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Fall is coming around again, and instead of blurting out her question, H tugs on Luce and Rachel's hands (she has one of each) and announces her intent. "I have a question." She waits, glancing at each face. "When is your anniversary? Mum and Dad have an anniversary, and you should have one too, even though you're two lesbians."
Rachel's gaze shifts, and her eyebrows come together. "We haven't exactly--"
"My birthday, isn't it?" Luce asks, directing the question over H's head at Rachel, her voice all hush and warmth. H likes it, the way they talk to one another. She wishes she could have them all to herself, but knows that people are like this, sometimes, and she does arts and crafts with Luce and Rachel doesn't like the feeling of glue on her fingers and that doesn't make them any less of friends. People are just different from one another. And that, she thinks, is okay.
"We ought to set another date, shouldn't we? It's no good, mashing all of the celebrating together. And a birthday -- well, that deserves a day of its own."
Luce catches Rachel's hand, and H may as well vanish (but that's okay, too, actually). "There's no way I'd rather celebrate my birthday than with you."
*
Another year passes, landing them squarely on a circled calendar date. (Rachel finds herself tracing the mark with her fingertip, finds herself smiling.)
"I have tickets, you know," Luce whispers against Rachel's neck at some ungodly hour of the morning. The sun is just making an appearance through the gap in the curtains. The two of them smell like fresh linen, like dried sweat, and just a little bit like flowers.
Rachel shifts, snagging more than her share of the comforter. "Just promise you won't be too worn out for dancing, after." Her eyes are bright, like stars.
"I don't tire easy," Luce answers and tugs the duvet back, giving up halfway through in favor of leaning close, breathing in, and catching Rachel's mouth against her own.
*
Fall comes again; it's been three years since their first date.
"And what might I ask is the occasion, ladies?" asks the host, giving them a polite once over. There isn't much to ogle -- the pair are dressed conservatively, a splash of color, a single aster pinned in Rachel's hair. Heck included this place in his last book, in the chapter A Rainy Day At Home -- a guide for the Londoner who wants a taste of the world without the passport.
They both, after a smattering of giggles and one blush, speak up.
"September fifteen," Rachel says, squeezing Luce's fingers.
"My birthday," Luce adds.
"Our anniversary," Rachel concludes, smiling.
"A fine occasion it is, then!"
"Indeed," Luce says, and looks down for a moment, just briefly, to see how perfectly their hands fit together.
*
"My birthday's soon," Rachel says against the skin of Luce's stomach, stretched out and hot.
"Still bemoaning squished-together celebrations?" Luce asks, grinning.
Rachel thinks about the ring hidden in her sock drawer. "I may have changed my mind."