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Andy looks up at CJ with a dazzling smile when she’s done taking a picture with one of her constituents. She stands among the crowd, her hair curled for the occasion and graying slowly, a bisexual pride flag she just received from said constituent wrapped victoriously around her shoulders.
CJ is still nervous to look at her with the amount of love she does where everyone can see; even here, in the streets of DC that are crowded with people celebrating exactly that love. Andy knows it, feels it too, but has such an easy time pretending she doesn’t that it makes CJ envy her.
Decades it’s been, since she attended her last pride parade. San Francisco, ‘86, just before she’d move to New York and run a few senatorial campaigns she’s practically forgotten. She was terrified then, too, holding the hand of a girl who’s long dead now. Once she started representing Congressmen who couldn’t use a woman with a girlfriend as their Press Secretary, she knew better.
Those ghosts have never really stopped haunting her; to New York, to DC, to Hollywood, to the White House.
Two decades and then some, with many people more brave or more reckless than her to have done this before she ever thought she could, she’s here again. Surrounded by people who get it and people who never truly will. Many younger than her, many, thankfully, much older.
Several people have taken her photograph already — have recognized her from the pictures in the papers of her and her wife, have followed her coming out day by day of ugly and supportive headlines. The many people that are younger than her look up to her as if she’s an example; she doesn’t know how to be that to anyone, not here.
CJ’s been the first female White House Press Secretary, the first female White House Chief of Staff. She learned quickly how to be the highest ranking woman in a room, the only woman in a room; learned quickly how to make herself heard, and learned quickly how to live a life that other women looked at as example.
She hasn’t learned yet how to be that to queer women; to any queer person. How can she be an example to anyone, really, if after almost thirty years of keeping herself such a painstaking secret, she’s still ashamed to be standing here, looking at the love of her life on a crowded street?
She’d hoped this would be easier.
Congresswoman Wyatt, Speaker of the House, CJ’s beautiful, ever-green wife, has found herself some body glitter on her cheekbones and a scantily clad man to take her picture with. She looks right at home.
Andy’s attended these before, CJ knows; back when she worked at the White House, she’d field the occasional question about Congresswoman Wyatt’s admirable and worrying allyship to the queer community. Never like this; never out.
She looks like she’s having the time of her life. CJ’s glad for that, at least. Even if she’s still frozen in place looking at her.
Andy walks her way, a swing in her step and a blue lipstick mark on her cheek, the wrinkles in her face deepen the wider she grins up at CJ. She has her flag wrapped tightly around herself; when she’s close enough, CJ can see she has tears in her eyes.
It’s instinct, really, that makes CJ reach out and wrap her arms around Andy’s waist. She’s learning how to let instinct beat the perception of self-preservation.
“You okay?” she asks Andy, staring down at the brown of her eyes, the silver edge to her still reddish hair, the glitter and the lipstick on her cheeks. CJ laughs when Andy nods and blows her a kiss from this close.
Andy places a warm hand on CJ’s cheek. “This feels better than winning re-election,” she says, all smiles and tearful eyes.
Every time she thinks she could not be more in love with this woman, her heart swells a little more.
CJ pulls her closer — freezes, then laughs, when Andy wraps her arms around her shoulders and thus drapes her in the pride flag, too. “That okay?” Andy asks, and as scared as she is, CJ nods.
“I want to kiss you,” she admits. She stares only at Andy’s understanding eyes, tries to avoid remembering that there are people and cameras all around. “I’m going to,” she adds, despite herself. “I think.”
“I’m right here.”
Andy couldn’t bring it simpler.
CJ nods, waits for a few more moments, then leans down slowly. Their noses brush past each other, her grip on Andy’s waist tightens, she can vaguely smell Andy’s lipstick from here. Andy doesn’t rush her one bit.
When she finally kisses her wife, she kisses her on a crowded street; purple, blue, and pink dancing in the wind around them, clashing slightly with the remaining color in Andy’s hair. Their picture gets taken by a dozen smartphones and a professional photographer, one of which will no doubt get it to a journalist before she and Andy have made it home.
She doesn’t care about that.
She just pulls Andy a little closer.