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Sue can’t remember a time before she knew.
Not always consciously, obviously. But deep down, in the center of her heart, it feels like a fundamental truth. Like whatever force put her together decided to tuck Emily, half inscription and half command, inside her body. And it’s easy to ignore, to take for granted, to smile extra widely when Emily grins at her and tuck their bodies together at sleepovers, to clasp hands on the way to school and let Emily’s poems wash over her with closed eyes. It’s so true, so clear, that she forgets to really see any of it.
And if Emily ever does, if her eyes linger a beat too long on Sue’s hair when she pulls it down at night, if her hand finds the small of Sue’s back like a reflex, Sue’s good at looking the other way too. They have plenty going on, to talk about and argue about and run up the hill behind Sue’s house about, and if they ever get bored there’s Austin to annoy or Lavinia to tease or a fictional world bursting out of Emily’s head for them both to get lost in.
So everything is fine, and normal, and Sue’s starting to think that the way she wakes up in the middle of the night sweating, vague memories of a dream full of soft arms and dark hair she knows almost as well as her own fleeing her hazy mind might not be a problem at all.
But then they’re mad at each other one day, upset about something extraordinarily insignificant, from back before their lives felt like a battle. Not that Emily’s ever been particularly good at rationality or grace, but there was a time, there was a time, Sue can almost remember, when nothing felt dire. Back when they were children, before anyone died or anyone told them to grow up, a few golden years.
Emily would work herself into one of her remarkable tempers and Sue would follow behind, chasing the golden-brown streak of Emily’s hair streaming out behind her as she took off down a road, or behind a barn, wherever her fancy had chosen, and when Emily had exhausted herself Sue would take her hand and recite all the reasons why they were both going to be okay.
(That list feels very far away now, just one of the casualties from the ever-growing chasm between now-Sue and her childhood self.)
So, Emily had been upset, all impetuousness and a face scrunched in frustration, mad at Austin for something and Sue for not immediately agreeing with her. And Sue had suddenly been aware of how not children they were, of a cliff’s edge nearing them, the impending weight of choices and adulthood looming just out of sight. And then Emily, in front of her with hair falling into her eyes and flushed cheeks, and Sue’s heartbeat too fast in her chest.
And for whatever reason, to skip past Emily’s frown or to put up an umbrella against the onslaught of the future, or just because the warmth in her hands, and wrists, and buzzing head needs to be expelled, Sue does it.
One moment Emily’s panting, her eyes too-deep and full of hurt, a fear that Sue wonders if they might share, and then the ice between them is cracking, whatever space the adults in their lives keep trying to impress upon them wearing thin. It’s snapping apart. For the first time Sue realizes that whenever she’s thought about this moment, and apparently she has thought about this moment, she didn’t think it would be anything other than soft and careful, the way it was when a boy from school kissed her last spring behind the apple trees out back.
She didn’t know it could be fire.
But this is Emily after all, Emily who’s never felt anything small in her life, Emily who takes Sue’s hand and pulls her into adventures every single day, who’s laugh is sharp enough to pierce through the thickest fog. When Andy kissed her six months ago Sue felt like shutting her eyes, relaxing into it and itching the top of her forehead.
Emily’s breath hits her face, warm and sweet from nearly cold tea, and Sue feels a question building in her chest, growing so fast that she almost can’t breathe. But Emily can breathe, apparently, because she gets this look that Sue’s never seen on her face before, sucks in a breath, and leans forward. Her mouth meets Sue’s, warm and wet and soft and more than anything it feels like yeah, yes, good.
Sue sighs, feels herself going boneless against the familiar press of Emily’s hands at her waist, and it’s good that she’s not bearing all her own weight anymore because the room is sort of spinning, and Emily tugs her closer, and nothing else in the whole world has ever mattered as much as this, as much as Emily’s lips urgent against hers and all trace of their argument from earlier gone like dew in the sun.
And as much as it feels new, like the most important new development of her life, it also feels familiar, old and practiced and right.
Like they could have done this a million times before.
Like there’s never really been anyone but Emily.
In a year, two years, from now, that realization, the neverendingness of Emily’s body fitting perfectly against hers, won’t feel so light. The thereness, the consistency of the love threading between them won’t feel as much like a blessing. The way it’s only ever Emily, only ever will be Emily, even though that can’t ever be real and neither of them asked for this, will feel more like a trap. But now, still on the edges of girlhood, with summer clinging to their hair and real problems off in the distance and a whole new way to know her best friend, all wet mouth and searching fingertips, Sue can’t imagine ever being happier.