says. “He said I needed to listen to the greats, because I was going to be great, too. We didn’t even have a record player but he didn’t care. It was the principle of the thing.”

Emilia smiles. “Art Blakey. Good taste.”

“Duh.”

Emilia giggles. It makes Andi giggle, too.

“Sometimes we would hide in the alley outside the one jazz club downtown– we couldn’t afford to go inside, but the kitchen guys would keep the back door open so we could hear it. And he explained what each of the instruments did. Why they were all important.”

“How to be a band,” Emilia says, and Andi nods.

“He had so much ahead of him. By the time I was old enough to really understand his career, he was taking off. And then…” she trails off.

This is the part that hurts the most. Sometimes she thinks she’ll never forgive him for this.

“He got into a car accident. It was nighttime, he was swerving to avoid a stray dog. And he hit a tree.”

Emilia gasps softly.

“He survived, but it fucked up his back and his nervous system. His hands couldn’t stop shaking. They said he was going to have that for the rest of his life. So he couldn’t play anymore.”

Andi rolls her neck, trying to buy herself some time. “And he just…he was so good about it. The first thing he asked when he woke up in the hospital was whether the dog was okay,” she says with a laugh, and she hears Emilia laugh, too.

“Things got harder. My mom took on extra jobs, I started working after school, and he got disability. But it was never really the same. Music was his whole life, and then it was just gone.”

When Andi looks up, she notices Emilia’s expression is completely different. Her eyes are gleaming with tears, her hands squeezing the belt on her robe. It’s weird.

Emilia shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine. Keep going.”

“He got prescribed Oxy for his back,” Andi continues. “And he just got hooked. It was so fast. We barely saw it coming. He just became this totally different person. He stopped caring about everything. All he could think about was how to stop the pain. I used to think about it a lot. I don’t know if it was the pain of…” She has to stop for a moment to hold back a sob. “If it was his back pain, or something else. Something on the inside that got taken away from him.

“And then we woke up one day, and he was gone.”

She remembers opening the bathroom door in the morning to brush her teeth before school. Body bent at the strangest angle. Her mother holding him so tight, scratching and kicking the medics so much they had to sedate her to take him away in the ambulance. The sirens screaming the way Andi wished she could but her voice just wasn’t there anymore. She was gone. They took her away in that ambulance, too.

“The night before…I mean, the last night, he told me that if I ever quit music, he would send an occasional lightning bolt from heaven to smite me for giving up. Because I was too good.” She laughs weakly and shakes her head. “It was like he knew. He knew it was the last time, but he didn’t know how to tell us.”

Nothing could keep him from giving in. He just disappeared into himself. Staying alive ceased to matter in the face of the numbness.

Who could possibly say no to the embrace of relief?

The pain in the comfort.

Sober, addicted. Close, distant. Loving, hating. Giving, begging. When you’re in the thick of it, how do you know where you’ve landed? By the time you know for sure, it’s always too late.

What do good and bad even mean? Twisting the knife. Pressing the spot that hurts. Andi used to do that, when it came to this. Now she wonders: maybe Jana has started doing the same. Does Jana ever lay still and wait for Esteban to be done so that he’ll spend the next week making it up to her? Erasing the agony with gifts and caresses so soft it almost makes her believe he’ll never do it again. This time it’ll be different. This is the turning point. He sees the bruise, the midnight black explosion around her eye, and knowing that he caused it will change everything. A seismic shift in their love. It’ll all be better this time.

Nurture the flame. Give it some air to breathe.

Just wait for the drugs to kick in.

Give it time. Give it patience. Give it more. Give it everything. Bleed yourself dry. Cry yourself to sleep. Resign yourself to living with the ache of unending insanity. Your world always tilted on its axis. Never straight. Never settled.

When do you mourn what you had? When do you decide it’s gone?

I can be the one who makes it better. I can be the one who mends him.

Until next time.

How do you mend someone who doesn’t want to be mended?

How do you mend someone when you don’t even know how?

Why did she give this to Emilia?

Right now the answer almost doesn’t even matter. It’s just good to have him back. It feels so good to have him stop by to say hello. No matter how much it hurts.

Andi exhales hard.

Suddenly Emilia speaks up.

“He sounds like he was an amazing dad,” she whispers. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”

Andi trembles. It’s the first time she’s ever heard those words from someone who never met him. She’s never let anyone know him.

And now Emilia does. Now she has this gift. Her treasure.

Emilia smiles, and her voice is so gentle when she adds, "I hope he knows he raised a pretty amazing daughter, too." 

Andi's so desperate to stop herself from crying she turns her face again, and Emilia doesn’t stop her, and it hurts both ways— she wishes Emilia would touch her but she knows it would break her, crack her wide open, and that’s the one wound she won’t be able to heal.

She feels her heart beating faster.

“I couldn’t—“ she stops, trying to steady her breathing. “I couldn’t fix it.”

“You didn’t know how,” Emilia says. “And it wasn’t your responsibility.”

“But if I—“

“No. You were a child.”

“If I had just—“

“Andi,” Emilia says, “you loved him. That was your responsibility. And you did it. That’s it.”

Andi scrunches up her face.

“It’s okay,” Emilia whispers. “It’s okay not to know what to do.”

Andi nods. The longer she breathes, the more the tears seem to subside, the ache in her throat letting go.

“Do you want to keep going?”

They’re too far gone. In too deep. Andi nods.

“Okay,” Emilia says. “Tell me more.”

Andi takes a deep breath. “There wasn’t anything left for us in Sonora so we moved to the capital. We thought about coming to the US but my mom was too scared. Language barrier. She ended up getting a decent job as a seamstress at a dry cleaner. I worked there, too, and at a restaurant at night. We did okay. Survived.”

Andi feels her heart skipping a beat as she tells the story again. It feels so strange now, bringing this part back up again. Exhuming all these memories.

Maps.

“And then I went to school. My mom pushed me to apply to Monterrey. I got in, and she really wanted me to go. I kept telling her no, it was way too expensive, but she insisted. She said my dad would be pissed if I didn’t go.” She smiles a little. “So I went. I met the girls, we tried to make it work over there but eventually it wasn't enough. The band needed more. My mom told me to go wherever I needed to. So we came to New York.”

They almost had more, too…and then they lost it.

“But now you’re here.”

“Yup. Barely.”

“I wouldn’t say barely,” Emilia says. “You seem to be doing pretty well.”

“Now we are,” Andi says. “And even that’s generous.”

“What do you mean? You play shows, you have fans, if Sebas is any indication. He can’t be the only one.”

“It used to be…better.”

“How so?”

“I guess making music used to be different.”

“What does that mean?”

Art is respect. Making art is respecting it—the preparation, the process, the performance. Not reverence—never reverence, because none of this is holy; no good art is holy; holiness is the sign of the novice. No adoration—-idolizing art, presuming its perfection, is the sign of the artist rinsed away. Washing their hands of the interrogation.

Questions are the sign of respect. Demanding the reasoning, the pattern, the answer. Nothing goes unanswered. That’s respect. The challenge of an equal. Meeting the work in the face. Pressing for the why.

The answer. The truth. This whole time, Andi thought she’d found it—made it, cobbled it, designed it on her own. Stitched from threads of anger, of sadness, of medicine and adventure and a million kinds of love but one. Grief. Hunger. Pursuits of hunger.

In this space, in this bed, the pursuit stops. Unraveling. Dissolving.

What has she been doing all this time?

What has the pattern become?

Maybe having it all is impossible. Decisions must be made. One thing over another. A person can only give so much to everything.

What makes the pursuits of hunger worthwhile? The choices, the decisions.

Learn the hard things.

Life can be such a lonely place.

What if she doesn’t have to be alone anymore?

Andi sighs. “We came to New York for a deal. A label found us on Soundcloud and liked us.”

Emilia raises both brows.

“Matador.”

“Shit.”

Andi nods. “But.”

“Always a but,” Emilia says softly.

“Always.” She pauses. “We got dropped right before we could make a record.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

When Andi looks up, there are those eyes again.

“It’s just complicated."

“Everything is." 

When they look at each other, Andi could swear Emilia’s trying to ask her another question, but the words go unspoken.

The four of them have never told anyone. Not Lourdes, not their own families. No one ever knew the reason why, only that the deal fell through.

“The A&R guy came to the studio,” she says. “And he was just…I knew something was wrong. I fucking knew it. You know? And I didn’t say anything. And when he was alone with Jana…”

He said, your father is so famous. He said, I can make you more than he could imagine. He said, I can make you anything in the world.

Just give me what I want. And nobody gets hurt.

The problem is when you say no. The word loses its meaning in these moments. It becomes one more sound lost in the noise of the violence.

She remembers hearing Jana scream in the booth, a sound she had never heard before, then rushing in to pull him off her. Buttons like marbles clattering on the floor. Running from the studio. Holding Jana in the street as she sobbed, covering her with their sweaters to hide her torn blouse. The vomit, the hospital, the sedatives. 

He didn’t do much damage, the nurse said. You got lucky.

I can make you anything in the world.

No one blamed her. But they weren’t the same. The art was compromised. Questions could no longer be asked. The air had changed.

Andi closes her eyes.

Jana’s father tortured her to no end, a parade of vengeful told you so’s stomping all over her broken heart, expecting her to come crawling back to Mexico to shake her ass to shitty Sabrina Carpenter dupes and take her forgettable, disposable place in his empire. Don’t you see, he told her. You are essential, but not irreplaceable.

It was my fault, she said, over and over again. It was my fault. But it wasn’t. It was never her fault. It was only that the cycle held her in its grip. It pressed on unabated.

She flew back to Mexico alone. Broke them up. She was about to wait tables, quit music, let go of the life raft, when MJ pulled her back from the edge. Come home, she said. Home is where we are. You don’t just give up on your home.

It’s hardly a question, then, that when Jana came back to New York she would fall hard for the first person who promised to care for her. There was no question Esteban would land her. Chasing a high is exhausting. The first drug you find, you hold on to it for dear life.

He makes me special.

It took a long time to recover. To reconcile yes and no. To absorb the silence left behind in the ashes of their old friendship. To be so tenuous now…so delicate.

What does it feel like when the person who promises to love you is the person who hurts you instead?

Art or safety. Or both. Or neither. How do you make that choice?

If he loved her, he wouldn’t make her choose.

“Maybe you would have had more success by now,” Emilia says, “but maybe you wouldn’t.”

Andi opens her eyes. “How so?”

“You could have a totally different life now, maybe,” she says. “But there are no guarantees it would be good.”

“It would be better.”

“No way of knowing,” Emilia says. “You can try to convince yourself of that but there’s no way of knowing.”

“But—“

“If a fancy degree doesn’t make you an artist, a record deal doesn’t, either.”

Andi tilts her head. What do you say to that?

“No way of knowing,” Emilia says again. “But I know one thing for sure.”

“What?”

Emilia swallows. “Everything that happened made you who you are.”

“Yeah?”

Emilia nods. “And the person you became led you to this.”

Gently, Emilia threads their fingers together.

It’s such a bright spark. Terrifying. Blinding.

“You think so?”

“Yes,” Emilia whispers.

Maps. The weightless hours. The offering, the light.

When Emilia looks at her now, Andi wants this more than ever.

Andi leans over and kisses Emilia gently, slowly, trying to offer something more as she slides her tongue into Emilia’s mouth.

Emilia’s body seems to unlock, somehow, and the longer they kiss the more she leans into Andi’s touch, and it makes Andi reach up to cup her face and bring her closer. But before Andi can kiss her again, Emilia stops her.

“You’re okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay now.”

Andi slides her hand to the back of Emilia’s neck and tangles her fingers in Emilia’s hair, pulling ever so slightly, just enough for Emilia to gasp softly. Without taking her mouth off Emilia’s, Andi shakes her head and begs, “Please” against Emilia’s lips, and hopes Emilia can understand what she needs right now.

Emilia nods. “Okay,” she answers, her lips still on Andi’s.

She reaches around on the bed for the remote and turns off the TV.

###

In the morning two things wake Andi up: footsteps and French.

When Andi opens her eyes, the sun filtering in through the gauzy curtains makes the room just a little too warm. She’s lying prone across the bed like a starfish. The sheets and duvet are tucked up neatly with hospital corners and everything. Of course.

Before she can shake the haze from her mind, she hears the delicate tones of someone speaking French nearby. She props herself up on one arm and there, pacing by the window, is Emilia.

Her hair is piled on her head in a soft, messy bun held with a claw clip, two runaway tendrils curling gently at the back of her neck. She’s wearing a Miseducation of Lauryn Hill t-shirt that looks well-loved: soft, faded. When she turns her back, Andi has the perfect view of her ass in lacy pink boy shorts which have a tiny bow on the back, because of course they do.

How is she so sexy this early in the morning?

More importantly, how is she already awake after everything they did to each other last night?

AirPods in her ears, tablet in hand, phone on the table nearby. She’s shaking her head at something on the phone, scribbling notes on her tablet, until she finally speaks up. “Non, Guillaume, c’est pas possible…”

That’s all Andi can understand. Then there’s a pause, and Emilia looks perplexed, opening her mouth a couple times, hoping to get a word in. But once she has a chance she takes it and runs with it, and she manages to talk for a pretty long time until she gets interrupted. She makes a face, looking deeply annoyed, and starts chewing on the top of her white stylus until her eyebrows jump and she finds her way back into the conversation.

“Mais c’est meilleur…”

Andi knows a little bit of French–has to, working at the restaurant. The dishes all have complicated names and ingredients, and Etienne, the owner, made the staff take basic French lessons on top of their ballet classes in order to move smoothly throughout the dining room. But Emilia’s way ahead of her.

She’s still talking— discussing, if Andi’s not mistaken, something about an office in Paris. “...pour les ordinateurs…”

Something about needing a computer. Needing lots of them, actually.

Even though it’s work stuff it’s so sexy Andi starts to feel her pulse between her legs.

Seeming to sense a pair of eyes on her, Emilia turns her head mid sentence and looks at Andi. She winks and goes back to her work.

That’s when Andi notices a cart full of breakfast items: fresh fruit, toast cut into little fancy triangles and held in a toaster rack, croissants and pain au chocolat, a French press filled with coffee, two cups and saucers, and flowers in a vase.

Andi slips out of bed and heads to the bathroom. She hunts down a toothbrush and finds the hotel one unopened; Emilia has a fancy electric one plugged into the outlet on the counter. She’s got a thousand cosmetics neatly lined up in a row: all kinds of serums and creams in different droppers and bottles and jars. All her makeup is hanging on the back of the door in a special bag with little clear pockets for her brushes and shadows and mascaras. She has six different lip glosses alone, not even counting balms and lipsticks. It’s like a Sephora in here. She even brought her own candle, something called Fig and Cedar (it smells amazing). And her own little matchbook with pink polka dots. Of course.

Then Andi notices a little maroon matchbook with the words On the Rocks written in loopy cursive.

So she stole one. Cute.

While Andi’s brushing her teeth she holds a little bottle up to the sunlight coming in from the window and checks out the amber liquid inside. An under-eye serum. (One of two, it turns out, upon further inspection of the counter.) Andi uses a good moisturizer and wears a fair amount of makeup, but this is next level. She’s never been with a woman who used anything close to this.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up.

Been with?

No, no, no. She’s never slept with a woman who used anything close to this.

Slept with. That’s better. That’s all they did. Except very little sleeping actually took place.

(Andi’s definitely not mad about that, though.)

Just thinking about everything they did last night makes her a little weak in the knees. That thing Emilia does with her mouth should be illegal.

But...what about all the things they said to each other?

Slept with. That’s it.

Except that's not true at all.

Sitting in the dark, talking and kissing and understanding, Andi felt safe enough to ask for what she needed. She showed Emilia all the rough parts. The most unflattering angles. The pain.

She gave Emilia her dad. The best of herself. She played her hand. And Emilia accepted without question.

But that was last night. They were just a little too drunk, a little too tired. With enough alcohol, anyone can be honest.

It's better to just try and forget about it. Emilia probably wants to forget, too. Maybe it can just go unspoken--nothing to see here. Just sex between two strangers.

But god it felt good to say the words out loud. It was so good to see him again.

What if it's okay to want something more?

No. Just sex. That’s it.

Once she’s done in the bathroom Andi approaches Emilia, who’s now talking again. Andi slides her arms around Emilia’s waist from behind and tucks her chin over Emilia’s shoulder. Emilia jumps at the touch but then settles in, taking Andi’s arms and wrapping them tighter even as she keeps speaking.

She smells so good. Andi can’t help but kiss her neck, just once, and Emilia tilts her neck back over Andi’s shoulder to give Andi more space to trace her lips along the skin. When Andi slides her hands under Emilia’s shirt and lingers on the warm skin underneath, Emilia’s voice falters just a bit on the phone.

Nice.

After a minute Emilia grabs her phone and mutes herself. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She gives Andi a tiny peck on the cheek and goes back to her work. She’s about to press a button on her phone when Andi stops her.

“Uh-uh.” Gently, Andi turns her around completely, pulls her glasses off, and teases her mouth open for a long kiss.

“Morning, beautiful.”

As soon as it comes out of her mouth she regrets it.

It’s hardly an incorrect statement, but she knows she shouldn’t have said it. But it’s not like she can walk it back now.

What if it’s okay not to?

Emilia’s face blooms into a giddy smile as she whispers, “Good morning, gorgeous.” She nuzzles Andi's nose and gives her another kiss.

“Mmm. Minty,” Emilia says. Then she smirks. “Did you brush your teeth for me?”

Andi blushes. “I mean I had to do it anyway so…whatever.”

(Yeah, okay, so maybe she kinda did it for her. But she was going to have to do it anyway. Whatever, mind your business.)

Andi gestures to the food. “What’s all this?”

“I was hungry.”

“But you didn’t eat yet.”

Emilia reaches for her glasses. “I wanted to wait for you.”

“It—”

Emilia holds up a hand and unmutes herself. Another stream of French while she scribbles on her tablet.

In the meantime, Andi reaches for her phone, which she hasn’t looked at since last night. The roomies group chat is blowing up.

LAURA (6:57 PM): good luck tonight!

JANA (7:01 PM): don’t fuck it up

MJ (7:04 PM): have fun and please be safe!

MJ (7:04 PM): tell Alejandro we said hi btw

LAURA (11:16 PM): my tracker says she’s at the high line hotel

JANA (11:17 PM): well done buddy

MJ (11:17 PM): yayyyyy 🥰

JANA (11:18 PM): may your orgasms be plentiful and your sleep the opposite

LAURA (11:20) PM: 🤞

LAURA (10:36 AM): looks like she’s still at the hotel

JANA (10:37 AM): $5 says Emilia liked the black bra

LAURA (10:37 AM): more like $10

MJ (10:39 AM): agree with L. She’s usually home by now. Busy putting a baby in her, Andi?

JANA (10:39 AM): GASP!! Spicy MJ has entered the chat

JANA (10:39 AM): and I second mj’s question

LAURA (10:40 AM): OMG spicy mj it’s been too long

MJ (10:41 AM): <link>

LAURA (10:41 AM): not the link to 34+35 💀

JANA (10:42 AM): we expect a full download the second you get home

MJ (10:42 AM): if you’re still alive

JANA (10:42 AM): yaaas spicy mj my queen

These people are the absolute worst.

Andi tosses her phone on the bed and reaches for Emilia again, now back at the window talking faster than before. Andi gathers Emilia’s hair over her shoulder and kisses the back of her neck.

Suddenly Emilia pauses. “Bon weekend,” she says, and hangs up.

With Andi’s arms still wrapped around her, Emilia heads to the table and sighs. She puts down her tablet, takes off her AirPods and glasses, and closes her datebook, the latest page covered in multicolored scribbles.

She makes a gagging noise and puts her phone face down on the table.

“Something wrong?”

“Just work stuff. It doesn’t matter.”

“You sure?”

Emilia nods. “Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid.”

“The things you care about aren’t stupid.”

Emilia turns around completely, still in Andi’s arms. “You want to hear about boring work shit?”

“It’s not boring,” Andi says. She shrugs. “If you need to, like, vent about it, you can.”

Emilia looks down at the carpet.

Andi’s voice is gentle when she adds, “There’s nothing wrong with asking for someone to listen."

At this, Emilia looks up. Andi offers a small smile, and Emilia cups Andi’s face with her hands and pulls her in for a kiss.

Then Andi lets her go and heads to the French press. “Coffee?”

“Please. Milk and sugar,” Emilia says. “And I need carbs. Lots of them.”

Andi winces. “That bad?”

“Why did I let you convince me to get the wine after those martinis?”

“Oh, come on, the Riesling paired great with the Belle Saison.”

Emilia rolls her eyes. “You and the Belle Saison.”

“And the Portland Midnight. Can't go wrong.”

“How do you know so much about cheese?”

“Work,” Andi says. “They don’t fuck around at the restaurant. I like to think I know what makes a good meal. Or an expensive meal, anyway.”

Andi pours the coffee, then thinks better of it.

“Actually, I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“Breakfast,” Andi says. “I know the exact hangover cure.”

Emilia puts her AirPods in their case. “Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you don’t like bacon,” Andi says. “Come on, I don’t have a lot of time.”

“What? Why?”

“Some of us do work on the weekends, you know.”

Realization spreads across Emilia’s face. “Right. Dinner.”

“So hop to it, Alo. And wear something comfortable.”

Emilia gathers up her work things with a sigh.

“It’ll be good, I promise.”

Emilia heads to the bathroom and turns on the water for the shower.

“No time for a shower!” Andi calls.

Emilia groans in frustration, and Andi hears the faucet turn off.

When Emilia comes back Andi is already dressed. Andi watches Emilia scrunch her mouth side to side, debating her outfit.

She chooses a pink bra from the top dresser drawer and a black hoodie from the second drawer with the words "Forever? Forever ever? Forever ever?" superimposed on Dali's "The Persistence of Memory." She throws on a pair of loose jeans, then goes to the closet, where approximately fifteen thousand pairs of shoes are lined up–everything from stilettos to fuzzy slippers to ballet flats to those white boots that drove Andi crazy at the club. She wiggles her fingers back and forth over the shoes, trying to decide, until she chooses a pair of yellow striped Gazelles. From the coats hanging up she chooses a cropped lilac puffy jacket. She slips two glass rings on her left hand, and adds a pair of earrings shaped like little pink origami cranes.

After a quick inspection in the mirror she brushes out her hair, soft curls landing just right— but definitely looser than last night. Messed up from sleep (or lack thereof). She reaches for a silver heart-shaped mini backpack, throws in her phone, wallet, hotel key, and cherry chapstick.

Watching the process is like witnessing some kind of dark art. Somehow it makes Andi want to skip breakfast and take her back to bed.

She turns to Andi and puts her hands in her coat pockets.

“Good?”

Good? Is she serious?

Andi pulls her over for a kiss.

Once they’re outside, Andi takes Emilia’s hand and leads her to the end of the block, where a truck with the word COFFEE emblazoned at the top is parked. Andi gets in line behind four other people. A cluster of others wait nearby.

Emilia arches a brow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I think Dixon got me coffee here once but…it’s a cart, Andi.”

“Precisely why it’s so good,” Andi replies. “The best things in New York are the simplest.”

“Says the girl who works at a Michelin-starred restaurant.”

“That’s how you know you can trust me,” Andi says with a wink, and Emilia’s lips curve in response.

Suddenly it’s their turn. Andi smiles at the man in the window. “Hey, okay, let me get two bacon egg and cheese salt pepper ketchup on a roll, and…two medium light and sweet.”

“Got it.”

Andi hands him some cash and gets her change back. She drops a couple singles in the tip jar attached to the side of the window. Then she takes Emilia over to the group of people waiting nearby.

“What exactly did you say to him?”

Andi laughs.

“I didn’t understand half the words.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You’ll see.”

She lets her arms circle Emilia’s waist and they fall into a rhythm. It’s so easy, the way Emilia asks to be held so that Andi can follow her lead. As a strong breeze passes by, Emilia burrows into Andi’s chest, so Andi presses her hands on the middle of Emilia’s back to hold her close, secure but not too tight. When Emilia makes a little noise expressing disappointment, Andi presses a little harder, tightening the embrace, and Emilia puts her head on Andi’s chest. Andi kisses the crown of Emilia’s head and takes in that heady scent that already has such a hold on her.

When Emilia pulls back her cheeks are rough pink, her nose a little red from the cold. She offers Andi a smile that feels like a secret, and somehow Andi knows what Emilia wants. She kisses Emilia’s forehead, and when Emilia’s eyes close in satisfaction Andi can’t help but tip Emilia’s chin up to kiss her in earnest, and when their lips meet a stroke of sunlight bursts to life around them and colors the day, fresh and chilly and bright.

“Hi,” Emilia says.

“Hey, you.”

Emilia reaches for Andi’s hands. “You’re freezing,” she says gently, then puts Andi’s hands in each of her own jacket pockets. The pockets are soft, lined with fleece. It makes Andi feel better right away.

“Keep you warm,” Emilia whispers sternly, almost to herself. Then she gives Andi a quick kiss and Andi feels a rush of warmth from head to toe.

“Much better,” Emilia says as she pulls away.

She’s so… god.

How is it even possible that Andi gets to have this moment?

She tries to stop herself from blinking so she won’t miss a second of it.

After a moment of quiet Emilia says, “What do you call a fish wearing a bow tie?”

Andi arches a brow. “What?”

“You heard me. What do you call a fish wearing a bow tie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sofishticated,” Emilia says, and when she giggles Andi has no idea what to do.

All she knows is that she can’t get enough.

“Oh, so the girl’s got jokes,” Andi says with a laugh.

“Yup,” Emilia says, over-enunciating and making a popping sound on the p.

“Well, I got jokes, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Bring it, Agosti.”

Emilia smirks, and Andi has to work hard not to kiss her again.

Andi taps her lips with her index finger, pretending to be pensive. “How do cows learn about the news?”

Emilia frowns. She murmurs to herself, “Cows…” After a moment she shrugs.

“They read the moo-spaper,” Andi says, and Emilia laughs, but this time her eyes change and her mouth opens wider and she glows under the sun’s sudden attention, and while she’s laughing Andi feels something fluttering in her stomach. It feels a lot like butterflies.

Emilia looks just right in her jeans and sneakers, her hair a little messy, no lip gloss or eyeliner or concealer. She always looks perfect, but this…

This.

The corset dress and the high heels and the Eiffel Tower purse are just things. Beautiful things, sexy things, cute things, but things. They’re just part of a design system. They open up the space.

But once you have all that space, what do you put in it?

Where do I fit in, Andi wonders.

This space—jeans and a hoodie, a side street in Chelsea, summer in the sun and winter in the shade, with taxis honking and dogs sniffing and pedestrians jaywalking— is special, but not because it’s technicolor. It could be blinding white or fuzzy shades of gray. It doesn’t matter.

What makes a person say, this is exactly where I want to be?

It’s me.

No fancy manners or makeup. No pretending. No holding back.

Emilia looks up at her, and her eyes are so bright and hopeful. Not a trace of pain.

Andi would do anything to keep them that way.

I’m right here.

“Andi? You okay?”

“Two bacon egg and cheese on a roll, two light and sweet!” the man at the cart calls.

Andi flinches and lets go of Emilia immediately, forcing herself to shake it off. A look of disappointment flickers across Emilia’s face, but she turns away, hiding her eyes.

Andi takes the two paper bags and turns back to Emilia who’s now bracing against the wind, arms crossed over her chest.

“Okay!” Andi says. She hands Emilia one of the paper bags. “Guard this with your life, Alo.”

Emilia offers a small smile, and Andi feels a surge of relief.

She holds Emilia’s hand, and Emilia squeezes it, so Andi squeezes back right away as she guides Emilia a few blocks away.

She leads them to a big divider between four lanes of fast-moving traffic, where a small patch of green has been planted with grass and trees and holds tables and chairs. A sign nearby states this is “Pataki Park.”

“They call this a park?”

“Listen, they have to take some creative license from time to time,” Andi says. She sets the paper bag on one of the tables and pulls out a chair.

Emilia just stands there, frowning. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

Andi feels her cheeks going red. “It wasn’t for me.”

“Oh!” Now Emilia’s the one who’s blushing. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Andi just gestures to the chair.

Gingerly, Emilia sits down, and Andi moves in behind her to push the chair and adjust it into the table.

“Good?”

“Thank you.”

Andi gives Emilia’s shoulders a quick little squeeze, then settles down across from her.

“All right, open it.”

Emilia opens the paper bag before her, containing what looks like two sandwiches wrapped in foil.

“What’s this?”

“The one, the only… the bacon, egg and cheese.”

Emilia opens the foil and inspects the sandwich. “Oh, and they cut it in quarters, too, that’s perfect,” she whispers.

Andi debates whether to tell Emilia the truth: she asked the guy to cut it that way. Just in case. 

She decides to just enjoy the look on Emilia’s face.

“What’s so special about this?” Emilia asks. “It just looks like a sandwich.”

“Emilia Alo, how dare you question the sanctity of the bacon, egg and cheese?” Andi asks dramatically. “There will be a high price to pay for your blunder.”

Emilia giggles.

“Try it.”

Emilia lifts one quarter and takes a bite.

“Oh, fuck, that’s good,” she says, still chewing.

“See?”

“What’s in this thing?”

“Just what it says. Plus some salt, pepper, and ketchup, because we season our food in this household.”

Emilia looks up, eyes wide.

Shit.

But then she just smiles and turns back to her food.

“What’s in your bag?” she asks.

Andi extracts two coffee cups from her bag.

“Behold, the light and sweet coffee.”

Emilia reaches over to open the tiny lip of the plastic lid but Andi stops her.

“Oh my god no, don’t open it.” She pops the whole lid off. “Once you open that, it will never close again.”

Emilia takes the open cup. “This is all very serious business.”

“We take our meals very seriously here. You have to eat when you can. You never know when you’re going to get stuck in a train for an hour and miss lunch.”

“Does that really happen?”

“Yup. Brooklyn especially. I was surprised you took the G last week.”

Emilia shrugs. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Beginner’s luck.”

Emilia shrugs one shoulder with the cutest little look on her face, it makes Andi want to reach across the table to kiss her.

Emilia picks up the coffee cup and blows on it, then takes a sip and looks so pleased.

“What do they call this?”

“Light and sweet. Just order that and they’ll know what to do. You can get it practically anywhere.”

Emilia nods sternly. “Good to know.”

After they eat and gather up their belongings, Andi is about to start for the train when Emilia says, “I’ll walk you.”

“It’s like six blocks the other direction.”

“I could use the exercise.”

“After last night you still need exercise?” Andi blows out a breath. “Clearly I didn’t do my job right.”

Emilia laughs. “Stop it!”

“I mean…”

Then Emilia stops laughing. “You could play hooky and help me get my steps in.”

She winks, and Andi’s so fucking tempted the yes is right on the tip of her tongue.

But no.

“But rent, though.”

Emilia sucks in air through her teeth. “Ah, yes. Paying rent. So much fun.”

“Yeah. I need to go do some adulting.”

“I know.”

Emilia holds her gaze, and for a moment Andi wonders if she’s going to say something.

“What time do you get off?”

“Late,” Andi says. “Probably around eleven.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s a weird schedule, but you get used to it.”

Another beat. Where’s Emilia going with this?

Apparently nowhere, because the silence lingers.

Andi speaks first. “I’m glad we—“

“Do you want to come over when you’re done with work?” Emilia blurts out. Then she covers her mouth with her hand. “I mean, it’s ok if you don’t and I totally understand because last night was—“

“Yes.”

Emilia looks up.

“Yeah?”

Andi nods. It’s not even a question.

But her face is hot when she asks, “Can I…bring a bag? Just so I have something to wear besides work clothes.”

Emilia nods. “Yeah, that…that works.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Andi pulls Emilia close again.

I don’t get to keep her, she thinks. But I can play pretend until it’s over.

She whispers, “Tomorrow, breakfast in bed. Promise.”

When Emilia looks up her cheeks are bright pink. “Are you—”

“Less talking, more kissing,” Andi says, cupping Emilia’s face in her hands and bringing her in for a slow kiss.

Turns out Emilia can take direction, too.