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"... and then, and then they end up having this great love story."
You think of her, the first time, all crimson and cream and bold. How she challenged you, how she watched you, how she made every ounce of you squirm.
"Ah! You're married."
You wonder if she knew then, if she'd made up her mind within the first fifteen minutes of knowing you that she'd slip into your life and become. That maybe she couldn't stay forever but she'd show up and teach you everything you needed, hand you the tools for you to build. To discover. Maybe help you a little with all of that too.
But you're realizing you might just want her to stay. Besides baseball it might be the only thing you want.
Clandestine and coveted.
There has to be a way.
The choice of it all.
You remember walking onto the field by her side, the green and the girls and the game, your shoulder brushing against her skin as your whole world opened up in front of you. You remember Maybelle and Lupe all cowboys and dirt and blonde and royal blue, steps forward, you remember the awe. The beauty.
You remember.
You first instinct after taking it all in was to turn and meet her glistening eyes because some part of you, deep inside your belly, pulled and taught, murmured: getting on that train lead to finding her, and absolutely everything about this experience might just mean coming fully into yourself. Choosing a life of your own. Running towards your destiny. And the glance, the moment, was too intoxicating not to share, even for a split second.
Because you think she sees it in you. You think she could be part of that destiny.
You think maybe she knows it too.
----
You ran onto the field, no pressure, a wink, a smile, a somersault inside your stomach, and off you both went, confidence, a crack of your bat, damn, and now here you are. You didn't need much luck after all.
With your hair inches shorter, you standing a little taller, and her sitting here beside you, choosing to be, knee to knee, with the weight of a lifetime you want to let go of still hanging on your shoulders.
"There's something wrong with me."
You'd written it because everything about then feels so wrong and everything about now feels so right and how can you justify the two extremes? How can you justify the way she makes everything inside your body pull to her and he makes everything in your body pull from you, but in the in-between of her and you you settle into yourself probably for the first time.
"Do you want me to stop?"
God, there's nothing you want less than for her to stop or this to end. It's unfathomable. The game and Greta and growth. But you're grieving, too, you think, for seven years of life and seven years of you and suddenly you hope there's not too much loss, too little left, where there's no time and no you to meet her at the horizon.
Because she is maybe the moon and you are maybe the sun and the moments when you come together, where you kiss the sky at the exact same moment are already so intoxicating. Liberating. How could anything this powerful be fleeting?
The universe doesn't make mistakes, after all.
You hope that this life pause, these one hundred and eight games, are more than just that. Time between.
You wonder what it all means for you.
----
The bartender runs a towel over the bar before he slides your drink to you with a smile. Truth be told you're not much of a drinker, especially not a casual cocktail, so this whole scene is a bit of a culture shock. These deep city lights aren't your scene, but they're growing on you, like everything else about all of this.
A good kinda shock.
The dancing had been fun and exhilarating, you'd forgotten what it felt like to have fun without husband's at war and hometown responsibilities. Without the weight of expectations and unfairly placed burdens. And ushering in this new era as a professional ballplayer has you all but buzzing with possibilities.
You'd worn yourself out, making your way to the bar to sit and catch your breath and people watch for a while. Your team is scattered about grinning and having fun and it's nice to get to enjoy them like this too. To see how they interact with each other and their environment so you can get a feel for them. All booze and smoke and perfume.
And then your eyes are drawn to her, it's hard to keep them from finding her and watching. Her head is thrown back in a laugh, grinning and glowing as she always is, Jo by her side, and when she seems magnetized to your gaze your heart races and she's waving and you're waving back and is this... flirting?
She comes to say hi about fifteen different ways because you're a fumbling idiot and she looks like that and has had a little to drink. She's standing a little too close and is beaming at you and her little wave took your breath away and you're still trying to figure out how to catch it back.
You notice the way Jo is glaring at you from the dance floor and it makes your stomach hurt just a little, confused what you could have done, nervous that maybe Greta isn't as unattached as she seems, anxious that maybe you're walking into something that's entirely out of your league.
So you just... ask, casually. Because once you settle into having her this close, she's easy to talk to, easy to banter with, easy to pull back when she pushes, catch when she throws; being near her is effortless.
The answer is easy and telling, but not exactly in the ways that you need for it to be, you know you weren't direct enough, but even a little insight is better than nothing so you know how to or how not to approach Jo as you tip toe around whatever this dance has become with Greta.
She leans into you and then floats away from you and she dances likes she exists in the world, fleeting, flexible, full of laughter and goofiness and beauty. Her soul shines through her smile and her swagger and all the weight that she carries beneath her surface that screams to you, even when she thinks she's subtle and strong.
She hides behind her lipstick and her floral patterns, her sultry eyes and her sarcasm, her boldness. But what she doesn't know is that you can see her too, behind the veil and in front of you and all you crave is for her to let you know her the way that she seems to know you. Hopeful that she'll let you in.
----
She watches you, honed and deliberate as you spill your secrets to her. She looks at you and waits and suddenly every word bursts forth from your mouth, fumbling but honest and you could live in these moments, the ones between honest and action, vulnerability and declaration.
She gets lost in your confessions, maybe because she doesn't think she'll ever be able to reciprocate, but you can feel every lingering look like lightening as it crackles and hisses through your body as she listens. Her mouth falls open in her distraction, dare you say, her desire, and if you felt safe knowing what you feel is reflected back to you, you'd listen to your body and you'd pull her into a kiss and you'd never, ever stop.
But you don't know how to do this.
You need her to lead.
You're not sure what it is about her, maybe that she's so present, that she chooses to be in your space when she could choose anyone else, but she's here, not liking olives and taking bites out of your lemon peel and ruining your drinks and laughing maniacally like she's in a feature film and she's just... robbed a bank and gotten away with it.
You feel like you're throwing your life away for this game, for these girls, for this feeling, for her. For the perfect little head tilt as she watches you, amused. The way your heart races and your body lights up being near her. All the things you hope you told him in that stupid drunken letter that was more about spending time with her than writing to him anyway.
All the things you cherish and that you now need.
You think about the ball as it settles into your mitt, the grit and the grass, the rays of the sun across your cheeks. You think about the bases, about her stretched and focused and ready to make the first out. You think about locker rooms and uniforms that scream you belong. You think and you think and now you dream.
And then you realize maybe it's not throwing anything away at all. Maybe you're collecting little moments that will connect the dots into a destiny you still aren't sure can be for you, but maybe you want to find out if it can, just in case.
Growing and glowing, and good.
Greta.
----
"I think you know what you wrote."
The way she says it haunts you, because it's deliberate, this game she's playing with you. She doesn't need to tell you because a million things are racing through your mind, all the things you should have said, things that would push him away and free you for... all of this, all of her.
You'd tell him of the ghost of her fingers in your hair, twisting and curling and redefining, her fingertips as she brushed it away from your neck and of the tension you carried, have always carried there, vanishing in an instant and all you felt was... safe.
He should know the way her mouth moves and how her tongue traces the corners when she's nervous but masks it to be alluring. He should know that your mine hasn't stopped racing with possibilities since the second you laid eyes on her.
He should know that every cell in your body screams for her to know you. To let her see you. Every thought seems to free itself, for she is the key, turned and tarnished but still the perfect fit.
He should know that you're not sure you'll ever be able to go back to being his.
He should know.
You think what she's saying, by not saying, is that it's not him who needs to know any of these things, it's you who needs to feel them.
Where he would tell you, fill in your blanks with his own. Tell you who you are so he can fit you into the mold of wife, his, that makes him comfortable, elevates him at the expense of you.
Where she tells you to listen to yourself, to learn yourself, that she sees you, sees through, your potential and your worth and you, and the contrast of the two makes you question everything you've ever known.
She doesn't want you to remember what you said to him, she wants you to know how you feel right now, sitting next to her in this dimly lit bar, hours after curfew, the music slow and waning, the lights dim and soft. Her eyes and her lipstick and her skin that looks so soft you have to restrain yourself from reaching forward.
Her.
Listening and present, eyes and focus drifting to your mouth, to your words, to your truths, to you. You're not sure anyone has ever cared long enough to do that for you.
There are so many rules being broken, so many vows, and with the steadfast vulnerable way she looks at you you can't find it in yourself to care.
----
The last two days have been a constant rush of her pushing and pulling and teasing and forcing you into this whirlwind of unease; inside your body, inside your mind, of your entire damn existence. And with the new state and the new house and a team to assimilate into, a whole new life, there's been no where to ground yourself except oddly, in her.
You're lost in your confusion and she's lost in you and when you finally muster up the courage to admit that all of this feels too good, too right to ever think of stopping, something clicks within her, she makes a decision, she looks down, to your chest, to your mouth, and then meets your eyes and with pursed lips, a breath, a choice. "Okay."
She reaches for your hand, tentatively, wraps her fingers around it and whispers for you to come with her, and you know what she's doing, where this is headed, you can feel her heartbeat quicken where your hands are joined, in the indented press of her fingertips across your skin. Like a memory. You can feel it in the way she tugs you behind her, she's on a mission, she wants.
You're fumbling and awkward because how can someone like her maybe possibly want something like this from someone like you and you walk farther into the back room as she closes the door, smiling, stalking towards you.
You know what's about to happen, but you still can't believe it so you ask her anyway, what she wanted to talk to you about. You're fighting the instinct to tuck your hair behind your ear because she cut the lengths you usually hide behind, running your hand across your burning neck instead, and now you're wide open and vulnerable but you want this and she's gorgeous and determined and as she grabs you by the shoulder and helps you lead her back to the wall you wonder how.
Brick and cement, the dirt and darkness, she leans in and presses her lips to yours and you just knew that it would be everything you've ever craved, every lingering look and quippy remark, full of soft and sultry and salacious. Her hand is on your other shoulder and she slides it to grip your neck, her thumb stroking gently at your jaw. Heat and heartbeats and her pressed tightly against you.
She kisses you and then pulls away with a smile, waiting. She's giving you a moment, giving you an out, giving you space to settle and decide, maybe to catch your breath because you realize you're not doing that, breathing.
Her hand falls from your hair, reverent and hopeful as her eyes fall to your lips letting you know that it's okay to want more, it's okay to choose your desire, it's okay to let yourself go. That she wants this too.
You feel her lipstick stained on your lips, sticky and stolen. You blink and you step back just to look at her, so you can decide, because this time she's allowing you to want her back. Allowing you to find your confidence and take the leap. A kiss from her could be tucked away and never spoken of again, silly and drunken and friendship, but a kiss from you is maybe the wrecking ball you've always desperately craved.
The letter and the tryouts and now finally, finally her.
And God do you, because she's leaned against the wall, ready, begging, maybe, but your hands are balled at your side as you figure out what you're supposed to do with them and you can't stop staring at her perfect pout and the faded tint that screams it was you and her eyes are hazy and you both take a perfectly synced breath and you feel the muscles twitch for more and --
They move, they know, they reach to wrap around her neck, silky and strained and you press your body into hers, your mouth desperately to hers like she is the oxygen that you need and the taste you can never get enough of. She's kissing you back and pulling you into her body, running her hands all over you, in your hair, over your shoulders, everywhere.
And then you're pressing up into her, harder against the wall, you need every inch of her firmly touching every inch of you and suddenly, suddenly, there's a sound... it comes from the back of her throat and it surprises you because she's composure and conformity and courage.
But now she's falling apart and it builds something deep inside of you, something that feels like a commandment, and you obey and press into her chest and then she presses back into yours, a familiar sort of dance. If you had any idea being with her like this could make you feel so much, you'd have done it the second you were alone together that first night. The familiarity of it makes you wonder if you did.
You're still stuck on the sound that you've pulled from her, barely there but you felt it and you can't let it go, can't let her go, fingers still around her neck, thumbs tilting her chin to meet your mouth and she gasps and so do you and you catch the taste of her with your desperate inhale and you have never ever experienced anything like this.
She cannot get enough and you cannot let go and you keep pressing, keep craving, and you're not sure what your body is even doing because it's instinct and desire and her and you and nothing else matters but the press of her lips to yours and then they're just... gone.
The music is crying in the background, will you stay for a lifetime, as she's shoving at your shoulder the same way she'd pulled you into her and as I thought so tumbles from the lips that half a breath ago were yours; giving and taking and moving against you and now she's just... gone.
It's all just... over.
She exits the room with a little hop as the door almost closes behind her and you're left standing there bewildered with every nerve in your body at attention. You're not really sure what just happened beyond the fact that there's suddenly only the ghost of her in front of you, ghosts across your skin, of fingers woven into your hair, of her breath and her mouth and --
As your hand scrapes against the brick where it should still be wrapped around her, the dishes crash to your right before you can even process any of this. It barely registers that there's another person there, someone who's obviously been watching, someone who's seen. It doesn't register how dangerous this could be, how scared you should be, because Greta's gone and it's like a piece of you has left with her and you're pissed because you feel used.
But there's also part of you that knows there's something more going on than that. That she felt it and she chose it and she wants it.
There are a million thoughts running inside your head as you rush out the door to try and find her, to get the answers to the questions that are burning with every breath your lungs take in.
You step out of the room with determination, to find her, to confront her, but the practicality of it all hits you and you're sobered that yes you were just kissed, yes you just kissed her, but this is the real world and there are real eyes and when yours meet the bartenders and he gestures to the martini glasses in front of him you remember.
Walking over with a smile to pay the tab, for the drinks that you didn't even consume, to give your hands something else to do besides reach for her, and now she's left you feeling very alone and a lot foolish and then you hear her. The coy little laugh that's plastered and fake and you turn to the sound of it and witness some solider helping her into her coat like she's not perfectly capable of putting it on herself.
You're overtaken with a rage that burns so hot inside you're sure it's painted your cheeks red, and if you didn't feel so hurt you'd storm over and probably throw both your fists into his stupid face because of course it had to be a solider. Of all the men she could have done this with, chosen you over, she had to mock you and the life you probably just blew up for her at the same time.
You chase after them because you cannot understand, you cannot just let her walk away with someone else, you have to try.
----
The house is quiet by the time you get home, and you're grateful for that. No questions, no eyes roaming over the hand mussed hair, no teasing for the late hour; just you and your thoughts and your own little walk of shame. Bev doesn't come out for you, so you decide to sit on the porch looking at the stars. Your mom always told you that you could find any answer your soul sought if you searched there long enough, asked yourself the right questions.
You can see Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor, and you think Cepheus too. She always made them up for you when you were younger, taught you about imagination and about how to dream.
But you grew up and read and researched and you learned their actual names, like old friends in a world that never showed you you could belong. A connection to her, a connection to yourself.
They're not clear like the sky in Idaho, but they shine just enough that if you squint you can see them. It makes you miss home just the tiniest bit, and it's... enough to not feel so terribly alone. Makes you miss your mom. Makes you wonder what she was running from more than a decade ago.
Maybe she wasn't running from, but running to.
You just wish you could just ask her. Maybe it'd make all these new questions a little less heavy.
The air is chilly in the early summer air and a shiver runs down your spine as you wrap your coat a little more firmly and decide to call it a night. You thought maybe you could hold out long enough that Greta would come strolling back but it's looking less and less like you're going to get any answers so it's probably time to give up.
You wince as the door groans under your palm as you try and sneak in, but Bev is on one of the couches reading something and she glares over the book as you enter the house. You freeze and she rolls her eyes and looks to the door for the rest with raised brows and stern eyes. A question.
Maybe a hint of an accusation too. Except.
But all you can do is give her a half hearted shrug, look to the ground dejected and rejected, and with the sigh that she offers, you shuffle upstairs to change, thankful she was kind enough to give you a reprieve.
----
It's half an hour later when your room illuminates and moments later you hear the stupid little giggle as it dances through your open window and aches. You'd gotten ready for bed and couldn't even think of sleeping on the off chance she'd come home, just so you knew she was safe, there's no way she wouldn't come home, right?
You tiptoe past a sleeping Shirley, grateful for her weird humidifiers that hiss gently enough that she won't wake up as the wood settles beneath your feet and make your way to the towering window. You part the lace just enough to see and she's got her arms wrapped around his neck and his hands are too low on her waist and it takes everything inside your body not to jump out the damn window and break up whatever they're doing like you're the chaperone.
And then she kisses him. It's quick and without any passion and you're grateful at least for that, but you can still feel her pressed to you, taste her across your tongue, crave the sound and a million others, and it all just... hurts.
The door opens and she looks up, nervous and caught, (thank God for Bev), and you can't quite make out what is said but it's clipped and impatient and annoyed and leaves no room for argument. You watch Greta shake her head, pained in defeat and exhaustion as she leaves the solider man standing there without so much as a glance back.
Good.
He turns in a circle, eyes back to the porch, back to his car, not sure what just happened and you flip him the bird with both hands for good measure. His hands fall to his sides, accepting defeat, and off he goes, his evening ruining presence no longer the chasm between you.
If you weren't jealous you'd feel a little bad for him because you're apparently not the only one left bewildered and bothered and woefully alone tonight because of Greta, but also fuck him because he stole your... well.
You stand a little longer watching the smoke billow from the porch, the little embers that Bev flicks to the ground, her unbeknownst company in the distant darkness offering you a sense of comfort. It reminds you of home, of little you and watching your dad do the same from your window as he grieved the loss of your mom. Or... didn't.
You wonder if you've even grieved her fully yourself, wonder if maybe some part of this is a little part of that too.
The floor creaks as Greta comes up the stairs, slowly walking across the hall to pause at your bedroom, and your head snaps to your right, to Shirley, and back as you see the shadow of her feet with the contrast from the window, hear the way the wood displaces with her weight. You hold your breath, not sure if she's about to come in, counting the seconds she stands there, shifting in place.
Three one thousandths, seven, twelve, and then you hear the drawn out sigh from the other side, remember the sound of one ghosting your lips, and you wonder what it all means. How she can be so intense with you one minute, and then so casual and carefree with him the next. How she's standing outside your door for whatever reason, waiting for something? Remorseful? You can't tell but your heart aches and the knot in your stomach doesn't lessen, nor does the heat in your cheeks from the frustration.
You make your way back to your bed, a little less careful not to step on any spot that makes noise so that maybe she's forced to hear you too, forced to face, even through the small barricade between you both, the choice that she made and the pain that she has to have known she'd cause you.
Because tomorrow starts a new day. With practice and a new coach and new uniforms and new beginnings. An opportunity, a dream. A way forward.
But maybe, just for tonight, you let yourself feel her hands over your body, her fingers in your hair, the taste of her tongue and of her as she overtook every one of your senses. You let your lips ache and your heart long, and you remember the desperate way she kissed you, clung to you, craved you, and then you let yourself wallow in the hurt and of the sadness a little longer before you fall asleep, dreaming of what could have been. Her.