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Melissa comes over for Sunday dinner, like she does every week, with a ziti that needs baking. She moves through Barbara’s kitchen with ease, humming quietly as she preps a salad. Barbara sits in the breakfast nook, grading shapes, but more watching Melissa. Taylor sits across from her, working on her college essays; Gerald is setting the dining room table; and Gina is in her room with the door closed, like usual.
Melissa hums louder when she realizes Barb is watching her. Barbara doesn’t have a radio in her kitchen, so Melissa has been running through her mental catalog of Stevie Nicks songs, because cooking without music is not an option. When she gets to “Landslide,” Barbara hums along. Melissa grins and starts outright singing. Taylor looks between them, rolls her eyes, and leaves the room, laptop and notebooks in tow.
“Love ya, Tay!” Melissa calls after her before resuming her song. Barbara shakes her head, smiling. Melissa is the only person who can get away with calling her daughter ‘Tay.’ Melissa is the kind of person who can get away with a lot. Maybe it’s just because she’s brave enough to go for it.
“‘Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’, ‘cause I built my life around you,’” Melissa sings, pointing at Barbara. She catches herself, realizes she’s all but serenading Barbara, and her face goes as red as the ziti in the oven.
You don’t have to do that, Barbara thinks, but that isn’t true. Gerald is in the other room, and Taylor, too, and Gina is just upstairs. It shouldn’t mean anything, Melissa singing to Barbara, but it does. They’ve built their lives around each other.
Melissa got divorced because she said Barb’s name in bed with her husband one too many times. She’s never told Barbara that, though, because they’ve never talked about it.
Barbara stayed at Abbott even after a private school offered her more than twice her current salary, and she lied to her husband about it so she wouldn’t have to explain that she couldn’t stand the idea of not seeing Melissa every day. She’s never told Melissa that, though, because they’ve never talked about it.
They’ve gazed into each other’s eyes and serenaded one another and danced together. They’ve held hands and cooked for each other and whispered secrets in the dark. They’ve done all this and more, but they’ve never talked about it. Not once in fifteen years.
Melissa bends down to check the oven. She keeps singing, a little louder, a little forced, trying to recover from the mortifying ordeal of loving Barbara too obviously. “‘But time makes you bolder, even children get older, and I’m gettin’ older, too.’” She pulls the dish out of the oven and sets it on the stove to cool. Barbara’s eyes wander down her backside as she bends over and straightens up. She hurriedly looks back down at her kindergarteners’ shapes when Melissa turns back to her.
“Dinner’s just about ready,” Melissa says.
“Wonderful,” Barbara replies. “I’ll let Gina know to come down.”
“No need,” Melissa says. Barbara has just enough time to cover her ears to prepare for what she knows is coming next. “Gina!” Melissa bellows, even though she knows Barbara wishes she wouldn’t. Her voice reverberates through the whole house, like it always does; it’s uncouth, Barbara would say (and has said many times); but what is Melissa supposed to do, she’s Sicilian, it’s her culture. “Dinner’s ready!”
“I could have gotten her,” Barbara says, lips pursed.
“Nah,” Melissa says. “You just sit there and look pretty and let me take care of everything.”
“If you insist,” Barbara says with a quiet smile.
When they’re all seated at the dining room table, Gina clears her throat.
“Um, so I wanted to say something,” she says shakily, “while I have you all here.”
Melissa knows what she is going to say, because Gina came to her first. “Do you really think they’ll be okay with it? Will you be there when I do it?”
Barbara suspects, and has suspected for a long time; the giant poster of that X-Files woman hanging over her bed is not exactly subtle. The apple does not fall far from the tree. Barbara, too, harbors a secret affinity for redheads (well, redhead), but she’s better at hiding it. She’s had fifteen years of practice.
“The thing is,” Gina hedges, and it breaks Barbara’s heart to see her outspoken daughter so uncertain. Gina looks down at her plate, not at her parents, and it breaks Barbara’s heart that she’s partly to blame for said uncertainty.
Melissa reaches across the table to squeeze Gina’s hand encouragingly. She tries not to look at Barbara, afraid to give anything away.
“I like girls,” Gina says. “I’m gay.”
Barbara lets the words hang in the air for the appropriate length, long enough to lend weight to Gina’s statement, but not long enough to frighten her. “Honey,” she says firmly, “we love you no matter what, and we will support you no matter what. Isn’t that right, Gerald?”
Gerald lets the question hang in the air for longer, almost long enough to frighten. Melissa shoots him a warning look. He clears his throat and nods. “Just as long as you still give us grandkids,” he says with a forced chuckle.
Gina and Taylor both roll their eyes.
“What if she doesn’t want kids?” Taylor demands. “What if I don’t?”
Barbara is glad she raised her girls to think for themselves, but she hopes at least one of them will follow her path. Carefully, she says, “What’s important is that we don’t want grandkids now, so don’t you get any ideas with that Alex boy you’ve been seeing.” She purses her lips at Taylor, who rolls her eyes again.
“Does this mean she still gets to have Carly and Deja over for sleepovers?” Taylor crosses her arms. “If so, not fair. You wouldn’t let me have any boys stay over—”
“Why don’t we get through dinner,” Barbara says calmly, “before we reevaluate the house rules. We have a guest, or have you forgotten all your manners?”
Gina laughs. “Mom, Auntie Mel’s not a guest. She’s family.”
All heads turn to Melissa, who hasn’t said anything since Gina’s announcement. She raises her wine glass. “A toast to Gina,” she says, her throat suddenly thick with emotion. “I’m so proud of you, honey. I wish I’d been as brave as you when I was your age.”
She’s only been openly bisexual for the lesser part of a decade, although she’s known all her life. She never got to tell her Ma. She’s not sure she ever would have, unless she’d ended up marrying a woman, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever marry again unless it’s Barbara she’s marrying. And that’s not gonna happen.
Barbara raises her glass, and the other Howards follow suit. There’s clinking and conversation and it’s back to being a normal Sunday night, and Melissa is so happy to be here, so happy to be part of the family, and Barbara is dying to get Melissa alone, dying to talk about it.
Later, Barbara drives Melissa home, taking back roads and side streets to prolong their time together.
“She came to you first,” she says. It is not a question.
“Yeah.” It is not an apology. Melissa has no reason to apologize. It’s like Gina said tonight, like Barbara has said countless times before: Melissa’s family. “She’s a great kid. You did good with her. With ‘em both.”
‘We did,’ Barbara wants to say, because she knows this isn’t the first time one of her girls has come to Melissa seeking support. They often go to Melissa before they come to her, which should hurt her feelings but doesn’t. Gerald works so much, it feels more like Melissa is her co-parent.
Barbara doesn’t mind that, and neither does Melissa, who always wanted kids and never had them. The thought of it leaves both of them warm and aching.
The ensuing quiet between them feels heavier and heavier as they drive through sleepy streets.
“She’s brave,” Barbara finally says. “I think I have you to thank for that.”
Melissa shifts in her seat. “What do you mean?”
Barbara laughs softly. “I can’t teach my daughters how to be something I’m not. But you — you’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met.”
Melissa laughs sadly. “I think you’re givin’ me a little more credit than I deserve, Barb.”
“I’m certainly not.” Barbara rolls to a stop at a stop sign and signals to turn onto Melissa’s street. She doesn’t turn yet.
“If I were really brave,” Melissa says, but her sentence catches in her throat when she looks at Barbara. There’s that look on her face, the one that she only gets when they’re alone, the one that doesn’t hide anything. Wide eyes, parted lips, love and fear and want, and more and more over the years, overwhelmingly sad.
The turn signal ticks, ticks, ticks, marking the seconds that pass with them just looking at each other, letting each other see everything.
“You’re living your truth,” Barbara says quietly.
“Not really,” Melissa responds, because she’s built her life around Barbara, but Barbara’s life was already built when they met. There’s no room for Melissa’s truth in Barbara’s life.
(That’s not fair to Barbara, exactly. Barbara has carved a Melissa-shaped space into her life, and every year that space gets bigger and bigger.
But still.)
“If you were really brave,” says Barbara, and the air between them gets heavier, crackles with fifteen years of buildup, ticks, ticks, ticks, “what would that look like?”
It’s close to what she wants to ask, but it isn’t quite the right question, and it isn’t quite fair to Melissa, either. Barbara risks nothing by asking, and Melissa risks everything by answering.
Still, Barbara wants to know.
Fifteen years, and they’ve never talked about it.
“Do you want me to show you?” Melissa volleys back. It’s bolder than she should be but not as bold as she wants to be. If Barbara says yes, Melissa will be really brave and answer the question for real.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Barbara switches off the turn signal and puts the car in park.
“Yes,” she says.
Melissa unbuckles her seatbelt.
Fifteen years, and they’ve never talked about it, and they’re still not talking about it, but kissing about it is better, anyway.
Barbara pulls back for long enough to whisper, “I can’t,” but clearly she can, because she kisses Melissa again, and again, and again, straining against her seatbelt.
Melissa presses a palm to Barbara’s cheek, breaking the kiss. “I know,” she says. “I’m just tellin’ you.”
Barbara shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t, but she says, “Tell me more.”
Melissa kisses her again, realizes she’s somehow managed to twist over onto her knees in her seat, realizes she’s leaning so far over the divider that she’s practically in Barbara’s lap. She thinks about climbing over the divider and unbuckling Barbara’s seatbelt and laying her seat back and whispering, This is what it would look like. Thinks about making her feel fifteen years’ worth of gratification in the span of one night. This is what it could feel like.
Barbara’s lips part for Melissa, and she makes a low, quiet noise. She realizes she’s clutching the steering wheel with one hand and the gear shift with the other, and moves both to Melissa’s waist.
Melissa strokes Barbara’s cheek with her thumb and pulls away, pressing their foreheads together. There’s never going to be a good time to stop. It’s going to hurt just as much no matter how long they allow themselves to indulge in it. “So yeah,” she says, her voice husky. “That’s what it would be like.” She backs off, her eyes flickering up and down Barbara’s body. “Among other things.”
There’s an invitation on her face: Ask me about the other things. I’ll show you those, too. But Barbara can’t.
Barbara is breathing heavily, chest heaving. She forces herself to slow down, calm down. After a minute, she says, “Bravery looks good on you.”
“I know it does,” Melissa says. She leans back, lets go of Barbara’s face. “If—yeah. Well, it’s not in season right now, so.”
“Right,” Barbara agrees. She doesn’t say, Maybe it could be, because a maybe is a promise, and a marriage is a very big thing to break.
The silence between them grows heavy again, a different kind of heaviness, laden with the we can’t of it all.
Melissa settles the rest of the way back into her seat and blows out air between her lips. “Can you take me home?”
I can’t, thinks Barbara. That’s the problem. Melissa is family, but at the end of the day she lives somewhere else. Somewhere that isn’t home.
Barbara switches the signal back on and turns onto Melissa’s street.
“It’s okay,” Melissa says, swallowing thickly, “that we can’t. Be brave.” She sighs. “I’m just glad it’s easier for them. Gina, y’know, and all the kids growin’ up now, feelin’ the way we— you know.”
“I’m glad, too,” Barbara says, but she doesn’t really feel it, not right now.
“And you were great tonight,” Melissa adds.
For a moment, Barbara thinks she means just now, when Melissa was kissing her and she was holding Melissa—but no. She means with Gina, of course.
“I just said what I would’ve wanted to hear,” Barbara says quietly.
“You were perfect.”
Barbara manages a smile. Sits up straighter in her seat. Puts her Woman of God mask back on. “Of course I was,” she says smugly. “I always am.”
“You always are,” Melissa agrees, grinning and aching.
Barbara pulls up in front of Melissa’s apartment and puts the car back in park.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says. Melissa raises an eyebrow, smirking. Barbara shakes her head. “Thank you for being there for the girls. I know it means a lot to them.”
“They mean a lot to me,” says Melissa. It’s an understatement because it has to be. She frowns, sighs. “I’d better get goin’. Gerald’s gonna wonder what’s taking you so long.”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind.” He would mind, though, if he knew why she dallied.
“Yeah, well, still. School tomorrow.”
“Right.”
They look at each other, dim yellow streetlight slanting across their faces.
“Can I show you one more time?” Melissa finds herself asking. “Just one more time, and then we can. Forget about it, or whatever.”
Barbara closes her eyes. If she opens this door again, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to keep it closed. She definitely won’t be able to forget about it.
Melissa watches her, knows the answer before she says it.
“Sweetheart,” Barbara sighs, “I’m not brave enough.”
“Okay,” Melissa says.
“If I were,” Barbara says, then she shakes her head. “I’ll leave that to the younger generation.”
“You’re not too old to try something new, Barb.”
“This isn’t a hobby or a new type of food we’re talking about, Melissa.”
“Well, technically…” Melissa’s grin is sharp and mischievous. “I mean, there is an eating element to it.”
Barbara makes a noise of dismay and swats at her, laughing despite her hot face and feigned disapproval. Melissa cackles.
Once they settle down, Barbara says, “I’m lucky to have you as part of my family.”
“I’m the lucky one. You kiddin’? I always wanted a family like yours.”
“I know, baby.”
Melissa hopes her smile isn’t too regret-tinged. She wanted kids so badly, and she’s never not going to be sad that she didn’t have them.
When she thinks about Barb’s kids, though, and the hand she had in raising them, her life doesn’t feel quite so desolate. Even if she is going home to an empty apartment, nothing but houseplants and malbec to keep her company.
“I love you, Barb.” She manages not to choke on the words.
Barbara reaches across the divider and strokes her face.
“I love you, too.”
Maybe someday, they both think. When Taylor and Gina are both out of the house—a ridiculous contingency, considering how much better everything would have been if Melissa had been there every day to help her bring her daughters up, the way they both would have liked.
But maybe someday, they’ll be brave like Gina.
Maybe someday.