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She is days away from starving, and all she can think about is Vanessa Palmer’s smile.
Van is unconscious – whether she’s sleeping or still passed out from the pain, Taissa can’t tell. The bloodied mess of her girlfriend’s face is without a doubt one of the worst things she’s ever seen, but she also can’t drag herself away from the sight, eyes skimming over the puckered stitches and jagged flesh like she’ll somehow find an answer there. The freckles she so loves are covered in the smeared blood Misty had desperately tried to wipe away, before Taissa had seen the tears building in Van’s eyes and swatted at Misty’s hand like it was poison.
(She feels a little bad about it now, but any pain she can spare Van is more than worth Misty’s hurt feelings. Even if that makes her an asshole.)
The soft warmth of Shauna’s breath hits the back of her neck before the other girl’s presence fully registers, which means she doesn’t have enough time to rearrange her face into something calmer than that raw mix of guilt, fear and sadness she feels before Shauna sees.
“You saved her life, Tai,” Shauna says softly, eyes so big and kind that it makes her want to scream.
She shakes her head, eyes returning to Van’s barely-moving figure. “No, I didn’t. I almost got her killed.”
“She wouldn’t have made it here if you hadn’t shot that gun–”
“She wouldn’t have been out there in the first place if I hadn’t suggested it!” she hisses, instantly regretting the harshness in her tone when Van flinches in her sleep. It’s so stupid, so weak, for that to be the thing that breaks her, but it does, breath hitching and voice catching and silly little sobs pouring out of her as she collapses into Shauna’s arms like she’s two years old and incapable of caring for herself.
“It’s going to be OK,” Shauna whispers, squeezing her slightly. She’s really got the whole mom thing down pat already, Taissa thinks to herself, choking back a hysterical laugh.
“No, it’s not,” she says, pulling back from the hug to glance back over at Van. “What if it doesn’t heal right? What if she hates the way she looks?”
“It’s just going to take time, Tai–”
“What if she never smiles again, Shauna?” she says quietly, the million different what-ifs racing through her head tormenting her more than any day in this wilderness ever has.
For a beat, Shauna doesn’t speak, just stares back at her, and in that moment, Taissa thinks about a world without Van’s smile, a world without her joy, her laughter, the things that save her from herself more than anyone will ever know, than Van could ever know.
And she knows, without a doubt, that is a world she would never want to live in.
•
She is 14 years old the first time she sees Vanessa Palmer really smile.
They are six weeks into their freshman year of high school, six weeks into being Yellowjackets, and Taissa is engaged in a desperate battle to prove herself the best of the best on their JV squad. She’s got her eye on varsity, has made it her goal to get Coach Martinez to notice her before the end of the first semester, and she refuses to let anyone stop her.
Taissa Turner doesn’t do anything half-ass, and soccer is no exception. Even if she’d joined on a whim, something to add to her college applications to boost that chance of getting a good scholarship at a great school.
Admittedly, she’s too wrapped up in herself to pay much attention to the redheaded goalie at first, much more focused on her battle to become top player and getting in good with Jackie Taylor, who anyone with eyes can see is being groomed to become their captain. So even though their goalie is loud and funny and obsessed with dirty jokes, Taissa doesn’t really engage with her until they’re far enough into the first semester that the scarlet leaves outside are the only thing brighter than that girl’s copper hair.
It’s the end of practice, and the redheaded goalie kind of (OK, absolutely) killed it today, making an insane dive for the ball at one point that left her all bloody and skinned but victorious. She saved Taissa’s ass once or twice after a bad play, courtesy of fucking Jackie’s idiotic strategy, and, well, Taissa’s parents taught her to give credit where it’s due. So even though Taissa’s not 100% sure of the girl’s name, she resolves to catch her after practice, give her a quick thanks and hurry home so she can cram for her Trig test.
Except that’s not what happens, of course, because when has Taissa’s life ever been simple?
Once she’s showered and changed, she catches the goalie in the locker room, chugging Gatorade like her life depends on it. “Nice job today,” she says, trying not to laugh when the other girl almost chokes on her drink.
“Shit, thanks,” the goalie says, coughing a bit as she puts away her Gatorade.
“I wouldn’t admit this in front of an audience, but you saved my ass out there,” Taissa tells her.
“Not a problem, Turner,” the goalie says, grinning. “It’s kind of my job, you know.”
And Taissa likes to think she’s got a good poker face, but the surprise must flash across her face as the tiniest bit of guilt coils in her stomach at the realization that this girl knows her name and she couldn’t name her if someone had a gun to her head, because the redhead’s smile widens, in the kind of way that lets her know she’s in trouble.
“You don’t know my name, do you?” she asks, raising a brow.
“I–” Taissa doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to come out of this looking like even an eighth of the dick that she is, and she quickly settles on honesty, dropping any attempt at a mask as she feels a flush spread across her face. “No.”
And if it were Jackie standing here, or pretty much anyone else on the team, truth be told, Taissa is absolutely certain they’d be pissed, or hurt, or disgusted, but this girl is evidently full of surprises. She laughs, and not just a tiny laugh, but a belly laugh, hands on her knees as she doubles over in giggles.
Her laughter is contagious, and Taissa’s laughter bursts out of her against her own will, the two of them cackling in the locker room like they’re in the audience of Saturday Night Live, fighting to catch their breath as the moment washes over them.
It’s at least a full minute before the goalie speaks again.
“My name is Van,” she says. “Well, technically Vanessa, but if you ever call me that, I’ll punch you in the tits.”
“Seriously?” Taissa says, trying to ignore the ache in her cheeks from smiling so hard. She can’t remember the last time anything made her smile like this.
“Swear on Sporty Spice,” Van says solemnly, crossing herself.
“Well, shit,” she says, laughing. “Duly noted. For the record, I’m not usually such an ass. But I’ve kind of been throwing myself into soccer. I really wanna get good so Coach puts me on varsity, you know?”
Van nods. “I get it. I’m trying for a scholarship in college, so it matters to me, too.” She pauses, then smirks. “And I guess I can absolve you of your assholeness, since you did compliment me.”
Taissa rolls her eyes, shifting her soccer bag higher onto her shoulder, but the smirk on Van’s face has dissolved into something more serious. “For real,” she adds. “You’re the first person to say that... So I appreciate it.”
And here’s the thing. Taissa isn’t normally an ass kisser. She’s not about buttering people up, killing them with kindness, getting more flies with sugar or whatever the fucking saying is – that’s a waste of time. Better to just be straightforward, right?
But there’s something about the look in Van’s eyes that Taissa can’t put a name to that speaks to something deeper than the high school soccer team, something deeper than junior varsity and red pinnies and worn cleats.
“Well, either they’re jealous or just blind,” she says, stepping closer to the other girl and catching a whiff of something woodsy. “Because you’ve got talent. For real.”
She’s not kissing ass.
Van smiles, and Taissa knows she is screwed.
•
She is good at denying herself things she wants, and so after that first encounter, she gets to know Van better, but keeps her at a distance, always a little bit removed. She can’t afford the distraction, can’t afford admitting certain things to herself, can’t afford to implode her life right now. And if it bothers Van, she doesn’t say as much, always ready with a grin, a new fact about the latest movie and a joke that would make middle-school boys proud.
And she keeps herself, her true self, at a distance, too. She bites her tongue when sappy compliments want to slip out, ignores the heat in her stomach when Van makes a good play or has her hair braided just so, stops herself from staring when Van gets out of the shower all pink-cheeked and freckled.
Soccer and college are the only things she can want. She knows her parents would love her anyway, knows it wouldn’t change a thing for them, but she won’t let herself want Van. She can’t risk fucking things up on the team, can’t risk the school finding out and suddenly losing favor with the teachers who might write letters of recommendation and arrange interviews for her, can’t risk ruining the things she’s worked so hard for.
Most of all, she can’t risk being the one to make that pretty smile disappear.
So she keeps things platonic, doesn’t join in when the team plays MASH or pores over the latest issues of CosmoGirl, slams a steely door shut in her mind whenever the softer part of her is tempted to make gross comparisons to oceans or flames or any of the other weird poetic shit Van tends to spark in her.
And above all, she swears to herself that whatever inkling of feeling she has for her, Van will never, ever know.
It works, until it doesn’t.
•
“Jesus, Tai, did you drink the entire liquor store?”
It is 2:53 AM on a very shitty Saturday, and Taissa is trying desperately not to throw up the remnants of Mrs. Taylor’s tuna quiche – which, who even makes that for a pre-game meal? Sober Tai probably would’ve thrown it up by now.
She finally gives in and retches into the Walmart bag in her lap, and Van sighs. “It’s OK, Tai. Let it out.”
She is 16 years old and desperately, desperately in love with Van Palmer.
In her defense, it’s not like she intended to end up here, in Van’s mom’s beat-up Honda Civic, puking her guts out in front of the very last person she wants seeing her be a mess. But they won the game against Hawthorne High, and Jackie suggested they all celebrate, and Van had said she’d go, and who was she to say no to a good time?
Except then she’d heard Lottie and Shauna gossiping about Eric Thompson from the basketball team, saying they thought he had a crush on Van, and one Orange Crush and vodka had suddenly turned into four.
Yeah, she’s a fucking idiot sometimes.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, sitting up and wiping at her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. Her body protests at the movement, stomach rolling again, and she can’t help the groan that escapes at the wave of nausea that slams into her.
“Hey, hey, it’s OK,” Van says, bending over and rifling through the pocket of the driver’s side door for a second. When she sits back up, it’s with a triumphant grin, clutching a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She presents it to Taissa like a prize, and her excitement is cute, if confusing.
“Not sure I’m following here,” she says hoarsely, swallowing hard against the near-Atlantic Ocean of spit in her mouth. God, she hates throwing up.
“You sniff it,” Van explains, tilting the bottle towards her. “It makes the nausea go away.”
“Seriously?” She’s doubtful, but she grabs the bottle anyway, unscrewing the cap cautiously like there might be poison inside.
“Yeah,” Van says, watching as she rolls her eyes and takes a deep whiff anyway.
And, damn, it does work.
“How did you know to do that?” she asks, taking another sniff.
Van’s eyes darken at that, and Taissa instantly regrets her question. “My mom gets sick sometimes.” And Van might think she’s good at hiding things, but Taissa doesn’t miss the way her shoulders slump for a fraction of a second before she plasters on that brilliant smile and straightens up.
“Come on, Turner, let’s get you home before you realize that trick didn’t work,” she says, and there’s a million things Taissa wants to ask, most of them variations on Are you okay, but she lets it go and listens to the sputtering sound of the Civic choking to life instead.
She’ll get the truth out someday. When she’s sober.
•
Van has one of the earliest birthdays on the team, but halfway through junior year, she still hasn’t gotten her license.
It’s not like Taissa really cares, but Jackie’s pulled her aside to bitch about it – Van’s missing practices here and there, showing up late to pre-game dinners every so often, always saying her mom got stuck at work or the family car was in the shop. It gets to the point where something “has to be done,” Jackie says, or she’s gonna put Van on probation.
Those words alone threaten to make Taissa’s heart stop. She knows how much the team matters to Van, knows how much she wants that scholarship – and yeah, she doesn’t buy Van’s excuses either, but she’s spent so many months convincing herself it’s not her business that when Jackie finally makes it her business, it’s hard to force herself to do something.
She doesn’t tell Van what’s going on. There’s no point – it would only embarrass her, probably make her angry at Jackie, and with Jackie as pissed as she is, it’d be dumb to do anything that would risk throwing Van off her game.
Instead, she invites herself over.
She’s never been to Van’s house before, the two of them forever hanging out at Taco Bell or the library or park or basically anywhere but Van’s house, actually – but she’s got this awful, creeping suspicion that Van’s house is at the center of all this, and if Taissa Turner knows how to do one thing, it’s follow a goddamn hunch.
She doesn’t give Van an opportunity to try to get out of it, springing the idea on her right as they’re heading out of practice, when they’d normally split up so Van can walk home and Taissa can take the bus or get a ride from her parents. Van visibly pales at the suggestion, something that both shouldn’t be physically possible and makes her chest ache, but doesn’t say no, and Taissa curses Jackie fucking Taylor under her breath.
The walk to Van’s place ages Taissa 10 years, but when they get there, it’s a nice little house, on the outside, even if the paint’s peeling and the front porch sags a bit. There’s familiar touches here and there, things that scream Van, from the forest green front door to the dirty soccer ball in the driveway.
They don’t even make it halfway to the door before Van begs her to stop.
“I don’t want you to go in there, Tai,” she says, voice low and strained, and God, she can’t cry, because if Van cries then Taissa will lose it.
“Whatever it is, I can handle it,” she promises, forgetting herself and grabbing Van’s hand. “I just wanna help, OK? I don’t know what it is, but I know something’s wrong. Let me help you.”
Van shakes her head. “I can’t let you see that. It’s bad,” she whispers. Taissa doesn’t know how to respond to that, and Van mistakes the silence for stubbornness. “Taissa, please.”
And look, Taissa is familiar with pain. It’s a welcome part of her daily life – the sprains and scrapes of soccer, the dull headache of squinting too long at history textbooks, the bright burning of muscles pushed too far – but she would rather set herself on fire than feel this pain, the pain of seeing Van so small, so sad, so utterly un-Van .
So she does – set herself on fire, that is – and pulls Van into a kiss.
It is stupid and poorly timed and selfish, the absolute worst place and worst circumstances for a first kiss, let alone the fact that she shouldn’t even be kissing Van, anyway, but it’s worth it for the tiny gasp of “Tai” against her lips and the way Van melts into her, all thoughts of soccer and car rides and shitty mothers forgotten.
“I don’t have to see,” she says, when they’ve finally broken apart, standing there in the footpath to Van’s front door. “In fact, if you don’t want to show me, I don’t want to see. But just know, I’m here, whether it’s pretty or it’s not. Always.”
And Van smiles.
•
Long after Shauna’s gone to bed, Taissa is still awake, crouched by Van’s side like her wounds will magically heal if she keeps staring long enough.
And stare she does, looking at her beautiful, brave girl, and the Tai that’s loved Van since they were 14 takes over then, pressing a careful kiss to the top of Van’s bloodied head.
“I’m here, Van,” she whispers. “Always.”
And maybe she’s going crazy, but she swears to God, Van smiles.