Archive of Our Own

You’ve spent a lot of your life avoiding hospitals.

It isn’t that you’re scared of them or anything, but they’re just so.. Sterile, and excessively bright, and cold, and your point is that you’re just not very fond of them. But River’s been complaining of a stomach ache all morning and while you’d normally just hand him some ibuprofen and send him off to school, the nausea and the vomiting had really thrown you for a loop and you’re just about ready to hand him off to a priest for holy cleansing after the fourth bout of puking in as many minutes.

So here you are, in the emergency room at St. Damien’s Hospital, waiting for someone to come look at your son and figure out what’s wrong with him. The ER is crowded, and you figure it’s understandable. A snowstorm had passed over Hatchetfield not two days ago and you can only imagine how many idiots had managed to get themselves into an accident, especially with the icy roads the city hasn’t bothered to clear yet.

You’ve always wondered why they gave driving licenses to half the people in this town – god only knows how you’d managed to get yours. Your driving skills are questionable at best, but you suppose being a member of the upper class community in Hatchetfield has its perks, even back in the 90s. Your ex-husband always joked that you would kill your family someday, driving the way you do. Not that he was one to talk. 

You’re halfway through thinking about Gerald’s suspended driving license when River doubles over into the bowl some mousy nurse had handed to you earlier for any ‘incidents’. You feel your heart ache at your gorgeous son’s flushed face as he leans back into his pillow, huffing at the effort seeping all the strength out of his bones. It hurts to see your little boy suffering so much, and you’re more than a little miffed that the only thing you can really do is brush his blond hair out of his eyes and hand him the cup of water you’d managed to demand from the same mousy nurse from earlier.

As River pitifully sucks the water through a straw, barely managing to contain his nausea, you glance down at your phone for the time. You feel a flash of anger when you realise you’ve been waiting for close to 40 minutes now, and not a single doctor has even been over to check on your son yet. Of course, the ER has been mildly busy, but your son could be dying for all you know! That, and you’re really starting to feel uneasy, like something is about to go terribly wrong with your child.

With a gentle brush of your hand against his too-warm cheek, you stand and pull back the curtain separating you and your son from the rest of the ER, ready to yell at someone or drag a doctor over. Your son is not about to die of a little tummy ache in the ER, not if you had anything to do with it.

As you open your mouth to start yelling, you halt in your tracks when you find yourself face to face with someone you haven’t seen in nearly two decades; someone you’ve been diligently avoiding, not that you’d ever admit it.

Becky Barnes is staring at you over a tablet held tightly to her chest, wide-eyed in surprise. She’s as immaculate as you remember, red hair pulled into that high ponytail she’s always been so fond of and you think you see the barest hint of makeup on her pale face, enough to make it seem natural, yet like she’d put effort into her appearance that morning. She’s not in the light green scrubs the other nurses are wearing, instead donning a pair of light blue ones, which makes your eyebrows rise in suspicion.

“Hello,” she greets after schooling her face into a carefully blank expression, and you almost snort, because really, who does she think she’s kidding? You opt to say nothing, though, and she seems almost appreciative of your lack of a snide remark. “I’m here to check on your son, River?”

“It’s about time,” you huff, stepping out of the way to let her through to River. She eyes you warily as she walks up to the bed, as if you might bite her head off or something. You suppress a smirk and continue instead with your complaining. “We’ve been waiting forever. The waiting time here is absolutely horrible. I would’ve gone to Hatchetfield General if I wanted poor service.”

Becky ignores you and addresses your son instead, “Hi, River. I’m Dr. Barnes, but you can call me Becky, and this–” She gestures to a man you hadn’t noticed standing close behind her in scrubs that match hers. He has the classic wide-eyed,  tense demeanour of any rookie in the workplace – probably an intern, if you had to guess. “–is Dr. Thompson. We’re here to figure out what’s wrong with you, okay?”

River nods his assent, and you move to the other side of his bed as you brush aside the stab of resentment in favour of caressing your son’s cheek. You watch closely as she asks your son a few questions, prodding at his abdomen gently. You’re more than a little shocked when she puts River at ease without much effort. It’s not that River’s a ball of anxiety, per se, but he isn’t the friendliest boy either, especially with adults, so you’re allowed to be surprised when he laughs at something the redhead says.

Though, you suppose Becky has always been good with children. That much was evident even back in high school, when she would pick up the odd babysitting gig for some extra cash and you had pushed to go with her under the guise of ‘helping her’, even though you both knew you were only there because you were feeling lonely and bored. You were always irritable when it came to the children she’d babysat for, and you’d even sent them crying in her arms a few times, much to Becky’s chagrin. ‘Baby Hater’, she would call you. You had worn the title with pride.

You remember watching Becky rock a baby to sleep once, all gentle smiles and low lullabies. She would make a wonderful mother someday. It was one of those things you would always be completely sure of; even today, you can still see the mother she was born to become. Her maternal instincts are excellent, and every child she meets is instantly enchanted by her.

Your children would love her, you think. They had absolutely hated your last boyfriend, and you’d ultimately had to break up with the man. You may hate kids, but you would always prioritise your own above all else. The man was a sleaze, anyway, so his presence hasn’t been missed much.

But as you watch Becky interact with River, you think that yes, your kids would definitely love her.

You only realise you’re staring at Becky when she turns to look up at you, and it’s all you can do to not let your eyes dart away in embarrassment. You meet her eyes easily, keeping your face neutral as you watch her eyes widen in muted surprise, then narrow once more into one of those professional, detached looks most doctors and nurses have mastered over the years. You hold your son’s hand as you wait for her to speak.

“I suspect appendicitis,” Becky reports, and you feel your heart drop. Your poor little boy’s been going through so much pain and here you were, daydreaming of some alternate universe where Becky was Auntie Becky to your children and she was still your friend. “I still have to do an ultrasound, of course, but the symptoms all line up – fever, tenderness over McBurney’s point, nausea, vomiting.”

You feel a flash of irritation at her confidence, and maybe it’s just your innate maternal protectiveness, but this is your son . You’re not about to let some hack nurse diagnose him just like that and risk a misdiagnosis.

“How do you know?” you demand, tightening your grip on your son’s hand as he eyes you curiously. “You’re just some nurse. Aren’t you supposed to have an actual doctor check him?”

She looks irked as she tucks a hand into her lab pocket, gripping her tablet closer to her in her other hand, and you’re almost sorry because you can see Dr. Thompson’s eyes dart between the two of you uncertainly, like you might break into an actual fist fight at any sudden movement.

“Actually, Linda,” Becky’s tone seems like she’s trying to appear calm, though the flash of indignation in her bright blue eyes suggests otherwise. “I’m actually a surgical resident. My final year, even. I assure you, I am more than qualified to diagnose your son.”

You can feel your eyebrows rise to your hairline in disbelief. You’ve always known her as a pediatric nurse, when had she taken the time to switch over to become an actual surgeon instead? Although you’ve been avoiding her for years now, you like to think you’re quite well-informed on the goings-on of the citizens of Hatchetfield.

Clearly not, if you’d managed to miss such a big change in the life of someone you used to regard as your best friend.

And even in light of this new information, this is your son and you’re Linda Monroe, and since when have you been one to admit when you were wrong, anyway?

“I don’t care,” you snap, paying no heed to the flash of hurt across Becky’s face. “Get me an actual doctor. I don’t care who it is, just anyone but you.”

Dr. Thompson opens his mouth to protest, but immediately lowers his hackles when Becky raises one hand to stop him.

“It’s okay, Dr. Thompson,” Becky says. She doesn’t break eye contact with you, and you feel the familiar thrill rush through you, and suddenly it’s like you’re in high school again, arguing with her for the sake of arguing. “Page Dr. Edwards, will you?”

As the intern scurries away, she explains, “Dr. Edwards is our Head of Pediatrics. He’ll confirm my diagnosis, and I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to answer any question you may have.” She turns and calls out for a nurse to bring over the ultrasound machine for her. “In the meantime, I still have to do the ultrasound on your son. May I?”

Mollified, you sit in the chair a nurse has pushed over to you and nod your approval. Becky smiles, and you think it looks a little less genuine than she intends, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t really expect much in terms of friendship from her, and her geniality so far is much more than you deserve, especially after the petty little incident that had ultimately resulted in the end of your friendship halfway through your senior year of high school.

Some part of you desperately wants to bring it up – apologise for it, even – but the more time you spend around the redhead in a relatively amicable silence, the less you want to ruin it with the past. And Becky hasn’t even hinted at it anyway, so you guess she isn’t keen on airing out your decade-old dirty laundry either, especially after your prior irrational hostility.

So you just sit and quietly watch her do the ultrasound.

It’s already nightfall when you finally leave.

Dr. Edwards had confirmed Becky’s diagnosis of appendicitis and River was promptly taken up for surgery. You were scared out of your mind for your son. Although Becky had assured you that the procedure was quite a simple one, a routine surgery, really, you had all but forced Dr. Edwards to let Becky into the operating room – to assist or to simply watch over your son, you didn’t care.

You don’t really want to think about the implications of why you had chosen Becky Barnes of all people to take care of your son in the OR. You reason that it’s probably because you know she would fight for him should anything go wrong, and whether it’s her natural maternal instincts or your friendship of yore, you don’t know. Either way, your son is in the recovery room now, and Gerald would arrive soon to relieve you while you went home to catch some sleep. Dr. Edwards had said that the surgery had gone perfectly, and that he could not have been happier with the outcome.

You had felt a pang of disappointment when you hadn’t gotten the report from a familiar redhead instead, but thanked him regardless.

Silently, you thank the gods for the existence of nannies, because you had completely forgotten about your other children until Gerald had called to tell you that the nanny had kindly offered to pick the boys up from school and spend the night with them. You’re not a neglectful mother by any means, but River’s surgery had occupied your mind as far as childcare went. Now that he’s safely recovering under the watchful eye of the chief of pediatrics surgery himself, you can finally relax and unclench your jaw.

You find yourself sitting at a table in the corner of a dingy bar you’d spotted earlier when you were pulling out of the hospital’s parking lot, nursing a nearly empty glass of scotch as you watch the people around you. It’s busy – much busier than you would expect for such a small establishment, but it’s a Friday, so you suppose it’s understandable. The air smells like stale beer and old grease, but the bar itself is remarkably clean, something you’re endlessly grateful for. You’re wearing Louboutin ankle boots and you’ll be damned if you ruin them by stepping in some sticky, unknown substance.

Another thing you’re grateful for is the location of your table in a secluded corner. From where you’re sitting, you can see the rest of the room. It’s a great spot for you to people watch, something you’ve found yourself doing much more over the years. Being a member of the upper society of Hatchetfield doesn’t exactly grant you much companionship; none that weren’t disingenuous in some way. Every person you meet has some ulterior motive, and you quickly learned not to accept any offers of camaraderie without being very suspicious first. The only time you think you’ve ever actually known the feeling of real, genuine friendship was…

You stop yourself before you can spiral too far into your thoughts and polish off your drink. You should probably go home. You’re going to spend the day with River again tomorrow until he’s released, and you don’t think showing up hungover would be very smart of you. You’re about to stand up to leave when the door chimes, signalling the entrance of someone new. Your interest piques. Nobody had entered in a while, and it’s getting quite late.

You turn to see who it is, and-

Voices rise to greet Becky as she makes her way to sit at the bar, and the redhead returns the greetings with warm smiles and laughter. You’re not at all surprised to see that her popularity remains unwavering, carrying over from her days in high school. You’re almost comforted by it, to see her thrive in her social life despite everything.

You watch Becky greet the bartender as she slips onto a barstool with practiced ease, like she’s been here hundreds, if not thousands of times before. It isn’t unlikely, given the establishment’s close proximity to the hospital. She starts a conversation you can’t hear with the bartender, and the man slides a glass full of amber liquid over to the doctor before walking away to tend to some other patron at the opposite end of the bar. Becky seems to slump, letting her happy facade seep away as she swirls her drink a little before taking a sip. You let your feet lead you to the empty barstool next to her, and you sit with a little difficulty. You’re a little buzzed but the terrible whiskey probably isn’t at fault – these seats are simply way too high for your tastes.

She doesn’t look at you as you order a refill of your drink and take a tentative sip. It’s still as horrible as before; an unfortunate result of cheap scotch, you surmise. Becky points to the bowl of peanuts next to you without so much as a glance at you, and you wordlessly pass it to her, watching her nimble fingers twist at a peanut shell in the corner of your eyes. The two of you sit there for a while in heavy silence, partly because you aren’t sure if she wants you to say anything at all, and partly because you wouldn’t know what to say, anyway.

You’re on your second refill when you finally decide that you should say something. Anything. So you open your mouth. Then you close it again. Inwardly, you curse your inability to form a proper sentence, and you wonder when you, Linda Monroe, had become such a bumbling idiot. But you find it in you to forgive yourself, because if you do somehow find the words, this would be the first time in over a decade that you’ve interacted outside of a professional setting, and while it isn’t the most exciting thing in the world, you’re still nervous because it’s Becky and you’re Linda, and maybe the scotch was stronger than you had originally thought.

“You’re not at the hospital,” Becky finally comments, and you’re certain this is some sort of blessing from some god above. Not that you really have any clout with god, but you thank them anyways for at least taking the crushing responsibility of starting up a conversation off your shoulders. But then she glances up at you to meet your eyes, and suddenly this holy blessing feels like a punishment instead, because she gives you this look and while you’re not really sure what it’s meant to convey, it hurts some squishy part inside you. Needless to say, you’re starting to regret ever walking into this stupid, smelly bar.

You swallow to quell the petty indignation you can feel rising deep within you. Because for once, Becky is looking at you, and it isn’t anything like a scared puppy might look at a large, scary human. 

She cocks her head at you, and you realise you’ve just been sitting there and staring at her, mouth slightly ajar like some brainless idiot. You clear your throat and straighten in your chair, taking a nonchalant sip of your terrible, no-good whiskey.

“I’m not,” you reply with a shrug, and you mentally slap your face into your hands in embarrassment. You immediately blame the alcohol, because even revolting whiskey is alcoholic. You wonder if Becky finds this conversation as mortifying as you do. The brief glance over at her doesn’t really help you figure out what she’s thinking.  “Gerald is staying with River tonight.”

Becky nods, seemingly satisfied at this response as she takes another sip of her drink. You eye the amber liquid in her glass.

“Beer?” you ask. She blinks at you owlishly, and you’re faced with the full force of her baby blue eyes, all big and round and you have to look away, because they’re doing things to you and this scotch really is repulsive. You should’ve gone home instead.

“Warm buttered rum,” she answers, raising her glass to take another sip of her drink. You hum thoughtfully.

“I always thought you’d be someone who drinks cosmos or margaritas. Maybe tequila if you were feeling a little wild.”

“You think about me a lot, then?” she asks wryly, shooting you a bemused smile. Your cheeks warm at the quip, and for a moment, you‘re tongue tied.

“Well, I’m celebrating, and it’s almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “This just felt appropriate.”

“Celebrating, you say?”

“River.”

You nod at this response, and a comfortable silence follows.

She’s more guarded, you think, much less open with her feelings than before. She still smiles, still talks, but it’s like you’re talking to her through a blanket. She’s muffled; she isn’t as brazenly happy or nearly as expressive with her thoughts as you remember. You almost wonder what had caused her to learn to never let her guard down, but then you remember Stanley and his beer-stained shirts, his too-loud voice and his ugly goatee. You never did find out where he’d run off to.

“What about you?” she prompts, looking pointedly at your drink. “I’ve always taken you for a wine drinker. What is that, whiskey?”

“Yes - scotch. And I am a wine drinker, but sometimes whiskey just feels better. And I figure being wine drunk while I go to visit my son at the hospital tomorrow isn’t such a smart idea.”

“So being wildly hungover and puking everywhere is the better option, then?”

“Pretty sure I’ll be puking from the taste and not the hangover,” you grumble, and she giggles at the face you make. You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you watch her chuckle into her drink, silky red hair falling into her eyes. Your fingers twitch, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from leaning over and brushing her hair behind her ear.

She cocks her head to the side as she turns to look at you again, eyes crinkled and sparkling in the way they always do when she smiles. You’re suddenly transported back in time, back to high school, when you still had sleepovers and blanket forts and inside jokes. You’ve missed her, you realise. You’ve missed her steady optimism. You’ve missed her laugh, her too-wide grins, the way she would bounce on her toes when she was excited, the way she would never fail to turn to you first when something happened, always looking to see how you would react.

“I’ve missed you,” you blurt out, and dammit, maybe having three glasses of this foul liquid was a bad idea after all, because for a second you think she might hear all the unspoken sentences behind your words, all the unspoken apologies and ‘I love you’s and-

It’s a slow realisation, about 20 years in the making, when you realise that you love her and you have loved her the entire time you’ve known each other, which is ridiculous, because she’s a woman, and so are you. It’s completely ridiculous because you hadn’t even seen her for years until just this morning, so how could you have possibly loved her during that fifteen-year-long radio silence in your strange relationship with Becky Barnes?

More than anything, it is completely and utterly ridiculous that the only thing you really want is for her to say the words back to you.

But she just smiles and takes another sip of her drink.

The next time you see her is in the hospital lobby, when you’re waiting for an elevator to make your way up to your son’s room.

You’re a little surprised to see her up so early after your late night jaunt to the bar across the street, but then you remember that she’s a surgeon now, and if you had to guess, you think that placing money on the assumption that she rarely ever gets sleep would not be too bad of an idea. Mankind is too stupid to keep itself from getting hurt for even one night, and the citizens of Hatchetfield appear to be a breed more imbecilic than most.

To be honest, you haven’t really been looking forward to seeing her again, especially so soon after your drunken confession and subsequent realisation. Mostly because you’re still embarrassed. Becky had just shuffled onto another topic of conversation, and you’d gone home shortly afterwards in a cab she’d insisted you take lest you land yourself into an accident. You had protested vehemently, puffing your chest in indignance when she’d dared to claim that you, Linda Monroe, president of the Hatchetfield Boat Society, were drunk.

You vaguely remember a brusque retort that had had you bursting into uncontrollable giggles, but you had remained headstrong in your refusal of the cab ride home.

Then she cupped your cheek and forced you to look her straight in the eye, and oh god, you really shouldn’t be feeling these things for your ex best friend who is also a woman.

“Please, Linda?” she had murmured, and you found yourself cursing puppies and feelings and women as you clambered into the cab with all the grace of a newborn calf, all limbs and awkward angles, anything to get away from the big blue eyes imploring you to just get in the car. She had climbed in after you, and you don’t remember much of the rest of the cab ride aside from the terribly embarrassing rambling, and really, you’re not a messy drunk at all, but something about Becky Barnes had stripped you of all your inhibitions.

You think you might have planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek when the car stopped in front of your house, but the scotch really had made you quite drunk in the end, so you don’t trust your memory that well right now. Becky hasn’t said anything either, and the two of you have been waiting for the elevator for a while now, so you’re starting to think that maybe the kiss had just been a figment of your imagination, thank god. The whiskey hadn’t entirely ruined you after all.

The elevator arrives and you follow her in, simultaneously glad yet dreading the fact that it’s just the two of you in the enclosed space.

“You kissed me on the cheek,” Becky says matter-of-factly as soon as the doors close. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, willing the blood away from your cheeks. You don’t look at each other.

“I did,” you concede, voice quiet as you open your eyes to stare stubbornly at the metal doors in front of you. Could an elevator ride be any slower?

“Why?”

You look up then, and she’s already looking at you, gaze steady in the same way it had been last night. “Why’d you take me home?” you counter. “You could have just left me there.”

She rolls her eyes at you in exasperation. “You were drunk,” she shoots, plain and simple. You shoot her a dubious look, and she shakes her head, stumbling over what she wants to say so that her voice is laced with frustration when she settles on, “And because you matter to me, Linda.”

You don’t stop yourself this time. When you feel the urge to reach out and brush her hair out of her eyes, you do it. It’s easy, almost natural. Her eyes meet yours, hesitancy reigning clear in them, and you curse yourself at putting it there, and even more when your hand trembles with the weight of your emotions. Then, understanding; a look of recognition flashes where it wasn’t just moments ago. You barely manage to keep yourself from physically recoiling away at the sudden intensity of her gaze.

“We can’t do this,” you mutter, pulling your hand back, an act of cowardice. She looks at you, sad and longing and.. something else.

“Why not, Linda?” she whispers as she leans towards you, like speaking any louder might shatter the little bubble you’ve found yourselves in. “What’s stopping us?”

“We can’t,” you protest weakly, and she raises an eyebrow at your eloquence, drawing out a sigh from deep within your chest. You know it’s a lame excuse, and your pathetic denial of these feelings between the two of you only reveals just how much you really want to throw all your cares to the wind and pull her into a mind-numbing kiss. But you can’t. “Because we’re supposed to be Becky and Linda.”

She pulls back then, perplexed, and you wrinkle your nose at the pathetic little whine that almost leaves you when you feel her warmth move away from you. She’s looking at you expectantly, looking for any sort of explanation, and it’s reasonable, because what sort of response was that? So you huff and glance at the numbers above the elevator doors because, really, there are only ten floors in this godforsaken hospital, and you’re not even going to the top, and she’s still looking at you .

“We’re supposed to hate each other,” you explain, and you ignore the adorable little way she frowns. If anything were to happen between the two of you, it would definitely throw everyone for a loop.

You can see it now; the dumbfounded stares as you and Becky walk down the street, hands intertwined with overtly affectionate grins plastered to your faces. You’re wearing Becky’s coat because “It’s cold and you’re tiny, Linda.” and she’s wearing your scarf because it is cold and you’re not about to let her freeze. It’s an absurd picture, really. Laughable at best. Brilliant, happy, impossible. And yet, you can’t help the annoying fluttering of your heart as you think about it, the warm glow of yearning that pools in your gut. You so desperately want it to be real, to be able to call her yours, but you simply can’t, because you’re Becky and Linda and you hate each other.

Becky’s lips slowly curve into a sad smile, “I still remember when being Becky and Linda meant being the best of friends.”

You sigh again, because so do you. It’s been 15 years since you two could really be considered friends, and you remember the blanket forts and the movie nights and your heart still aches for her, and you’re suddenly vividly aware of the emptiness in your person – that Becky-shaped hole you’d carved in yourself so long ago.

You shake your head. “We’ve been hating each other for the past two decades, and suddenly here we are, talking and being friendly and cheek kissing. It’s childish of us to even think we could be anything more than this.”

Becky’s smile widens, and she has that cheeky sparkle in her eyes again.

“You kissed me on the cheek,” she says almost teasingly, and she’s definitely flirting with you now. You turn to eye her, feeling the corners of your mouth tug up reflexively.

It’s inevitable.

You and Becky are on a collision course, have been for years now. Now that Gerald and Tom and Stanley have stepped away from the picture, there’s nothing left to disrupt the pull of Becky’s gravity.

It’s obvious that something has shifted. It’s a disconcerting sensation. You’ve always been so sure that you would lie on your deathbed someday, Gerald by your side, your health an unstable factor in your life. The only thing the people around you would be sure of would be your hatred of Becky Barnes, because what reason would they have to believe otherwise? You two would pretend to hate each other till the end of time, and that would be the end of it.

But then you and Gerald had gotten divorced; Tom married Jane; Stanley up and disappeared, and suddenly you’re slowly losing your footing on ground you thought you knew. Your desire to reach out to Becky is personal, impossible to detach from as hard as you try.

But Gerald had always been there. He isn’t now, not in any way that counts.

And you feel this gravity now, this innate desire for everything Becky. It has you leaning towards her, has you glancing down at her lips. She feels it too, you can tell in the way she’s mirroring you, slowly leaning down, and you can hear your heart pounding in anticipation.

You’ve been spending the better half of your life pretending like you didn’t want this, you can afford to be a little childish sometimes.

“I did,” you breathe, mere inches away from her.

But then the elevator dings, the bubble bursts, and you’re pulling away from each other, heat rushing to your faces. She clears her throat and steps off the elevator, and you follow close behind. Neither of you say a word for a while as you walk side-by-side, and you realise you don’t really know where you’re going. But it’s okay, because she knows you and she’s already led you to your son’s room. This strange little telepathic bond you have with her makes you want to grin like a little schoolgirl, but you suppress the giddiness and settle for a small smile instead.

You’re Linda Monroe, after all. You’ve built a reputation as the unfriendly neighbourhood witch. It won’t do to have your castle walls crumble down because of some redheaded doctor.

Becky turns to you at the doorway, and her blush has settled somewhat, though her ears are still burning red. The sight makes you smirk.

“We should go out sometime,” she suggests, lowering her voice so only you can hear what she’s saying. She grasps your hands in hers and smiles bashfully, and it makes you feel like you’re in on a secret with her. You suppose you kind of are, in a sense. She’s got a hopeful glint in her eyes, and who are you to say no to that face?

“We should,” you agree, squeezing her hands gently to let her know that yes, you’re in this with her – you want this too. She beams, glances around, then leans in to plant a chaste kiss on your cheek. It makes your face burn, and she winks at you before scuttling away with a final wave goodbye.

You just stand in her wake for a moment, staring after her retreating form until she disappears from your view. Your skin is hot where she kissed you, though there isn’t really much of a distinction between it and the rest of you. She’s filled you with this gooey, warm tingling and you’re unnerved when you realise that you really want to keep feeling this way.

“Linda? You coming in?” you hear Gerald’s voice calling out to you, and it snaps you out of your daze. You look into the room, and you’re relieved to see that River is still asleep, and it occurs to you that his body is probably still flushing the anesthesia they’d used for his surgery out of its system.

You walk in and set your purse down onto the empty chair next to his bed as you lean down to kiss the top of your son’s head. You finally look at Gerald then, your ex-husband, your best friend, and your stomach drops when you see the knowing grin on his handsome face.

“So,” he starts, and you groan as you plop down onto the chair. “Becky Barnes, huh?”

You take her to dinner at a fancy French restaurant in Clivesdale, because even though you both hate Clivesdale, you’d prefer not to be stared at when you’re just trying to enjoy dinner with someone you like. Neither you nor Becky can be considered celebrities by any means, but you’re one of the most powerful people in Hatchetfield, and Becky is still ever the beloved one. This, and your fallout wasn’t exactly very pretty, the same way that it hadn’t been the most private of affairs.

It’s evident that you’ve chosen well, because Becky slumps into a significantly more relaxed posture when you drive across Nantucket Bridge – away from curious eyes and judgemental looks –and you let out an amused bark of laughter at her evident relief. She turns to smile apologetically at you and you shrug, lips curved in an understanding smirk. You reach over to rest a reassuring hand on hers, and she turns her it over to lace her fingers with yours, and you find that they fit perfectly.

Your choice to have dinner out of town further proves itself to be the right move when the hostess doesn’t even bat an eye as you walk up, hands comfortably intertwined. You have to wait outside for a few minutes while they clean and prepare your table, and while you would usually be throwing a fit by now, you just observe your date as you wait, instead.

Becky’s eyes are darting around as she tries to drink in the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the neighbouring city she so rarely gets the opportunity to visit. Her excitement is this pure sort of emotion, and you feel a rush of protectiveness over this woman you’ve known for most of your life now, a desire to shelter her from the unknown evils of the world around you. You can’t help but chuckle to yourself. Becky would probably just call you stupid, and it isn’t like she’d be wrong, either. It’s a silly notion, but you’re certain you’re going to try regardless of what she says.

A man walks by and wolf whistles, and you reflexively pull her behind you. He shoots you a sleazy smirk, and you’re only just able to stop yourself from pouncing on him. But he would probably like it if you did, so you stop yourself and turn to your date. She’s staring after the man blankly and you’re half expecting her to burst into tears, but she just rolls her eyes in disgust.

“Ugh, men,” she grumbles.

“Ugh, men,” you echo, tugging her to the entrance when the hostess reappears to invite you in.

Becky is wildly impressed when you order for the both of you in fluent French, eyebrows rising to her hairline as she stares at you in unabashed surprise. It’s only when the waiter walks away that she leans slightly over the table to speak to you in a hushed tone, “Since when have you been able to speak French?”

You take a sip of your wine and smirk at her over the rim of your glass. “Oh, it’s just another one of my very endearing qualities,” you boast, speaking in a faux posh accent, and it makes her smile and roll her eyes in fond exasperation.

“Go back to speaking French” she jests, picking up her own glass of wine. “I liked it much better.”

The dinner goes well. The food is delicious, the conversation is a healthy balance of witty banter and actual insightful discussion, and you’re completely at ease the entire time. It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re with her. You’re enamoured with her; you think you have been for years now, but with no one running interference, falling into her is effortless, and you don’t fight it.

It all goes by much too fast for your liking, because suddenly you find yourself pulling up to the curb in front of her house. You help her out of the car and as you’re walking her up to her doorstep, you think that this must be how teenage boys feel on their first date, flustered and hesitant. She walks up the porch steps first, and you admire her from behind, because even though she’s wearing a thick woolen trench coat, it still hugs her in all the right ways and my god, you really are turning into a hormonal teenage boy.

She turns to you, grabbing your hands and squeezing them. You squeeze back, if only to reassure her that you’re just as nervous as she is. You meet her gaze, and you’re comforted by the fact that she seems like she’s dreading the end of your date as much as you are.

“I had fun,” you manage.

“I did too. I’d really like to see you again,” she replies, a hopeful smile playing at her lips.

“You will. Probably not at the hospital anytime soon, though. Somewhere around town, maybe,” you say, smiling playfully at her.

She rolls her eyes in faux annoyance. “You know what I mean,” she laughs, eyes aglow with mirth.

“So you want to go on a second date?” You can’t help the sanguine tone your voice takes on as you speak.

“And a third, and a fourth, and-”

“How does homemade Alfredo sound? I could come over and cook it for you,” you interrupt, shuffling closer to her. You look up at her through your lashes and admire the flakes of snow that had landed on her hair during the short journey from your car to her door. She really is quite pretty; especially now, when the warm glow of the street light is casting strong shadows across her face, accentuating her soft features perfectly. She’s like a work of art, and you’re the museum-goer lucky enough to be visiting on the right day to be able to witness her fascinating beauty.

Middle school Linda would be appalled at the thoughts you’re having.

Whatever. Middle school Linda can go suck it.

“Depends. Do you speak Italian, too?” she asks with an impish smile. You really want to kiss her.

“No, but I can speak in French the entire time, if that would make you happy,” you quip, and she smiles, wide and jubilant, like she’s surprised you that you remember this brief part of your conversation during dinner earlier. You think it would be very hard to forget anything about her.

“It would.”

She’s still smiling when you press your hands into her waist and press the gentlest of kisses to her lips. The kiss is perfect; soft and sweet, a wonderful end to your date, and you find yourself smiling back as you pull away, though you doubt it quite matches hers in its brilliance. She pulls you back in as she cups your face with one hand, wrapping her other around your waist and you sigh in warm satisfaction at her touch.

“You could come in,” she murmurs against your lips, a silent invite that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

And you could, because there is nothing stopping you. You don’t have any work waiting for you at home, and Gerald had volunteered to take the kids for the weekend – his own way of showing support for your foray into romance – and aside from maybe watering your plants, there isn’t much else waiting for you at home. And as you press your nose into the curve of her neck and inhale her flowery scent, the temptation only grows, and you can feel it clinging to you, alluring with its promises of more perfect kisses and flowery smells.

But you pull away, because as much as you’re tempted to, you don’t want to cheapen this night by ending it with sex. Some other night with someone else, maybe. But this one is too special, and your relationship with Becky is still this fragile, delicate thing. You’re not going to ruin it now.

“Saturday, then?” you ask, and she gives you this tender smile that just makes you want to fall back into her arms again and never let go. She isn’t making it very easy for you to stick to your principles.

“Saturday,” she promises.

And with one last kiss, she’s waving you goodbye from her doorstep, and it’s only after she’s gone in that you pull out of her driveway and drive yourself back home.

You don’t see her for the entire week before your date on Saturday, and it’s kind of horrible.

But between her unpredictable hours as a surgical resident and your four adolescent boys, neither of you really have the time to actually see each other in person. Your interactions are limited to text conversations and maybe the occasional phone call, but even those only last for so long before Becky’s called into another surgery or you’re pulled away to clean up after your sons again. The only time your schedules line up is at night, when your children are asleep and Becky’s gone home after a gruelling shift. But by then the two of you are already so exhausted, you find it hard to maintain proper conversations that last for longer than 30 minutes.

It’s hard, and it takes you a few days before you finally admit to yourself – and to Gerald, in classic wine drunk Linda fashion; loud, slurred words and a healthy side of wild hand gestures – that you miss her. A lot.

You thought that a week away from her would be easy, because compared to the 15 years you’ve already wasted without her, 6 days would be nothing, right? Wrong.

It was like you were going through withdrawal.

You had spent such a long time without her that you had forgotten what it was like to miss her, and when you finally got your first dose of Becky after so long, all those feelings rushed back full force, and you found yourself crushed under the weight of your emotions. It was preposterous.

It wasn’t so bad, at first. Your first day without her was okay, because the high from your first date had carried over to the next day, and you were just fine – happy even. You were still snippy, of course, but you had been humming the entire day, which had earned you a lot of weird looks, but you couldn’t help it, because you had kissed Becky Barnes and she had kissed you back. Who cared what Hatchetfield thought of you? You were on cloud nine.

And then you woke up on the second day, when the high had finally worn off and you had fallen into what Gerald had titled ‘Post-Becky Depression’. Gerald had had to drive the kids to and from school that day, because you couldn’t even muster the strength to drag yourself out of bed, much less to the car.

“Just call her, Linda!” Gerald had groaned after you had sighed for the umpteenth time in the half hour he had spent with you. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about it, but the articles you had read had insisted that you maintain, at the very least, a three day period of silence before you contacted her again. You had vowed to follow the instructions to a T because you have a pitiful history of failed relationships, and you would rather die before you risked seeming desperate or clingy.

Gerald, bless him, had been fed up with your pathetic excuses. He force fed you some apple slices and a bottle of Gatorade before jamming your phone into your hands. You hadn’t bothered to even glance at the screen, but when Becky’s sweet voice rang out from it, you had snatched it from where it had fallen onto the bed and cradled it close to you.

Hearing her voice had helped immensely, and the rest of your week carried on in a semblance of normalcy as you slipped back into the Linda that had been living without Becky for a decade. You were back to your cynical, sharp-tongued self and the citizens of Hatchetfield had breathed a sigh of relief. The world wasn’t ending just yet.

And then the day before your second date arrived and you devolved into a pathetic whirlwind of anxiety and extra snide retorts. Gerald had evacuated the children from the house on that day, remarking that they didn’t need to see their mother like that. You had thanked him before promptly criticizing his fashion choices and the single strand of hair that was sticking out of place that day. He had just laughed at you then helped you with the groceries and picked out your outfit for the date before gallivanting back to his home to spend time with the children.

Now, as you’re standing in Becky’s kitchen, stirring a pot of alfredo sauce, you feel kind of bad for the man. He’s always been so patient with you, and you really are lucky that you’re able to call him your best friend. You silently make a mental note to try to scrounge up some tickets to the next baseball game for him as a thank you for dealing with your disastrous self all week long.

Your musing is interrupted when a pair of arms wrap around your waist and you feel yourself relax into the warm body behind you as you continue stirring. Seeing Becky again after such a long week had been a huge relief, and you had all but melted into her arms when she had greeted you at the door just a few hours ago. She had laughed, planted a kiss on your temple, and shoved you into the kitchen playfully.

“What am I, your scullery maid? Here to do your every bidding?” you had complained, and she laughed again before pressing you into the counter for a longer kiss. You were only vaguely aware of the feeling of something being tied around your neck and waist as your lips moved against hers, and she’d left you in a daze when she finally pulled away. She was smiling triumphantly at your abdomen, and you looked down to see one of those corny ‘Kiss the Chef’ aprons she’d probably gotten from the dollar store. You had looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, and she had just smiled and kissed you again. “This is an acceptable arrangement,” you had relented, much to her delight.

“Hello,” she greets, pressing a tender smooch to your cheek as she rests her head on your shoulders. You’re almost in awe of how perfectly the two of you fit together, how comfortable you are around each other after such a short period of time. You relish in her warmth as you stir mindlessly still, mind pleasantly blank for once as you enjoy the feeling of her pressed against your back.

She reaches around you and flicks the stove off. You’re about to mouth her off for disturbing your cooking process, but your protests die on your lips when she turns you in her arms and kisses you with an urgency that takes your breath away.

“Becks,” you mumble against her lips, lightly putting some pressure on her chest as you try to push her away as gently as you can. The action only leads her to start kissing down your jaw, though, and when she reaches the curve where your jaw meets your neck, any coherent thought flies out your brain and you’re completely at her mercy.

“Shush, I’ve been waiting to do this all week long,” she chides gently without parting from your skin.

You don’t know how she does it, but somehow she’s managed to guide you so she has you pressed against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen, the complete opposite spot of where you had been standing at the stove. You would take the time to applaud her skill if your brain hadn’t already melted and you’re depending on her to keep on your feet.

Somehow, through the heat of your kisses and the heated mess that is your brain, you manage to stammer, “Becks, th- the food.”

Becky smiles and kisses your jaw again, her voice silky as she purrs, “It can wait.” And you’re opening your mouth to put up some type of protest, because this is getting kind of embarrassing, how absolutely powerless you are against her, but then she bites your neck and tugs at the zipper of your jeans, and just like that, all your willpower leaves you in a harsh exhale.

You figure you’ll blame her if the food doesn’t turn out as good as you’d planned, but maybe she’s just a victim of this unstoppable force that keeps you colliding into each other no matter how hard you try to fight it. Maybe you both are. Maybe you just have to make the most of it.

When you kiss, her mouth parts readily for you, and you feel a rush of something akin to freedom. There are no secrets, no artifices between you. You’ve seen the worst of each other and, well, if this is your best, then you’ve chosen to share it with each other freely.

Neither of you hesitate when Becky grabs your hand and pulls you toward her bedroom.

There are a lot of things you had expected to feel when the rush of passion and need is over, but now, as you lay with her – a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes at the foot of her bed – this quiet contentment, one you hazily remember from the early years of your marriage to Gerald, isn’t one of them.

Your head is on her chest and her fingertips are tracing lazily over your arm, pausing every once in a while then resuming. Some masochistic part of you can’t help but picture her doing this with Tom, or even Stanley. It’s an image you’ve dwelled on far more often than you’d like to admit, but for once, the churning in your gut settles as you feel her sleepily wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer into her.

It quickly grows familiar, the waking up to her warmth, the tangled limbs and the soft humming. Weeks pass, then months, and you’ve found yourself completely and wholly in love with Becky Barnes.

You know now that you had been in love with her in high school too, but 15 years apart had had adverse effects on your relationship with her. Becky isn’t the same cheer captain, and you aren’t the timid girl with the absent parents anymore. Your dynamic has changed noticeably; back then, Becky had been the one to hold your hand and acted as your safeguard. But you find yourself on even footing with her now – maybe even a little bit higher.

You had worried, at first, because how could you possibly love her? The two of you are so vastly different from whom you had been all those years ago – what if your love for her had only been a lingering crush from high school?

But then there’s this one morning, after your successful fifth date the night before.

You wake up to the distant rumbling of thunder. You look out the window to see rain pelting down from the clouds above; the first rainstorm of spring. You blink drowsily at the sight and shiver when another roll of thunder passes right above you. You hear shuffling from behind you, and before you can turn, a pair of arms have already wrapped themselves around your torso and pulled you into the warm body behind you. A featherlight kiss to the shell of your ear makes you shudder for another reason entirely, and you turn to face the other person in your bed.

Becky’s eyes are still closed when you settle into your new position, and it’s only when you trace her cheek with the hand that isn’t currently trapped underneath you that they flutter open to greet you. Her lips slowly curve into a dreamy smile, and she twists just enough to press a soft kiss into the palm of your hand, making your breath catch.

“Good morning,” she husks, leaning forward to capture your lips in a slow, tender kiss. Then she nuzzles into the crook of your neck, pressing one last kiss to your collarbone before she mumbles for you to “Go back to sleep, Linda. ‘S too early.”

It’s a stark difference between the old Becky you had known and this new one, curled into your front. The Becky you remembered from high school had been a morning person, up at the crack of dawn being all bright and shiny. It had irritated you, a night owl, to no end, but it was one of the things you had loved about her then.

This new Becky is much more laid-back, all languid morning stretches and slow sips of coffee as the world wakes up around her. You even come to find out much later that morning that she actually does the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper now, something old, hyperactive, bouncy Becky would never have been caught doing for fear of seeming like an Old Person. She’s also much less bright and shiny now, settling into a more serene quietude, and you find yourself liking this new Becky – a lot.

You’re treading your fingers through her silken red hair when you feel it; that sharp pang in your chest, a certainty that is rushing through you like it never had before. You want this – Becky in your bed, her breaths warm against your chest. You want her.

The words are bubbling up from deep within you now, rising through your chest and settling into a lump in your throat you’re forced to swallow around to avoid actually saying them. You wait for her breathing to even out, and it’s only when you’re absolutely certain that she’s fully asleep that you let it spill out of you and into the open.

“I love you,” you whisper into her hair. You almost laugh at the tremor in your voice when she presses herself closer into you, and the jittery giggle that had threatened to escape you immediately dies in your throat. For a moment, you think she might wake up, but then she just relaxes into you once more with a soft sigh.

You bury your nose in her hair and doze off, completely missing the curl of her lips against your chest.

You don’t think you could possibly be any more entranced by her, but you find yourself falling further and further into this endless pit people called love everyday. It makes you feel this rush of excitement whenever you’re around her, like you aren’t really sure where you might land, but when she looks at you, you know that you don’t want to experience this with anyone but her. It’s incredibly banal and clichéd, but somehow you don’t mind it very much. It’s all very Becky, and after years spent in an unhappy marriage, you figure you’re allowed to be a little indulgent with love.

Despite this, you still haven’t actually said the words to her. Not out loud, anyway.

It should come easy to you, given how easy it had been for you to fall in love with her again. In addition, you had said it to her countless of times back in high school, so really, why should this be any different?

But you know exactly why.

You aren’t the same naïve teenagers anymore, brazenly declaring your love for someone without a second thought. But oh , sometimes she just looks at you and you find yourself hopelessly wishing to go back to those simpler times, because she’s just looking at you with those twinkly blue eyes you love and this unreadable expression on her face, and the words are right there on the tip of your tongue, so just say it!

But then she looks away, and you sigh. You’ve missed your chance. Again. You’ve been cursed by some vengeful god of love you’ve probably managed to piss off one way or another, and now you’re forever doomed to only be able to say the words when she’s asleep.

“I love you too,” she says one day when the two of you are leaning back against the headboard of your bed, glasses you hadn’t known about until just days ago perched on her nose as she stares down at the medical journal in her hands. The perfect picture of domesticity. It’s so sudden and said in such an offhanded manner that you almost don’t catch it at first.

But then the words sink in, and you nearly knock your laptop off your lap when you whirl around to stare at her, completely stunned. She doesn’t look at you, just brings the book closer to her face to squint at some graph that would make absolutely no sense to you, no doubt. Your mind races for a few moments as you truly take in her words before coming to a screeching halt.

“ Too? ” you parrot unintelligently. She shoots you a puzzled glance.

“Yes?”

“You love me too?” you say again, still wide eyed with surprise. She sets the book down and slides the glasses of her nose to really look at you and raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes,” she says again, a laugh evident in her tone.

“What do you mean, you love me too ?” you demand, and a look of understanding finally flashes across her face, thank god. You’re about ready to burst into a ball of flames, and you’re not sure what you would have done if you were forced to repeat it again.

“I’m a light sleeper,” she supplies, then returns to her medical journal, as if it were enough of an explanation.

“So all those times..?” you trail off, because there’s this embarrassment that’s slowly pooling in your gut, and you really think you’re going to spontaneously combust this time.

“Yep,” she responds, popping her mouth at the ‘P’.

“Oh god,” you moan, burying your face into your hands in a vain attempt to save face. She laughs at your bashfulness.

“Oh, stop it,” she scolds, cupping your face with both hands and bringing your face up to meet her eyes. She’s smiling affectionately, and it eases your chagrin, somewhat. “I think it’s adorable when you do it. I’m only sorry I didn’t say it back sooner.”

And you glare at her in mock offense, because yeah, letting you do that under the guise of her sleeping was kind of rude of her. She just laughs again and leans in to press a soothing kiss to your lips, and you can’t help the warm smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“I love you,” she murmurs, and you pull her in for another kiss,

“I love you too.”

You’ve learned a lot about Becky over the months you’ve spent with her. Like the way she snores when she sleeps, or the way the tip of her tongue sticks out when she’s concentrating on something, or her dislike of kale, her lavender-scented conditioner, her indifference towards chocolate.. Your head is filled with all these meaningless facts about her, and you’re still willing to make more space in your head for her, because you want to commit every little detail to memory.

But even though you think you know everything there is to know about Becky, even though you think you’ve seen every facet there is to this woman you adore, the melancholic tone she answers your phone call with is new and unfamiliar. And while you’ve made it your mission to learn and understand everything about Becky, you get the feeling that you’re not going to enjoy learning about this particular abnormality.

“Hey, Linda,” she sighs over the phone, and it makes you frown, because you’ve always known Becky to be this radiant vessel of exuberance. This flat, dismal voice that greets you is foreign in an alarming way. It has no right to even be coming out of the redhead in the first place. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” you reply, putting down the towel you had been folding and you lean back against the sofa behind you to devote your time to her. This is another thing you find yourself doing a lot lately; dropping everything so you can pay your full attention to your girlfriend. You don’t think you’ve ever really done this for anyone else; none of your past lovers, not even Gerald. The intensity of your feelings for Becky really frightens you sometimes, but it’s out of your control, and you don’t really mind it anyway. “Is everything okay?”

“Just peachy,” she says.

You say nothing for a moment, because you’re sure she can feel your skepticism over the phone, thus negating any need for actual words to be exchanged between the two of you. You quite enjoy Becky’s ability to read your emotions; it makes a lot of things much easier for you, because you aren’t exactly the most articulate person. You’ve said a lot of things that could have been interpreted really horribly once or twice over the past couple of months, and it’s only thanks to Becky’s innate understanding of you that you’ve managed to avoid destroying this relationship the two of you have been nurturing.

However, you hadn’t been granted with the same ability, which hasn’t really bothered you much before, because Becky is good at expressing her feelings. She’s always readily informed you anytime she thinks you’ve done something that required addressing, and you’re endlessly grateful for it because as much as you like to believe yourself to be this perceptive, powerful higher being, you’re just a confused mess of a human who’s still learning to walk when it comes to navigating relationships with people who aren’t Gerald Monroe or your children.

All this to say, you’re having a very hard time trying to get a read on Becky right now, and it’s really frustrating you, because it’s obvious that something is very wrong, but you don’t know whether you should press her for details or leave her alone for now. The pause between you two has been extended for far longer than you would have liked, so you open your mouth to say something, only to snap it shut when she speaks again.

“I’m fine, Linda,” she asserts, still in that weary drawl of hers, like she’s about to collapse at any moment. You’re not good at feelings, but you think she sounds sad; just so completely despondent and low-spirited that you’re very much inclined to drive over to the hospital to drag her back home and into bed for some quality cuddling. But knowing Becky, you would have to drag her kicking and screaming before you would be able to get her to come home on her own accord.

You pause to wonder when you had started referring to your house as her home, too.

“If there’s nothing else,” she starts again. “I have to go – Perkins has been on my ass all day and if she catches me on the phone—”

“Wait,” you cut her off, and you’re grateful for the immediate silence she provides you – she’s always been so benevolent during your conversations, always letting you take the lead when you wanted. “Your shift ends early today, right? How about we go for a walk in the park afterwards? I’ll pick you up.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the quiet is starting to make you a little anxious. Her voice is hazy with reluctance when she says, “I don’t know, Linda. It’s been a long day, and I really would just like to—”

“Please? I’ll even buy you ice cream.”

The interlude is longer this time, as if she’s unsure of what to make of your imploring. To be honest, you’re a little surprised too, but still, you stand your ground. There’s an intake of breath, like she’s about to start speaking, but nothing comes. Then you hear a distant voice calling for her, and she curses softly into the receiver.

“Becky?” you prompt. Another pause, and you can picture her, standing stock still as her mouth flaps open and close as she tries to look for the right words to say. You would laugh at the image if you aren’t so worried about her. The voice makes another appearance, and she sighs heavily; out of weariness or frustration, you’re unclear.

“I- Okay. Fine,” she relents, and you grin in satisfaction. Gerald would probably make fun of you if he were around to see it. “I’ll see you at 5.”

She hangs up, and you spend the few hours you have before you’re to drive to the hospital to pick her up doing some chores around the house. You love your children, you do, but sometimes you curse yourself for having four of them, because you find a week-old, unfinished peanut butter and jelly sandwich under one of their beds. You find yourself thanking Gerald for taking the kids for the week, because at least you’ll have a brief period of rest before they return to throw everything into disarray again.

Soon enough, you’re waiting at the pick-up and drop-off point close to the main entrance of St. Damien’s, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel to the faint beat of music coming from your radio. You crane your neck to see if you could spot the familiar flash of red that always preludes her appearance. A few minutes pass by of you exchanging glares with a security guard who’s been gesturing for you to move your Mercedes out of the space for other cars to enter before Becky slides into the passenger seat next to you.

You throw one last scowl at the guard before you pull away and start driving in the direction of the park you frequented, if only for the ice cream stand your kids seem to love so much. You half expect a teasing remark from Becky about the guard, but she hasn’t said a single word since she entered the car, which is cause for concern. Becky isn’t exactly wordy, but she’s always been happy to share her day with you, regardless of her mood, so this silence is very much a source of uneasiness for you.

“How was your day?” you ask, inwardly cursing at your awkwardness. This is Becky, you really shouldn’t be having so much difficulty trying to strike a conversation with her. But something feels different today, and you think it warrants your tiptoeing. “Did you get any interesting cases today?”

“No,” she says, and that’s all you get out of her for the rest of the drive.

You’re both holding your respective ice cream cones, walking mindlessly around the park when you pluck up the courage to try prodding her again.

“How has your patient been? Mrs. Bulfinch, was it?” you ask, giving your ice cream a thoughtful lick as you try to remember the details of the exciting case Becky had so eagerly chattered on and on about just two days ago. “The one with the problem with her twins; TTPS?”

“TTTS,” she corrects quietly, and her eyes narrow like she wants to smile, but the rest of her face is too tired to follow suit. She doesn’t go on, but you consider the response a success, because now you definitely know that she’s been listening to you, after all. It’s much better than having her completely dissociate from the world around her.

“Yeah, did–”

“Linda,” she stops you, shoots you this fatigued look – cloudy grey eyes, and all – that makes you frown and regret dragging her out to the park when she had even said that she was tired. Before you can spiral any further into your deprecating thoughts, she grasps your free hand in hers and squeezes it. “I appreciate the effort, really, I do. But can we please just walk? I don’t really feel like talking right now.”

You want to apologise for the impromptu trip, for bringing her out here when she appears so taxed, both physically and mentally, but you think it would only serve to further ruin the companionable silence you’ve found yourselves in. So you nod and just walk with her, soaking in the evening spring sun and finishing off your ice cream.

It goes well enough, you think, despite the less than ideal circumstances. She even seems lighter by the time you walk up to your car, the weight on her shoulders just a little less overwhelming than before; her eyes have even brightened to the familiar baby blue you’re so fond of. Any apprehension you have about calling the walk a success dissipates completely when she rests her hand over yours on the gear shift as you’re driving back home.

You let your eyes flick over to admire her. She’s resting her head on the hand she has propped up against the window, just watching the scenery pass you by. She’s always been this sort of quiet, understated beauty, happy to simply exist. You know damn well the sheer number of heads that turn when she walks into a room, and, not for the first time, you’re struck again by just how lucky you are that she only has eyes for you. Just you.

You’re still casting adoring glances at her when you drive into a patch of golden sunlight, and suddenly she’s framed by a perfect halo of light, red hair burning brightly. She’s got all the looks of an angel, with her pale skin and brilliant blue eyes. The sight takes your breath away, and you have to forcefully remind yourself to actually pay attention to the road to avoid crashing the car. She distractedly runs a fond thumb over your hand, and you just smile to yourself.

Then you drive out of the sunlight, and neither of you acknowledge the hazy cloud of gloominess that blankets you once again.

It’s later that night and you’re close to falling asleep, nuzzling her neck when she rolls over onto her back, ripping away the comfortable warmth you had curled yourself into. You groan a little, but make no effort to shuffle towards her. You’re too tired, and the pull of sleep is really starting to get to you.

“Linda,” she says, interrupting the stillness of the night. You hum in lieu of an actual response, nuzzling deeper into your pillow with a sigh. You’re almost desperate to go to sleep already, but Becky has never been one to have late night discussions with you, so you’re inclined to stay awake for whatever it is she has on her mind.

“Do you remember high school?” she asks, and you blink at her through the haze of sleep threatening to overtake you.

You stare at her for a moment, befuddled at her line of thinking. A glance at the digital clock on your nightstand informs you that it’s almost midnight – much too late of an hour to be taking a walk down memory lane. You want to tell her to go to sleep, to save it for the morning, but something about the way she’s blinking up at the ceiling with furrowed eyebrows tells you that she isn’t going to let this topic go until you’ve properly talked about this. You yawn when another bout of fatigue hits you, and the urge to just put off this conversation till the morning grows stronger still.

“What?” you ask instead, slow with drowsiness. You sigh when you realise you’re craning your neck backwards just to look at her, so you prop your head on your hand so you can comfortably look at her, hoping it’s all the signal she needs to continue.

She sighs, voice laced with a bone-deep weariness that hadn’t been there before when she says, “High school. Senior year.” She raises an eyebrow at you expectantly, as if you’re supposed to burst into a long-winded monologue about the highs and lows you had experienced that year. “You remember it?”

“I’m not that old, Becks,” you retort, because you’re not, and how would you be able to forget it, anyway? That year had been going so well until you and Becky had had your falling out a few months before graduation. It was for the most senseless of reasons, too, and as you watch her frown at the ceiling, the guilt you had buried so deep suddenly bursts from you, and you’re speaking before you can stop yourself. “I’m so sorry, Becks. I was being so petty, and you definitely didn’t deserve the way I just blew up at you–”

The brush of her hand against yours stops you from saying anything more. You bite your lip. You wonder if this is where she breaks up with you, calls this romance thing you’ve got going on a joke, and some camera crew jumps out of your closet to tell you that you’ve been Punk’d. But it never comes.

“It’s okay, it was forever ago,” she murmurs soothingly, but the frown on her face persists, so you’re not really sure what to believe. “I just want to explain what had happened that day to you.”

This makes you sit up and shoot her an incredulous stare, one she doesn’t return as she continues to stare stubbornly at the ceiling above her like it holds the secret of the universe. This fixation is really starting to worry you. You just hope it isn’t anything too devastating.

“What? No, you don’t have to,” you protest, ignoring the way she starts shaking her head midway through your denial. “Like you said, it’s old news, Becks. Why don’t we just focus on the now and go back to sleep?”

“No,” she insists firmly. There’s a somber note to her voice now, one that has your anxiety spiking to uncomfortable levels. “I need to explain this to you, or I’ll never be able to move on.”

You gawk at her before she peers at you out of the corner of her eye, lips pursed in grim determination. So you nod and lie back down next to her, tentatively grasping her hand in yours. The churning in your gut only heightens when she doesn’t say anything for a few moments, but you figure she needs a moment to prepare herself for whatever it is she has to say. The past 15 years have been culminating to this one moment, so you let her take her time.

“I was pregnant, Linda.”

The revelation stuns you, and for a few seconds, you’re at a loss for words. You swallow around your suddenly very dry throat and turn to face her, but she anticipates this and her hand is already nudging your face away so you can’t get a good look at her. This is all wrong, you think, because for some reason she’s the one consoling you with a squeeze of her hand like you’re the one revealing a decade-old secret.

“What?” you manage after a while.

“Stanley,” she offers as an explanation, and an angry breath leaves you, because of course that bastard had something to do with this. “I wanted to keep it, but he made me get an abortion. Said he didn’t want a baby with my screwy genetics or something.”

You want to protest, deny his callous words, but somehow you don’t think your angry curses would help very much in this particular instance.

“So the day you cancelled on me..” you trail off. You can’t bear to finish your sentence.

“I had my appointment that day,” she confirms morosely.

And it’s like you had the wind knocked out of you. You’re having a hard time trying to breathe; you can’t possibly imagine what’s going through her mind, what horrible, bleak things she could be thinking.

“Oh my god. Becky, I’m so sorry,” Your sentiment seems useless against the weight of the secret she’s just entrusted you with, but it’s worth it because she squeezes your hand again.

“It’s okay.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, because why hadn’t she? Sure, your relationship had been strained at the time – a result of what you now know was probably Stanley forcing her away from you – but you had confided in each other about everything.

She shrugs helplessly. “I wanted to, but..”

“I wouldn’t let you explain,” you finish for her, closing your eyes and cursing yourself. God, if you had just listened to her..

You can only imagine just how different your life would have turned out if you had just given her a chance.

“It’s okay,” she says again, shoulders rising and falling in another shrug.

“It’s really not,” you say drily.

“It’s not your fault I was stupid and got myself pregnant.”

“It’s Stanley’s fault,” you conclude with a decisive nod. “Him and his stupid penis.”

She laughs this empty sound that makes you want to cry.

“I’m barren,” she says after a beat, and you whirl around to look at her. She doesn’t stop you this time, and you can see her lip quiver with emotion, the first real reaction she’s had since she started this conversation. You resist the urge to pull her into your arms and never let go. “The doctors don’t really know why. They suspect that something probably went wrong during the abortion.”

You don’t say anything. She doesn’t expect you to.

“I can’t have any children,” she chokes out, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding her cries in. “If I had known that that baby was the only shot I had at being a mother…”

And life is cruel, isn’t it?

Because here you are, the ‘Baby Hater’, with four children of your own, all of whom were accidents, while Becky Barnes, natural mother, someone who you know with a grim certainty has been dreaming of having children of her own since day one, had had her ability to have children mercilessly ripped away from her at the young age of 18.

And you had screamed at her that day, accused her of not valuing your friendship as much as you did, when all she had wanted was a shoulder to cry on.

“It would’ve been my baby’s birthday today,” she whispers brokenly, choking on her grief. “They would have been 15. A high school freshman.”

She starts sobbing; fat tears rolling down her face, runny nose, shuddering shoulders, the whole shebang. There isn’t much else you can do besides give in to your urge and pull her into your arms and hold her close, just hoping that your tight embrace would be able to convey all the things you can’t find the strength to say right now.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper hoarsely, rubbing your hands across her back and over her exposed arms in your best attempt to comfort her. Her cries are splitting your heart in two, and you want to shake your fist at the sky, curse whatever god above that has decided to put the woman you love through so much pain when all she’s ever been her entire life is good. 

But all that feels wildly inappropriate right now, so you let her bury your face in your neck, let her tears ruin your silk pyjama top, let her press her fingers into your back almost painfully. And you’re holding her even tighter, clinging onto the hope that maybe this would help put her back together, because you can’t bear to see her like this; completely broken and depending on you, of all people, for some stability.

You stumble over your words for a while as you look for the right thing to say, and your voice is rough with unshed tears when you finally settle on, “I’m so, so sorry, Becks.”

And you cry with her. For her.

After that eventful night, you and Becky have only grown closer, your relationship steadier, like this weight you hadn’t even been aware of has been lifted off your shoulders. You have a deeper understanding of the redhead, and she's much more open with her feelings now, no longer that shell of herself she had been all those months ago.

Her smiles are brighter and her laughter is lighter.

You’re awfully pleased with this change, and you can feel yourself falling deeper and deeper in love with her. You feel so much when you’re around her, much more than you had ever expected to. You already have so much love in you for your children, and it’s like your heart has expanded three sizes just to accommodate the sheer amount of love you feel for her.

It’s disgustingly sentimental, and Gerald even tells you as much when you’re having lunch with him one day when Becky had been unfortunately preoccupied with surgery. She was an actual attending now, after all, and people would be turning to her for medical consultations now. You feel your chest warm with a proud glow and you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. You absentmindedly wonder if she would want to try that ice cream parlor you had spotted downtown the other day.

“God, you’re sickening,” Gerald says with a fake gag. In a rare moment of maturity, you stick your tongue out at him. He laughs, and satisfied that he has been properly humiliated, you take a bite out of your bagel. Hmm. You should take Becky here sometime. The coffee is decent enough, and those chocolate muffins in the display look downright delicious. The location is an added bonus, because you’re completely certain you won’t run into any of your hoity-toity upper society ‘friends’ in downtown Hatchetfield. You briefly wonder how Gerald had even discovered this little gem of a café.

A muffin wrapper thrown at your face cuts through your musing, and you blink in confusion before turning to glare at the culprit. Gerald returns the look with a wide, mischievous grin that quickly morphs your glare into one of your patented eye rolls.

“You’re lucky you’re the father of my children,” you grouse, throwing the wrapper back at him and hitting him in the face with it. “Or you’d be dead where you’re sitting.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t stop thinking about your girlfriend while I’m trying to talk to you!” he protests, an exaggerated pout on his face that makes your hand twitch with the urge to punch him. You wouldn’t put too actual force into it, of course. Just a little jab that would get him to stop pulling that ridiculous face. He sobers, then, falling back into his trademark easy grin. “Seriously, though. It’s like you’re an obsessed stalker or something.”

The proclamation would have had you scowling had it come from anyone else, but this is Gerald, so you know that he’s definitely only kidding. It doesn’t mean you quite appreciate the comparison, though, so you glower at him, even if it just means having him laugh at you again.

“It’s cute,” he says when he manages to stop laughing. You raise an eyebrow, but he straightens in his chair and sets his coffee down. “No, really! I know you’ve liked her for a long time, and it’s nice to see you all dewy-eyed over a girl like this.”

“I do not get dewy-eyed ,” you scoff, ignoring his blithe eye roll. You take another sip of your coffee and set it back down, wrapping both your hands around it to absorb as much warmth you can. You’re halfway through spring, but Hatchetfield has never played by nature’s laws, so it’s still a little cold. You suppose the water surrounding you on all sides also plays a part in the unusually cold weather, too. Your voice is laden with unbidden tenderness when you say, “But thank you, Gerald.”

He bestows you one of those lopsided, caring grins that you probably could have fallen for in another life, and it makes you smile back at him. He excuses himself to the restroom, and you’re left to sip at your coffee and just enjoy a quiet moment to yourself, a contented smile playing at your lips. You’re in awe of how happy you are, how at peace you feel. It’s liberating and new and you’re once again hit with a rush of gratitude; you’re so lucky to be able to experience this pure sort of happiness. 

As soon as Gerald disappears around the corner and into the restroom, someone unfamiliar plops down into the seat in front of you, startling you effectively. You mentally start listing off the people it could possibly be as you set your drink down on the table. It clearly isn’t Gerald, and Becky’s only just reached hour four of her estimated seven-hour-long surgery, so it can’t be her either. You pause when you realise that you don’t really have many friends who would drop in unexpectedly on you like this. God, you can be really pathetic sometimes. You sigh and look up to see who it is.

“Linda,” Emma Perkins greets you brusquely. There isn’t a hint of friendliness in her voice or her face; in fact, she looks quite sour as she shoots you this narrowed look that has you leveling her with a glare of your own. You’re curious about her presence, because you haven’t interacted with her properly since high school, and your strained relationship with her didn’t have you reaching out to each other. You had this kind of silent agreement with her that you would never initiate any contact with her outside of a professional setting, so why was she breaking it now?

“Perkins,” you snipe, keeping your face and tone carefully distant and cold, lest she sees your interest and uses it to her advantage. “What do you want?”

Emma shrugs off her ratty jacket and slings it over the back of her chair, much to your displeasure. While you and Emma had always been rather indifferent with each other, you aren’t exactly eager to be having any sort of discussion with her, either. The brunette has always been a little too vulgar for your refined tastes; a little hypocritical of you, you know, but at least you have some grace about it. She slumps in her seat, throwing an arm over the back of her chair to slouch into an unladylike posture that would have had your snobby Hatchetfield Boat Society members turn their noses away from her in disgust. You smirk at the thought. Maybe being around Little Perkins wouldn’t be so bad, now that you really think about it.

“I hear you’re shacking up with Barnes these days,” Emma says without preamble. The phrase she uses makes you bristle, because what you have with Becky is so much more than ‘shacking up’, as she had so crudely put it. But there is no malicious glint in her eyes, no obvious intent to insult your relationship in any way, so you let it go with a huff. She could really use a lesson or two on the nuances of conversing with others.

“Yes,” you reply when she doesn’t continue. You weigh your options for a second as she eyes you strangely. As much as you want to shoo her away, you’re quite interested in seeing where this goes. So you sigh and take a diminutive sip of your coffee. You really hope Gerald comes back soon. “How does that concern you, exactly?”

“It doesn’t,” she says with a shrug. “Kind of.”

“How does my relationship with Becky kind of concern you?” you prompt with an unimpressed stare. She doesn’t respond, and you feel this irrational flash of annoyance course through you at her complete lack of eloquence. You’re growing impatient very quickly, and if Gerald doesn’t return from the restroom soon, you might just have to leave without saying goodbye. But then Emma shuts her eyes and rubs a tired hand over her face like she’s just snapped out of a daze, and the situation only grows curiouser and curiouser.

“Okay, look,” she starts, and you set your coffee down onto the table in anticipation.. “Just don’t hurt her.”

You feel your eyebrows rise to your hairline as you blink at her in evident surprise. This, coming from Jane Perkins’ crotchety little sister?

“I was with her, during the whole...” she trails off with a gesture to her belly and a vaguely wrathful look that you take to mean she’s referring to Stanley and the pregnancy, and you nod in understanding, letting your own ire show at the thought of that bastard. Something flashes across her face then, some sort of insight or realisation you aren’t privy to. It’s brief, and if you hadn’t been looking at her, you probably would have missed it, but it’s there. Emma relaxes a little, and her lips even curl into the barest hint of a lopsided smile. “Yeah. So don’t hurt her.”

You study her for a second, if only to make her shift in her chair uncomfortably. Sincerity laces your words when you say, “I plan to do no such thing.”

And apparently there’s something in your words that tells her that you’re being completely genuine, because she fully relaxes and you’re treated to one of her rare smiles. You take a sip of your nearly empty cup of coffee and bask in the cordial silence that follows. Emma is quiet in the same way that you are, content to spend her time listening rather than talking, and it’s nice to be around someone who is similar to you like that.

“I thought you hated Becky,” you say after a few seconds. Emma and Becky don’t really talk much these days – at least, not that you’re aware of – but you distinctly remember the palpable animosity Emma had held towards Becky back in high school. It seems to have completely disappeared now, because Emma smiles fondly at the sound of the redhead’s name; doesn’t even scowl like she had all those years ago.

“Only on principle,” she says by way of an explanation, and you nod because it makes sense. Becky had been the one to replace Emma’s sister as Tom’s girlfriend when Jane had moved away for college. It was reasonable for the little sister of the scorned ex-girlfriend to hate the new girlfriend, even if it was a little petty. “And besides, times change. We’re pretty much best friends now. But don’t tell anyone – I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I wasn’t aware you were so close with Bee.” The nickname falls off your tongue easily, and you have to look away in a vain attempt to hide your blush because it’s embarrassing to have slipped into your softer side in front of somebody that isn’t Becky. The first time you had used the word to refer to Becky, it had happened so naturally that you hadn’t even noticed it until she had kissed you long enough for you to start seeing stars. You had wanted to apologise for the sappy nickname, but she had been so delighted that you just kept using it instead. It still makes your heart flutter whenever you remember the way she smiles whenever you use it around her.

When you look up again, Emma has this glint in her eyes and it looks like she’s trying to fight a cheeky grin. Thankfully, she takes pity on you and pays no attention to your slip up, something that makes you sigh in relief. You really don’t think you could have handled a wisecrack just then.

“Holding someone’s hand while they’re getting a baby removed from them really helps with building a strong bond,” she gibes, a teasing remark you know is meant to be humorous and laughed at, but it just makes you stiffen in your chair. Her smirk falls when she sees your reaction, and she looks away as she scratches the back of her neck awkwardly. “Too soon, huh?” she mumbles.

But it isn’t too soon, you know this. The abortion happened over a decade ago; it’s old news to both Becky and Emma. But it’s only been two weeks for you, and you’re processing it still. Emma is much more perceptive than you give her credit for, because she keeps her gaze firmly trained out the window, looking anywhere but in your direction, giving you a privacy you hadn’t explicitly asked for, but needed. You take the moment to gather your wits about you and dab at your teary eyes with your sleeve.

“I’m afraid I might hurt her,” you say after a few more beats of silence, staring into your now empty coffee cup. Emma turns back to you with a raised eyebrow, and you think you might have looked completely miserable, because she sighs and shoots you as compassionate a look as grouchy Emma Perkins can muster.

“You won’t,” she says, as if a relationship – especially one with as complicated a history as yours and Becky’s –  could possibly be so plain, so simple. “If you love her, you won’t.”

You can only hope that love is as simple as she makes it out to be.

“And besides, you can’t be much worse than Stanley ,” she remarks glibly, and you find yourself nodding along. You wonder again how someone as wonderful as Becky had ended up with the most dreadful man you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

“I hope he’s suffering, wherever he’s run off to,” you say darkly. Emma cocks her head and looks at you with an unreadable look on her face, but doesn’t offer any response. You open your mouth to ask, but Gerald returns from the restroom right at that moment.

“Hey, Little Perkins!” he greets Emma jovially, earning an exasperated groan from the tiny brunette woman. “How are things between you and my cousin going?”

“Which cousin?” you cut in, because your interest has been piqued and you need ammo for future teasing; she can use your sappy nickname for Becky against you now, so you figure it’s only fair you get something too. You almost cackle when Gerald plays along, and you both ignore Emma’s mortified expression. “The creepy priest?”

“No, that one got arrested, remember?” Gerald replies, and you nod in remembrance. The guy had been arrested for drunk driving, of all things. “We’re talking about the office worker.”

You nearly guffaw.

“Paul Matthews?” you ask loudly, laughing when Emma shoots you an affronted look. “That dork? Really?”

“He’s cute!” she protests in defence of her boyfriend.

“Cute isn’t the word I’d use to describe Paul Matthews,” you jest lightheartedly. She rolls her eyes at you and stands, grabbing her jacket from the chair.

“Whatever. Shut up. I have to go to work.” She starts walking away to the counter with a flippant wave of her hand.

“A nerd, maybe,” you call out to her, laughing when she flips you off and walks into what you assume is the break room.

“Well, we can’t all have gorgeous redheads now, can we?” Gerald chuckles as he slides into the recently-vacated seat. You smile.

No, they can’t.

You come to find out that your hypothesis had been absolutely correct; your children adore Becky. They might even love her more than you do, a fact you had deemed impossible. That was before you had seen them with her, of course.

It was inevitable, given how often Becky stays over at yours, and after an only slightly awkward early morning introduction when your children had found you – thankfully clothed – in bed together, your boys have quickly warmed up to her. Becky, on her part, has transitioned easily from her past life as a single woman to suddenly having a girlfriend and four children all vying for her attention over the span of a few months. You’re ceaselessly thankful for her mellow, laid-back nature, because you know for a fact that you wouldn’t have been able to take everything in stride like she had done so effortlessly.

And now, as she slips under the covers next to you, you feel that sharp pang of certainty again, and it nearly takes your breath away. It’s obvious she hears your breath hitch, because she turns to you with a raised eyebrow.

“You okay?” she murmurs, brushing a lock of your hair behind your ear, and the gesture is so tender it makes you want to sob. She’s running light fingers against the line of your jaw now, studying your face like it’s the most captivating thing she’s ever seen. It’s paralyzing. So you lean in and kiss her, if only to escape from the intensity of her gaze.

Kissing Becky is intoxicating, you’ve discovered. You don’t know what it is about her that feels so different from your past lovers; it might be that she’s a woman, or maybe it’s your complicated history with her. You don’t know, and you find that you don’t really care, either. Because her fingers are tangled in the hairs at the base of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer to her as her lips move against yours, soft and warm. Perfect.

You pull away when your need for oxygen overcomes you and move to straddle her before you start kissing down her jawline, letting your hair brush against her chest. You feel the warm glow of certainty return and your arms almost buckle under the weight of it. So you pop the question.

“You’re already over at my place so often; why not move in?” you murmur against her skin, kissing your way down to her collarbone. Your hand moves on its own, trailing up her leg and under her shirt, flattening against the warm skin of her stomach. You pause in your ministrations when your fingertips brush against the underside of her breasts, then press a lingering kiss to the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pyjama shorts. “Just think about it.”

She lets out a petulant whine and you can tell she only barely manages to stop herself from stomping on the bed like a child from the way her leg twitches against yours. She exhales a heavy breath and pulls one hand out of your hair to bury her face in the crook of her elbow. Frustration colours her words as she complains, “This is colossally unfair – I’ll literally say anything you want me to at this point.”

You laugh and tug her arm away from her face to pin it on the bed above her before you bring the other one to join it. You just stay in that position and let your eyes flicker over her features for a few beats to admire her. She looks absolutely exquisite like this; her face is suffused with a deep scarlet, her kiss-bruised lips are slightly ajar, and her soft red hair is splayed all across the pillow underneath her, framing her perfectly. She’s a work of art, opulent in her beauty, and she’s all yours to enjoy.

When you meet her eyes, they’ve darkened to this stormy blue that makes your heart pound. She smiles knowingly at you, heaving chest and all, and it’s clear that she knows exactly the effect she has on you, and that she greatly enjoys it.

“I’m not hearing a no from you,” you whisper, leaning down and brushing your lips against hers, featherlight with your touch, before you pull away again. You smile when her head lifts to chase after your lips then rests back onto the bed again when she realises you’re still holding her back.  She shoots you this dangerous look that makes you shiver. You both know full well that she could easily turn the tides if she wanted to, but she seems intent on playing along with your little game this time, and lies back to see what you do next.

“You’re gonna have to give me a very good reason to say yes,” she teases, lips curling into a taunting smirk, challenging you.

“Well, the kids adore you,” you say. You lean down to kiss and suck and lick at her neck and jaw, leaving tiny marks that are sure to fade within the next hour, and you relish in the little noises she lets out from above you. You make sure your grip on her wrists are strong enough when you lean down to suck on the soft spot she has where her jaw meets her ear. She arches into you at the sensation, and you pull away to deprive her of the touch she so obviously needed. She lets out a desperate sob. “And I know you sleep better with me than in your own bed.”

“God- Okay, fine,” she interrupts, easily pulling her hands out from under your grip and looping them around your neck. The atmosphere cools for a moment when she tugs you downward to press her forehead against yours and rub noses with you. You inhale deeply, revelling in the feeling of her pressed against you and the warm puffs of air that hits your face as she breathes. “I’ll move in with you, Linda.”

The moment promptly ends when she flips you over and traps you in a searing kiss, tugging urgently at your pants. You happily lift your hips for her and lose yourself in her touch.

You wake up the next morning to fingers gently treading through your hair and soft humming. You’re filled with this overwhelming sense of contentedness that makes you drowsy with sleep and pure, unadulterated joy. You let out a happy sigh and nuzzle further into the crook of your neck, feeling her rumbling chuckle before you hear it.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she husks, and you’re fully convinced that there isn’t a single sound in the world sweeter than Becky Barnes’ morning voice. The kiss she presses to the top of your head makes you smile, and you jut your lips to return the favour with a tender kiss to her sternum. She exhales deeply, tightening her grasp around you as she tries to pull you impossibly closer to her. You lay there, just listening to her heart beating inside her chest. You want to stay like this forever.

You tense when you’re suddenly hit with another moment of clarity.

“Linda?” she prompts, concerned by your sudden rigidity. You pull away from her and look her directly in the eyes.

“Marry me.”

Her response is controlled: a single quirked eyebrow, but the bewilderment is evident in her widened blue eyes. She traces a finger along your jaw.

“Is that a question, or a demand?” she teases.

You roll your eyes in exasperation, though you’re sure the crooked grin on your face discloses your amusement at her response.

“Marry me,” you repeat.

“Linda,” she says, timid laughter painting her words. “You just asked me to move in with you a few hours ago, and now you’re asking me to marry you?”

Her observation comes off as more of a question, but it’s to be expected, because if you’re being quite honest with yourself, you aren’t quite sure if you know what you’re doing, either. But any qualms you might have about your proposition melts away the moment you meet her eyes.

“Marry me,” you say again.

She says nothing, just stares at you for a few long moments with an impassive look as she turns the idea over and over in her head. You curse your staunch inability to read her once again, because this silence is killing you, and knowing what’s going on in her mind would definitely help with your growing anxiety.

“Only if we have pizza at our wedding,” she says finally, beaming unabashedly happily at you. Your stomach erupts into swarms of butterflies, and you feel like you might just start floating away, you feel so happy.

“That’s not very sophisticated,” you point out.

“Neither was this proposal,” she counters.

“Touché.”

“We should wait to tell everyone. At least until we have a cover story.”

“A cover story?”

“Of course,” she huffs, pulling her face into a haughty expression. “I’m not about to tell Emma about your… post-coital proposal.”

You laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“You can say sex, Bee, it’s not a bad word. We’re both adults.”

“Linda,” she groans.

“Alright,” you relent, kissing the corner of her mouth. “That sounds reasonable enough.”

She smiles and curls into you. Something slides into place, and you know that this is where you’re meant to be: limbs tangled with hers and the bedsheets as your hearts beat in perfect synchrony. You have felt true love before, but while Gerald is your person and your children are the loves of your life, Becky is your One.

She’s the one you want to spend eternity with. She’s the one you never want to let go. She’s the one who, at the end of a long day, you will turn to, the one you will share everything with; the highs, the lows, the humdrum of everyday life.

It’s horribly cheesy and clichéd and.. Simple. Admittedly, you had expected the complicated rollercoaster most of your previous relationships had gone through, but things with Becky are different, because you love her. Plain and simple. 

You almost laugh when you remember that all this had started with a simple hospital visit. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you’d thought.