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If there’s one thing Carol has enough of, it’s self-control.
It’s something women like her learn and learn well. She’s spent years walking on eggshells to avoid being beaten, to avoid seeing her daughter beaten, so she’s excellent at holding her tongue, at delaying her emotions. She’s good at biding her time.
Beth, however, is young. Beth sees and wants and takes.
“Come on,” Beth says in that pretty, lilting accent of hers. Her small hand is cupped around Carol’s cheek and she’s turning her head slowly, like she’s calculating all the angles from which she can ascend. Their sides are pressed from shoulder to knee where they sit on the bridge over the Alexandria pond, their shared heat clouding Carol’s thoughts. “It’s okay. Nothin’ wrong with this, right?”
“Beth,” Carol starts, and is surprised by her own voice—it’s low, sibilant, a tone she’s never heard from herself before. Something wanton, something wanting. “Come on.”
“I don’t want to stop,” Beth says, verging on whining—she’s still a girl, after all.
No, she’s not, Carol corrects herself, their eyes still locked. She grew up a long time ago.
Carol leans in a fraction of an inch until her bottom lip grazes Beth’s, that simple touch of paper-thin skin making them both gasp. “Alright,” Carol says, but pulls back before Beth can speak. “But we wait. Until the time is right.”
“Alright,” Beth whispers, then presses their lips together.
There’s no time for waiting anymore, Carol thinks, and kisses back.