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“The most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again.” — The Mountain Goats, “Going to Georgia”
Allison moves in above Patty. It only makes sense; it’s a spare apartment, it's affordable, it’s close. Allison doesn’t think she can stand to be any further away from Patty than one set of stairs.
They fumble Neil’s beer-stained loveseat and ratty mattress down to the street on trash day, spend the weekend combing estate sales for used furniture. Allison likes estate sales, likes looking through someone else’s life in terms of things. She used to go to them for work up in New Hampshire, but now she gets to do it with Patty, gets to hear Patty’s jokes in her ear, her commentary on every item; her thoughts just for Allison.
Allison buys a big comfy armchair, a mirror with a gold frame on it to hang in her living room. A new set of plates. Things that once belonged to others but are now uniquely hers.
She barely uses any of them. Even the mattress she got for fifty percent off remains empty, as she falls asleep on Patty’s couch most nights, head in Patty’s lap, watching a movie.
Allison found a book at one of the estate sales called 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die, and they start to spend their evenings combing through the book and then throwing on the one they pick. Allison falls asleep fifty percent of the time.
“Casablanca was actually really good,” Patty says to her the morning after they watch it. Well, after Patty watches it. “You fucked up.”
“Sorry, the blanket was just more compelling than them sitting around a bar talking.”
Patty rolls her eyes. Patty, it turns out, is kind of a cinephile.
“I would always watch whatever was on TCM when I was left home alone as a kid,” she says to Allison after His Girl Friday. “And I was left alone a lot.”
It slowly comes out over the nights spent talking, painful truths about their childhoods, presented raw and aloud for the first time. Allison holds Patty as close as she can when Patty talks about her dad, how violent he was, how she was four when she first saw him hit Neil.
Allison once again doesn't sleep in her own bed that night, holding Patty in her bed until her breathing goes even. Even then, Allison doesn't leave, knowing that Patty can’t wake alone. That Patty doesn’t deserve to be alone for a single second.
Allison takes to combing through Patty’s extensive bookshelf, finding something to read. Patty sometimes weighs in with recommendations, leaning her head on Allison’s shoulder as she browses. Her chin is warm and solid, and sometimes Allison doesn't pay attention to the books at that point, just closes her eyes and breathes it in.
She reads at work on her breaks or when there are no customers, texts Patty pictures of quotes that make something warm tug at her heart.
“Another one already?” Sam asks one day when she brings Emma into work.
“I’m a fast reader these days,” Allison says.
“Hmm,” Sam says, “wonder what’s changed.”
When Patty’s taste in literature gets a little too wordy, Allison borrows some of Diane’s romance novels, grinning at the absurdity of the situations, at the simplicity of two hot people trapped together by circumstance.
“It’s a good escape, yeah?” Diane says one day when she comes into the diner to lend Allison something called When a Scot Ties the Knot.
Allison shrugs. “I just like not having to think while I read sometimes. Don’t tell Patty.” She laughs a little, then lets her impossible reality settle. “I don’t—I guess I don’t really need an escape anymore.”
Diane looks down, thumbs the cover of the book. “Well, I think they’re a nice way to get your mind off of…” She trails off.
“Hey.” Allison reaches over the table, hand on Diane’s arm. “If you ever need—”
“It’s a good book,” Diane says tightly. “Call me when you need another one.”
“I will.”
Allison watches her leave, an ache in her gut.
“She’ll get there,” Sam says.
“Will she?”
“Take it from a wise divorcee,” he says with a wry smile. “It gets better.”
Allison snorts. “You’re full of shit. Also isn’t that line for gay people?”
Sam laughs. “My apologies to you and the ‘roommate.’”
Allison hits him with her dishtowel.
Even so, he gives her a promotion at the end of August, makes her assistant manager on track to manager.
“That’s a fancy way of saying I would like to take days off once in a while, and you know the ropes enough by now,” he says with a little smile. “Plus it seems like you’re sticking around this time, so.”
“I am.”
It comes with a pay bump. It’s not much, still a waitressing gig in a small business. But it’s enough for what Patty charges her for rent, enough to splurge on a large popcorn when they go to the movies, enough for a new coat at the outlet stores when September brings a cold breeze to Worcester.
“Thank god,” Patty says when she has to grab a jacket to smoke out on the porch. “This summer was too long.”
Sometimes Allison thinks of all that happened this past summer, this past year, and her head starts to swim.
She has a nightmare one night about Kevin pressing her up against a wall and not letting go, of the air squeezing out of her throat, of words unable to leave her mouth.
She wakes up in a cold sweat on the couch as the end of Streetcar Named Desire plays.
“Can you turn it off?” Allison asks shakily.
Patty does, eyes clocking Allison’s breathing, her unease. She wraps a blanket around Allison, pulls her close to her chest. Allison lets out a long sigh, breathes in Patty’s scent. Patty smells like cigarettes and hairspray and coffee and autumn. Allison squeezes her eyes shut, lets Patty’s smell drown out the panic in her chest, drown out what happened only a hundred feet away from here.
Kevin didn’t have a funeral. Allison sure as hell wasn’t going to throw him one, and Pete couldn’t be bothered to come up from Florida, said he had tickets to a Marlins game. So there is no place to visit to scream at him, no ashes to throw down the garbage disposal. She supposes it’s almost more cathartic this way, his nonexistence.
But sometimes she wishes she had something to kick.
It’s wordlessly decided that Streetcar is no longer the right movie for the evening, so Patty flips through the pages of the movie book, smiles a little, puts on When Harry Met Sally.
Allison expects to fall back asleep instantly, doubting either Harry or Sally will keep her attention, but she stays awake. Maybe it’s the nightmare still lingering in her body, or the way that Allison is charmed by the outfits and the hair and the old couples in between scenes.
But it’s mostly because Patty laughs loudly at Harry’s jokes, her eyes shining. The movie is saying something big about men and women, but Allison couldn’t even fathom the idea of men when she could watch Patty laugh at a romantic comedy all night.
“This is a great scene,” Patty says mid-movie.
“Mhmm,” Allison says, not telling Patty that her focus is less and less on Harry and Sally insisting they are just friends and more about how Patty’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. “How many times have you seen this?”
“It’s a very famous movie! Also… I don’t know, it’s sweet.”
Allison leans into Patty’s shoulder.
“Yeah, it’s sweet.”
The scene in question involves Sally quite convincingly faking an orgasm. Allison feels her face go a little red. She’s very good at it.
Patty is laughing, mouthing along with “I’ll have what she’s having.” It’s unbearably cute.
Then Patty’s eyes catch Allison’s and her mouth opens with a question. She shuts it quickly, turns back to the screen.
“What?” Allison asks.
“Nothing,” Patty says. “It’s kind of, uh, in poor taste.”
“Patty. Come on.”
“Fine.” Patty looks down at her hands. “Did you ever, you know—” she gestures at the screen.
Allison raises her eyebrows.
“What, fake an orgasm?”
Patty nods, not fully making eye contact. They haven’t really talked about sex before. Over the last couple months they’ve talked about things Allison hasn’t told anyone before, they’ve gossiped and shared truths when the light is off in Patty’s bedroom and it’s easier to say them in the dark.
But they haven’t talked about sex. Until now.
“Yeah of course,” Allison says, letting out a breath. “I—you know who I was married to.”
Sometimes when Allison remembers that she used to have sex with Kevin, she wants to throw up. Wants to scrub her memory of him like that one movie she fell asleep during where Jim Carrey was serious for once.
“Right,” Patty says. “That would make sense.”
“Yeah, it would.” Allison punctuates it with a bitter laugh. “What about you?”
“Oh.” Patty’s cheeks get a bit redder. “Yeah, when I was with…men.”
“Right.” Allison could leave it there, maybe she should. But she’s been kind of itching to ask Patty for a while now, “what’s it like, you know, with, um, women?”
Patty grins. Of course she does.
“It’s a lot better. A lot.”
“Gotcha.” Allison feels a little too warm. She turns back to the movie.
“Seriously,” Patty continues, a deep tease in her voice. “I will have what she’s having, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it!”
Allison cries when the movie ends, when Harry gives the big speech and they kiss and it’s New Year’s Eve and everyone is in love.
“That was a good one,” she whispers into Patty’s shoulder.
Most nights, if she makes it through a movie awake, she reluctantly goes upstairs to her own apartment, takes longer to fall asleep than she would on the couch, but still drifts off. But some nights, the ones when she and Patty have latched onto something neither of them will let go of, Allison follows Patty into her bedroom and they keep talking until one of them falls asleep.
Those nights are the best ones. Allison likes teasing Patty about her surprisingly large collection of pajamas that have kittens on them, likes stealing Patty’s t-shirts, likes smelling like her. She likes waking up before Patty, watching the softness of Patty’s face when she’s asleep, so peaceful like that. Sometimes Patty wakes up and catches Allison watching, a sly sleepy smile on her face. Allison always looks away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring.
Tonight, Allison is about to head upstairs to her own place when Patty asks, “hey, wanna stay down here tonight?”
Allison wonders if it’s because of her nightmare earlier, or if the movie made neither of them to be alone, but either way, Allison nods.
She falls asleep on Patty’s chest and doesn’t dream.
When it becomes October, they get pumpkin flavoring to put in their coffee at the diner. Allison has to break it to Sam that it’s not as good at Dunkies. Patty stops in for lunch that day, takes a sip of Allison’s coffee and makes a face.
“Not as good as Dunkies,” she tells Sam.
“You two are insufferable,” he says. Allison and Patty just grin at each other.
Patty buys her Dunkin’ with two creams and a pumpkin swirl that afternoon.
Coming home from work. Allison sees a woman walking two old dogs. She smiles at Allison, lets Allison scratch the dogs behind their ears. The smaller dog sniffs her hand, licks it, looks up at Allison like she’s someone significant.
“I work at the humane society,” the woman tells Allison. “You should stop by.”
“What do you think of a dog?” She asks Patty that night, watching the ember of Patty’s cigarette light up with her breath.
“Any dog? One in particular?”
Allison shoves her hands in her pockets. It’s getting colder out here, but she doesn’t mind.
“Like a pet? Maybe here?”
Patty breathes out her smoke.
“We had a dog as a kid for about two weeks. Neil found him on the street and brought him home, and then forgot to feed him. So I did it. I must have been about six, but I loved that dog. He was shaggy and dirty and I named him Scooby-Doo. Because I was six. Then my dad came home from the road and saw the mess Scooby had made and…” Patty trails off. Allison takes her hand wordlessly, running her thumb over Patty’s knuckles. “Worcester didn’t used to have a humane society, you know. So it was just a good old fashioned pound. Never knew what happened to him there.”
She breathes a long breath out. Allison holds her hand tight, leans into her.
“Fuck.”
“Comforting words as always,” Patty says with a weak little chuckle.
Allison smiles at her. “Hey, remember when I didn’t swear? How would I have comforted you then?”
Patty laughs a real laugh this time and Allison feels it in her chest like the first sip of warm coffee on a cold day.
They go to the humane society the next day, browse the crates of cats and dogs, Allison stopping to kneel down and look them all in the eyes.
There’s a scruffy little black mutt named Oatmeal that sniffs Allison’s hand, shy and tentative.
“He doesn’t do that with most people,” the woman tells Allison, “his last household wasn’t very kind to him.”
She lets him out of the crate and he nudges his face against Allison’s knee. Allison immediately loves him. She looks up to Patty.
“Jesus,” Patty says, “with both of you looking at me like that…”
“I should warn you,” the employee says, “he’s not too fond of men.”
Patty snorts. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
They bring Oatmeal home. He’s technically Allison’s dog, so Allison takes charge of training him, of feeding him, of walking him. But he loves Patty more. He jumps up when Patty comes home, he whines when she leaves, he flops onto her lap anytime he can.
“Traitor,” Allison mutters, while Oatmeal rests his head on Patty’s thigh during Before Sunrise.
“You’re jealous,” Patty tells her.
“Am not,” she mutters, even as Patty gently leans down and kisses the top of Oatmeal’s soft little head. Whatever.
Allison loves Oatmeal though, loves using him as an excuse to walk up and down the blocks she’s lived on for years, nodding at neighbors walking their own dogs, looking at the leaves in the brief window after they change color and before they fall. In all the years she’s lived here, she’s never noticed how beautiful it is this time of year.
Allison has slowly been getting a new wardrobe, buying things on discount and at estate sales and thrift stores. There’s no unifying theme or color palette, but she kind of likes the chaos of it, of being able to wear bright colors one day, and something softer the next.
But now that it’s getting colder, one of her favorite things to do is steal one of Patty’s sweaters or jackets and wrap it around herself when she walks Oatmeal, even when Patty is with her.
“You have your own sweaters now,” Patty says one morning, one hand around her Dunkin’ (two creams, three pumps of hazelnut) and the other on Oatmeal’s leash.
“Yours are more comfortable!”
Plus they smell like Patty, and Allison swears there’s something about them that carries Patty’s body heat.
“You are ridiculous,” Patty says, but she’s grinning.
“Sorry I look good in your clothes,” Allison says, nudging Patty’s shoulder a little, making Patty almost drop her coffee.
“Ridiculous,” Patty repeats, but she’s still smiling, eyes focused on Allison.
Allison doesn’t tell her, but when Patty looks at her like this, that’s how she knows she looks good in this sweater. Somehow Patty’s eyes on her have a way of spreading more warmth inside Allison than any article of clothing could ever.
They go on a horror movie kick for the second half of October. Allison loves it, loves the way Patty digs her hand into Allison’s thigh at the scary parts, loves an excuse to bury her head in Patty’s shoulder.
“You know what’s unrealistic about all these,” Patty says at the end of The Exorcist.
“Uh… the head spinny thing?”
“The fact that the fucking Priests are the good guys.” Patty laughs at her own joke. “I mean the writers clearly never attended mass when Father Patrick was deep into a bottle of Bailey’s.”
“Clearly,” Allison says, watching Patty chuckle.
She loves the way Patty laughs, loves the shape of her mouth when she smiles. Allison remembers when Patty used to wear lipstick that painted her lips into a perfect bow. Allison remembers wishing she could do that, being envious about how Patty could look so cool and beautiful at once. But now Allison loves the shape of Patty’s lips with nothing on them, loves the natural curve of her smile.
She has the impossible urge to reach her hand up and trace Patty’s mouth, to feel Patty’s lips under her fingertips, to feel them soft on her hand, on her arms, on her neck, on her own mouth.
“What, do I have something on my face?” Patty says.
Allison blinks quickly, clears her throat. She feels hot all over, like her skin is tight.
“Nope,” she says quickly. “You’re good. Should we, uh, should we try The Conjuring? More priests!”
Patty gives her a look, but doesn’t say anything. But there’s a secret smile on her face while she picks up the remote, like she knows exactly what Allison is thinking.
When the first jumpscare of The Conjuring happens, Patty’s nails press into Allison’s leg again. But this time she doesn’t let go, letting her hand rest there for the rest of the movie. It’s heaven.
“Can you close Saturday night?” Sam asks the next week. “I’d love to have the night off.”
Allison is on her break, splitting a BLT with too much arugula in it with Diane.
“What’s up,” Diane asks, “you have a hot date or something?
Sam, looks down, blushes a little.
“Oh my god!” Allison says, louder than usual, “who is she?”
Sam scratches the back of his neck. “She’s from, uh, Hinge. I know, it’s embarrassing, but you know… Worcester.”
“I think that’s great,” Allison declares. “Of course I’ll close on Saturday.”
“Cool,” Sam says with a genuine smile. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Any time, boss.”
“Is that weird at all?” Diane asks, once Sam is out of earshot. “Because you two used to…”
“Oh.” Allison says. She sometimes forgets she had a full blown affair with the guy. It’s just—he’s Sam. They joke around at work and have each other’s back. He teases her about Patty, for god’s sake. “No,” she tells Diane. “He’s my friend, that’s all.”
“So,” Diane says slowly, “do you ever think about getting back out there?”
Sam, who is apparently not out earshot, starts very loudly laughing. Allison ignores him.
“I think I’m good on men,” Allison says pointedly. “So, how’s Chuck?”
Allison gets a cold that is going around at the beginning of November, her nose runny and head heavy.
“This isn’t fair,” she says, as Patty props her up on the couch, a bowl of Sam’s chicken noodle in front of her. “We are together all the time and you are fine.”
“Immune system of steel,” Patty says. She tucks a blanket around Allison’s shoulders. Allison leans on her, closes her eyes. Patty is always so warm.
“Hey, eat your soup,” Patty scolds.
Allison sits up with a groan. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to walk Oatmeal, then I’ll make you some tea, yeah? I’ll only be gone for ten minutes.”
“Don’t you have work?”
Patty shrugs. “I only had one appointment today, moved her to Thursday. No big deal. Eat your soup.”
Allison nods. Her throat is already wrecked from the cold, but she feels it close up a little more. It is a big deal. Last year, when this same cold went around, she remembers asking Kevin for just a glass of water and he said he couldn’t because the Pats were playing. Allison remembers lying in that bed in that house, throat like sandpaper, truly alone.
“Thank you,” she rasps out to Patty.
“Of course,” Patty says. She kisses Allison on the forehead before she leaves, soft and warm. Oatmeal licks her cheek too for good measure.
She cries into her soup when they are gone.
It comes at weird times now, the crying, her eyes welling up when she doesn’t expect it. The next week, when they are watching An American in Paris, Allison starts to cry at one of the dance numbers, at the way women move seamlessly, the beauty of it unearthing something deep and raw in her.
“Hey.” Patty pauses the movie, puts an arm around Allison. “You okay?”
Allison sniffs, nods. “I just remembered…God, I haven’t thought about this in years. It was my tenth birthday, my dad took us into Boston for the ballet. We normally didn’t do much for my birthday because it was right before Christmas, but Boston Ballet was doing the Nutcracker and it was… I thought it was so beautiful, the way they all looked up there. I couldn’t shut up about it on the way home, how much I loved all the girls up there, how much I wanted to do that.
“That night, when my mom tucked me in, I asked her about doing ballet class and she said—God, she said I didn’t have the body for it. Which is a fucked up thing to say to a ten year old. She said all those swimming lessons made my shoulders big, said that the girls dancing didn’t have big shoulders, did they? It was…” She breathes a long breath out. Leans into Patty. “It wasn’t that big a deal, I don’t think I would have done ballet for long anyway, but—”
“It’s a shitty fucking thing to say,” Patty says, voice firm. “Especially about something you loved.”
God, how does Patty do that? Say just the right thing at the right time? Make Allison feel like she hasn’t been crazy her whole life?
“Yeah, it was. We never went back to the ballet. I think she told my dad not to take me anymore. I wish… it really just was so beautiful.”
“We’ll go to the ballet,” Patty tells her, smoothing her hair. “Can’t say I’ll stay awake, but…” she laughs a little but then goes serious again. “You deserve… you deserve to see something and love it. With no shitty moms or or making you feel bad or… you deserve only good things.”
Allison is crying again. She breathes into Patty’s shoulder until she feels at least a little normal again.
“You can play the movie,” she says.
“You sure?”
Allison nods. Patty holds her shoulder tighter.
“Also your mom was fucking crazy, you have incredible shoulders.”
And Allison laughs and laughs.
During an uncharacteristically warm day in mid-November, they take Oatmeal to the dog park and then stay out till sundown, walking around the grass while it’s still green for a little bit longer. They make up stories about other people in the park. Allison wonders if anyone else is making up stories about them; wonders what strangers see when they look at Allison and Patty and Oatmeal.
When they get back, it’s dark, and they both start when they see someone sitting on their porch, Allison instinctively grabbing Patty’s hand. It’s not until Oatmeal woofs in non-hostile greeting that Allison recognizes her.
“Diane?”
She’s sitting with an old suitcase that Allison remembers being shiny and new when Diane moved in for a couple weeks after Allison’s dad died to help out. That month is mostly a blur, but Allison remembers leaning her head on Diane’s shoulder, remembers crying with her when she couldn’t cry with her own mother.
She sits down next to Diane now, shoulder to shoulder. Diane lets out a long breath.
“I’m trying again,” she says slowly. “To leave him. And I just don’t think I could stay at that hotel again—”
Allison takes her hand. “Whatever you need.”
She takes Diane up to her apartment. The bed is still made from the last time Allison slept in it, over a week ago.
“Shit,” Diane says. “This place got clean.”
Allison is about to ask when the hell Diane was here. Then she remembers. God, she wonders if Neil knows about any of this. She decides not to ask.
She shows Diane the tricky faucet in the shower, the cupboard where she keeps the good snacks, which knobs to turn on the radiator.
“Stay as long as you want,” she tells Diane. “Mi casa, you know?”
“I don’t want to put you out,” Diane says, “you shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.”
“I’ll just sleep with Patty,” Allison says quickly, not quite realizing what that sentence sounds like until she says it out loud. She blushes a little. “I mean, in her bed.” Jesus, not better.
Diane raises her eyebrows. “Oh.”
“It’s not, um, we’re just really close.”
“Sure.” Diane shifts awkwardly. “Patty’s great.”
“Of course Patty’s great.” If there’s anything in this world that is universally true, it’s that Patty’s great.
“It’s—I’m happy you have her.”
Allison isn’t entirely sure what context Diane is talking about here, but her eyes are soft and intent, and Allison breathes a long breath out, a part of her she didn’t even know was tense relaxing.
“I’m happy I have her too,” she says softly. “And you have both of us now, okay?”
When she gets downstairs, Patty is sitting with her feet up on the couch, reading and stroking between Oatmeal’s ears. Allison gets the urge to cry again. She leans against the wall, not wanting to disturb the picture just yet.
Patty spots her though, she always does, and carefully places down her book.
“How is she?”
Allison shrugs a shoulder, walks over to the couch. Patty swings her legs down so Allison can sit by her side and Allison leans into her..
“She’s okay, I think. Seems a little shell shocked. I said she could stay up there.”
Patty nods. “Yeah, I mean, as long as she’s okay with being in that space after, you know, the whole Neil thing.”
“Yeah. That.” Allison fiddles with the strings of her sweatshirt. “So is it fine if I stay down here? Just while she figures things out? I know it’s no notice.”
Patty snorts out a laugh. “Sorry, how is that different from before?”
Warm relief settles in Allison.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Yeah, Allison, it’s gonna be real hard with you being down here all the time. How will I ever adjust to you sleeping on my couch and wearing my clothes and drinking my wine?”
Allison laughs. “Hey, I buy the wine last time I checked.”
Patty rolls her eyes but she’s grinning. “Sure, roomie.”
“I do!” Allison shoves Patty’s shoulder with her own. She loves this. She doesn’t quite understand how Patty can tease her, can poke fun, but in a way that makes Allison feel comfortable, at home, like she’s in on the joke.
Still there’s something, some lingering anxiety from the past decade that sometimes crawls its way into her brain. “If you ever, though…” She doesn’t look Patty in the eye. “If I’m ever crowding you or whatever…”
“Hey.” Patty reaches up, lightly presses her fingers to Allison's chin, turning her face so Allison has no choice to look her in the eye. “You’re not crowding me. I like having you around, okay?”
Allison nods. It’s stupid, she knows. Of course Patty likes having her around. They spend almost every day together and Allison has never seen Patty smile so much than in these last few months. But sometimes… sometimes it really helps to hear it out loud.
“Okay,” Allison says softly, embarrassed that she’s a little teary.
Patty wipes one of her tears away, so soft and easy and Allison sighs, distress leaving just as quickly as it came.
“Come on,” Patty says, “let’s go to bed.”
Allison steals a pair of Patty’s sweatpants and an old Red Sox t-shirt that smells like her and falls asleep in the crook of Patty’s neck.
It’s not much of an adjustment, having Diane there. She sticks to the upstairs unit more than Allison ever did, but she comes down for dinners sometimes, occasionally partakes in whatever movie they choose to put on. Oatmeal takes a liking to her, whining to go upstairs with Diane when she goes off to bed.
“I don’t mind the rascal,” she says, leading him to the upstairs apartment. “He keeps the bed warm.”
Allison smiles at them, glad that no one in this house has to sleep alone these days.
“Am I working Thanksgiving?” Allison asks Sam a week before the holiday. “I don’t mind.” It’s not like she has much family to spend the holiday with except for an aunt she sees every day.
He chews on his pencil. “I was actually thinking of closing up that day. Maybe hosting a little dinner here. For people who don't have family around.”
“Jeez, Sam, way to make it sound depressing.”
“Hey, no, it will be fun! I make a really great stuffing.”
Sam’s right, it actually is fun. Allison helps him prep in the kitchen on the day of, mashing potatoes until her arms hurt. Patty stops by too, mostly to eat the carrots as soon as Sam chops them, which makes Allison laugh and Sam ban her from the kitchen.
The group gathered is an odd one, some straggling staff from the restaurant, a couple people Allison thinks are from AA, Diane, Patty and herself.
The most surprising guest comes 20 minutes after they start eating, his large frame filling up the doorway like it always has.
“Neil?” Patty and Diane say at the same time from either side of her. Shit.
Allison hasn’t seen Neil for the better part of a year, and he looks…different. Rougher around the edges, but something firmer in his face, more controlled.
“Did you invite him?” Diane asks Patty.
Patty shakes her head.
It turns out Sam and Neil have the same sponsor, and she invited Neil last minute. Allison braces herself for something uncomfortable or hurtful to happen, but it’s oddly fine. He sits across the table from Patty, and they give each other a little nod, something passing between them that Allison doesn’t think she’ll ever really understand.
“You good?” Allison whispers to Patty, squeezing her hand under the table.
Patty nods, squeezes Allison's hand back, and then, shockingly enough, starts up a conversation with her brother, something about an old video game they used to play.
“You good?” Allison whispers to Diane next.
Diane nods. “I’ll be fine, hon.”
And she is, as far as Allison can tell, digging into her food and laughing with Sam. Sam wasn’t lying about the stuffing, and he makes for a good head of the table, offering anyone seconds he can, picking up conversations with those that aren’t talking.
At the end of the dinner, Sam stands up. “Okay, now it’s time for everyone’s favorite part—”
“Boo,” Patty calls preemptively.
“Let’s all say something we are thankful for this year.”
“Boo,” Patty repeats to laughter.
They all go around and do it though. A lot of the AA people mention their sobriety, Tim the busboy shouts out his boyfriend, Marcie the line cook says her cats with a laugh. Sam is thankful for Bev’s, with Tim punctuating it with “and all of his incredible employees!”
When it gets to Neil, he looks down at his hands. “Uh, a lot of other people have said this, but I’m three weeks sober, which is pretty cool.”
He looks up and meets Patty’s eyes, who gives him a little nod. Sometimes Allison is struck by how they have the same eyes.
At Patty’s turn, her thigh bumps into Allison’s under the table.
“I’m thankful for my tenant,” she says with a crooked grin. “And her dog.”
Allison’s thigh hits Patty’s thigh back, her foot pressing into Patty’s ankle with her shoe.
“And I’m thankful for my landlord.” She smiles at Patty, bigger and more honest than her words. “And my dog.”
“I’m also thankful for her dog,” Diane says and the whole table laughs.
It’s good. It’s warm.
“Thank you,” she tells Sam after, when she helps him load the dishwasher. “That was actually really nice.”
“Actually,” he teases her, “you’re too kind.”
They watch together as Patty and Neil have stilted conversation, but then something breaks and Neil laughs at something Patty says. Her returning smile is genuine and warm and relieved, lighting up her whole face.
“You’re staring,” Sam says. She smacks him in the arm.
The first snow comes at the beginning of December. They’re sitting on the porch splitting a bottle of wine when Allison sees it in the stream of light from a street lamp, a few scattered snowflakes.
“Look,” she says, “snow.”
“Astute,” Patty says.
Allison shoves her a little, doesn’t move away. Snow has always been a hassle, something to shovel or that melts in your boots. But there’s something about this this year, softening the street, flakes landing in Patty’s hair, that Allison thinks is actually quite beautiful.
When Allison gets her work schedule for the last two weeks of December, it looks a little different than usual.
“Sam, why am I off Sunday night? I always close Sundays.”
Sam grins at her. “Patty told me to. Said she had something planned for your birthday.”
Allison stops in her tracks. “She remembered my birthday?”
No one ever remembers her birthday.
Sam smiles. “Seems like it.”
“What does she have planned?” Allison feels herself grinning, warm. Like she’s a kid.
Sam holds his hands up. “I'm keeping my mouth shut.”
“Sam says you have something planned for my birthday,” Allison says that night on the porch. Oatmeal is playing in the snow.
Patty groans. “Can that man not keep his mouth shut?”
“What are we doing?"
“I’m not saying shit. You’ll have to wait.”
“Not even a hint?”
“No.” Patty takes a drag of her cigarette. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s no, you know, surprise party with all the people you’ve done crime with.”
“Oh my god, will I ever live that down?”
The night before Allison turns 36, her and Patty take the commuter rail into Boston.
“I would have done this on your actual birthday, but they are closed Mondays.”
“Where is closed Mondays?”
Patty just smiles. “You don’t have a patient bone in your body, Allison Devine.”
Allison watches Patty’s tongue do that thing it does when Patty is self-satisfied. She’s more patient than Patty thinks.
The train gets off at South Station and they walk over to the Common, see the tourists and college kids bundled up and ice skating, the wreaths hung on street lights. Boston is louder than Worcester, more alive. When Allison came here as a kid, or even sometimes in her 20s for various sporting events, she would be in awe of it. Of how big and bright everything seemed compared to home. And she would wish to be one of the people who woke up every day here.
But now, as she links her arm through Patty’s, watches the people rush around them, she is happy that she’ll be going home to somewhere just a little slower.
It’s not until they are in Downtown Crossing that Allison realizes it. Realizes she’s been here before, sixteen years ago. She feels tears warm in her eyes.
“Patty. You took me to the ballet.”
Patty smiles softly. “Yeah, I heard this Nutcracker guy is a big deal around here.”
“Patty.”
Allison aggressively pulls Patty toward her, hugs her close. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispers in her ear.
“Happy birthday,” Patty whispers back. God, Allison loves her.
The Nutcracker is even more beautiful than when she was ten. It’s bright costumes and dancers who move like they are water, and the music that lingers in her head. But it’s also Patty, by her side. Patty talking shit about the Mouse King in her ear and laughing at the kids falling asleep in the row in front of them and, best of all, looking over at Allison every few minutes to make sure she’s having a good time.
Allison doesn't have the words to articulate that she’s having much more than a good time.
She attempts it later that night, after they’ve taken the train back to Worcester and crawled into bed. They are face to face, covered by the blankets. Allison can feel Patty’s breath on her face.
“Patty,” she whispers, “that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
Patty reaches out, tucks some hair behind Allison’s ear.
“It’s like I told you. You deserve only good things.”
“So do you.”
They don’t do much for Christmas, having the shared memory of the past 15 years of eggnog vomit, not to mention the horror stories Patty tells from when she was a kid.
“The Christmas after my mom died,” she tells Allison one night, “my dad was out on the road and I knew we weren’t getting shit. And Neil was so fucking sad that year, we both were, but he couldn’t stand it, starting having nightmares about mom, was drinking all the time. So I stole him a PS2 for Christmas.”
“You what? ”
“It’s pretty easy to get away with stuff when you’re an 11 year old girl that no one looks twice at.”
“Holy shit. Patty.”
Patty shrugs. “Neil was obsessed with that thing. Played GTA every fucking day until he fell asleep. It was worth it.”
Allison thinks about Patty as a kid, probably wearing a big sweatshirt, sneaking a PS2 out of Walmart for her big brother. Thinks about how no one has ever stolen Patty a PS2.
There are 55 Dunkin’ Donuts in Worcester, MA, but there is one that is known as The Bad Dunkin'. Allison remembers people getting in fights and selling weed in the parking lot there in high school. Five days before Christmas, Allison pulls up in the parking lot of The Bad Dunkin’.
It’s not hard to spot him once she’s inside.
“Allison,” Neil says. “Uh, hey.”
He’s wearing the visor and apron, behind the cash register with a bored looking teenager. When Diane told Allison Neil worked here, Allison couldn’t really picture it, but here he is, large and awkward in front of the bright pink and orange decor.
“Hey,” she says. “Um, could I get an iced medium peppermint mocha and a large hot coffee with two creams, three pumps of hazelnut?”
“That’s Patty’s order,” Neil says, almost automatically. Allison is genuinely surprised he knows.
“Yeah, uh, one’s for her.”
“Cool.”
For a person who Allison saw almost every single day for 15 years, Allison realizes she has no fucking clue how to have a conversation with the man. They only really talked when they were threatening each other.
“So,” Allison says, as the teen makes her coffee. “I know you don’t… I know you’re not a fan of me or whatever, but Patty… get her a Christmas present, okay?”
Neil furrows his brow. “What?”
“Just get her a present. It doesn’t have to be big or anything, I know you…”
“...work here.”
“Yeah. But just, I think it would mean a lot to her. And she… she deserves only good things, right?”
Neil lets out a sigh. He looks so different here, under the Dunkin’ lights, without the smell of booze off of him, stiller than he's been before.
“Yeah,” he finally says, “she does.”
“Finally, we agree on something,” Allison says with a nervous smile.
Neil tries to smile back. He hands her her coffees.
“Thanks,” she says. “Uh, see you around I guess.”
He nods. Then, just as she turns to leave. “Hey, Allison. I’m getting to step eight soon, so I might… I might give you a call, okay?”
“Okay.”
She gives him one last look and leaves the Bad Dunkin’.
“What's the eighth step?” She asks Sam that day at work. “In AA?”
“Amends.”
On Christmas Eve, Allison falls asleep during Miracle on 34th Street and wakes up on the couch with her head in Patty’s lap. She’s on her back, so that when she wakes up, the first thing she sees is Patty’s face. It’s her favorite sight to wake up to.
“Hey,” she says hoarsely. “What time is it?”
Patty smiles down at her. She’s only lit by one lamp and the glow of the TV. She’s the most beautiful person Allison’s ever seen.
“One a.m.,” Patty whispers, though no one else is around. “Merry, Christmas, Allison.”
“Merry Christmas, Patty.”
Both of their work is pretty dead between Christmas and New Years, so they haunt each other’s workplaces, Allison spinning on the chair in the salon in the new sweater Patty got for her (“So you’ll stop stealing mine.” Allison won’t.), or Patty sitting on the counter at the diner, talking to Tim about what movies should be nominated for Oscars this year.
“Your girlfriend is so cool,” Tim says after Patty leaves. Allison doesn’t bother to correct him. “I’m having a New Years’ party, you should totally come and bring her.”
“I’ll ask,” Allison says. She’s pretty sure Tim is in his early 20s and she feels both very cool and very old.
“Hey,” Sam says, “can I, uh, bring my girlfriend too?”
“Sam!” Tim shrieks and their rest of the shift is overtaken by the staff trying to pry details out of him.
A couple of days after Christmas, Allison is flipping through the movie book when Patty comes home. It’s a new edition that Allison got for Patty for Christmas, hundreds of more movies they can watch, hundreds of more hours to spend together.
Allison looks up the book to see Patty and immediately starts laughing. Patty is wearing a garish orange beanie that has Worcester written on it so large that there is an angle where it kind of looks like it says incest .
“Um,” Allison says, trying to contain herself. “What the fuck is on your head?”
Patty holds up a finger. “Don’t.”
“From this angle it just says worse.”
Patty sighs, takes the hat off her head. “It's… Neil stopped by the salon and gave it to me. Late Christmas present.”
“Oh.” Allison tries not to look surprised. That he actually did it. “That’s um, sweet?”
“It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Allison starts laughing again and Patty joins her. But there’s something in her eyes more than just humor.
They walk to Tim’s house for the New Years’ party. They hear it before they see it, a house overflowing with 20-somethings and pounding pop music.
“Oh god,” Patty says, “we’re old.”
“We’re not old,” Allison says. “We’re cool.”
Patty snorts. Allison takes her hand and leads them inside.
It turns out Patty is very cool, effortlessly smoking a cigarette and talking to some girl with a septum piercing who is friends with Tim about a book they’ve both read. Tim’s friend is smiling a bit too much, so Allison comes over with a Sam Adams for Patty, placing a hand on the small of her back.
“Thank you,” Patty says. She’s a little drunk, and her smile at Allison is huge and perfect. “Just what I wanted.”
Tim’s friend backs off. Allison smiles sweetly at her as she leaves, keeps her hand on Patty for the rest of the night.
“Is it awful if we leave before midnight?” Patty asks at 11:30. The house has gotten smokier and sweatier, too cramped.
Allison breathes out. “No, let's get out of here.”
Patty laughs. “I told you, we’re ancient.”
“We are not!” Allison takes Patty into the kitchen. There are a dozen bottles of cheap champagne in the fridge, waiting for midnight. Allison puts a finger to her lips, then takes one, stuffs inside her coat.
“Allison!”
“I’m young and fun. Plus, it’s not as bad as a PS2.”
They leave the party giggling, holding hands still. Though Allison knows they are old, heading home from a New Years party before midnight, she feels impossibly young, electric.
“We should have been doing this shit ten years ago,” she says to Patty as they walk onto their street.
Patty squeezes Allison’s hand. “Better late than never.”
They find Diane asleep in front of the TV, the ball drop gearing up in the background.
“She stole your spot,” Patty teases.
“Shut up.” Allison says. She puts a blanket over Diane and heads out to the porch, Patty in tow.
They drink the champagne from the bottle, the bubbles lighting up in Allison's stomach, especially when she watches Patty’s mouth wrap around the bottle. The snowy walk home sobered them both up, but they are still laughing, knees bumping each other on the porch.
“Any resolutions?” Patty asks, handing the bottle to Allison. There are snowflakes in her hair.
“I don’t know,” Allison says. “More of this.”
They hear the TV inside start to count down.
“What are your resolutions?” Allison asks Patty. She takes a sip. Patty watches her.
10…9…8
“The same,” Patty says. She’s smiling. God, her smile. “More of this.”
5…4…
They join in at the end, “three…two…one.”
There’s loud celebrations from the TV, from houses around the block. But on their porch it’s quiet, serene.
“Happy New Year,” Allison whispers, soft. She leans in to hug Patty.
Patty puts the bottle down so she can hold Allison back.
“Happy New Year,” she whispers.
They pull back slowly from the hug, cheeks brushing each other’s. Allison turns her head slightly, so she can plant a kiss on Patty’s cheek. She feels Patty smile more than sees it. Then Patty is doing the same, lips brushing Allison’s cheek, warmth contrasted against the winter night.
Then they pull back just a little further, so it’s just perfect for Allison to kiss further down Patty’s cheek this time, then again right outside the edge of her lips. Then, easy as breathing, Allison is kissing Patty on the mouth, feeling Patty smile against her lips.
Patty’s mouth is warm and soft and perfect, and more champagne bubbles rise in Allison’s stomach, bolder and stronger and more joyous than ever. She holds Patty’s face and kisses her under the porch light as snow falls around them and the neighbors celebrate the New Year.
She leans back only to smile at Patty, grin bursting from her. It’s echoed on Patty’s face, Patty’s gorgeous face. The sight draws Allison back in, kissing Patty again and again until they knock over the bottle of champagne and laugh their way inside their home, trying not to wake Diane as they sneak back to the bedroom.
“You’re my favorite person in the whole world,” Allison whispers to Patty that night, hands stroking over Patty’s lips, down her jaw, so desperate to touch every inch of her that she hasn’t yet.
Patty grins at her, kisses the underside of her jaw, her neck, behind her ear. “And you’re mine.”
Allison could float. The only thing grounding her is how her body is touching Patty’s body in dozens of places.
“We should have been doing this shit ten years ago,” she says into Patty’s neck.
Patty laughs. “Better late than never.”
Allison has woken up next to Patty countless times at this point. But today, on the first day of the new year, she wakes up next to Patty and simply looks at her. Every plane on her face, the soft dip of her collarbone, the smooth curve of her side. She watches Patty until Patty wakes with a slow sleepy smile.
“Morning.” Patty’s voice is raspy in the mornings, before water of coffee or cigarettes. It’s perfect.
“Morning,” Allison echoes. She still can’t stop watching her. Especially now that she’s up, especially now that Patty is watching her too.
“What are you staring at?” Patty asks with a grin, like she knows the answer. She does. They both do.
“Home.”
"I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." - When Harry Met Sally, screenplay by Nora Ephron