Chapter Text
Karen and Ivy resume a routine. Nothing changes. They have breakfast for the public next, then coffee, lunch, and supper again, on alternating days. Drinks in the evening after neighbors close their windows. More cheap red wine. When she gets too drunk, Karen sleeps over on Ivy’s fold-out sofa. She tries to be happy that they don’t argue about it. Ivy wakes her up with a forehead kiss regardless. Pet names slowly invade conversation until they’re so natural that Karen can’t imagine why they didn’t use them before: ‘angel’ and ‘dearest’ for Ivy, and a dozen others for herself. She’s so light—new to the lack of obvious conflict—that she almost wishes there were an issue so she’d have something to distract from that remaining, faint distance between them.
Once Dev told Karen that she picks bad hills to die on. She refuses to call him back first because she knows there’s going to be another interrogation. Karen can already predict his line of attack: Did you drink Ivy’s wine? Yes. Did you kiss her? Yes. Did you bang her? No.
Then, more: Did you do it for the pretense alone? Did you remember your dialogue? Did you cheat out to the audience? Do you hate her? Do you love me?
No comment.
It’s poor optics. Like fighter jets who leave their brothers behind, answers only prove applicable when Karen knows the shape of their absence. She thinks about it as Ivy brings her home again and abdicates to her request to play Muriel’s Wedding. Karen’s hands rub against smooth, burning porcelain and Ivy’s plush bedsheets; she considers what exactly she needs more than this.
Then, as quickly as it began, Boston’s over. Bombshell enters workshopping for the spectacle of Broadway. New book, new songs, new blocking, etc cetera. The whole cast waits in anxious tension: who’s being kept and who’s cut? It’s up to Derek, of course, which sucks because he’s the most disturbed person Karen’s ever met. Even though he likes her now, she can’t imagine why. They hardly interact except to talk about the show. (Or sex. Apparently she’s nonfunctional below the neck.)
Ivy gets that faraway blue smog in her eye more often when they’re together—too similar to the way she is around Derek. Karen’s disgusted with herself for it. She wants to tear up Ivy’s sequined pillows and scream, even though objectively the other woman has no reason to trust her. Still, Karen can’t hold grudges against Ivy very long. No wonder Tom and Sam and the rest of the company worship at her feet; Ivy’s disapproval is enough to turn every usual moment of contemplation to an exercise in discovering what she’d prefer.
Previews begin to blur in Karen’s memory. The hazy halcyon limbo loses its gold and tarnishes to reality: sweat on her upper lip as she dances, putting on scuffed flats for the subway, hauling her laundry up two flights of stairs because the elevator’s broken again. Then Dev sits her down at the living-room table one evening. He says he’s had enough of being ignored and he can’t do it anymore, whatever ‘it’ is. She’s given two weeks to find somewhere else.
Karen calls Ivy on a payphone and invites her to coffee again right on the spot when she gets the idea. Wonderfully, Ivy’s free too. She arrives early at the café, as if she’d been waiting by the door to leave. Her coffee’s piping hot and black with a wedge of lemon and peppermint syrup. Karen chuckles.
“Oh, what are you laughing at?” Ivy complains. “I bet the stuff you drink isn’t even real coffee.”
“It’s not,” Karen says, and turns to the barista to order chai. Then guides them to a discreet table near the back. “So, um, Ivy, Dev’s kicking me out.”
“Okay,” Ivy says immediately, pulling out a pen from her purse to scribble on a pad of Post-It notes in looping, girly handwriting. “Here’s the number and email for my mother’s realtor. Drop my name and you might get a discount. If you need some cash, just ask, it’s not the end of the world.”
Karen crumples the note and shoves it in her pocket. She says, “No, I wanted to know if I could move in with you.”
Ivy stares, then blinks. A subtle pull upward at the corners of her lips. “My place is small, babe.”
“I know,” Karen says. “I’ve seen it before, remember? I can sleep on the couch.”
Ivy says, “Helpful for the rouse.”
The remark makes Karen wonder the extent to which their relationship—bond—friendship was built upon obligation. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I thought we’d be compatible… as roommates.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. We’d drive each other crazy,” Ivy says.
A pang in Karen’s chest. She says, “Everyone is,” hoping it sounds true.
Ivy lets out a short giggle. “You should bite the bullet and do stand-up instead.”
“No, I’m serious! With Dev I got kind of lonely, which is weird because obviously we were still together, but… We attended these dinners all the time with his colleagues. I didn’t know anyone else there and he just wanted to show me off.”
The words aren’t enough to explain the empty nights when she’d stare at the mirror for hours thinking, God, she needs a glimpse of some universe where they’d never met. (And if she’d met Ivy years ago instead, fresh-faced and totally unaware, she’d have never lucked into kissing her even once. Too naïve with no excuse.)
Ivy’s expression stills. Undetectable.
Karen continues, aware that she’s babbling, “I watch a lot of movies. I guess, um, you already know that. Marilyn’s movies. Some Like It Hot. I think without them I wouldn’t have learned how to live right, if that makes sense? We had such a perfect meet-cute in London that it just seemed like a movie, which—”
“Please shut up,” Ivy interrupts, fingers going bloodless from clutching her coffee cup.
A hush in the air. Karen says, “I’m sorry, angel. I just mean, I hope I understand your concern… and I think we should live together anyway.”
Shifting, Ivy turns her eyes aside. “Honey, I’m not good for you.”
Karen can’t bear the idea that one day Ivy might find her too weak to handle. “Come on, that’s not true—and, besides, it doesn’t matter.”
“So you’re content if we make each other miserable, then?”
“Oh,” Karen says. “Are you? Miserable? I thought we made each other happy. For the most part.”
“Yeah,” Ivy says with a weak voice.
The vagueness of her agreement makes something sink in the bottom of Karen’s stomach. She says, “Does that mean you are miserable, or…”
“Fuck, yes, you make me happy!”
The quiet intensity of Ivy’s eyes makes Karen reach out instinctively to grab her hand, rubbing her knuckles with a thumb. She says, “Thank God. Not that you have to feel any way or the other—I just—well, Ivy, I was starting to get worried.”
High and affected, Ivy laughs, pulling away. “Why would you do that? I’m fine.”
“You’re not. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but it, um, hurt to know that you’re bothered and you won’t even tell me,” Karen says.
“Well, I don’t keep secrets. Unlike someone.” Ivy’s hair catches the light again, the glare of a flash-bang.
Karen can’t help but stare for a moment, admiring. Then she realizes how lost in the conversation she is and asks, “What does that mean?”
Ivy mutters, "Never mind. Look, if you need a place to live, why not live alone?”
“I don’t know,” Karen says. She can hardly feel herself for a moment, stony and ungathered as concrete rubble. Then she comes back. “I guess I’ve just started to think maybe I should live with someone else. Since Dev’s gone.”
“And obviously I’m here for the taking,” Ivy says flatly.
A sigh, a relieved smile. “Yeah. You’re, like, the closest person I have in my life right now, and—”
“Have you forgotten I’m a bitch to you?” Ivy raises an eyebrow.
Sometimes Ivy acts that way, but she’d be unnervingly unlike herself without it. Karen says after a long pause, “You can be sort of mean. I don’t mind. It’s just you.”
“Well, you’ve been irritating too. For a while there I actually thought you hated me, but, uh…” Ivy’s lips squeeze into a tight grin. “Then I learned how perfect you are.”
“Oh, no, I’m about as—whatever—as the average person.”
“Babe, you’re extraordinarily fucking inviting and you don’t even know it. You still wanted to be friends with me after I made fun of your scarf. Rebecca, too, and no-one liked her,” Ivy says.
Karen frowns. “You said my scarf was cute. My mom made it!”
The other woman’s cheeks flush a blotchy pink. She says, “I thought you’d get the hint if I patronized you. To be fair, you wanted the part. You were competition.”
“Well, I missed it and now I like you anyway,” Karen replies. “Tough luck.”
Ivy says, “I’m lucky. Look, if we hadn’t made up after everything with Dev, I think it would’ve gotten… bad.” Her head tilts downward while her eyes shut for a moment. “You don’t want to be alone, so you shouldn’t have to be. There are worse reasons for cohabitation. Marriage.”
“Ivy, marriage isn’t only about living together. It’s, like, swans, and honoring God, and finding your true love,” Karen says, even though something in her chest unfolds with disorienting heat at Ivy’s agreement to her proposal. (Deeper, dread. What does she mean by bad?)
Ivy laughs at her. “Shit, you’re stuck in the olden days when women churned butter.”
“Traditions are traditions for a reason. The best marriages only happen when two people are so wonderfully in love that they don’t even care about the consequences.”
“You sound like such a romantic now, but Marilyn got married for many reasons, the most important being love. Think how that turned out for her, Iowa,” Ivy says.
Karen asks, “Is that why you aren’t dating Derek again?”
“Absolutely not. He’s a prick, that’s why.” Ivy’s nostrils flare like a startled horse in mud. She steadies herself and continues, almost rehearsed, “I could love him if I put more effort in. I’m sure he cares deep down.”
“But it’s confirmation bias, Ivy! You look for that in him,” Karen says.
Ivy says helplessly, “Well, what else can I do?”
“Don’t talk to him. I’m serious. It won’t be hard.” After all, Derek’s barely sociable to begin with.
The gap between Ivy’s eyebrows wrinkles. Her voice is harsh. “You can say that because you’re Marilyn. What about me? I won’t leave the company, the show.”
Karen insists, “You don’t have to. Just avoid him in rehearsal and he’ll lose interest, I’m sure.”
“He already has a key to my apartment!” Ivy snaps. She presses her pen back to her Post-It’s. Firm strikes leave little dots and blotches of blue like ones on her knees so many weeks ago. The original bruise, developing in stages.
“You can change the locks,” Karen says with a lopsided smile. “If he shows up to our place I’ll drive him out with a broom.”
Ivy puts down the pen. Her fingers lose their tension. “Our place. It sounds a lot better coming from your mouth.”
Karen rolls her eyes. “That’s a lie, Ivy. With your voice everything’s beautiful,” she says.
A hand comes up to cup her jaw. A kiss to Karen’s cheek. Ivy says, “There you go again.” Whatever that means.
After the café, Ivy calls Tom and Sam to help at Karen’s apartment. Julia shows up with them—after all, she’s Tom’s other half, too. They spend an hour and a half packing, then another hour heaving boxes down the stairs into Sam’s truck.
Dev watches her from the doorframe as Karen leaves for the last time. He gives a firm handshake. “Have a nice life,” he tells her. “Where’s your new flat?”
Karen squeezes his hand tighter in the handshake. She says, “Don’t try to find me, but thanks anyway. For everything.” Then she grabs the last box and makes her way out at last. It’s harder to do but easier to live with afterwards than she expects; her feet feel weighted down until she gets to the trunk. Beyond that, though, it’s Sam jumping as Tom hits curbs, Julia discreetly flipping off the poor driver in the next lane over, Ivy chewing bubblegum and Karen sitting right next to her. Gratitude. She has a group of people who’d help her move.
As soon as the last box has been transported into Ivy’s apartment and the other guests have left, Karen takes it upon herself to begin rifling around the kitchen. Ivy has a sophisticated tea collection: orange pekoe, green, white, all loose-leaf in aluminum tins with illustrated paper sheaths.
On the other hand, the fridge is a disorganized mess. Half a head of cabbage next to the bacon. The cottage cheese atop tiramisu cups. Red wine. Karen makes a private vow to organize its contents. She only eats out at specific restaurants or boils corn-on-the-cob and hot dogs at home. Her system isn’t equipped to handle a varied diet, but it’s for Ivy, so she’ll find a way.
The kitchen table hosts three Marilyn biographies, Sondheim’s Finishing the Hat, Slaughterhouse Five, and a Chicago script book. They each have proper bookmarks. Karen says, “Ivy, I love Chicago!” She starts to flip through it.
“Oh? I’ve never been,” Ivy says. She comes over to trace the cover of the script book with her finger. Her hand bumps into Karen’s and she leaves it there. “Actually, I did it on Broadway.”
Karen gasps. “I should’ve known, you looked perfect in the red bodysuit for ‘Let’s Be Bad.’ Who did you play? Roxie?”
Ivy’s proud smile drops a bit. She says, “No-one. I mean, ensemble.”
“I haven’t forgotten that the chorus are people, angel. You always downplay the cool stuff you’ve done,” Karen says.
“Because it’s only impressive to a dork like you.” Ivy snatches the script book from Karen’s hands and holds it above her head. “You’ve lost your rights to have this now.”
Karen’s tall enough to grab it back anyway. She says, “Come on, you’re such a secret dork too. Look at all these Marilyn books.”
“Marilyn deserves a library written about her. Besides, the authors disappoint in different ways—you have to read a lot to know her properly.”
“Do you?” Karen asks.
Minute shifts of Ivy’s gaze from each representation to the next. Marilyn in sunglasses, Marilyn engulfed by pitch-darkness, and Marilyn smiling. Ivy answers, “She’s very misunderstood, but I think so. And do you?”
Karen shrugs. She says, “I watched her movies and follow what Derek tells me. You were my model for the rest. You have these special mannerisms for her where—” She reaches out and touches Ivy’s mouth to demonstrate. “Your top lip moves differently. Um, taller vowels, and you get breathy. Like you’re saying something important.”
“I try,” Ivy says. Her lips open enough for Karen to feel her internal body temperature. They’re alone together, exactly as they were in the hotel room. (Except that they’re themselves.)
“Yeah. That’s it.”
They stand immobile for too long, until Karen withdraws and wipes her own mouth with her hand, still faintly warm and tingling. She asks, “What’s next in the tour?”
“Well, the vitamins and cough drops are here along with wound dressings,” Ivy says, pointing to a cabinet. “All the other medicine goes in a lockbox in the closet. The code is eight-four-one-three.”
“Why?” Karen says.
A pause. “Harder to open.” Brushing past the implications so quickly that Karen questions whether they exist to begin with, Ivy continues, “I expect lights-out and quiet hours from eight-thirty to five. There’s not a curfew—we’re both adults—but if you come back after midnight, a girl’s gotta worry.”
“That’s good with me," Karen says, but secretly she’s pleased at the picture of Ivy waiting for her like a wife anticipating her husband’s arrival from the battlefront.
Ivy says, “Tell it to the stalker websites. Staying up until one a.m. for four days in a row will ruin your energy. Speaking of which, how on Earth did you stand to be near Rebecca for so long?”
“Well, I was tipsy. I guess that helped to pass the time,” Karen says awkwardly.
“That’s adorable, Iowa. I’d need a handle of vodka.” Ivy plants a kiss on her cheek.
“We went to a lot of clubs! I wasn’t drinking because of her—at least, not the way you’re implying,” Karen protests. “I felt bad for staying up, but Rebecca asked. She kept buying me drinks. What else was I supposed to do?”
Ivy smiles, but her eyes sharpen. She says, “It’s Rebecca, though. She’s not someone you should go out with.”
“I haven’t talked to her once since previews started, I swear.” Then Karen kisses her cheek back.
“I’ll hold you to it,” Ivy says. She lets out a giggle so sweet it sounds like Turkish delight. Karen leans against the linoleum countertop, baffled and overwhelmed by her own unexpected joy.
Their terms of living evolve naturally into a second golden age. Ivy cooks, vacuums, and plans their monthly budget with meticulous detail while Karen picks up extra shifts at the restaurant and does laundry, handwashing lingerie and cashmere for the first time. Date nights on Sunday evenings keep the fantasy alive. Ivy insists on taking the subway together so Karen won’t be late again; Julia smiles when they arrive at rehearsals hand-in-hand. After sleeping on the couch puts a crick in Karen’s back that Ivy frets over for days, she’s forced to sleep in the bed.
Karen picks up the Marilyn books, too. She watches all of Ivy's favorite movies, as well as a slew of other media to continue her cultural education. It makes Karen feel privately proud that despite their differences, they have similar taste in theatre.
As an extra boon Ivy sneaks in anecdotes about herself with every one. During Taming of the Shrew, she says, “I wanted to be sent to boot camp as a kid. Thought it would straighten me out. Of course, then I went to theatre camp, which did about the same thing.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. I never went. Hey, angel, what makes a comedy versus a tragedy? This one doesn’t seem very funny.” Karen gestures with the remote, wrinkling her nose.
Ivy says, “The ending’s a wedding or a funeral, sweetheart.”
Karen imagines a wedding between herself and Dev as they are now. Church and a thousand people staring. Then going home to avoid him more, both sullen and upset. She asks, “Wouldn’t it have been a disaster if I got married?”
“I thought you had a perfectly fine fiancé!” Ivy reaches over to steal some of Karen’s popcorn.
Karen buries her face in her hands with embarrassment. “Ugh, don’t bring that up again, dearest. I don’t even know why I said it.”
“Maybe because you meant it?”
“He had sex with you,” Karen says. Sweat beads on her brow, hot possessiveness directed at the other woman.
After an uncomfortable beat, Ivy says, “I’m sorry, babe.” Her voice is thin and tight.
Karen says, “You don’t need to apologize, Ivy. We’ve already gone through this before. I just wonder why he went after you in particular.”
“Wink in a man’s direction and he’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Just don’t let him know you any better than that.” Ivy stares at the screen as the lead actress recites a monologue on serving, loving, and obeying.
“Obviously I know why he wanted you. It’s just that I planned to be friends with you one day. I told him it was a goal of mine—having more friends in New York—and he did it anyway, which totally put a wrench in our relationship! Mine and yours, that is.”
“Wait, why me?” Ivy turns to her.
“Um, I went bowling with some of the chorus once. They kept making these snide little comments that you weren’t doing well? Even though they were supposed to be your friends first and you were phenomenal in the workshop. Everyone hates a star, I guess. It made me think… here’s someone who might need company,” Karen says.
Ivy shifts aside. She says, “When they shit-talked you, I joined in. Figured you were doing it right back.”
Karen nestles their bodies together on the couch. Her arms hook around Ivy’s shoulders and she slings her ankle over Ivy’s legs. Movement of their mismatched breathing, chest to back. She says, “It’s easy to be catty, I understand. Dev trained me since he’s in the press industry. You’ll find this funny, but I still couldn't tell they were making fun of me until, like, weeks in. But then I told them to stop and they did.”
“What if they still hate you?” Ivy whispers, inexplicably pleading.
“I’ll find out when they tell the truth.” Karen shrugs. “Being honest, I used to judge you for how you dressed. People don’t wear those things where I’m from. The first time I saw you I felt like I was going to have a heart attack from your—um, your breasts. They distracted everyone in the room.”
Ivy says, “Oh, I’ve got way sexier outfits than that, Iowa. You’re easily flustered because you have no sense of fashion.” A giggle as the mood lightens.
“Hey, I’m supposed to be post-makeover, thank you very much!”
“I didn’t notice. Guess you were pretty to begin with,” Ivy says.
Karen’s both flattered and worried that it’s perhaps another joke. “I am?”
Ivy shimmies around so they’re face-to-face. The couch is slightly too small for the two of them; they’re close enough that they fit anyway. She says with purpose, “When I saw you looking like the girl-next-door at callbacks, you were still the most beautiful one there. I knew Derek would fall for you in a heartbeat if you tried. It’s why you were the only person I ever worried about taking Marilyn from me.”
“Thanks,” Karen says. Then, hesitantly, “You were the only person I ever thought deserved her.” With that, they go quiet and continue watching the end of the play until the screen goes dark.
A day like any other: pale morning, waking up early to admire Ivy’s relaxed face. The comforter’s warm from their contained body heat. Then Ivy blinks open her eyes. Her pupils look like black holes eclipsing her irises. “Hey,” she says sleepily. She leans over and kisses Karen. Slow. Tender but mundane. “You’re so weird.”
Karen licks her lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“No, you’re good. Proves you pay attention to me after all.” Ivy kisses again along Karen’s tipped-open neck. Then Ivy flips herself on top—one smooth movement—until her thighs straddle around her partner’s waist. Her hands pull at the straps to Karen’s white tank top.
An influx of cold air as she’s left bare. “Fuck,” Karen says. Ivy’s hips pressing close on her skin; she can feel her willpower to resist die. Blonde hair falls on Karen’s face, rivers of fire. Light from the open window streams in.
Ivy laughs. “You’re swearing. Am I giving you bad habits, honey?” She bends to continue her trail of kisses.
“Please, just—lie down, I need—”
“Me,” she finishes.
“I need you.” Panting. “Oh my God, Ivy, I need you.”
Things progress from there.