Work Text:
If CC had a nickel for every time she got into a fight at an Indigo Girls concert, she'd have two nickels—which wasn't a lot, but it was odd that it had happened twice.
The first time was in 1980-something, five or six years after graduating from Bryn Mawr. She was back in Manhattan again, working at a literary agency. Just about thirty, or just barely that—the memory carried with it with that haze of early adulthood, the blur cast over every part of life before she reached the cognitive state of being a fully fleshed-out person.
It was summer, the sickening melange of subway fumes and trash bags stewing in their own broth was getting to her, and when a couple of her college friends (not her sorority sisters, but her two actual friends) asked if she was up for a mini reunion and a long weekend in Philly, the answer was yes without hesitation. She needed to get out of the city.
She was a different person in 1980-something. Life had yet to harden her. Nothing seemed very serious back then. Nobody seemed to take her very seriously back then either—certainly not her mother.
She had, of course, paid for CC to go to college. She didn't really see why her daughter needed a degree, but it was certainly something to do and Bryn Mawr was respectable, so she never put up any particular fight over it—just mailed the tuition checks and made a few strategic donations aside. She thought that, at the very least, her daughter would graduate with a bachelor's and an engagement to a handsome man from the nearby medical college.
Four years later she had an English degree, and in lieu of a fiancé announced to her parents that she had been accepted for a position at a literary agency. Her mother had rolled her eyes; her father had just been relieved that CC was at least making a theoretical return on their investment.
She had been hired to weed through manuscript submissions.
During particularly stressful meetings with Maxwell, she always found herself longing for that simplicity again—the kind of job that was just that: a job, rather than an entire career. When she could make last-minute weekend plans and not have to think about her schedule.
In that summer of 1980-something, on that weekend in Philadelphia, she didn't think about any schedule at all. When her old roommate heard about a concert nearby from a duo she'd never heard of, she said, "Sure, why not?"
Two things happened that night.
#1: She fell in love with the music of the Indigo Girls. At first it felt almost rebellious, to align herself with anything so working-class—and then after, once she hardened, once she had to, it was something private. Her reminder of softness.
She later kept the cassettes and CDs hidden, listened with the volume down low, but she read and reread the liner notes until they tore, highlighting and annotating them like her poetry assignments back in college.
#2: She let herself shamelessly flirt with the thoroughly made-up femme that sidled up to her at the bar; she let herself teasingly touch the girl's arm, her hand, while they talked; she let herself lean into her ear to whisper the punchline of a ridiculous, dirty joke she couldn't even believe she was telling. She let herself have another drink, even though she was pretty sure the other woman's laugh was what she was drunk on. Then she heard another voice, from behind, shout gruffly, "Who the fuck do you think you are," and tried not to let herself get the shit beaten out of her by the girl's butch.
And maybe, thinking about it years later, it wasn't the exact moment she began to harden. But it did shake her; it did make her more reticent with her affection, her desire. It was certainly a moment that made her doubt her own softness.
But it wasn't 1980-something anymore, or even 1990-something—it was 2000-something, and after her marriage, after the subsequent divorce, she was learning how to soften again. With Fran, she was letting herself soften again. It was hard not to, with her, now that she was finally honest with herself about what she wanted. Now that she finally was herself.
So herself that she didn't hide the CDs anymore, and that Fran surprised her with concert tickets for her birthday.
The duo had come a long way since the 80s—they weren't playing in bars anymore, this performance was in an actual concert venue. She hadn't seen them perform since that summer night, and while Fran showed the usher their tickets, the memory returned with a strange mixture of fondness and embarrassment. Fondness for her own boldness, for how easy the first half had felt—and embarrassment at her naivety and the aftermath (she had been hauled out of harm's way by three older butches that promptly got her out of the bar and into a cab).
But then they were settling into their seats; Fran was squeezing her arm asking if she was excited, smiling up at CC the way only she did. The memory melted away and she replaced it with a new one, catching Fran by surprise with a kiss that had her gripping CC by the lapels.
Two things happened that night.
#1: The woman sitting on the other side of Fran talked loudly on the phone throughout the whole first half. When she started up again, Fran turned to ask, "Are you here to listen to the music or talk to your friend?"
The woman on the phone scoffed, leaned over Fran, and spat out at CC, "You need to control your bitch."
#2: Fran hauled CC out of the venue, holding her arms back as she shouted, "You will rue the day you crossed CC Babcock!" over the sound of the crowd singing along to the encore of Galileo.