Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’d forgotten how cold New York could be, the sludge beneath her feet curling over the edge of her shoes. Her feet would be damp when she got back, and she’d have to hope the leather would dry by the morning.

Her job, at least, came with perks. Discounts, the odd deal – a grey woollen greatcoat off the rack for half-price; gloves, maroon, damaged stock but fit enough for her. She was biding her time for a scarf; one would come along in just the right style and colour, one that no one else wanted and all for her. December was fast approaching, and she would need that scarf.

Still, Greta Gill trudged home, the wind doing its very best to ruin her hair as she pulled her coat closer. It was almost enough to make her wish she’d taken the bus – the light fading over the horizon, the crowds battering their way through her, with only the practised ease of experience keeping her upright in her heels – but not quite enough. The pink on her cheeks was still pleasant, and the ice was not yet forming on her lashes.

Were she more settled she might have gone to the pictures, bought herself a warm evening and laughed her way to forgetfulness – but New York (she had forgotten) was expensive, and with only one pay-check in the bank she was still living off the remains of her baseball earnings. Another evening under a blanket, then, cold in her one room apartment, the stove on only for as long as it took to cook whatever paltry meal she could muster; a can of soup at the back of an empty cupboard.

She could have gone cheaper, sure, paid for a room in a boarding house under the watchful eye of a matron but – space, she told herself, was what she needed. Jo was – and it would be good for her, the privacy. Time alone with all her thoughts, and who she was, and all those other things she might think about. So she’d paid upfront for a box-sized single-room apartment, a wall breaking the kitchen from the living/sleeping/eating area. Her landlady seemed nice enough, living on the ground floor and happy to receive her rent a little later to account for her late start with Vivienne. The building may have been shabby – her key sticking in the lock of the building as she tried to escape the winter chill – but the walls were thick, and she had enough space for a twin bed and a small dining set, and she’d even managed to score an armchair from the upstairs neighbour for free. It was enough.

Greta checked her mailbox, not looking too hard as she pulled the letters free to trundle up two flights of steep stairs. She’d left her window open – of course she had, tossing the mail on the coffee table, two or three long strides enough to bring her over to the offending window. She slammed it shut; pulled off her gloves as she looked at the fire escape below. She was sure she had shut it, although picking bits of flecked paint from the tips of her gloves, it was perhaps likely it had blown open of its own accord. At least she hadn’t yet invested in a potted plant for the windowsill, treating herself instead to a grim mix of cigarette ash and melted snow swimming in an old side-plate she’d left out.

Greta sank into her singular, tattered armchair, coat hung up and shoes left to dry, leaking water onto the hardwood floor. She allowed herself a moment to breathe, to free some of the tension from her face and pack away the universally pleasant smile for the day. The door locked behind her, she could relax, letting her eyes drift shut for just a second as if to clear the day from her mind. She remembered the mail on the table, waking herself up a bit to reach for it. A letter – at once recognizing Jo’s damned-near illegible scrawl – and, thumbing through the rest, nothing of note; nothing worth thinking about, or dwelling on; nothing to do but nonchalantly throw it away, before settling in to read Jo’s letter.

She should reply tonight, pulling out a thin piece of paper and flexible-nib pen from her night stand. She’d reply over dinner, her soup bubbling away with the warmth she so desperately needed. Phone calls, they’d promised, were for emergencies: “the cost of a cross-country call the same as a goddamned train ticket,” Jo’d said, and Greta had agreed. She would confirm the letter arrived, glad that the forwarding address she had left for anyone who wanted to contact her had worked; that she was so excited to hear Jo had found a place in California, and to hear that she was working in a bar – a friendly bar, emphasised, the ink seeping a little further into the paper like the slice of fear in Greta’s chest – and to know that Jo was happy. Greta would reply, and tell her how cold New York was; how she had a place of her own but nothing to decorate it with; that Vivienne worked her hard but fair, and paid well; that, no, she hadn’t heard from the rest of the team but assumed they were doing well and it had only been a month anyway, and she thought she’d heard Jess and Lupe talk about Chicago together.

To Jo’s questions about the city, Greta wrote nothing. She hadn’t really been out – no bar to find, no quiet drink in a hotel lobby. Work took all of her time. Work, and hunting for furniture.

December meant Christmas, and Greta had always hated Christmas. Not with a passion, but with the kind of loathing that settles deep in the bones, where cheer and good will never quite seem to reach. Jo had always done her best to make Christmas like Christmas for the both of them, but Greta had always found her smiles a little colder this time of year, even for Jo. Christmas had never been kind to people like them.

So she picked up some extra shifts, working through when others wanted to go home to family and friends and lovers. She was happy to do it, with a smile and a wink and a “you’ll pay me back next time.” Working, at least, kept her mind busy, and she was good on the shop floor managing things to Vivienne’s drum. But this evening, Vivienne was long gone – jet-setting away to celebrate the season – and Greta wasn’t afraid to make a decision or two. She took the woman coming in off the shopboy’s hands and sent him home early for the Christmas break. She could manage on her own.

She busied herself with stock and paperwork, readying the shop for the post-Christmas rush; shooting smiles at the other staff chained to other brands on the shop floor, whiling away the hours until Christmas.

“Excuse me.”

Greta looked up, the chipped enunciation shattering her thoughts. She conjured a smile. “How may I help?”

“I’m looking for a gift – and perhaps something for myself.”

“Of course. Where should we start?”

“A lipstick, I think, for my mother-in-law.” Greta led the way. A mother-in-law: subtle, but individual. Expensive enough to impress, but not so expensive as to be expensive. Greta had just the thing.

“Does she have a usual shade, or do we have free reign?” she asked, rummaging through various drawers behind the counter.

“She does, though whether one might say it suits her is another matter. I certainly don’t know what it is.”

Greta laughed, measured and conspiratorial. “Of course. Did you have anything you were leaning towards?” She was good at her job – brilliant, in fact, laughing in all the right places, elegant fingers opening colours and colours of lipstick until the woman, Mrs. Grayson, settled on a (quite frankly horrific) pale pink that Greta was sure would wash out the frail skin of an ageing mother-in-law. But the customer was pleased, and by no means the rudest Christmas customer she’d ever met. She always found it easier with women, anyway.

“And you mentioned something for yourself?” she asked, looking up through her hair as she wrapped the chosen colour.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t. But it is Christmas. And my husband always manages to give me something utterly banal and not at all what I want.”

Greta gave her that laugh again, teeth gleaming as the air whistled past; feminine and decorous. “In my experience, men are ofter found lacking.”

“Indeed.”

“So, a fragrance for you?”

Mrs. Grayson nodded, taken with the idea; let Greta suggest a few, let Greta show her that a perfume must be tried on the skin but that the nose becomes saturated with scent, so pick two to try with a delicate spritz on the wrist.

Greta hovered behind the woman like a helpful shadow as she browsed, watched as Mrs. Grayson alighted on a bottle that made the words stick in her throat and the breath sit in her lungs like lead. “I can recommend this one myself,” she said, fighting against the walls of the store closing in around her, intent on crushing her.

“Do you wear it?”

Her lipstick no longer seemed to want to hold her smile in place, but Greta fought. “Not myself, no. A friend.” Vivienne had given all the girls a bottle as part of their makeover. Some refused to wear it – Greta had her own signature scent, after all. Light but not sweet, like jasmine – but some of the girls had taken to it. Some of them had suited that scent as it lingered on the skin: on the pulse of a wrist and the nape of a neck, heart beating beneath the fragrant cloak in a rhythm that did wonders for Greta’s sanity. Some of the girls would wear it just for their games, another piece of armour, following all the rules; and after a game, that scent, modified by the salt of hard work and dampened strands of hair against the temple, made the earth plummet beneath her, leaving her stomach in free-fall.

“Would you like to try it?” she asked, already reaching for the bottle.

Mrs. Grayson nodded, and Greta motioned for her wrist. It felt like moving through syrup, gently pushing up the sleeve of a luxuriant fur coat, fingers brushing bare skin, and she could have sworn Mrs. Grayson shivered. Greta smiled, without teeth this time – of course she did. And thank God for this dance, thank God for this routine and the practiced motions of opening a perfume bottle and delicately applying just a dab to the exposed wrist, her painted nails a stark contrast to the pasty skin beneath her fingers.

Thank God for this dance; that Greta could still dance it after all. No matter how much her mind hated it her body would take over and her eyes would keep themselves down, watching her own fingers work.

Mrs. Grayson sniffed her pulse. “Yes, this one.”

No matter how much she begged, they wouldn’t let her work the week following Christmas. She’d done too much, they said, let us give you this, take a couple of days before New Years, you’ll need it. So Greta did, and reminded herself that they were being kind.

The temperature in her apartment continued to plummet, and she allowed herself the treat of hot chocolate and the small electric heater in the corner. A blanket, worn (bought from Florida years ago) around her shoulders, her feet tucked beneath her as she curled up on her chair to keep them warm. Wooden floors had seemed like such a good choice – and they were, she maintained. Her aesthetics were impeccable and would come into their own if she ever managed to get that rug she wanted. But it was far too early to go to bed, no matter how warm it might be under the covers. And she was trying to enjoy the Christmas season. She would conjure up some joy for herself the way Jo used to do, forcing her to do some festive activity that served no purpose other than to make them laugh.

The apartment had come with a phone, the cord frayed to pieces, the device itself left on the floor. Greta had got the number for it, but it had never rung until now; the shrill tone cut through the winter evening. She was warm and comfortable, and she contemplated letting it ring. But curiosity won out and she dragged herself upright, stretching out her legs and padding over to the phone. She perched on the windowsill as she answered, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders.

“Hello?”

“Bird? Is that you?”

“Joey?”

“I hope to God that’s you Bird cuz it sure does sound like you.”

It was embarrassing how quickly the sob rose up in her throat; skilled how quickly she shoved it back down with a strangled gasp. “Joey it’s me.” The blanket slid off her shoulders as she settled, smile spreading without her permission. No one could see her, no one but Joey’s voice, and Joey never cared if the wind mussed her hair through a draughty window pane. “I thought you said there’s a million things you’d rather do than phone me?”

“Call it Christmas spirit and don’t get used to it.” Greta couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, knew that Jo would pick up on the catch in her throat. “How you doing, Bird?”

“I got your card.”

“You did? Glad it reached you on time. Should I ask if you sent me one?”

“You know I did – it’s on its way.”

“With a gift?”

“You want something from work? I sent you a nice shade of rouge.”

“Fuck you.”

“Did you want mascara?”

Joey’s laugh warmed the room. Made her laugh, too, and lifted the weight from her shoulders just a little. “A little lip, actually, for all those pretty dames.”

The kissing part didn’t need to be said. They’d never really discussed what to say on the phone, but habits like theirs weren’t meant to be broken.

“Well Joey, the ladies do love to receive gifts from you,” teased Greta, missing this more than she could say.

“And from you?”

Greta shifted. “Not this season’s colours, I’m afraid!” And the moment she said it, she knew Joey would know, no matter how light she made her voice; knew Joey wouldn’t say anything at all about it, and knew she’d have to thank her for it one day far from now when none of this mattered.

“You’re getting picky, Bird.”

“One of us has to have taste.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” And the gentleness creeping into Jo’s voice reminded her a little too much of pity. “So,” continued Jo, “are you moping around like every Christmas this side of 14?”

“It was a good year,” said Greta, laughing, relieved that Jo seemed to know her so well. “I’m going to make cookies.”

“They better be Christmas themed.”

“You’ll never know if not.”

“No, I will. I know these things about you Greta Gill. Feel my presence, late at night, hanging over your -”

“- ew, no -”

“-bed, judging your cookies and -”

“Absolutely not get out of my bedroom.”

“So,” began Jo, cleaning up her laughter along a crackling telephone line, “hear from anyone else?”

“Maybelle sent a card, along with a request for free samples.”

“Which you should give her.”

“Biased.”

“I’m perfectly occupied where I am, thank you.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t occupied elsewhere,” teased Greta. “Esti’s card was in Spanish, but I think she’s staying with Shirley from -”

“- their joint signature on the card? Yeah, I don’t really know if I want to know what’s going on in that house,” said Joey, trailing off into her thoughts.

“I’m actually okay giving them their privacy. Jess and Lupe -”

“I got their card!”

“-are in Chicago.”

“As we thought.”

“And I’m glad they’re together.” Greta knew her tone was wistful, but there was a part of her – ignored – that wanted to be in Chicago too.

“Did you get any others?”

It was a leading question, and Greta hated it. Hated the way it grasped at her chest like a vice and squeezed. “Did you?” she asked, thumb spinning the ring on her finger.

“A few.”

“Me too.” A beat. “Not all of them.”

“The post runs late at Christmas.”

Greta pulled at the edge of her blanket. “Fighting all those cross-country snowdrifts?”

“God there is no snow in California and if it would stop being sunny for five fucking minutes.”

And just like that, Greta breathed out through the nose. Just like that, Joey had it under control. “You should come out here,” she said, “my windows can’t keep the snow out.”

“Have you tried closing them or do you need me to come and do it for you? Me and my sweet, sweet biceps.”

“Oh stop I’ll swoon.”

A card arrived a week later, just after New Years Day. The postman caught her as she was leaving.

“Number 6?”

She’d smiled and said thank you, and not recognized the looped scrawl on the envelope, shoving it in her bag with the library books she’d intended to return on her day off.

She’d taken the train to the centre of the city, and walked the long way through Central Park; and when her fingers were getting too cold to bear, she’d arrived just in time to New York Central Library. She’d forgotten all about the letter until it came tumbling out between her books and onto the librarian’s desk. She’d snatched it up with a smile, returned her books, and headed off towards a free table, perching on the end as she studied the letter.

The writing became more familiar the more she looked; the more she forgot the space around her, looking for a postmark from Idaho. The letter seemed to slip between her fingers as she tried to prise open the envelope, more looped scrawl spilling out into her hands.

Greta stood, clutching the words in her hand, bag in another, careful not to crumple the pages, her fingers itching to grasp and tear and claw in an effort to devour those words. A few shelves in, hidden, safe among the books, Greta rested her bag in front of a row of books, gloves beside it, and leant against the wooden shelving. She placed the envelope reverently into her bag, careful not to bend it. The letter seems to flap in the wind howling outside, her hand shivering, the smell of oak and old pages shifting to make way for fresh linen, warm grass, summer sun hitting brown locks and red cheeks and radiant smiles.

She walked through Central Park to get home. She walked all the way to her front door, battling the rain and wind and darkening streets, the letter pressed tight beneath her grey woollen greatcoat.

Her phone always seemed to ring at the most inopportune times. Tightening the towel wrapped around her body she let her hair hang loose, dripping water as she padded over to the phone. The January sales had all but wiped her out, and she could only hope this would be worth her time and not Maybelle asking for more relationship advice with a man posted out in France.

“Hello?”

“Bird!” Greta pulled the phone away from her ear at the noise. She thought she could hear laughter in the background, echoing behind Joey’s yell.

“Joey?”

“I’m in Chicago!”

“Why’d’ya call her bird?” came a faint question, almost not picked up by the bad line, but if pressed Greta would’ve sworn that sounded like Jess.

“Chicago? Are you okay?” asked Greta, already running through several worse-case scenarios.

“She got lost!” This time it was louder: loud enough for Greta for know that had to be Lupe.

“Are you trying to take my ear off?” yelled back Joey.

“Are you trying to take mine off,” muttered Greta, angling the headpiece away slightly. “Was that Lupe?” she asked, still trying to catch up.

“She can’t hear us!” called Lupe, like she was calling for a catch on the baseball pitch.

“Yeah it’s Lupe,” confirmed Jo, “and Jess too. I went to Chicago!”

Greta laughed fondly. “Evidently. How long are you there for?”

“Eh. I didn’t mean to come but I needed a break from the fucking unbreakable positivity of California.”

“Fuck ‘em!”

“Was that Jess or Lupe?”

“Both.”

Greta swung her wet hair behind her neck, collecting it on her left shoulder as she settled with the phone. This would do for a relaxing evening. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Well these two wanted to say hi.”

“Well hi there,” she cooed.

“Stop flirting. And then we thought: let’s get a few drinks at a bar-”

“A bar?”

“Lighten up!”

“Lupe said lighten up.”

“I heard, thanks Joey.”

“And then I might have let slip it’s your birthday next month-”

“Jo-”

“-and then-”

“We’re coming to New York, asshole!”

“Lupe said-”

“I heard!” If she wasn’t so busy laughing, so busy swimming up through the bubbling warmth in her chest she hadn’t felt since summer, she might have been mad Jo let slip about her birthday.

“Now before you flip out-”

“You didn’t tell them the date, did you?” asked Greta, studying her nails with an affected nonchalance.

“If you let me finish: I know you don’t like celebrations, but we needed an excuse, and you could show us around town.”

“I only have a floor, Jo.” Not to mention she had nothing to show for her time in the big city.

“We’ll bring blankets – no – Lupe – Lupe -”

“Joey?” Greta heard a scuffle on the other end of the line, taking the time to light a cigarette. She opened the window behind her, ignoring the way her damp skin prickled at the cold.

“Close but no cigar,” came the low, irreverent tones of Lupe.

“Lupe,” laughed Greta, taking a drag from between her fingers.

“Why is it taking you so long to agree – Jess’ll think you hate her.”

“What if it’s not Jess I hate?”

“I’m wounded. How about you let us visit, we take you out, and you can tell us all about the friends you’re making in the big ole’ city.” Greta took another drag; slowly, tapping the ash out of the window. “But let me guess: charming Greta Gill can’t make any friends.”

It wasn’t a question. She couldn’t help it, the instinct to defend rising up before she could stop it. “You wish I was yours.”

“Ha! Sure sweetcheeks. So not can’t then. Won’t. No friends worth Greta Gill’s time.”

The air seemed to still around her, even as the cold drove knives into her bare shoulders; every muscle in her body tensed to spring. Less practiced lungs than hers might have choked on cigarette smoke.

“Lupe,” warned Joey, sounding a million miles away. Greta could have hugged her.

“Shush, Jo, the adults are talking. So, Greta Gill, why no friends?”

“I’ve heard I’m not good company.”

“A pain in the ass?”

“Vile, even.”

“Your words not mine. Heard from Shaw recently?”

Joey’s sharp yell of “Lupe!” covered up the coughing choke that wracked through her, smoke catching in her lungs.

The fighting on the other end of the phone went on without her – and she was sure no one had heard when she let slip, quietly to herself, that she had, in fact, received a letter two weeks ago, four pages long; biting the inside of her bottom lip, closing her eyes and admitting that she had yet to reply. That the noises stopped told her someone had heard. She hoped it was Joey.

“Damn Gill.”

Lupe, then.

Later that week, Joey’s letter arrived. We’re coming, it said, for your birthday. Don’t argue, it said, we’re going to get your girl.

It was about as risky as the two of them had ever been in print. Greta couldn’t find it in herself to be  mad beneath the violent relief settling the storm in her chest.

The bonus from her Christmas overtime came through at the end of January – finally – and though she’d had her eye on an emerald green scarf to wrap around her neck, she thought instead she’d treat Jess and Lupe and Jo to a couch on which to sit.

As with all things, Greta prioritised aesthetics, and hunting through secondhand lots was exhausting – but she found one, finally, in an appropriate enough colour and style to keep her happy. She’d even found a radio too, and a lovely couple of gentlemen to help carry it all up the stairs; a kiss on the cheek was suitable payment, she was sure.

Having made those extravagant purchases, she couldn’t for the life of her answer why she was stood, hands in her greatcoat pockets, outside a stationary shop, looking through the window and trying to see past raindrops racing down the glass.

She was low on paper. And she sent an awful lot of letters. To Maybelle, for one, when she wasn’t on the telephone. And though the men in Maybelle’s life didn’t interest her much, it was nice to have the regularity, and someone to listen to her stories of working for Vivienne. Someone who always asked if she had anyone warming her bed, anyone who caught her eye, anyone she thought about with their picture in her brassiere – without expecting too much of an answer.

Maybelle, then. And Joey of course. Reason enough to splurge on some thicker paper. A good few sheaves. Enough to last. And write draft after draft. 

Greta bought the paper. She bought a scarf, too. Emerald green. And gift wrapped. Put it at the top of her wardrobe, right at the back.

They came in to Grand Central – wanted to make a show of it, they said – and had no trouble spotting the towering figure of Greta in the crowd. Lupe and Jess kept apart as Joey hugged Greta within an inch of her life, unwilling to let go. Eventually she got round to the others, awkwardly bumping shoulders with Jess as Lupe slapped her arm.

“Gill. Ready to show us the sights?”

“The sight of my apartment?”

“We need beer,” announced Jess, slinging her arms over the shoulders of those she was tall enough to reach.

“I have some in,” replied Greta over her shoulder. “No rookies here,” and Jess howled with laughter; and Greta, who had never been one for keeping people close, might have been willing to make an exception for these girls.

Greta all but frogmarched them through the city – Joey hauling the bags along. She won’t let them take the train, even with all their luggage: they have to see the city, and she doesn’t have much to show them but she sure knows how to walk. And though there’s nerves fluttering underneath her ribs, worrying that these – her friends won’t like where she lives, that her armour isn’t skintight and doesn’t extend to peeling wallpaper and cupboards barely filled, more than anything, she’s happy.

“Nice digs,” said Jess, tossing a bag on the floor with a thud.

“I call the couch!”

With Lupe and Jess left to bicker, Greta took Joey’s bags to her room. “We’re sharing if that’s okay.”

“Like old times,” hummed Jo, sitting on the bed. “It’s bare in here, Bird.”

Of course she knows. Of course she notices. “I like it here,” said Greta, trying to cut it off before it can begin.

“Not quite settled yet.”

“Yeah.”

“Come here.”

Greta does, sitting next to her best friend of too many years to count, and thinks about leaning her head on Joey’s shoulder and closing her eyes and letting it all wash over her.

“You okay Bird?”

She doesn’t.

Luckily, she’d told her landlady about the impending visit. About the three close friends she was having round for a week or two and she could only apologise for any disruption, because as the beer flowed, the gin in a flask passed around with enthusiasm, the noise levels grew, the windows wide open in the middle of February as they became too big for the space; until Jess and Lupe were crouched on the fire escape; Joey straddling the windowsill; Greta perched on her usual spot.

“Come out here,” demanded Lupe.

“It’s too cold.”

“You always wear dresses in winter?”

“With stockings, yes.”

“Your tits half frozen off,” muttered Jess.

“My tits are fine thank you very much.”

“Her tits are grade A,” added Joey, and Greta really did believe Jo would back her for anything.

“Oh yeah? Who last checked?” demanded Lupe, chin raised in defiance.

“Are you asking?”

“Wouldn’t say no.” Greta’s head tipped back as she laughed. “But I don’t think I’m your type.”

She was smiling but she could feel it, pressing against her chest, refusing to be smothered by the kindness of friends; friends that seemed determined to push down, hard.

Jess spun to face the window. “Oh here we go.”

Greta raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, fingers picking at the label of her beer.

“In fact, I think I know pretty well what your type is,” continued Lupe.

Their voices, loud in the night, took a more measured tone. The walls were thick, and New York was vast, but there were no rookies here tonight. Greta looked to Jo, who offered a shrug. Let it happen, it said.

“Oh?”

Lupe came in close to the window, hooking her hands across the ledge as she looked up at Greta. “Greta – do you have a middle name?”

“If I did-”

“Forget it. Greta Gill: tell us why your bed is cold.”

“Maybe I’m not up to those New York standards.”

Jess pulled a face like she’d eaten something bad, and Joey pushed her shoulder, hard. “Man up, Bird. It’s why we’re here.”

“I thought you were here for my birthday.”

“Yeah, dickhead,” said Lupe, like it was obvious. “And to sort out whatever the fuck you call the girl of your dreams.”

“The girl of my -

“Is in Idaho, princess. Have you written back yet?”

Greta’s eyes shot to Lupe, mouth open. She quickly shut it, pursing her lips instead. “None of your business.”

“Oh lay off Bird. I haven’t said anything because I love you but you have to do something.”

Greta’s jaw worked itself in tight circles. “She didn’t come to New York.”

“And you knew she couldn’t when you asked,” shot back Joey.

“She sent you a letter,” chimed Lupe, enjoying this a little too much.

“She sent you a goddamned essay, Bird. You’re telling me you haven’t tried to send one back?”

Greta stared at Joey. Looked her right in the eye and saw something she didn’t like. “No,” she said, pleased with how firm she sounded.

“Sure?”

“Joey.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, what’s going on here?”

Greta had forgotten they had an audience. That she was surrounded by friends. By people like her.

“Don’t you dare.”

“You said you were sure.”

“Joey-”

Jo sprang up, darting across the room and laughing at Greta’s pleas. The pleas were serious – please Joey, not here, not now – but she couldn’t help the fond smile that betrayed her words. She couldn’t help it: Joey was back, and Joey knew her better than anyone.

“You gotta change your hiding place,” came a voice from the bedroom.

“You can’t reach!”

“Bite me!”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“I was bitten once.”

Lupe turned to Jess. “By what?” she asked, sharply.

Jo reappeared holding a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“Is my wardrobe still standing?” asked Greta, resigned even as she mustered all of her willpower not to fidget and flea and go out for some smokes.

“Mostly,” grinned Jo, giving her attention to the two girls outside. “Greta always hides her stuff at the top of the wardrobe. She thinks because she’s tall no one else will ever find it.”

“I’m eighty percent sure most of your allure is you being tall,” said Lupe. Greta shrugged, bringing her bottle to her lips. “Did Shaw like it?”

Greta choked on her beer.

The package lay dormant on the coffee table. They hadn’t let her put it away. They hadn’t mentioned it again, either, but Greta had been trying to distract them. Still, it was like the thing had eyes.

She felt the couch shift beside her. “Ready to send it yet?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me that wasn’t a present.”

Greta refused to meet Jo’s eyes. She hated this stuff. This kind of talk. She didn’t want it. She twisted the ring on her finger.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t have an answer. Jo shuffled closer, grabbing her hand and stilling her movements. “Bird, she sent you a letter. From Idaho. An essay. You don’t need to be too smart to read between those pretty lines she wrote.”

“They were pretty,” replied Greta, weakly. Jo always made it sound so easy.

“They were fucking beautiful and they were about as close to a love letter as you or I are ever gonna get.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, you fucking idiot. So write her back, and tell her you miss her, and still think about her-”

“And want to-”

“Shut up Lupe not now!” yelled Joey over her shoulder.

Greta thought and thought. She thought about her fear and her hopes, and how she couldn’t think of a single day where Carson Shaw hadn’t pressed on her chest like a slab.

“Okay.”

They sent it on her birthday, together: a gang of thieves posting their takings. It made Greta feel invincible, the strongest armour she could have asked for, even as the icy winds of the city tore the heat from her cheeks like pins.

“Smiling an awful lot there Gill. You always this cheerful on your birthday?”

“Were you always this annoying, Lupe.”

“Ha! Love has done nothing for your insults.” And before she could refute and say no, say that’s a bit much, give in to the urge to run back and stop the parcel from ever being sent, Lupe skipped ahead, pulling Joey with her and knocking their heads together in a conspiracy against her sanity.

“I’m fucking cold.”

Greta looked over her shoulder. “Jess, you haven’t even got a coat on.”

“You’re wearing a dress.”

“Yes, but I have a big coat. You live in Chicago!”

“Yeah?”

“The Windy City?”

“It’s warm in the factory.”

“You don’t-”

“Don’t bother, I tried,” called back Lupe.

“I told you-”

“You don’t get cold, yeah. Except in New York.”

Greta let her legs carry her wherever they were going; let them lead her, let her friends take the reigns for a little while, wishing she could be half as brash as Lupe, and half as wise as Jess.

“Watch where you’re going,” chided Joey, steering her clear of a lamp post. “What’s going on up there?”

“Nothing, really.”

“So you are just a pretty face after all.”

“And you always knew it,” agreed Greta, snuggling in close to her friend.

“So. Bird.” It was that tone Joey took sometimes, when she was about to suggest something one of them wasn’t going to agree with. “We want to do something for your birthday.”

Greta raised an eyebrow, and Jo pulled her to a stop. Jess and Lupe came in close, the four of them huddled on the sidewalk and blocking out the city. Her and Joey against the world – her, Joey, Lupe and Jess.

“Let us take you out.”

“Out?”

“Out.”

Greta’s brow furrowed. “Of course.”

Joey looked to Lupe. Lupe shrugged, and added: “to a bar.”

“A bar.”

“Bird-”

“Joey, no.” And the cold outside had nothing on the pinching fear running up her body, fixing her down and making her want to squirm. No, no. no. No. She clenched her hands against her side as she struggled to stay still. “No,” she repeated, quieter.

“Gill-”

“Hold off, Lupe.” Lupe shrugged and turned away, head down against the cold. “Bird, let us do this.”

“Joey. Last time-”

“Was last time. I’m fine.”

“But you weren’t.”

“But I am now. And I get to decide that. Bird, you’re alone. You’re lonely, and I don’t like it.” Before Greta could open her mouth, Jo cut her off. “And I know that’s partly my fault. But you do it to yourself, too. And you don’t need to. You don’t deserve that, even if you think you do. You deserve to be happy.”

Greta swallowed. “It’s dangerous, this close to home.”

“Jess found somewhere a little further out. A train away. Come on Bird, the city is big. We’re never going to be safe. Not really. But for one night you deserve to forget that.”

She remembered the fear, sure, and the terror, the wetness of her cheeks as she cried. But she remembered all the other things, too, bittersweet and treasured. A girl in her arms that spun the world in her words. A girl she was willing to share the whole world with, dreams and all, over a slice of pizza. She remembered all that, too.

“Okay?”

Greta nodded, slowly. “Just once,” she whispered.

“Our treat. We’ll protect you, okay?”

“Joey-”

“Okay enough of this. Jess looks like she’s about to turn blue. Gill, let’s go, we’re leading the way; you stand back and let your long, long, long legs do the walking.” Lupe strode forward, dragging Jess and Joey with her, leaving Greta to follow behind.

She tried to focus on the fear, keep herself grounded in all the things that could possibly go wrong. But their determination was infectious, and as they headed in whichever mysterious direction they were going, Greta found herself getting giddy with hope.

Jess had led them expertly – how on earth she found this place after only four days Greta never wanted to know. They sat together in the corner, watching the Jazz act lead the dance floor through a jive. And as Greta worked her way through a drink (or three), she might have started to admit this was nice.

“What is it about you and my height?” she asked, toying with the lemon in her martini glass.

Lupe spread her arms out wide. “You never even thought what that does for you? Your friend never told you?”

“Oh, she knows,” chimed Joey, “she just wants to hear it from you.”

“She wants to hear Carson Shaw say ‘god you’re tall I want to climb all over and take a bite’, declared Jess, her impression of Shaw’s voice a long way off as she set down the next round of drinks. “There’s your fancy drink,” she said, pushing the cocktail over to Greta.

“You’re just jealous I have a fancy glass,” hummed Greta, pulling the proffered drink closer. She ignored everything else.

“Two girls at the bar interested,” revealed Jess. “Shall I let them over?”

Lupe nodded vigourously. Greta sank further into her chair, resting her drink on her knee. Jess looked over at her.

“It’s you they’re interested in,” pushed Jess with toothy grin, and Greta knew she was about to walk into a trap.

“I’m flattered."

“But not interested?”

Greta looked at Jo. She wouldn’t plead (she had her dignity) but there was nothing she could say. Technically, she wasn’t tied down, and that was fine and dandy and she didn’t want to think about that any more.

“You interested, Bird?”

Greta brought her drink to her lips. “No, but invite them over. You’re more than welcome to do that.”

She ignored the shit-eating grin on Jess’ face.

With her friends from Chicago gone, life fell back into a steady hum. She got up, she went to work, came home. She went to the library more, and to art galleries. Even went out after work for drinks – nothing serious, nothing beyond a quick hello and goodbye, but enough to say she was alive. She bought a plant, another blanket, a few pictures. Enough that couldn’t be packed into a single bag.

Joey sent her letters: she was moving to Chicago. Something to do with the Californian heat giving her a rash, but Greta suspected it had more to do with the Chicago company. Jess and Lupe didn’t write, but it wasn’t long before Jo’s letters came with a variety of different handwriting attached.

She got other letters too. One from Maybelle asking if there was any hope of a job in New York. And other letters. She didn’t reply to that one, not until Joey called one evening mid-March to ask about baseball, and the season, and coming back to the Peaches, and to tell her in not so many words that Carson hoped she got her letter and her address was in Chicago now. Greta had to go, her bath needed draining, but she took a pen and paper to bed and thought about all the immutable things etched in the air and the stars, and of all the stars to look at she was glad to have chosen this one.

At least Maybelle wanted to move to New York.

Having Maybelle in the city on a semi-permanent basis was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Maybelle was routine, and funny, and gave her someone to play ball with ready for the new season. A curse because Maybelle was not far enough away on the train and she had a tendency to invite herself round for ‘girl’s talk’ which was fine, except Greta liked to sleep.

Semi-permanent because she was more often than not out of town: seeing her kids, meeting a beau, and other things Greta didn’t need mental images of but Maybelle seemed sure as hell determined to put them there.

Still, as they tossed the ball back and forth, Greta couldn’t find it in herself to bemoan Maybelle’s company. She was as sweet as they came, and a flush of warmth in the middle of New York.

“Do you think we’ll have to try out again?” asked Maybelle, catching the ball. They had a rhythm going: catch speak throw, catch speak throw.

Greta got ready to catch. “Not sure. I think we’ve proven ourselves.”

“Sure as hell we did! We gotta win this year!”

Greta grinned. “We will.”

“The whole team better come back.”

“Joey wants too.”

Maybelle squealed. “Yes! Oh, they’ll let her won’t they?”

Greta caught the ball and shrugged. “She wrote a letter, so she’s hoping. Beverly might help.”

“We gotta have out star hitter. And Coach Shaw too.”

Greta dropped the ball. “Yeah?”

Maybelle nodded. “Of course. She write to you? Do you know if she’ll come back?”

Greta picked up the ball, letting her hair fall forward. “She – I think she should come back.”

“Well duh! The question is will she.”

Greta shrugged. “I hope so,” she said, throwing the ball with a little more vigour than before.

Maybelle smiled as she caught it.

Greta all but launched herself at the ringing phone. “Did you get it?”

“The call? Hell yeah I did Bird. Big leagues here we come!”

Greta laughed in relief, she couldn’t help it, and Maybelle slid next to her against the windowsill.

“Hey Joey!” she yelled, giggling as though her body couldn’t contain all the joy it held.

“Maybelle is that you?”

“Sure is honey! I got the call and ran straight to Greta’s.”

“Lupe and Jess say hi.”

Maybelle cocked her head. “They do?”

“No we don’t,” yelled Lupe.

Greta laughed and laughed, ignoring the way her ear seemed to be straining for one more voice behind the noise. Greta hadn’t allowed herself to call Joey since – and Joey seemingly hadn’t called her, but this was an exception they could allow. Just this once. Greta listened to the bickering.

“So the season starts in a month,” began Jo.

“I’ve organised with Vivienne to finish a little early to get ready. I’ll have a job waiting when we finish the season.”

“I’m so proud of you Bird.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not doing anything at all,” chimed Maybelle. “Well, except this one gu-”

“Okay Maybelle,” cut in Greta. “So you’re free?”

“Sure am!” affirmed Maybelle

“So we were thinking -” said Jo.

“Stop fucking around and come here!” yelled Jess on the other end of the line, forever impatient.

“You think?”

“Of course Bird! We can just about squeeze you in, we definitely have the space. Then we can go to Rockford together; tell them to pick us all up here.”

Greta twirled the phone cord around a perfectly painted nail  as Maybelle enthusiastically agreed beside her for the both of them.

“Excellent,” said Jo. “We’ll write with a date.”

Greta palmed the phone off to Maybelle, hunting for a pack of cigarettes she was sure she’d left in the bathroom.

Sitting on the edge of the bath, she wondered why she hadn’t thought this through a little better.

Don’t worry Bird, said the letter, she knows you’re coming. 

Greta wasn’t worried. 

She has her own place. 

Greta absolutely was not worried. 

Maybelle can stay with us.

Pulling in to Chicago Union Station, Greta reflected on the fact that she’d never truly been thankful for Maybelle before. Maybe she hadn’t appreciated her enough: the endless chatter was a soothing din that allowed Greta to focus on stamping down the riot happening beneath her ribcage; to focus all of her willpower on sitting down still and not moving a single muscle. 

She’d paid her landlady in advance, explaining the situation. The place was hers for another year, so long as the rent was paid. All that she’d saved – plus the money she was about to earn in the leagues – would more than cover that. So she kept the place with all her things in, and ignored the way it felt like a statement of intent. 

She worried she hadn’t practiced enough: kept it to herself even as she comforted Maybelle about the exact same thing, told her it was just like riding a bike and they’d practiced together enough just plenty. She said this even as she stretched on the floor of her place praying she could still touch her toes, still hit the ball far and high, sill run and catch and laugh with all this stuff stuck in her lungs and on her shoulders. 

She tried not to look too hard into why she’d made such an effort to look nice rolling into Chicago Union Station, outfit perfectly presented and make-up just so. She was going to be in the Windy City, after all, so she’d need her grey woollen greatcoat, and she still didn’t have a scarf. 

So as the train pulled in, it was Maybelle who got up first, pulling their bags down from the rack and chattering all the way down the aisle. Greta hoped her face was doing something close to that universally pleasant smile she had, although it felt more like it might be trying to twist itself into a pained frown. 

It was Maybelle who all but pulled her up and off the train, pushing her down onto the platform: excited to see her teammates – friends – and no time for Greta’s dilly-dallying. 

Somehow, Greta’s feet moved, legs lifting one leaden block after the other. How she made it down the steps she’d never know, but Maybelle was there with a helping hand and a look and a wide grin, pointing out into the distance. 

But Greta couldn’t look. Not yet. She kept her eyes on her feet, making sure one went after the other in an elegant manner. She registered Maybelle stopping, dropping their bags in favour of launching herself at Jo. Greta didn’t need to look to know Jess and Lupe would be standing well away from whatever Maybelle wanted to do to them in greeting. 

She didn’t know if – wasn’t sure, but didn’t want to look up just yet. Just in case. She stayed with the bags instead, telling herself that was useful in a busy station and fiddling with her gloves as an excuse to look down; knowing that her poise would always carry her through, that to everyone but Joey she’d look just swell, even as a pair of legs came into the corner of her vision. 

“Hi.” 

Greta looked up, and forgot for a minute how hard it had been to breathe all this time. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey.” 

Surely she was capable of something else? Surely a line, a proper hello other than the twist of her lips pulling at her cheeks. 

“Hi.” 

Apparently not. 

“Okay hate to break up whatever the fuck this is,” said Lupe, grin too wide for either of them to take her annoyance seriously, “but would anyone like to go to a bar?” 

Greta saw the flash of worry in Carson’s eyes; the way they quickly roved over her body as if searching for something, fearful it might disappear. She saw all that and couldn’t move, couldn’t stop looking at Carson Shaw in a goddamned emerald green scarf wrapped tight around her neck and over her chin, with rosy cheeks and a small smile on her lips. Greta was so busy noticing all that she almost forgot to soften. 

“Oh me, me!” enthused Maybelle, hopping from one foot to the other. 

Jess looked her up and down. “You sure you wanna come?” 

“Sure thing honey – I love an adventure.” 

Finally Greta tore herself away from Carson Shaw; finally taking in the joyous grins coming at her from her – friends, they were her friends. Even Maybelle seemed less than surprised, and she’d have to remember to ask about that later. 

Greta shot one last look at Carson. 

“Lead the way.”

They dropped their bags off – Greta didn’t really much pay attention where, happy to follow a safe distance behind as she watched Carson try and decide who to walk with. She didn’t think the air could feel so light, didn’t think she’d felt so warm in an age; happy to watch and listen as the rhythm of her steps kept her in time with reality. 

In Jess’ capable hands once again as she led the way, Joey all but forced Carson to walk with Greta. Greta watched Carson wring her hands together; put them in her pockets; take them out again. Greta looked over at and caught her eye. Carson tried to look away – came back. Always came back, until Greta stopped trying to push away the smile threatening her face, and shot Carson a wink. 

“Dimple.” 

Carson Shaw blushed like the sun rising over desert sand, blinding and without limit. Greta would have given the world and everything in it to make it happen again. 

Carson skipped on ahead – Greta forgot, of course, that Carson must know this city, knew where they were going. This was her turf, after all. They came to a stop. 

“Come on Bird.” Greta shook her head clear. “Stop looking like a lovestruck fool and get in the bar.” 

“I’m not-” 

Joey came up next to her. “Have you even flirted? Made a move?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure.” Joey pushed her down the narrow stairwell in front of them. “Let’s get you and your girl a drink.” 

“She’s not my girl,” Greta all but whispered, not wanting to believe it herself and too scared to think that it might be true. 

The din of the bar did something to drown out her thoughts, her eyes falling to the drag act on stage. She was sure Joey hadn’t heard her. Didn’t want to explain how scared she was that Carson Shaw knew more than just a drink in this bar. 

The girls crowded the barman, collecting orders and starting a tab. Carson stayed close to Greta’s elbow and Greta tried not to look over at her but couldn’t stop the way her body seemed to strain towards the other woman. 

“And what can I get you, darling?” 

Greta looked over at the barman, embarrassed to be caught staring at a girl but professional enough to play it cool. It was okay, she reminded herself. In here it was okay. 

“Gin, no ice,” she said. 

“Lemon?” 

“Please.” 

Carson leant into her arm, Greta gripping the edge of the bar until her knuckles turned white. 

“I’ll have the same,” said Carson, smiling all the while. The barman nodded and got to work. 

“We’ll grab a table yeah?” called Lupe, already steering the rest of the group away. Carson waved them off. 

“How much will Maybelle need explaining?” she muttered to Greta, amused. 

“As much as you did once,” replied Greta. 

“Let me have this: I’m not the rookie for once.” 

“Sure thing chickadee, you’re as seasoned as they come. Just for tonight, though.” 

Carson grinned and bumped her head affectionately against Greta’s arm as the barman returned with their drinks. 

“On the house,” he said, placing the drinks in front of them. 

“On the house?” asked Shaw. 

“We’ve been waiting to meet the girl who’s got you taken for a long damned time. Think of this as a thank you for indulging our curiosity.” 

Greta raised an eyebrow, Carson looking down at the bar and muttering something about how she wasn’t even in the city and taken was such a strong word to use.

“Taken, huh?” teased Greta. 

Carson’s eyes grew wide. “No! I mean yes! I mean – sort of – I don’t know. You weren’t – and I – and just -” 

Greta reached for her fingers and squeezed just once, before dropping her hand just as fast.

“She’s your girl then?” asked the barman, looking between them.

Greta took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes.” 

The barman whistled in appreciation. “Damn Shaw. Finally.”

She’d drunk enough not to be sober, but not enough to be called drunk. The world seemed light as a feather – although whether that was the gin or Carson Shaw looking up at her like she missed Greta almost as much as Greta missed her, she didn’t know.

“I know we wanted this, but this is sickeningly horrible,” moaned Lupe, gesturing between the two. Greta deigned to look over at her.

“Oh stop I think it’s cute,” cooed Maybelle, sipping something colourful through a straw. How she’d convinced the barman to make that drink they’d never know.

“You had nothing to do with it,” said Greta.

“Without me you’d have never made it on that train and stayed there. I might be blonde but I’m no doozy. It was time for you to go after a thing.”

Jess smirked into her beer, the glare Greta sent her way having no effect whatsoever.

“Well this is all very sweet,” continued Lupe, “but there’s a girl making eyes over there, and seeing as I’m available…”

“Go, Lupe. Have fun.”

“I trust you two will make it back just fine without me.”

Greta felt Carson splutter into her drink beside her, and tried not to laugh.

“Relax, Bird. Dance. I’ll look after Maybelle.”

“Look after?”

Joey wiggled her eyebrows, but sobered quickly. “Relax. Get your girl. She’s come a long way to find you. So have you.”

“Are you glad you came?” asked Carson, the two of them playing with each other’s fingers, knees brushing.

“I would have always come.”

“Really?”

Greta swallowed. “I think so. Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Would you?”

“Yeah. Don’t think I had a choice.”

Greta pursed her lips to stop the smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The wind nibbled at their cheeks, and they pulled closer into one another.

“Hey Greta?”

“Hmmm?”

“I missed you.”

Greta kept her eyes forward, clutching at Carson’s body. “More than baseball?”

“More than baseball. We’re gonna win this year though.”

“I don’t doubt it, Coach.”

Carson pulled them to a stop outside a door.

“I only have the key to my place.” Greta watched as Carson looked anywhere but her. “And we have a lot to talk about, I know, because I didn’t cover all of it in my letters because I was scared you’d found someone else and didn’t want to hear from me, and you’re bad at replying, and it is so fine if you did – find someone else – because you are ridiculously pretty and irresistible, and I want to hear all about New York because I wanted to come straight there, but I was scared and Lupe said they had a free couch and that your couch was awful, so I know there’s a lot there but if you wanted to – and there isn’t – and – you could stay here tonight if you wanted.”

Greta looked and looked and looked, waiting for the world to fall on her head. But it never came. Just an unbearable lightness that proved everything right.

“Carson Shaw, are you inviting me upstairs?”

“No! Well yes but – I – Greta!”

Greta cackled. “Well colour me surprised. And the first night too.”

Greta didn’t think it was possible to turn a deeper shade of red than Carson had.

“I missed you,” mumbled Carson. Greta wanted to reach out and touch.

“Show me inside.”

That Carson looked surprised Greta would never understand. Did she not know that Greta couldn’t say no, that she was bound by some law of physics to seek her out and keep her near?

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Shaw. But tell me more about how irresistible I am first.”

Carson went to unlock the door. “I’m scared it’ll go to your head,” she shot back, leading them up the stairs. “I’m on the top floor.”

“It’s nice.” Greta could feel the nervous energy radiating off the woman, but waited until they were safely behind the locked door of apartment number nine to soothe it.

Carson tossed the keys aside. “It’s not much but – and I uh. I have a couch. Here. Right here. If you wanted. And probably spare pyjamas if – if you wanted.”

Greta shrugged off her coat, laying it over the back of a chair. “I can sleep on the couch if you’d like.”

“I. Whatever you like.” Carson backed away, gesturing fruitlessly.

“We have a lot to talk about,” said Greta, moving towards her, pushing Carson further against the wall with each step.

“Yep.”

“And I should explain some things.”

“Yes. Yeah. Me too.”

“But.”

“Yes.”

Greta bit her lip, hard. She couldn’t smile, not yet. She was doing a lot of that lately. Smiling. She thought she might like it.

“There was no one else,” she said.

“No?”

“No.”

“Okay. I mean – I – you saw at the, uh, bar. I divorced – and. You, uh. I was taken. Am taken. Fuck!”

“I took you, did I?”

There was nowhere else for them to go, Greta towering over Carson pressed against the wall, who couldn’t seem to decide where to look.

“Carson.”

“Yep.”

“Can I-”

“Please.”

Greta kissed her. Softly, at first, like she couldn’t believe she was here again; but soon she was bending her knees to bring herself closer, hands in Carson’s hair as she grasped at it in an effort to keep her close, Carson’s hands clutching at her back. Greta couldn’t get enough, couldn’t let go, wondered if she might hurt Carson with the force of her need to be close. To stay.

She pulled away, Carson’s instinctively following her lips until her eyes snapped open in realisation.

“Was that okay?” she asked, lips stained with Greta’s colour, eyes wide and dilated.

Greta brought a hand to her cheek, brushing a strand of now-ruined hair back behind her ear. “More than okay.” Carson froze at the movement. “Take me to bed, Carson.”

“Oh! Oh. Yes. Yep. Definitely.” And she dragged Greta by the hand, the both of them grinning ear-to-ear. “You mean you don’t want to recreate Bev’s car?”

“Carson Shaw,” ground out Greta, taking her heels off at the threshold of the bedroom, Carson watching from the edge of the bed. “I’m fairly sure,” she continued, pushing her hair behind her shoulders, “that my knees have taken more than enough abuse for you.”

Carson visibly gulped, watching as Greta pulled down a strap of her jumpsuit. “Is it weird that kind of turns me on?”

Greta pushed off the other strap, letting the cloth fall away and hang at her hips. “Not at all. But I think we deserve a bit of luxury, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Greta moved closer, glint in her eye, chest heaving with confidence and the smell of Carson Shaw. “Do you think you could help me with this?” she asked, keeping her tone as innocent as she could manage.

Carson’s hands shot to her waist, gripping at the fabric and pulling it down from her waist. “Wow.”

Greta tilted Carson’s chin up with a finger, bringing their foreheads together. “Are you going to take me to bed, Carson Shaw?”

Carson looked and looked and looked. Looked until Greta was almost worried she didn’t match up to whatever Carson thought she should see; until confidence seemed to seep through Carson’s pores and Greta shivered at the change. Carson spun them and pushed Greta onto the bed.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“Fuck.” 

Greta considered it a win when she woke up and Carson was still in the bed next to her, curled up against her side. She considered it a win that one of them didn’t need to scamper away, hiding down the corridor until the next night they could share. She considered it a win, too, when getting her stuff from Jess’ and Joey’s and Lupe’s, that only Joey and Maybelle were there to ask where she’d been the night before, and if she’d slept well, and if she needed a shower to wipe that blissed out sexed look from her face. Greta considered she’d gotten off lightly.

Greta considered those two weeks in Chicago the biggest win of her life (so far); considered it a win that Carson didn’t mind her staying over; that Carson’s building had thick walls and no one too nosey.

She considered it a win to roll into Rockford surrounded by her teammates, her friends, her Carson Shaw, smiling and shedding that grey woollen greatcoat for summer dresses and baseball caps.

She definitely, one-hundred percent considered it a win when Beverly greeted them with the smallest of smiles, reiterating the rules and announcing the new roommate assignments.

Greta turned to the woman on her left.

“Hello roommate.”

Carson grinned. “I hope you don’t snore.”

Greta winked, and bounded up the stairs. “Last person on the bed has to buy the drinks.”

“Greta!”