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Chapter Text

The laughter still hummed in the walls when Ava stepped offstage and into the narrow hallway that funnelled to the greenroom, the kind of cramped backstage you get in the middle of New York City. 

Outside, through the warped fire door, November New York breathed sharp and metallic, the steam grates sighing, wet pavement throwing back the marquee’s honeyed bulbs, the wind coming off the Hudson with a knife tucked in it.

Inside, the spotlight had been kind tonight – gauzy enough to blur the wobble in her voice, bright enough to say, See? You made it. You’re someone. The crowd had stood. The clapping had gone on too long. That last joke, of course, landed especially well.

"You ever fall in love with a woman so hard you start believing in astrology? Like – suddenly, Mercury in retrograde is the only thing explaining why she ghosted you?

And when she broke my heart, my friends were like, “You’ll get over it.” I’m like – no, babe. This wasn’t a breakup. This was a sapphic trauma bond with soundtrack potential. 

Straight girls move on; queer women start a book club about it. It’s been three years, and I’m still analysing the text messages like it’s feminist literature."

The room unravelled in laughter. Ava smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. That was the thing about comedy – you could bleed onstage, and as long as you did it rhythmically, people called it art.

Success always sounded a bit like pity, Ava thought.

She stepped into the greenroom and took a small breath. She felt the afterglow – the hum beneath her skin used to feel like validation, but now it just felt like noise. The vanity lights hissed; they were too honest and too fluorescent for her liking, the kind that show you everything you’d rather crop out. It had taken everything in her to deliver that final punchline, but she had smiled as if it were just another witty anecdote.

But inside, her heart was trembling. 

She exhaled shakily and reached for the sweating glass on the table. Ava let her mind wander back to her, to the woman behind the joke, the one she’d been so careful not to name. The memories came rushing back like a tide: stolen glances over script pages, hands brushing in secret, the Black Pashmina that lingered on borrowed clothing. 

Deborah.

Even now, three years later, just the thought of her name sent an ache through Ava’s chest. She closed her eyes and remembered the last time they’d spoken – that awful day when Deborah fired her. 

“If you’re so unhappy, why don’t you just leave?... Actually, why are you still here?... I didn’t ask you to stay. I’ve had an amazing life, I’ve done everything. What have you done? And why aren’t you doing it now?”

“You’re just drunk and you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”

“I’ve had four drinks. I’m sober. I’m just telling you the truth. You’re twenty-nine years old, and I’m your only friend. Isn’t that weird? It’s weird. You need friends – and a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, or a… they-friend, whatever the hell it is that you want.”

It’s you, Ava wanted to say. It’s you that I want.

“Wow. Okay, yeah. You’re right – I don’t know what I’m still doing here. I’m gonna head home tomorrow morning.”

“I think that’s the healthy choice. Have a safe flight.”

And so Ava had left. Some nights stamp themselves into your skin. And that night, Ava packed her stuff and got the hell out of Singapore. She went back to LA and tried to act like Deborah didn’t exist. She wrote sets and jokes that bled without festering, and she cut and cut and cut and learned that a joke is a small house you build so that the truth has somewhere to sleep at night. 

Eventually, there were offers – some serious, some predatory, mostly both. She learned to say no without apologising and yes without promising. She became the version of herself that strangers recognise. 

People told her she was happy, and she tried to believe it. She tried on the word like a jacket that never quite fit properly.

Their time together – really together – had been brief, but the wanting wasn’t. The feelings had always been there, at least on Ava’s part. After giving up Late Night and making a temporary move to Singapore, momentum had thrown them into the same orbit. 

The first time they kissed, it wasn’t a grand moment. No fireworks. They were in Deborah’s hotel room late one night. Ava had made Deborah laugh with something obscene and true, and Deborah had reached for her mouth like it was the natural next thing to do.

After, they didn’t talk about it. They talked bits. Then a second-act rewrite. Then, Deborah went on stage and killed it again and again, because what else do you do when the one thing you want is already in your hands?

You hold it tighter. 

The truth was easiest when neither knew how it ended. And they didn’t. They had, at best, a working hypothesis: this is how it goes until it doesn’t. Their relationship was nothing more than a bright spark that had died out too soon, but it burned Ava deeply. 

And now, years later, the room loved her from the first sentence. And when she finished with her heartbreak disguised as a finisher, wrapped neatly in a bow, the crowd always cheered. She bowed at the exact right second and smiled – just enough to have them really believe that it was just a joke.

But in the hush after the show, the old sorrow settled back into its favourite chair – deep inside Ava’s chest.

A soft knock at the door jolted Ava back to the present. She startled hastily and rose from the chair, smoothing out her blazer just as Jimmy poked his head in through the door with an apologetic smile

“Hey, great show tonight,” he said quietly. “There’s, um… someone here to see you.”

Ava sighed. “If it’s press, tell them I died.”

“It’s… not press.” He hesitated. “It’s Deborah.”

Ava’s breath caught in her throat. Deborah. “Okay,” she said, and she hated how small it sounded.

For a moment, Ava wondered if she had conjured Deborah out of thin air by sheer force of missing her. But it was really her, standing there in the soft yellow glow of vanity lights, time-warped and perfectly present. Her eyes swept over Deborah’s form, taking in every detail as if time had reversed and frozen simultaneously. 

Deborah looked almost the same, yet unmistakably different. Her golden blonde hair was still perfectly styled, but there were a few more fine lines at the corners of her eyes – the ones that used to see straight through Ava’s bullshit, straight through jokes, to the ache underneath – eyes that were watching her with a tentative, cautious expression. She wore a fur-trimmed white winter coat draped over her shoulders, still buttoned, as though she wasn’t planning on staying long.  Deborah’s hands twitched nervously in front of her, and Ava realised she was nervous; Deborah Vance was usually all confidence and noise. 

The sight of it made Ava’s racing heart twist. 

“Hello, Ava,” Deborah said softly. Her voice was the same rich, husky register that Ava remembered. Only now, it carried a hesitant warmth. 

Ava stood rooted to the spot, her mouth opening and closing once before any sound came out. “Deborah… hi,” she managed, finally. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I–hi. This is… a surprise.”

Jimmy hovered in the doorway, eyes flicking between them uncertainly. Ava realised she must have looked stunned, and so, regaining enough composure to move, she offered him the faintest smile. “Thanks, Jimmy. Could you give us a few minutes?”

Jimmy raised his eyebrow with a flicker of curiosity, but he knew better than to ask questions. “Of course. I’ll be right outside if you need anything. Take your time.” And with that, he gently closed the door, leaving Ava and Deborah alone. 

An awkward quiet settled in the room. Ava’s pulse thundered in her ears as she struggled to find words. She had imagined this scenario hundreds of times over the years – running into Deborah again, perhaps at some industry event or whenever she was touring and happened to be in Vegas. 

In her fantasies, Ava always had something clever or cutting to say. Sometimes she’d planned to be aloof and cool, to show Deborah that she’d moved on and didn’t need her. Other times, she imagined demanding answers: Why did you end it like that? Didn’t I mean anything to you at all? But now that Deborah was actually here, in the flesh, all of Ava’s rehearsed speeches scattered like dust. She felt suddenly like that young, naive twenty-five-year-old again, confused and heart-struck, standing before her mentor and secret lover, desperate and unsure.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Deborah lingered near the door, like a runner with one foot on the block. Her eyes catalogued the dressing room – the lighting on the mirror, the clutter of makeup and notes on the counter, the garment rack with spare outfits. Finally, those eyes returned to Ava, and Deborah let out a small, breathy laugh. 

“Well,” she said with a fragile smile,” You certainly get a nicer dressing room than some of the comedy clubs out on the road.”

“You never liked watching anyone else perform in places like this,” Ava said.

“I still don’t,” Deborah replied, taking a step forward. “But you’re playing one a few blocks from my hotel. Seemed rude not to.”

Her voice was gentler than Ava remembered. Or maybe it was Ava who had hardened.

“This place is nice.” Deborah offered.

“Yeah, well, the venue’s small, but they try to take care of me,” Ava said, finding her voice at last. She motioned toward the small couch against the wall. “You wanna sit?”

Deborah hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Sure. If you have time.”

“I have time,” Ava assured quickly. She internally winced at how eager that sounded and tried to modulate her tone. “I mean, of course. The meet-and-greets can wait a bit.”

Deborah crossed the room in a few brisk strides and perched on the edge of the couch. True to the impression Ava had gotten, Deborah kept her long coat on, folded around her like armour. Ava sat down gingerly on the other side, maintaining a careful distance. The air crackled, like one wrong syllable might ignite the pile of unsaid things between them.

Neither of them really knew how to begin. Ava’s eyes darted down to her own hands clasped tightly in her lap. She could feel Deborah’s gaze on her, studying her face. 

“You were really great tonight, by the way,” Deborah said quietly. “The show, I mean. I caught the second half.”

Ava’s head lifted in mild surprise. “You saw the show?” Had she been in the audience? Ava didn’t recall seeing her out front, but the lights had been blinding on stage.

Deborah nodded. “I was on my way back to the hotel after dinner, and I heard one of your radio interviews while I was in the car.” She offered a wry smile. “It was a bit surreal, hearing your voice like that… you sounded different.”

Ava felt a flush of heat pull to her cheeks. The idea of Deborah rerouting her entire evening for her gave her a flutter in her stomach. She wondered exactly how much Deborah had heard. “Yeah, well, better lighting, better editors.” 

Deborah smiled. “You’ve done well.”

It wasn’t a compliment, not really, more like a truce. A ceasefire flag.

A pause. “Just the interview?” Ava asked softly. “Or… did you hear my actual set?”

Deborah’s eyes met Ava’s for a second, then skittered away. “I heard enough,” she said. Her tone was gentle, but it carried weight. “Enough to know you killed it out there, as usual. And… enough to hear that joke.”

Ava’s heart skipped. So Deborah had heard it. The bit about the one that got away – about the heartbreak she couldn’t shake. Ava’s mouth went dry. She suddenly wished she had something to fidget with, but her hands were empty. She gripped hold of the hem of her blazer jacket and cleared her throat, attempting a faint smile. 

“Ah, that. Just working through my issues via comedy, you know. Occupational hazard.” She tried to laugh it off, but it sounded thin. 

Deborah didn’t laugh. Instead, she tilted her head, studying Ava with those penetrating eyes that used to see right through her. “You always did do that – turn your hurt into punchlines,” she said quietly. “It’s one of the things that made you a great writer.” There was a heavy, tense pause. “But I have to ask… was it–” she faltered, looking down at her feet. “Was it really worth making a joke about? About… her?”

Ava stiffened. She felt a prickle of emotion behind her eyes and quickly blinked it away. There was no her; it was Deborah. It had always been Deborah. They both knew it, even if neither said it out loud. “Some things are worth writing about,” Ava answered finally, meeting her gaze. “Even if it hurts.”

Deborah absorbed that, her lips pressing together. She gave a small nod. “God, everyone out there was buzzing about your material. I even heard someone say, uh…” she swallowed, the continued with a strained smile, “They said your career’s taken off so fast, that you won’t have to write any more new material like that. That you’d moved on to bigger topics.” It sounded like Deborah was reciting something she’d overheard, but Ava sensed the real question underneath: Have you moved on?

Ava suddenly realised that Deborah looked nervous – truly nervous. The confident, unshakable Deborah Vance was fidgeting slightly with the buttons of her coat, still waiting for Ava’s response. Ava felt a wave of tenderness and sorrow. Deborah was bracing herself, maybe hoping to hear that Ava had indeed moved on, so that she’d feel less guilt… or perhaps the opposite? It was impossible to tell.

“I talk about a lot of things in my set these days,” Ava said slowly. “Life, fame, my family… silly stuff too. But some feelings…” she hesitated, pulse thumping in her chest. This was toeing a dangerous line, but the words of her joke, which were really the truths of her heart, were still ringing in her ears. So she decided to be honest. “Some feelings, I guess, never really go away. So I keep writing about them. And yes, it’s worth it. It’s still real to me.”

Deborah inhaled sharply as if the air had been sucked out of the room for a moment. A flash of pain and regret crossed her face before she masked it. “I heard the honesty in it,” she admitted. “I could tell it came from a real place.” Her voice dipped even quieter. “From us.”

Ava couldn’t trust herself to speak, so she only nodded. Her throat felt tight, as if she were being choked. She had dreamed of this moment, too, of telling Deborah how badly she’d hurt and how deeply she loved her. Now, she had said it in the only way she knew how – a stand-up bit broadcast to strangers – and Deborah had heard every word.

Another silence folded over them. Deborah broke it a few moments later with a tentative question, her tone attempting lightness but not quite managing it. “So… did you really mean it? What you said on stage – about being in love with someone who broke your heart… and never getting over it.” Her eyes were searching Ava’s face earnestly. 

Even after all this time, Deborah could disarm Ava completely with just a gentle question.

Ava’s instinct was to deflect with humour, just like she always did to protect herself, but Deborah deserved the truth. And even if that wasn’t true, Deborah could always see through her. I have nothing left to lose by telling her, Ava realised. She had already bared her soul under the spotlight; saying it plainly now was just the final step. 

“Yes,” she nodded, lifting her chin to look Deborah head-on. “I meant every word.” She swallowed and continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “I fell in love with someone… and I never really recovered when I lost her.”

Deborah’s eyes glistened as if she might cry too, but she quickly looked down, hiding beneath her lashes. A single tear escaped and traced a line down her cheek, and she wiped it away hastily, then gave a shaky chuckle. “Seems like her loss,” she said, aiming for glib and landing on shaky.

“Not if she never loved me in the first place, right?” Ava said before she could stop it.

Deborah flinched, but she didn’t let it bother her. She quickly diverted the conversation elsewhere. She straightened her shoulders, trying to regain some composure. “So,” she asked with a rueful half-smile. “Are you… Happy now, Ava? You’ve done so well for yourself. Sold-out shows, writing gigs, fame… Everyone says you’re on top of the world. Are you happy?”

Ava opened her mouth to say Yes, of course, the automatic answer she gave interviewers and friends. But her throat tightened around the lie. She remembered how, earlier, Deborah had looked so disappointed at the idea of her pain being real, how Deborah clearly carried guilt. But Ava was tired of pretending. She thought about her house and how it echoed when she laughed alone. She thought about strangers recognising her at baggage claim and her mother’s texts that said proud with too many exclamation marks. 

She thought about how sad and pathetic it all was.

“I have success,” Ava began. “I have what I thought I wanted, what I worked so hard for. And I am grateful. But happy?” She shrugged her shoulders, eyes dropping to her lap. “No… not completely. Something’s missing.”

Someone is missing.

When Ava peeked up, Deborah’s face had fallen. Disappointed – maybe even pained – to hear Ava wasn’t happy. Deborah seemed at a loss for words. Her hands twitched as if maybe she wanted to reach for Ava, but instead she clasped them tightly in her lap. 

Ava tried to smile reassuringly, despite the tears shining in her eyes. “Don’t feel bad,” she added. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… how it is. I have a house with a beautiful view of the city lights. I bought it last year,” she attempted a lighter tone. “Never imagined I’d be able to afford something like that. But I live there alone.”

Deborah looked down, a sad understanding passing over her face. “I’m sorry, she said again.”

Ava quickly wiped at her eyes, trying not to smear what remained of her mascara. She took a steadying breath and forced a brighter note into her voice. “That’s enough about me, though. What about you?” she mustered a small smile. “How have you been, Deborah? What’s new in your world?”

Deborah hesitated. “I’m… I’m doing well,” she said carefully. “After, well, everything, I took a step back for a bit. Did some shows, got a new residency. I think sometimes, I wake up in the morning, and I wonder if Late Night ever really happened. Sometimes I feel like I’m back where I started.” She paused, wetting her lips. Ava had the sense that Deborah was skirting around something. Finally, Deborah continued, her voice deliberately casual. “And, um, I’m not alone. I have someone in my life now.”

Ava felt her stomach twist, an involuntary pang of jealousy and hurt hitting her even though she’d braced for this. Of course, Deborah would find someone; she was brilliant and charming, and who wouldn’t fall in love with her? 

Ava schooled her face into an approximation of genuine cheer. “That’s great,” she said, and she meant it at least in part. She wanted Deborah to be happy, even if a selfish part of her wished that she could be the one to do it. “I’m really glad for you. You deserve it, D.”

Deborah’s lips curved into a small, bittersweet smile. “Thank you,” she replied.

“Truly, I’m happy for you. It sounds like you’re… content with your life.”

Deborah gave a slow nod, her eyes shining with a complicated mix of emotions. “I am. In a way that  I didn’t think I could be at this age,” she took a breath, sensing that Ava didn’t really have any interest in taking the question about her love life any further. “It’s not the same as–” She cut herself off, averting her gaze. 

The unspoken words hung in the air: Not the same as what we had.  She would never admit to it, not if she really thought about it. But they both knew it was true. 

Ava smiled sadly, even if it stung. She had always feared Deborah had forgotten her entirely, but clearly she hadn’t. And somehow, hearing that Deborah had found some peace was strangely relieving. At least one of them wouldn’t end up bitter and alone. 

“So,” Ava said, clapping her hands once softly. “Did you like the show?”

“I liked you,” Deborah said. “The show will get better.”

Ava laughed. “There she is,” she said. “I was worried you’d been replaced by a supportive person.”

Deborah laugh cracked the air open – a real, hearty laugh, just as Ava remembered. “Don’t worry, still me. Still terrible at being supportive.”

Silence fell again, the kind that wasn’t empty but too full. It swelled between them, heavy with all the years of unsaid things. Ava tried to breathe through it, but the air felt thick, humid with all the ghosts they’d both brought into the room. She could smell the faint scent of Deborah’s unmistakable perfume lingering between them, and her heart did its old reflex — started, hopeful, stupid.

Aching.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Ava said finally, and she hated how small and achingly pathetic it sounded.

Deborah’s head lifted. “I wasn’t sure I should come.”

“Then why did you?”

Deborah hesitated, searching for the right lie and finding none. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and it sounded raw. “I was on my way back to the hotel, and when I heard your voice, I–” she stopped. “It felt like a sign.”

Ava let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You don’t believe in signs.”

“I didn’t,” Deborah said, almost smiling. “But then again, I didn’t believe in a lot of things until I met you.”

That landed like a small explosion in Ava’s chest – not loud, but deep. She bit her lip, forcing herself to stay still, not to reach for Deborah the way he wanted to.

“You could have called.”

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have,” Ava admitted. “But you could’ve tried.”

Deborah’s eyes softened again. “I wanted to. So many times I’d open my phone… and then I’d remember the way you looked at me that last night. Like I’d broken something I couldn’t fix.”

Ava swallowed hard. “You did.”

The words came out sharper than she meant them to, and Deborah flinched. The room suddenly felt too bright, and the bulbs around the mirror seemed to buzz like a swarm.

Deborah flinched, but she took it. “I know,” she whispered. “I know I did.”

There it was – an admission Ava had wanted for three years. She’d thought it would feel like victory, or maybe closure. But instead, it only made her ache. 

“What do you want from me?”

Deborah sighed. “Nothing. Just to be honest, for once.”

“And then?”

Deborah smiled sadly. “And then I go.”

Ava nodded, though her heart screamed otherwise. As if the agreement would slow time. “Right.”

They sat in the after of it. Deborah blinked once, and Ava knew her well enough to know that the dam would hold — this time, at least. 

After a while, Deborah reached into her purse, pulled out a napkin branded with the comedy club’s logo, and passed it over.

“Sign it for me,” she said, a little too breezy. “For old times.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “You want my autograph?”

Deborah smiled. “Well, you know, if I’m ever short of cash, maybe I could sell it. And besides, I used to have everything else. ”

They both laughed, but it felt too hollow. 

“I have to go,” Deborah said gently. “It’s getting late.”

“Of course,” Ava said.

Deborah stood, but she didn’t reach for Ava. She just adjusted her coat unnecessarily. She looked around the greenroom one final time, like it had secrets. “You’re still funny,” she said. 

“You’re still the reason,” Ava thought, and let it pass like a train. 

“Thank you for coming,” she said aloud. 

Finally, Deborah reached out and brushed her fingertips against Ava’s cheek – light and trembling. “You were brilliant tonight,” she murmured. “You always were.”

Ava closed her eyes, leaning into the touch for one impossible second before Deborah’s hand fell away. When Ava opened her eyes, Deborah was already at the door.

“Goodnight, Ava,” Deborah said softly.

“Goodbye, Deborah.

Ava remained standing there long after Deborah had gone, staring at the closed door. The dressing room suddenly felt colder and emptier than it had done before. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. 

She promised herself that if she ever saw Deborah again, she wouldn’t cry in front of her. At least she’d managed to hold it together this time. But now, in the silence that followed, Ava felt the tears come.

One after another, hot and quiet, they slipped down her cheeks. She sank back onto the couch, wrapping her own arms around her body where she wished Deborah’s arms would be.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there alone. It might have been a minute or ten. Time felt warped, stretched thin by the ache in her heart. 

Another knock, louder this time, cut through the thick silence. “Ava? You okay in there?” It was jimmy again, his voice gentle but concerned. “I’m sorry, but we really have to go. There are people waiting for you and they’re getting a bit antsy.”

“I’ll be right there!” Ava called as she wiped her cheeks, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

She stood and smoothed her outfit, quickly checking the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and a little puffy, but she forced a smile at her reflection. The woman gazing back at her looked composed enough to fool everyone outside.

Ava was about to leave when something on the floor by the couch caught her eye: a small object, the glint of half-gold hidden by the leg of the chair. She bent down and picked it up. A keychain. A little brass “DV” monogram, smooth and worn at the edges. Ava turned it over in her palm. Deborah’s initials. 

She remembered buying it for her on tour years ago, in a gaudy little gas station just outside of Palm Springs. Deborah had pretended to hate it at first, but later, Ava had seen it looped onto her bag. No explanation, no mention. Just there. 

Ava ran her thumb over the engraving, the faint groove of memory. It was just supposed to be a joke, but Deborah had kept it.

Even after all these years. Even after Ava was no longer a part of her life. 

She could have run after her. She almost did. but Jimmy’s voice came from the hall: “Ava, people are waiting. Hurry up!”

Ava slipped the keychain into her pocket. ‘Coming,’ she said, steadying herself. 

Chapter Text

The city was breathing through its teeth as they climbed into the car at the end of the night. 

Ava sat angled toward the half-cracked window, watching the lights stutter across the glass. Midtown at night was all reflection and noise – half neon, half exhaust – the perfect distraction from her thoughts.

Jimmy started the car, the headlights catching a blur of rain on the windshield before the wipers dragged it away. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was polite, like a bad host.

He cleared his throat once, a false start.

“So…” he said, trying not to look at her. “You want me to ask or not ask?”

Ava’s eyes tracked the reflection of a billboard gliding across the glass. The light fractured over her face: blue, then pink, then gone. “You’re going to ask either way, so just get it over with.”

“Yeah,” he said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “But it’s polite to at least offer the illusion.”

Ava didn’t bite. Outside, a man in a raincoat ran across the street holding a pizza box over his head like a broken umbrella. “Then don’t offer. You’re like a cop. Pretend to have empathy, then slide in the question.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a gun,” Jimmy said. “Just NDAs.”

Ava huffed — a short, exhausted sound that almost qualified as a laugh.

He let a few blocks pass. The city’s rhythm filled the space: brakes squealing, the low growl of buses, a siren somewhere trying to harmonise with the traffic. Finally, Jimmy risked a glance at her.

“Ava, what happened between you and Deborah? I don’t mean tonight — just the whole thing. What’s going on?”

The question landed like something heavy placed too gently on a table. Ava didn’t move. Her hands stayed in her lap, fingers pressed together like she was praying not to answer.

 “We worked together,’ she said finally. “Things got… unworkable.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, but he kept his eyes on the road. “That’s not a sentence.”

“It’s close enough. Think of it as past progressive.”

He gave a short laugh that didn’t make it past his teeth. “You do realise that means something was happening for a while?”

Ava didn’t answer. The silence pressed its thumb down.

Jimmy turned left to join the steady flow of traffic, the tyres hissing over the damp pavement. “Look, I get privacy. But… you don’t mention each other for three years, and then all of a sudden she shows up at one of your shows?”

Ava shrugged. The motion was brief, as if she didn’t want to waste energy pretending it didn’t sting. Her reflection in the side mirror looked older than it felt — or maybe just tired of catching itself.

 “Coincidences happen.”

“Ava, if there’s something I need to know—”

“There isn’t,” she snapped, sharp enough to cut through the heater’s white noise. 

Jimmy winced a little. “Did you fight?”

“No,” Ava sighed, the kind of sigh that fogged up the glass and didn’t quite clear again. “It’s fine.”

“You know ‘fine’ isn’t a feeling, right?” Jimmy asked, “It’s an emotional safe word.”

“Then consider me safe,” she said flatly.

He tried again, gentler this time. “Look, I’m not trying to worm my way into your business. I just need to know if there’s anything that could potentially… blow up.”

“Nothing is happening, Jimmy.” Ava turned to look at him. “She was in town. She showed up. I didn’t know she was coming tonight.”

The words came clean, practised —  she’d already repeated them to herself.

They drove in silence after that, letting the city speak for itself. Ava stared out the window, her expression neutral, her eyes chasing the blur of tail lights like she could outrun what she wasn’t saying.

When Jimmy pulled up to the hotel, he put the car in park but didn’t move to open the door. He just sat there, one hand still on the wheel, the other hovering near the ignition like he might start the car again and keep driving.

“If I’m going to help you,” he said softly, “I need the truth.”

Ava’s hand was already on the door. The cold air folded into the car as she shoved it open. “You’ll get it when I have it,” she said, stepping out. “And I don’t need your help. Not with this.”

******

The hotel was warm, just like money: quietly. The kind of warmth you couldn’t touch, just notice.

Ava crossed the lobby like she was trespassing in her own life. Polished marble, soft jazz bleeding from invisible speakers, the faint perfume of something floral and expensive — everything too careful, too arranged. She suddenly felt like she didn’t belong here at all. 

Ever since her newfound notoriety, Jimmy had been booking her into these sorts of places — the places where people with too much money and a higher sense of importance hung out. Sure, they were also the kind of hotels that Deborah frequented during the time that Ava worked for her, but at least then, they were together. 

Now, all Ava could think about was how cold and lonely the marble facade felt. 

The night clerk smiled at her as she crossed the lobby, and Ava smiled back — only a reflex. The elevator’s mirrored box was too bright as she stepped inside, and Ava’s reflection fractured into different versions of herself, all pretending to be fine in various ways. One checking her phone, one pretending she wasn’t, and one trying not to cry.

By the time she reached her floor, the silence was too curated.

Inside the room, everything waited exactly as she’d left it — bed perfectly made, curtains drawn tight, the city outside reduced to a low electric hum. She dropped her bag on the chair, kicked off her boots, and stood there for a second, listening to the air conditioner breathe.

She pulled off her blazer and pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead. The adrenaline from the show had finally burned off, leaving the ache that always followed — like coming down from someone else’s high.

She flicked on a single lamp, shifting the room from sterile to intimate, but only barely. She took her phone from her pocket, and instinctively scrolled to the last few texts from Jimmy: logistics, flights, “good lucks.” Nothing human enough to hold on to. Then she set it face down on the nightstand, as if that might stop it from buzzing with things she didn’t want to read.

For a while, she just moved around the room, doing small, pointless tasks: pacing the floor, hanging the occasional piece of clothing, even though she’d be gone in two days, brushing her teeth twice — all the actions of someone rehearsing normalcy.

When she finally picked up her jacket from the bed, Ava remembered about the keychain. She pulled it from her pocket and set it down on the dresser with a dull clink. A small brass oval, its edges worn smooth. DV. A joke once, a keepsake after.

She stared at it for a second, then picked it up, turning it over between her fingers. The metal had warmed from her touch, as if even inanimate things remembered who held them too long.

The memory burned; a stupid gas station gift – the kind of thing you buy when you want to say something you’re not supposed to. Deborah had rolled her eyes when Ava gave it to her. “Oh, how romantic,” she’d said, deadpan. “Nothing says devotion like something you can find on the same aisle as beef jerky.” Ava had laughed then, pretending not to care, but when she saw the keychain on Deborah’s bag a week later, that had been its own kind of declaration. 

Now, it sat on the dresser, all those years compressed into a palm-sized relic. She placed it on the dresser and tried to leave it there. Failed. Picked it back up. Set it down again.

Time became elastic — the kind that stretches when you’re pretending not to wait.

At 11:42, she poured herself a drink from the minibar — something amber and substantial. She sipped it too slowly to count as drinking, too quickly to count as restraint.

By midnight, she’d opened her laptop, stared at a blank document, typed her name, and deleted it. She attempted to draft some new material, only to end up deleting it as well. The cursor blinked like it was scolding her.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled her phone from the nightstand and sank down on the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting under her weight. She scrolled aimlessly for a few minutes before inevitably landing where she had first intended.

The contact was still just “D,” because names had always felt like too much truth in one place. No emoji. No last name. Just the letter.

Call or don’t, she thought—the entire history of them in three little words.

Ava imagined it – the ring, the click, the voice; smooth as satin, sharp as a blade. A voice that could make a room feel like a stage and a stage feel like a confessional. They’d only spoken an hour ago, but the thought of it felt unbearable.

She pressed Call anyway.

It rang once before she panicked and hung up. The dial tone chopped through the room’s carefully curated calm, and it felt like too much. 

She threw the phone onto the bed, then immediately reached for it again, muttering, “Fine. Okay. Text. Less pathetic.”

I have your keychain, she typed, then frowned—no, too cliche. Delete. 

Found something of yours. Delete.

Can I bring by— No. Delete. 

She stood, pacing toward the window and back again. The carpet muffled her movements, swallowing the sound the way nice things always do. Maybe Deborah wouldn’t even notice it was missing. Maybe Josefina packed the bag. Maybe the keychain had been background noise, the sentimental kind Deborah liked to pretend she was allergic to.

Ava shook her head, thumb already hovering again. Fine. No poetry. Just logistics. She stared at it for a long time before typing, 'I found your keychain after you left. I’m sure Jimmy can get it back to you.’

She hovered over “Send” for a full minute before she finally tapped it, and the message slid off into the ether — no read receipt. No dots. Nothing.. Good, she thought. Ava didn’t want the relief just yet. 

After that, Ava showered. Too long — long enough for the water to run cold, until the steam fogged up the mirror and erased her outline. She stood there under the faucet, palms pressed into the tile, letting the water run over her as if it could wash away the evenings.

She was exhausted, but the kind of tired that isn’t about sleep.

Then, she pulled on a sweatshirt with stretched cuffs and shut off the lights. When she finally crawled into bed, TV remote in hand, the room's warmth had flattened into something stale. She flicked through the channels before settling on a cooking show played on mute — perfect. Background noise that asked for nothing.

At 1:13 a.m., she rechecked her phone — still nothing. At 2:06, she got up, pulled another bottle of overpriced water from the hotel fridge, and stared out at the skyline. The buildings flickered — small squares of other people’s lives flickering on and off. Ava imagined Deborah in one of them, somewhere, maybe also awake, maybe not.

At 2:45, she lay back down. Turned the phone over. Face down, then up again. Then back down. By 3:07, Ava gave up pretending not to care. She unlocked the phone, opened the text thread again, and reread the single message she’d sent. Then, impulsively, she added:

Forget it. Doesn’t matter.

She didn’t send it. Instead, she watched the unsent words glow faintly, then dim when the screen timed out. And when she finally drifted, it wasn’t into sleep, exactly,  just the soft suspension of someone too tired to keep holding her own weight.

******

The morning light pried her eyes open like it had a right to. 

For a moment, Ava didn’t move. She lay still, one arm across her face, listening to the hotel’s version of quiet: the soft hum of ventilation, the distant hiss of water through pipes, a cart rolling down the hallway somewhere.

Her phone buzzed against the nightstand. A short, smug, slight vibration. She reached for it without sitting up, thumb dragging across the screen.

It was from Deborah.

D: How about dinner tonight? If you’re free.

Ava blinked, staring at the screen through half-lidded eyes. The words were plain, clean, impossible to argue with. The kind of text that could mean everything or nothing at all.

Her stomach flipped like a coin. Heads, she stayed detached. Tails, she spiralled. In the end, she stared at the words for so long that she almost believed they said something else. 

She let the phone rest on her chest, staring at the ceiling. ‘If you’re free.’ She was free. Technically. In the way her calendar defined it, anyway – a slot labelled “Rest/Recovery,” which was always a lie.

She set the phone face-up this time, as if it should get to watch her not answer.

At 9:00, she ordered coffee from room service and drank it black, punishingly bitter. At 9:15, she told herself she wasn’t going to answer. At 9:17, she drafted three different versions of “Sure, dinner sounds fine” and deleted them all. The fourth time, she just stared at her reflection in the black glass, as if waiting for it to tell her what to do.

By 10:00, she’d showered again and opened her laptop. She was greeted by the same blank document from the night before — part of her hoping that the words would’ve appeared all by themselves overnight. She typed Scene One: Woman Makes a Series of Terrible Choices, stared at it for a while, then closed the laptop and tossed it onto the bedsheets beside her. 

Emails began to roll in soon after that: PR updates, event invitations, and a cheerful note from someone who definitely thought she was doing better than she actually was. She answered three. Ignored five. That felt like balance.

Jimmy texted around 11:30.

Jimmy: Alive?

Ava: Mostly.

He sent back a skeleton emoji and a disco dancer. It made Ava smile; a small win, but honest. Fine, she thought. He’s forgiven.

By noon, the hotel room felt too symmetrical, too manicured, so she put on her trusty sweatshirt and a baseball cap and escaped.

Outside, New York was fully awake. Horns, construction, ambition. The scent of wet asphalt and coffee carried in the wind. Ava wandered — one block… and then another. Street vendors shouted on every corner, and a busker murdered a Fleetwood Mac song with alarming sincerity. 

It all felt weirdly holy. 

She bought a pretzel she didn’t want, carried it three blocks, and threw it away while it was still warm. Every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, her chest tightened. Each time, it wasn’t Deborah. Why would it be, you idiot? You never responded to her.

On the corner of 5th and Madison, Ava thought, absurdly, about the first time she and Deborah had kissed. She turned back before the thought could finish itself.

By four, she was back at the hotel, kicking off her shoes in one motion. The keychain on the dresser caught the light — that faint brass gleam. She turned it over in her hand again, thumb rubbing at the initials like she could erase them.

She rehearsed answers to questions Deborah hadn’t asked yet. The funny version. The polite version. The one that sounded like closure but wasn’t.

At five, daylight started to drain out of the windows like someone pulling the plug. She looked at herself in the mirror:  hair up, then down. She tried on expressions. Neutral. Pleasant. Unbothered. But none of them zipped all the way up.

When six came, Ava stopped pretending that indecision was a strategy. She picked up the phone, thumb hovering over the message thread again. Then, she typed the smallest, true thing. 

Yes. I’m free. Send.

She immediately regretted how naked it looked — no exclamation point. No emoji. Just honesty, sitting there uncamouflaged.

The dots arrived, then disappeared. Then, returned. Ava felt sick to her stomach as her pulse hammered in her throat. 

D: 7:30. West Village. I’ll text the address.

The address followed, one that felt familiar enough to sting.

She stood there for a while, hand in her pocket, fingers closing around the keychain. The metal was warm again. She stayed there until the light shifted around her, that blue hour where the city starts to glow underneath, and everyone pretends they’re not waiting for something. 

Then, slowly, Ava began to move.

First: the shower, again. The second of the day, unnecessary but compulsory. She stood under the spray until her skin prickled from the heat, watching steam curl up into the air. Every time she tried to stop thinking about Deborah, her brain just circled the drain and came back to her anyway.

Ava dressed like she would for any other dinner — not too classy, not too casual — just enough that Deborah might think she looked nice, but not enough to look like she was really making much of an effort. Her phone buzzed with a reminder from the car service app. 

Her mind drifted to the last dinner they’d ever shared — three years ago, back in Singapore, and the evening had been perfect — almost, until Deborah had done the inevitable. Ava shook her head as if to dislodge the memory.

At 6:58, Ava caught her reflection in the mirror for the last time. The woman staring back looked like she had it together, if you didn’t look too closely.

She grabbed her phone, slipped the keychain into her pocket, and turned off the lamp. The room dimmed to gold, then to grey, then it was gone.

As she reached for the door, her hand lingered on the handle longer than it needed to. The carpet under her shoes, the faint hum of the vent, the light falling across the bed — all of it felt rehearsed. Familiar.

Three years ago, she’d done the same thing. Different hotel. Same hour. Same quiet after saying nothing.

Ava opened the door, careful not to let it slam. The click of it closing behind her sounded exactly the same as it had then.

Chapter Text

The restaurant sat on a quiet block in the West Village, the kind of place with white linen tablecloths and low lighting that made everyone look better, the kind of lighting that forgave sins if you tipped well. Ava recognised it the second she stepped in through the door.

Of course, Deborah would pick this one. They’d eaten here years ago after a set at the Beacon – two martinis in, both pretending that the city loved them equally. Back then, it had felt like it belonged.

Now, it felt like evidence. 

Ava got there early. She hadn’t meant to. The driver had been efficient, the traffic almost kind, and suddenly she was standing outside the window with five minutes to kill and nowhere to hide.

Through the window, Deborah was already seated.

She was half-turned in her seat, one elbow on the table, laughing at something the waiter said. The sound didn’t carry through the glass, but Ava could still feel it – that laugh that filled the air like perfume: self-assured and slightly rehearsed. Deborah had always known how to occupy a room. Ava used to find that magnetic. Now it just hurt like muscle memory.

She lingered a moment too long, watching the way Deborah’s hand rested lightly on the stem of her glass, the faint tilt of her head, the casual dominance of someone who’d long since learned to make silence work for her. Same restaurant. Same table. Different century.

Finally, she stepped inside, waiting to be seated, “Reservation for Vance,” she said, and the host smiled a little too brightly when he recognised Deborah’s name.

“Right this way,” he said, his politeness bordering on reverence.

Deborah didn’t see her. She was scanning the room, that habitual half-smile in place, not looking for Ava, just making sure the room looked back. Ava watched her a second longer, then pulled herself together, smoothing her jacket and crossing the room.

Deborah looked up only when Ava was close enough to catch the faintest flicker of surprise before her expression reset into effortless poise.

“Sorry,” Ava said finally, appearing at the side of the table. “Traffic. Can you believe New York still believes in that?”

Traffic? Really? You’re not even late, Ava, she realised, mentally kicking herself for apologising to Deborah right out of the gate.

“Ava,” Deborah said, as she rose to her feet, the name landing somewhere between genuine warmth and scripted grace. “You look—”

“Taller?” Ava offered.

“—good.” Deborah finished smoothly, sitting back down. “Well. Alive.”

Ava smiled thinly, hooking her jacket on the back of her chair before sitting across from her. “All three, on a good night.”

The waiter appeared as if on cue. Deborah barely turned toward him. “Two martinis,” she said. “Dirty.” Then, glancing at Ava: “Still your thing?”

Ava gave a little shrug. “Sure. Tradition, right?”

The waiter disappeared toward the bar.

“So,” Ava said, clearing her throat, “still presumptuous, I see.”

“Consistency is important,” Deborah shot back. 

For a while, they were civil. Effortlessly so, like professionals running a table read of their own history. They talked: work, travel, interviews, and show deals. Deborah mentioned her Vegas residency in passing, as if it were a burden to be admired for. Ava talked about tour dates and about Jimmy in the way you mention a recurring symptom.

Deborah praised Ava’s recent special, calling it “brave” in the tone people use when they actually mean “a little embarrassing.” They both knew it was an insult, but Ava thanked her anyway. Then, she returned the favour with equal grace. 

Every so often, Deborah laughed in that knowing way, the kind that said I remember when you were funnier. Ava let it slide. The drinks helped, though, which was a welcome relief. 

When their meals arrived, Ava broke the surface with her fork – eating some, but mostly pushing it around her plate. Deborah had already launched into a story about the time she’d been “accidentally booked” for a tech conference instead of a comedy gala. The audience, she said, had been mostly engineers, none of whom laughed until she started roasting their shoes.

Ava smiled, genuinely at first, then it faded. It was impossible to hear any story Deborah told without remembering all the times she’d been there with her. When the story trailed off, there was a lull – the kind of pause that should’ve been comfortable but wasn’t. 

Deborah reached for her glass, twirling the stem between her fingers, and said casually, “I saw that bit you did about your father. The one where he dies in the first thirty seconds?”

Ava blinked. “Ahh… that one.”

Deborah nodded, her tone light and almost complimentary. “It’s good. Brutal, but good. I didn’t know you could be that–” She gestured vaguely in the air. “Personal.”

Ava took a slow sip. “Comedy’s cheaper than therapy.”

Deborah smiled faintly, eyes tracing the rim of her glass. “Do you think he’d hate that you turned him into material?”

Ava shook her head. “My mom? Absolutely. But my dad? Never. He was always curious about everything I did. I think he’d just be mad that he never got to see it.”

Something passed through Deborah’s expression – there, and then gone. “It’s funny,” she said softly. “How people can still feel like an audience even after they’re gone.”

Ava frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Deborah shrugged. “You’ve been performing for him this whole time. You do it when you talk about him, even when you pretend you’re not. That ache of wanting him to laugh, even just once. I know that feeling.”

Ava stared at her uncomfortably, but she tried not to take the bait. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“No,” Deborah said quietly, almost tenderly. “But I know what it’s like to chase applause from someone who’ll never give it to you.”

That stopped Ava for a beat. Something about the way Deborah said it — not bitter, not self-pitying, just true — made her chest tighten.

Deborah took a slow sip, recovering her poise. “You always make jokes right at the edge of grief,” she said, lighter now, almost teasing. “You used to do that with me, too.”

Ava’s mouth twitched. “You’re comparing yourself to my dead father now? Bold.”

Deborah smirked. “I’m just saying — you hide behind timing, and I was always the only one who could catch you off-beat.”

For a moment, they almost smiled at the same time. Almost.

Then the silence stretched too long, and Deborah broke it before it could turn honest.“Do you ever think about the road?” she asked, voice bright again as she leaned back in her chair. “We were practically feral — all those motels and all that gas station food.”

Ava stared into her glass, the olive like a small planet orbiting her own reflection. “Mostly, I just think about how I managed to not get scurvy.”

Deborah smirked. “You couldn’t just let it be sentimental, huh?”

“I let plenty be sentimental,” Ava said. “Just not lies.”

That hit its mark. Deborah looked away. Her hands moved to the napkin in her lap, smoothing it flat – that old tell, the one Ava used to tease her for. “You really believe that’s what it was?”

“I believe you’re better at forgetting than I am.”

Deborah’s smile stiffened. Her voice softened again, a quiet little wound hidden inside it. “You left without saying goodbye.”

“You would’ve talked me out of it.”

“Maybe that’s why you should have stayed.”

Ava’s eyes lifted, the look direct and clean. “You never liked being left, Deborah. You just liked being the one doing it.”

Deborah’s mouth tightened – not quite anger, not quite guilt. “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you.”

The silence after that was clean and sharp. The kind that draws blood. That should have been the end of it, but Deborah never could leave quiet alone. She lifted her martini, her hand steady now, too steady. She swirled what was left in the glass like she was stirring the air itself.

“You know,” she said, “for someone who claims to hate me, you certainly have been writing a lot of material about me.”

Ava furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,”  Deborah said, with a soft laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “The interviews, the jokes, all those clever little digs about ‘difficult women.’ You’ve been doing a victory lap about how tragic it was to survive me.”

Ava’s expression flattened. “Wow. You really think everything’s still about you?”

“I don’t think”, Deborah said, leaning forward now. “I know. Because if I’m still the villain, then you don’t have to admit you liked being the sidekick.”

The words landed like a slap disguised as insight. “That’s cute,” Ava said dryly. “You sound like every man I’ve ever worked for.”

Deborah’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half warning. “Don’t flatter yourself, dear. You were never that powerless.”

Ava gave a short, humourless laugh. “Right. Just collateral damage.”

Something flickered behind Deborah’s expression, a flash of guilt, maybe, but she quickly buried it. She took another drink instead.

“I made you better,” she said, too quickly, too forcefully. “Sharper. You used to be… reckless. I gave you something to aim at.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you made me quieter.”

“I made you listenable,” Deborah said. “And look how well it worked. You should be thanking me.”

“I did,” Ava said. “For two years. Every day.”

Deborah’s hand froze halfway to her glass. Her smile faltered, and the crack showed just for a second. Then, she recovered, sitting back in her chair, her voice cool again. “You left because you couldn’t handle it, Ava. You couldn’t handle me. You’ve always needed a villain to feel like a hero.”

Ava laughed softly, shaking her head. “You know what’s funny? You say that like it’s an insult. But all it tells me is that you never stopped watching.”

They stared at each other across the table, two women who’d once known how to finish each other’s sentences now just waiting for the other to breathe wrong. The restaurant around them went on, a low buzz of conversation, clinking glass, and the muted percussion of other people’s lives.

Deborah exhaled slowly and practised. “You could’ve called, you know. Instead of running off like a dramatic intern who didn’t get her gold star.”

Ava froze. “That’s what you think it was?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t handle not being adored.”

Ava laughed, sharp and ugly, loud enough to draw looks from the table opposite. “That’s rich, coming from a woman who can’t walk past a mirror without stopping for applause.”

Something shifted – a flash of hurt Deborah didn’t disguise fast enough. Then she smiled, cool again, cruel because it was easier. “I built you, Ava. Don’t rewrite history just because you can’t stand your own reflection.”

That did it. Ava pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, the sound cutting through the room. “You didn’t build me,” she said, her voice low but shaking. “You borrowed me. Like everything else.”

Deborah leaned back, the posture of someone pretending to have the last word. “And yet, here you are. Still showing up when I call.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her wallet, and held her card in the air. “For the record,” she said, “I’m not your charity case anymore. Dinner’s on me.”

Deborah arched an eyebrow, her voice low and poisonously sweet. “Consider it an investment. You always come back for the sequel.”

Ava didn’t flinch. She just looked at her – a long, even look that landed somewhere between pity and goodbye – before turning for the door. “Not this time.”

She quickly covered the check and was halfway to the exit when Deborah spoke, too soft to be called after her, but just loud enough to land.

“You know,” she said, almost tenderly, “you could’ve just said you missed me too.”

Ava froze for half a second. Not a complete stop, just a pause, as if someone had pressed the air out of her lungs. She didn’t turn. Didn’t give Deborah the satisfaction of seeing her face. But her reflection in the window beside the door betrayed her anyway – just the slightest falter, there and gone.

******

Outside, the night hit her like a slap — damp air, the kind that tasted faintly of metal and exhaust fumes. Ava breathed in once, twice, as if she could rinse Deborah out of her system. The city was still loud and bright, but it felt strangely hollow, as if someone had turned the volume up just to drown her out.

For a moment, Ava just stood there on the sidewalk, her breath fogging faintly in the cool air. All she could hear was Deborah’s voice looping through her head. 

‘You could’ve just said you missed me too.’ Ava hated that it sounded almost kind. 

She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and started walking with no plan, only pace. The sidewalks were crowded with couples, clusters of laughter spilling out of bars, people who hadn’t just publicly lost an argument to a ghost in designer heels.

Every step away from the restaurant should have felt like distance, but it didn’t. By the time she hit the corner of Seventh, she’d replayed the dinner a dozen ways: better comebacks, sharper exits, the things she could’ve said if she hadn’t gone soft in the middle. 

She stopped under the awning of a bodega just long enough to pause for breath, the conversation clinging to her, looping in fragments:

‘You couldn’t handle not being adored.’ ‘You always come back for the sequel.’

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to – she already knew whose name would be on the screen. As she stepped out into the street, a cab honked at her for crossing too slowly. Ava flipped it off without looking up.

By the time she hit MacDougal, she needed a drink, or a fire drill, or anything that would make her body feel occupied again. The neon from a small bar pulsed against the wet pavement, reflected in a puddle at the side of the road.

She went in.

It was the kind of place that didn’t have a name on the door, just the smell of old wood, whiskey, and rain-soaked patrons. The music was low and steady, a hum that filled the space between thought and regret.

Ava slid onto a stool and ordered a bourbon. When the bartender poured it, she realised her hands were still shaking, just slightly.

“You okay?” he asked, casual but not prying, as if he already knew the answer.

“Define okay,” she said.

He nodded like he’d heard that one before. “That bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” Ava said. “Just… familiar.”

He left her to it after that. Ava took a long drink. The bourbon burned clean, cutting through the noise in her chest until she could almost hear herself think again. It helped, but only barely.

That’s when she noticed her – sitting two stools down, talking to the bartender with the ease of someone who liked being liked. Long dark hair, a denim jacket, and a smile that landed and stayed.

The girl glanced over, catching Ava’s eye. “You’re Ava Daniels, right?”

Ava groaned softly. “Depends who’s asking.”

The women grinned. “Just someone who’s been stealing your jokes for free drinks. You’re kind of funding my nightlife.”

Ava cracked a smile. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

The girl shifted one chair closer, sliding her drink across the bar. “I’m Cam.”

“Confident.” Ava nodded with a lopsided smile. “Probably too nice to have met me.”

“Then tonight’s your lucky night,” she grinned. “What brings you to the Village tonight? You performing?”

“Dinner,” Ava said. “Career-suicidal choice.”

Cam laughed. “Was it that bad?”

“It was educational,” Ava said. “Mostly in what not to revisit.”

Cam grinned. “Sounds like you need a palate cleanser.”

Ava raised her glass. “You volunteering?”

“Maybe.”

They drank and they talked for what felt like hours. Or rather – Cam talked, quick, charming, unafraid – and Ava listened, grateful for the noise that wasn’t her own thoughts. She was younger, in her mid-twenties, maybe, all Brooklyn confidence and wearing cheap perfume. When she ordered another round, Ava didn’t say no. The bourbon blurred the edges enough that she could almost believe she was enjoying herself.

Anything to keep her mind from circling back to Deborah’s face across that candlelit table.

At some point, Cam leaned closer, voice lower, eyes holding just a little too long. “Can I say something without it being weird?”

“Probably not,” Ava said.

“I’ve had a crush on you since your first special.”

Ava blinked through the haze of the whiskey, half-laughing. “Then you clearly have terrible taste.”

“Yeah,” Cam said. “I’m into disaster.”

Cam leaned in before the air could cool between them, quick and certain, like she’d already decided where this was going. The kiss landed easily, but still electric enough to catch Ava off guard.

Ava froze for half a heartbeat, then let herself fall into it. Not out of want exactly, but out of exhaustion, out of muscle memory, out of the simple human need to stop thinking.

The bourbon on Cam’s lips, the faint trace of rain in her hair — it was all noise, welcome and temporary. When Cam finally pulled back, smiling against her mouth, Ava exhaled, a sound that wasn’t quite laughter.

“That’s one way to end the night.”

Cam brushed a strand of red hair from Ava’s face. “It doesn’t have to end.”

Ava hesitated, but only for a second. The thought of going back to that pristine, empty hotel room, to the silence, to the ghost of Deborah’s perfume that wasn’t really there… it felt unbearable.

Outside, the rain had started again. Cam lived a few blocks east, and Ava followed without asking herself why.

******

Cam’s apartment was three flights up, tucked above a bodega that never slept. 

Inside, the place was small, warm, and chaotic in a charming way. It had mismatched furniture, a half-finished painting leaning against the wall, and fairy lights drooping like they’d given up halfway through trying to be whimsical. On one side of the sofa, a guitar lay forgotten.

Ava hovered near the door. “Wow,” she said. “Real bohemian serial killer vibes. Love it.”

Cam laughed, unbothered. “Yeah, well. You don’t get this much personality in a hotel suite.”

Ava managed a grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Cam kicked off her boots and crossed the room in a few steps, the loose confidence of someone used to being wanted. “You want a drink?”

“Only if it’s bad,” Ava said.

“Lucky you.” Cam rummaged through a cluttered shelf, producing half a bottle of wine and two chipped mugs. She poured. The red came out too warm, but Ava drank it anyway.

Cam leaned against the counter, watching her. “Do you always look like you’re thinking about five things at once?”

Ava smirked. “Only five? I’m getting better.”

“You don’t have to talk,” Cam said, and it wasn’t a line; it was an invitation.

Ava set her mug down. “Good.”

Cam stepped closer. The space between them shrank until Ava could smell the wine on her breath and feel the faint warmth of her skin. When Cam kissed her this time, it wasn’t careful. It was simple and direct.

Ava kissed her back because it was easy; because she needed it to be.

They moved through the small space without much thought. A trail of discarded clothes and laughter that was too quiet to count as joy. The city leaked through the window in flashes of red and gold.

It wasn’t passion, not really. It was escape, it was something to do with her hands, something to press the ache. Ava felt the rhythm of it without feeling the heat. 

At one point, Cam whispered something into her neck that Ava didn’t catch. It didn’t matter. Her mind had already gone elsewhere – to the candlelight on Deborah’s face, the way she’d said you could’ve just said you missed me. The words came back like a bruise you keep pressing.

Afterwards, Cam curled up against her shoulder, falling asleep quickly with a small, satisfied hum. 

Ava lay awake beside her, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A crack in the plaster ran like a fault line overhead. She traced it absently with her gaze, feeling the slow pulse of the city through the radiator pipes. 

Her phone sat on the nightstand, black screen turned up. She reached for it, thumb hovering, the text thread with Deborah still at the top. She didn’t type anything, didn’t even open the chain to read the new message that was waiting for her. She just stared until the light dimmed, until her reflection disappeared into the glass.

Beside her, Cam shifted, murmuring something half-asleep. Ava watched her for a moment – peaceful, unguarded, already elsewhere.

It wasn’t enough to feel better. It just felt quieter.

Ava turned the phone face down and rolled onto her back. She stared into the dark until the ceiling blurred into the same soft nothing she’d left Deborah for. When morning came, Ava would tell herself that this meant everything and that Deborah was long forgotten.

But it would always be a lie.

Chapter Text

The early morning light in Cam’s apartment was a little too honest for Ava’s liking.
It slid through the blinds in pale stripes, catching dust motes and the corner of a crooked poster for a band that had definitely broken up years ago.

Ava blinked awake with that hotel-room instinct – where am I? what did I do? – then remembered: not a hotel, not hers, not a mistake she could expense. Cam breathed softly beside her, one knee slung over the duvet. 

Her bedroom looked like a mood board for a life that Ava didn’t ever remember being young enough to have. The walls were half-covered in posters – not framed, just taped up with their corners curling from the humidity. Patti Smith, Sleater-Kinney, The Runaways, and a badly photocopied Yeah Yeah Yeahs tour flyer. 

Ava respected the theme.

Pushing herself up on her elbows, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and let her gaze wander around the room. The furniture was a patchwork of Craigslist ads: a scuffed dresser painted sage green, a leaning bookshelf full of dog-eared novels and half-dead plants. The sheets were soft but mismatched – navy on the bottom and faded yellow on the top. 

On one side of the room, an old record player sat on a crate beside a stack of vinyls. Next to it, a glass of water with a paintbrush stuck in it like an afterthought. A small window looked out onto the fire escape, the kind that had probably seen more cigarettes than sunlight. A string of fairy lights drooped lazily across the frame, blowing faintly in the breeze.

Ava noticed the details the way she always did: a black nail polish bottle sitting on the nightstand, two earrings beside it (neither of which matched the other, and a Polaroid of Cam and someone else — a girl, laughing with their arms around one another. Everything in the room looked temporary, as if Cam could pack up and disappear by midnight, and the space would still hum with her energy,

It was the opposite of Deborah’s world — nothing polished, nothing curated, all just chaos with charm. Of course this is where I ended up, Ava thought to herself. And yet, when Cam had kissed her again, there was a brief, ridiculous part of her that wanted to stay. Just for a night. Just long enough to prove to herself that she hadn’t been built for rooms like Deborah’s. 

She peeled back the covers carefully, trying not to jostle the bed too much. The world swayed a little as she righted herself — bourbon, wine, regret — the breakfast of emotionally stunted champions.

She scanned the floor for her clothes, finding her trousers inside out and crumpled in a pile next to her t-shirt. The floor was cold underfoot as she eased herself out, beginning a scavenger hunt to find her remaining clothing. A bra by the door, a pair of underwear by the bookshelf, and two socks discarded half-under the bed. Her jacket lay neatly over a chair in the corner, with her shoes placed beside it. 

“Hey.” Cam’s sleepy, warm voice broke the silence. “Are you trying to leave without telling me?”

Ava froze mid-shoe-tie.”I’m just... leaving normally but quietly.” 

“That’s called sneaking, Ava.”

Ava looked over, finding Cam propped up on an elbow, her dark hair wild as she grinned back at her.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Ava said finally.

Cam smirked at her, “You think I’m going to sleep through someone tip-toeing around like the world's worst burglar?”

Ava rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t tip-toeing, it was a… respectful creep.”

Cam snorted, sitting fully upright now. “Respectful creeping. Great band name.”

A quiet settled between them as Ava finished lacing her shoes and making herself look at least somewhat presentable to be out in public. 

“So… you’re leaving?” 

Ava exhaled. “Yeah, my manager’s probably ten minutes away from starting a search party.” 

“Coffee?” Cam grinned, already swinging her legs out from under the covers. “I make terrible coffee. Like, legally actionable. But it’s an authentic experience, I promise.”

Ava smiled. God, Cam was charming in an effortless, accidental kind of way – the kind of person who could make even the worst of sarcasm sound like flirting. The kind of person Deborah would’ve annihilated with one raised eyebrow. 

“Tempting,” Ava said, “but I should really go before your coffee gets me cancelled.”

Cam barked a laugh, and Ava felt it like static in her chest. It was easy, uncomplicated, the opposite of everything else that was coursing through her bloodstream. “Okay, but—wait.” She reached for her phone on the nightstand. “Take my number? In case you ever want to… I don’t know… try really bad coffee.”

Ava hesitated. She didn’t do this – sleeping with fans, the blurry ethics of it, the possible headlines, the general abyss of mess. Deborah’s voice kicked open the door in her mind, sharp and unimpressed: “Fans, Ava? Sweetheart, you don’t fuck your audience. You sell them t-shirts.”

She suppressed a tiny, self-destructive smile. God, she hated how accurately Deborah could narrate her choices, even in her absence. But… Cam wasn’t Deborah. She wasn’t full of self-importance and sequins; she was unpolished in a way that felt real. She looked at Ava like she was interesting, not something to be collected and made better. 

Deborah would hate her, Ava thought. Which, honestly, solidified Ava’s decision. If Deborah could have someone at home, then Ava could have a ‘someone’ too.

“I’ll text you,” she said. “So you have mine.”

Cam’s smile slanted just slightly, pleased but not smug. “Ahh. Mysterious. Love that.”

Ava typed: Hi :)

Cam’s phone buzzed, and she smiled at the screen with a crooked grin. “Saved.”

Ava finished tying her shoe and shrugged the jacket up and over her shoulders. “Don’t frame it,” she said sarcastically, already halfway to the door when she caught Cam still gazing at her phone.

“No promises. Hey – at least let me walk you out?” Cam said, reaching for a sweatshirt.

“You’ll ruin the fantasy,” Ava said. “Hold onto it. It’s kinder.”

Cam laughed softly, settling back against the headboard, one knee drawn up, sheets pooled at her waist. “Alright. Be heartless. Go.”

Ava made it three steps… then four. Her hand hit the door handle, but she didn’t open it. She exhaled – quiet and irritated, a sigh aimed mostly at herself. “Jesus,” she muttered.

She turned and crossed the room as Cam watched her with a quiet curiosity. She reached the edge of the bed and leaned in, setting a hand lightly beside Cam’s hip to steady herself, and kissed her. It was sure and slow enough to count her heartbeat in. The kind of kiss that said: something happened here. 

Cam eased into it, not grabbing or pushing, just meeting her there like an open door. When Ava pulled back, Cam’s eyes were still closed. “Oh,” she whispered. “That kind of goodbye.”

Ava gave the smallest exhale; a laugh, maybe. “Yeah. That kind.” Then, Ava stood, already backing toward the door again. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Cam stuck out her tongue. “You’re the one who walked back.”

Ava pointed at her, tilting her head. “Exactly. Rare event. Collectors edition.”

Cam’s smile softened at the edges. “Mhm. Limited release.”

Ava nodded once, like sealing the agreement.

“Bye, disaster,” Cam said.

“Bye, trouble.” Ava shook her head like she hated that it worked, but her smile betrayed her as she slipped back toward the door.

******

The cold morning air hit Ava like a slap in the face. It wormed its way down her jacket collar and prickled her skin, stealing the last warmth left in her. She stepped onto the sidewalk, boots hitting the concrete, immediately plunging a hand into her pocket for her phone – less out of need and more out of habit, like checking her pulse.

The streets were already – infuriatingly – fully alive. Dog walkers, delivery trucks, and the first rush of people with their crisp outfits and ice coffees, all of which looked disgustingly functional before 9 a.m.

Ava lifted her hand as she stood on the edge of the sidewalk, palm out, the universal please rescue me from the consequences of my choices gesture to the yellow cabs passing her by. Just then, her phone vibrated in her palm. Jimmy. 

She answered quickly before the second buzz could finish. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Ava,” he sighed. “Where the hell are you?”

“Out,” she said breezily.

“Very helpful. Care to be more specific?”

She raised her hand again, fingers pointed skyward in determination. “I’m getting a ride back to the hotel,” she called over passing traffic. “No need to mobilise the National Guard.”

“Which cab?”

Ava’s eyes narrowed at a minivan that dared to slow down, then keep going. “A yellow one, Jimmy.”

“Ava – you didn’t sleep at the hotel.” It was a statement, not a question.

Ava sighed. “No, Sherlock.”

There was a stretch of silence, the kind that was actually less silence and more judgment. 

“Fans?” he asked wearily.

Fans. She always hated that word. “No.”

“Oh great,” he groaned. “Groupies are fine, just not the—”

“They were not a groupie, either,” she snapped. “Jesus. I have standards.”

“…Do you?”

Ava narrowed her eyes at a passing pigeon like it were the one that said it. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Ava. Deborah called last night. She said the two of you had dinner and then you just upped and left. She’s pissed.”

“Shocking,” Ava deadpanned. “A comedian with control issues and a god complex? Next, you’ll tell me water is wet.”

“Ava!”

“That lady doesn’t need to concern herself with me,” Ava continued, finally catching the attention of a passing cab. “She needs hobbies. I’ll be there in twenty. Maybe thirty.”

Jimmy exhaled, and Ava could practically hear the eye roll from the other end of the line. “Great. Outstanding. Do you need me to send a driver to make it easier?”

The cab pulled over with a squeak of brakes. “Nope. Chariot secured,” she said, already climbing in. “And, really, tell Deb to mind her own fucking business, okay? 

She hung up before Jimmy had the time to answer. She gave the driver the hotel name, sat back, and let her head thunk gently against the seat.

******

Jimmy’s voice still echoed in her skull as she stepped into the lobby. Deborah called last night. Of course she did. Deborah was the only person who could sever someone emotionally and still expect a status update by morning.

Ava crossed the floor at lightning speed, but not before the front desk staff clocked her with polite professionalism that bordered on pity. Jimmy leaned against the reception desk, two coffee cups in hand, his expression carved into the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ look.

“Please tell me the fancy one is mine,” Ava said as she approached. 

“Welcome back from your walk of shame,” He handed her the black coffee without looking at her. “You’re in a self–inflicted hardship era. You get prison coffee.”

Ava took it into her palms, cradling it for warmth. “And yet you still bought it for me,” she said, flashing him a sarcastic smile. “Also, I didn’t walk – I took a cab.”

Jimmy just rolled his eyes, and Ava exhaled through her nose, half-laugh, half internal damage assessment, and fell into step beside him toward the elevators.

“So,” he said. “She called me again.”

Ava pretended to admire a vase the size of a preschooler. “Which one?”

“You know exactly which one.”

“I know a lot of women.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her with a stare — the stare of a man who was mentally counting backwards from murder.

“Oh, fine,” she cracked. “God. You’re really not fun anymore.”

“You disappeared after dinner with Deborah last night,” he repeated, pressing the button for the elevator with unnecessary force. “A dinner you didn’t even tell me you had planned.”

“She disappeared first.” Ava corrected. “I just committed to the bit.”

“Ava,” he warned. 

The elevator chimed open, and they stepped inside. 

“She asked if you were alright,” he said as they stepped inside, quieter this time. Almost cautious.

Ava blinked, momentarily thrown off axis. There was no universe where Deborah Vance checked in on someone’s well-being without annexing territory in the process. “…Well, that’s invasive.”

“Ava—”

“Christ, Jimmy, stop saying my name,” she paused, gathering ammunition. “Tell her I’m fine. Tell her I slipped on a jazz CD and fell into someone’s bed. I don’t care. Just—ugh. Don’t tell her anything.”

“I’ll have you know that I lied beautifully,” he said with a modest nod. “Gave you an alibi involving Pilates and personal growth.” 

“Disgusting,” Ava snorted. “Thank you.”

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

Ava leaned against the wall and took a long sip of coffee, then tipped her head back. “The usual. The kind where she can never admit to doing anything wrong. Everything went well at the comedy club — I mean, as well as it could be. I thought she’d changed.”

“And?”

“And then she did what she always does.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “She Deborah’ed at me.” 

Jimmy blinked. “That’s not a verb.”

“It is in my medical file.” Ava shot back. 

He rubbed his face with his free hand, “Ava. Do you like her, or do you want to fistfight her with kitchen knives? Because the vibe oscillates so fast that I’m getting emotional whiplash.” 

Ava stared at the coffee cup like it might translate her feelings into something she could say without vomiting. “Both…” she muttered.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhaled, half-amused, half-exhausted. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I contain multitudes of self-awareness,” she groaned.

“You contain a liability insurance nightmare,” he corrected.

When they reached the hotel floor, a beat passed. Then, Jimmy leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now, the tone he used when he knew that things were moving from comedic to real. 

“Are you okay?” 

The question was gentler than it had any right to be, which made it harder for Ava to dodge. She stared straight ahead, her shoulders tensed. “No. But I will be. Probably. Eventually. Like… statistically speaking.”

Jimmy waited. He knew Ava wasn’t finished.

She exhaled, long and irritated at herself. “It’s like… every time I think I’ve outgrown a bad idea, the bad idea shows up in tailored suits and suddenly I’m young and regrettable again.”

“That’s not young,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “That’s homosexual.”

A laugh punched out of Ava before she could guard it – sharp, startled, and unwilling. She gaped at him, but he was already smiling back at her.

“You’re funny sometimes, you know?” she said.

“I know,” he shrugged. “Hey – no more impulsive emotional decisions, okay? It’s our last day in New York, and I don’t want to have to chase you around the city before our flight tomorrow.” 

She raised her coffee like it was a peace treaty she wasn’t fully ready to sign. “No promises.”

Jimmy clinked his cup gently against hers anyway. “Idiot,”

“Enabler,” she countered. “I’m going to shower now.”

“Finally,” Jimmy said with a smirk. “I was just about to suggest it, but it’s nice to see you weren’t lying about that whole ‘self-aware’ thing.” 

Ava turned and made her way toward her room. “Thanks for checking I was still alive, by the way.” She called out without turning around.”

“Someone has to protect the world from you, Ava,” Jimmy shot back with a laugh.

“Hero,” Ava muttered, sliding her keycard into the door and pushing it open.

******

The room welcomed her back in the same neutral, indifferent way it had the night before. Ava kicked her shoes toward the corner, undressing herself on autopilot, leaving a small breadcrumb of clothing as she made her way to the bathroom.

The shower had become her default answer to every emotional question that she refused to ask herself aloud. She stepped under the water and let the heat hammer at her skin like blunt-force therapy. Her shoulders began to loosen, and her breathing slowly remembered how to behave. 

Her forehead hit the tile as the steam began to blur the memory of last night, rearranging it into something hazy and survivable that she could live with. Bourbon, guilt, Cam’s sheets, Deborah’s smirk, Jimmy’s moral lectures – all of it sliding down the drain. 

When she emerged, hair damp, robe-wrapped and reborn into exhaustion, the city on the other side of the glass buzzed on, oblivious to all of Ava’s personal implosions. She lay back on the bed and ordered room service – a club sandwich, fries, and another coffee, because nourishment was necessary, and Ava was nothing if not a creature of habit. It arrived twenty minutes later, efficient, polite, wonderfully brief. Her human interaction meter hit maximum capacity the moment the door clicked shut again.

Ava ate curled up in the oversized armchair by the window, one foot tucked under her, her gaze sweeping across the skyline. Halfway through, Deborah drifted back into focus, like a stain you can’t quite scrub off completely.

She had sent several text messages since Ava left the restaurant, but she hadn’t cared to look at them just yet. Actually, that was a lie. Truthfully, she wanted nothing more than to see what Deborah had to say, to fully submerge herself in the hopeless longing she seemed to crave.

“You could’ve just said you missed me, too.” God. That sentence again. Lodged somewhere soft and dangerous.

With a sigh that bordered on self-betrayal, she reached for her jacket draped across the end of the bed and plucked out her phone. One message from Cam – sweet, checking that she got back to her hotel safely. Seven from Deborah - predictable and infuriating.

D (8:46 PM): Really? The dramatic exit? 

D (9:04 PM): Storming out was always my thing. You stole my move.

D (9:16 PM): You could’ve just yelled at me like a grown-up. 

D (10:29 PM): Are you trying to prove something?

D (11:32 PM): Oh, for Christ's sake, Ava, at least let me know you made it back to the hotel.

D (11:50 PM): Ava, please.

D (12:05 AM): Fine. But I think you still have something of mine, so you’re going to have to talk to me eventually. 

Ava should’ve known better. She read them once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, like licking a wound just to be sure that it still hurts. Each time she backed out of the text chain, her thumb betrayed her and pressed Deborah’s name again, as if muscle memory was the real dictator of her life.

“Oh, I’m trying to prove something?” she said aloud to the empty room, her voice climbing. “I’m trying to prove something?”

She launched herself out of the chair, pacing the floor like it owed her something. “... bitch,” she muttered, throwing her phone onto the bed. 

Then, with no witnesses but the furniture, Ava let out a strangled, furious noise, grabbing the closest pillow and sinking her face into it, screaming as loud as she could, with enough force to exorcise at least one minor demon. 

She dropped back onto the mattress, but the anger hadn’t left. It had shifted – from a hurricane to a bruise. 

“I hate you,” she whispered to the ceiling. But it didn’t sound convincing. Even she didn’t believe it, not really.

She pulled on the same sweatshirt she’d slept in ever since she arrived in New York. It was faded, stretched, doctrinally unacceptable, and should’ve been thrown out years ago. But she kept it because it smelled faintly like a life where she still recognised herself. 

She crawled under the comforter, not so much tucking herself in as being entombed, like someone being buried with full consent. One hand stuck out pathetically, reaching toward her phone before retreating. I’m not opening it, she thought to herself. But the empty room didn’t congratulate her. 

Eventually, the sleep hit her like a system crash. 

They’re in a theatre, empty rows swallowing sound as the stage lights blaze overhead, hot enough to blur the air between them.

“You think I didn’t love you?” Deborah says quietly, her pride wounded and her ego sharpened by disbelief.

Ava stands near the side door, both small and huge at the same time, arms crossed to keep herself from opening like a wound. 

“I think you loved me the way you love an audience,” she replies. “Only when it was facing you.”

Deborah flinches. It’s tiny, but it's definitely there. “And what about you, Ava?” she counters. “Why did you love me?”

Ava swallows. “Because someone had to.”

Deborah crosses the stage in long, sure steps, stopping only a few inches from her. She’s close – impossibly close.

“I pushed you away before you could hurt me first,” she whispers. “Because at least then, I was the one holding the knife.”

Ava feels her ribs splinter.

"You didn’t need a knife,” she says, and her voice is shaking. “I  was already open.”

Deborah reaches for her face. Her thumb grazes Ava’s jaw – once, barely, the softest detonation—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Ava jolted awake like someone had dropped her back into her body from a great height. The room was dark, and the bedside clock read 8:13 PM. 

Another knock – deliberate, confident, familiar. 

“Oh, God,” she rasped, her voice thick with sleep. She wasn’t ready to think about her own existence, let alone whoever was on the other side of the door.

Knock knock knock. It came again with the same cadence. It had a signature. Deborah.

Ava stumbled toward the door, the mirror catching a glimpse of herself: hair wild, eyes puffy, sweatshirt hanging loosely from her. But she didn’t fix anything. Instead, she opened the door. 

Chapter Text

There she was – Deborah Vance standing in the hallway like she owned it. 

Her coat hung open over a blush-pink suit that was tailored within an inch of its life, and her hair was pulled back into that same signature updo that Ava used to tease her about – elegant, imperious, and aerodynamic.

Deborah stared at Ava through the gap in the door, her expression not anger but something more dangerous, something that always came before impact: expectation.

“Ava,” she said, her voice warm like honey. 

Ava blinked back at her, still half-dreaming, fully furious, and in no condition to be perceived by someone with functioning eyes. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?”

“Jimmy,” Deborah said, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in a motion that said: Obviously.

Ava’s eye twitched. Fucking Jimmy. Add “fire Jimmy” to her mental to-do list, right between “clean room” and “stop emotionally imploding.”

Deborah’s gaze swept over her as Ava opened the door a fraction more – dishevelled hair, swollen eyes, the sweatshirt that had seen better days. Her mouth twitched, not in judgment, but with a flicker of concern she would sooner die than acknowledge.

“Well,” Deborah continued, “you look feral.”

“Great,” Ava muttered. “Exactly the aesthetic I was going for.”

“You’re not letting me in, are you?” Deborah asked.

“Nope.”

There was a pause in which Deborah clearly processed this answer, decided it was incorrect, and simply overrode it. She swept past Ava into the room, a warm, expensive-smelling breeze of perfume, wool, and audacity. Ava let her, because stopping her would’ve required a spine, and she had momentarily misplaced hers during the breakup dream sequence.

Instead, she just slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary.

“So,” Deborah said, turning to her with folded arms, “are you going to yell at me, or just glare until your face melts off?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ava said, feeling the heat rising in her chest. “I can multitask.”

Deborah’s smile flickered, the sort of flicker that meant she’d been waiting for Ava’s spark like it was oxygen. “There she is,” she murmured.

She turned, surveying the room: the trail of clothes, the unmade bed, the emotional carnage strewn across the carpet. Her eyes landed on the socks by the chair, the bra hanging half off the lamp, the pillow on the floor like it had tried to escape.

“Did you lose a fight with yourself?” Deborah asked lightly.

“Why are you here, Deborah?”

Deborah inhaled slowly, hands sliding to her hips. “You left so fast last night. And when you didn’t respond to me… I was worried something had happened.”

That was bullshit, and they both knew it. Jimmy had covered for her. Deborah was here for an entirely different reason: control, maybe. Closure. Superiority. Something with sharp edges.

Ava pointed at her. “You don’t just get to show up. You don’t get to bang on my door like you’re the police and I’ve wronged you. I left dinner. I left because you—”

“I know why you left,” Deborah cut in softly. Too softly. So soft in fact that it pissed Ava off more than yelling ever could.

“Do you?” Ava snapped. “Because from your texts, it sounds like you’re auditioning for the role of Manipulative Ex #1.”

Deborah stopped. Her head tilted, and her eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Ex?” she repeated.

“Oh God,” Ava groaned. “Here we go.”

“We were not… ‘exes,’” Deborah said crisply, as if the word offended her personally. “We weren’t—what? Dating? A couple? Whatever people call it now. We weren’t that.”

Ava stared at her. “Deborah. We were something. And then you ended it. That’s an ex.”

“I didn’t end anything,” Deborah snapped, suddenly becoming defensive. “You make it sound like we broke up – which we didn’t, because we weren’t—”

“We absolutely broke up!” Ava threw her hands up. “You fired me, told me it was better for both of us, then made no attempt to call when I left to go home. What the hell do you call that?”

“A boundary!” Deborah said.

“A breakup!”

Deborah’s jaw tightened. “It was a… professional transition.”

“Oh my God,” Ava strangled out. “You’re unbelievable.”

Deborah pivoted sharply, pacing again. “Ava. Come on. You know I don’t like being ignored.”

“That’s the problem!” Ava shouted. “You don’t like anything you can’t control.”

Deborah stiffened mid-step. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Ava said. “It’s just true.”

Deborah paused, then said, quieter, “This is unfinished business. Between us.”

“You fired me,” Ava reminded her. “That was the ending.”

“It was an ending,” Deborah corrected. “Not the ending.”

She looked at her then, really looked, and something in her face tightened. “Ava,” she said softly, “I came here because I was worried.”

Ava barked a laugh. “You don’t worry, Deborah. You…occupy. You get inside people's heads and take up every bit of available space.”

Deborah winced. “…Do I?”

“Yes!” Ava paced in a messy arc across the carpet. “You bulldoze over everything until it fits the narrative you want. And then you act surprised when people get hurt.”

Deborah’s voice thinned into a whisper. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course you hurt me,” Ava’s voice trembled. “You always hurt me.”

Deborah inhaled as if the words were a physical impact. She crossed the room slowly, as though approaching something wild and cornered, terrified that if she moved too fast, Ava might bolt.

“Ava… look at me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please.”

And against every warning bell in her brain, Ava looked.

Deborah’s eyes were too soft, too honest. The kind that always made Ava feel like she was being dismantled. “You think I don’t feel things for you,” Deborah said. “That I’m cold. Unreachable. But you walked out last night and – God, Ava – it was like someone pulled the ground out from under me.”

She stepped closer, close enough that Ava could feel the heat radiating from her body. “You think I came here for my health? You think I knock on doors at eight at night because I like the lighting in hotel hallways?” Her voice lowered. “I came because you matter.”

Ava hated how her chest caved in at that. She turned away, but Deborah hovered behind her; close, warm, a gravity field. 

“You left me without a word,” she whispered. “No one does that to me.”

Ava spun back. “I’m not no one. I shouldn’t have to tolerate being treated like one of your punchlines.”

“You’re not a punchline.”

“No,” Ava hissed, “I’m the joke.”

Deborah’s expression fractured, just for a moment. “You’re not,” she said, voice raw enough that it no longer sounded like her. “Ava, I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t get to rewrite history because you got sentimental, Deb.” Ava sighed. “That’s not how life works.”

Deborah’s jaw tightened, and her armour slid back into place. “Sentimental?” she repeated with a scoff. “I’m not the one sleeping in an emotional support sweatshirt from when you lived in my guest room.”

Ava swallowed. That last hit landed.

“Oh, you wanna do this?” she shot back. “Okay. Honesty time.”

Deborah lifted her chin, and Ava let the words fly before shame could tackle them.

“I slept with someone last night.”

“Oh,” A single, brittle syllable escaped Deborah.

Ava barreled on because honesty was a runaway train now. “She was… she was nice. Warm. Normal. Not… terrifying.”

Deborah’s eyes flashed. The switch was microscopic, but for a moment, Ava could almost believe that she was human. 

“For five minutes,” Ava whispered, palm pressed to her chest, “I got to pretend someone wanted me back.”

The room went dead quiet as Deborah absorbed the words like punches. “And you’re telling me this,” she said slowly, “because…?”

“I don’t know!” Ava snapped, throwing her hands into the air. “To prove I moved on, maybe. To make you feel something. To get a reaction, I guess. Congratulations, here it is, I guess I’m insane, next question!”

Deborah stared at her for a long time. Then, too softly:

“Did you want me to fight for you?”

Ava’s breath caught like she’d tripped over it. “No,” she lied badly, and they both knew it.

“You didn’t mention anyone when I saw you at the comedy club,” Deborah said, her voice deceptively steady.

“Not everything in my life is a public event,” Ava snapped. 

“What’s her name?”

Ava held the pause just long enough to watch Deborah’s jaw tighten. “Cam.”

Deborah blinked. “Cam,” she repeated.

Ava nodded. “We’ve known each other for a while.”

It was a lie, and it tasted like one, too.

“Of course you have,” Deborah said, too casually. Her hands slipped into her pockets – a gesture that always meant she was hiding something. “And you… spent the night.”

“Yes.”

Deborah’s tongue pressed along the back of her teeth, jaw tight for one single second. “I see.”

“No,” Ava said, “you don’t.”

“Well, enlighten me,” Deborah shot back. “Because apparently I’m missing the chapter where you and this person suddenly became—what, exactly? Something?”

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

Deborah straightened. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“And you’re being dramatic.”

“Look who I learned from!”

Deborah inhaled sharply, as if Ava had slapped her.  “Ava…” she said again, softer still. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Then why did you come?”

Deborah stared at her for a long, suffocating moment, her chest rising slowly as though she needed time to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Ava felt her own pulse thundering in her ears.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Deborah was the first to break, not with words, but with a step back, her shoulders lifting faintly as though she were bracing against cold wind. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, the way her posture lost an inch of height. Ava only caught it because she’d spent years studying her; she knew the difference between Deborah Vance, celebrated icon, and Deborah, the woman who lived between the cracks.

Deborah turned away, rubbing her hand over her mouth in a rare, unguarded gesture.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know,” she muttered, voice lower than Ava had ever heard it. “About her. Cam. I didn’t know there was someone else.”

“There wasn’t,” Ava said, too quickly, before she could stop herself.

Deborah turned sharply. Their eyes locked.

Ava’s throat closed. She looked away.

Deborah’s voice softened. “So it was just last night.”

Ava wanted to lie again. Wanted to double down, wanted to make it hurt. But she couldn’t speak.

Deborah nodded slowly, comprehension settling over her like a bruise. “Ah,” she whispered, “I see.”

She didn’t. Not even close.

The air between them thickened, turning into something nearly tangible. Ava could feel the weight of Deborah’s jealousy — the way she was trying to hide it behind professionalism, behind pride, behind all the old tricks that used to work on stage and in life. Tricks that never worked on Ava.

Deborah walked toward the window, stopping beside the heavy curtains. She didn’t look at the city. Instead, she stared at her own reflection in the glass, tuning herself out like a stranger.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I’ve never really cared who other people slept with.” A humourless smirk tugged at her mouth. “Not even my own husbands.”

Ava swallowed. “And?”

“And I care now,” Deborah said. “Apparently.”

It landed between them like a confession.

Ava’s breath hitched. She didn’t know what to do with the lump inside her chest or the heat crawling beneath her skin. She hated how much she wanted Deborah to look at her. Hated, too, how relieved she was when she did.

Deborah finally turned – slowly, as though the movement took effort. “And I’m not good at this,” she admitted, gesturing vaguely between them. “At… us.” Her voice cracked, just once. “At anything that requires telling the truth before I can make a joke out of it.”

Ava opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Deborah stepped away from the window and moved toward Ava again – cautious, unsure, almost tender. It was terrifying.

She came close but didn’t touch. Her hand hovered by her side, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure what permission they had anymore.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Deborah said, quiet as a confession in a church. 

“You can’t control when I walk away,” Ava whispered.

“I know.”

“And you can’t control who I’m with.”

There was a beat, a flash of naked jealousy flickering across Deborah’s face before she wrestled it back down.

“I know,” she bit out, jaw tightening.

The silence that returned wasn’t empty now; it pulsed, heavy, dangerous. It felt like being right on the edge of something enormous and terrible and maybe, possibly, good.

“Ava,” she whispered, “if you think I don’t—” She stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek. She’d never been good at saying the real thing first.

Ava felt something in her soften in spite of everything. She hated it. She wanted it. She didn’t know which side she was on.

Deborah stepped closer, far too close, pausing there in the charged quiet, her breath mingling with Ava’s. Her voice broke open, soft and ruined:

“I came here because the thought of you ever choosing someone else over me made me feel sick.”

Ava froze. 

Deborah’s hand lifted, hesitating inches from her cheek, trembling just once before she steadied it. “And I hate that I feel that way,” she whispered. “But I do.”

Ava’s chest squeezed so tightly she thought she might suffocate.

Deborah leaned in, pulse visible in her throat.  “And I don’t want to lose you again.”

Ava’s breath shook.

The movement was slow – slow enough that Ava could’ve stopped her at any moment – as Deborah’s hand finally rose to make contact, fingertips brushing along Ava’s cheekbone in a touch so gentle it nearly undid her. 

“Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you,” she said.

Ava’s heart slammed against her ribs as the air thickened. Deborah leaned in, inches from her mouth—

And Ava turned her face away.

Deborah stilled, the breath catching in her chest. Her hand dropped, leaving the skin of Ava’s cheek feeling abruptly exposed.

“Ava,” she whispered, voice cracking in a place she didn’t show to anyone. “Please don’t—”

“You don’t get to do this to me anymore,” Ava said, stepping back until air could fit between them. “You don’t get to show up and fix things with charm and tension and whatever that was supposed to be.”

Deborah looked gutted in a way she scrambled to hide and failed. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“You weren’t trying to get hurt,” Ava corrected.

Deborah swallowed, looked down at her hands like they’d betrayed her, then up at Ava. “I don’t want you to disappear again.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Ava said, exhausted and aching. “And I don’t think you do either.”

Deborah opened her mouth, closed it, then let her shoulders sink just a little. Her armour slipped for a heartbeat. “You matter,” she said quietly. “Even if I’m terrible at saying it.”

Ava looked away, blinking rapidly.

After a long moment, Deborah stepped back. “I should go.”

Ava didn’t answer.

Deborah turned to the door, her hand finding the handle, pausing like she expected — no, hoped — that Ava might stop her.

Ava didn’t.

******

The world outside the room felt colder for Deborah, somehow.

She stood still for a moment, hand resting on the door handle even after it shut, the cool metal under her palm the only thing anchoring her. Her throat felt dry. Her eyes stung, and she would rather have died than admit it. 

So she forced her fingers to let go. 

She let her driver know she was making her way downstairs, then walked down the hallway with her usual confident stride – the stride people expected and the one cameras recognised – but every step felt half a second out of sync, like she was walking through the wrong version of her life. 

We weren’t exes.

The words came back to her, bitter and hollow. She knew it was a lie the moment she’d said it. Something ugly and childish in her had refused to call what they were a real thing, because then she’d have to admit she’d ruined it. 

She reached the elevator and jabbed the button a little harder than necessary.

In the polished brass of the closed doors, she caught her reflection. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, pink suit, immaculate. She looked like herself. The version of herself that audiences pay to see. The version of her that never got left behind in restaurants.

“Manipulative ex,” she muttered under her breath, the words tasting sour. “Cute.”

The elevator arrived with a bell that sounded far too cheerful. She stepped inside, alone with the mirrored walls. Her smile dropped the second the doors closed, sliding off her face like a mask she’d been wearing too long. 

Cam.

She leaned back against the wall, thumb rubbing absently at her palm where her fingers still remembered the shape of Ava’s face.

Cam. She hated that she knew the name now. It sat in the back of her mind like a splinter.

Deborah had never particularly cared who her partners chose when they strayed or moved on. It had always been a transactional understanding: they got proximity to her orbit, she got not being alone. People came and went. They always did. 

But the idea of Ava in someone else’s bed – laughing into another woman’s pillow, leaving a trail of clothes on someone else’s floor – made something cold and mean curl at the base of her ribs.

And then, another memory resurfaced. The night of the comedy club – after the show, the words had slipped out too smoothly, too beautifully rehearsed for something that wasn’t true. 

“I have someone in my life now,”

Deborah felt the echo of it tug in her chest. 

It hadn’t even been a real person. Not a secret lover, not some hidden person waiting in the wings. It had been a bluff – a line said with a raised brow and a casual shrug, delivered like a punchline without a joke. 

She’d told herself it was just symmetry. Just narrative. Just good rhythm in conversation.
But that wasn’t it, and she knew it.

She’d wanted to see Ava’s face change. She’d wanted to watch her eyes flicker, to feel, just for a second, that Ava might know what jealousy tasted like, too. To even the scales. To not be the only one sitting there, raw and exposed and wanting.

Deborah closed her eyes for a moment. That was what bothered her most now – not the lie itself, but the fact that it was new. She never lied for that reason. She’d lied in interviews, in marriages, in contracts. She’d lied to protect herself. She’d lied to protect her career.

But she’d never lied just to make someone jealous.

That had been a first.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered to herself as the elevator descended. “You’re a grown woman. You’ve been married. You’ve had affairs. Plural.”

But none of them had been Ava. And none of them had walked out on her without looking back.

The doors opened into the lobby, and Deborah’s expression reshaped itself in an instant. A couple near the front desk glanced over, their eyes widening in recognition, and she gave them the polite half-smile she always gave strangers: warm, unreachable, and professional.

She moved across the marble floor, heels clicking in a steady rhythm. Every step away from the elevator felt like increasing distance from the hotel room upstairs, from Ava’s flushed face and shaking voice, from the words she hadn’t been able to say.

Did you want me to fight for you?

That question stuck under her skin like a hook. Ava hadn’t answered it. Not properly, not truthfully. Not in a way that counted.

Outside, the night air hit her, crisp and indifferent. The city was alive and loudly uninterested in the private disasters of two women in a hotel room. Cars flowed by, horns honking, city lights smearing into long streaks of colour in the windshields. Deborah wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, the fabric pulling neatly across her chest. The gesture looked elegant. Inside, she felt anything but.

She fished her phone from her pocket and stared at the dark screen for a second. There were no new messages. Of course not. She briefly considered texting Ava – something glib, something disarming – then locked the screen again without typing anything.

She’d already pushed once. Any more and it stopped being romantic and started being pathetic.

She hated that she cared about the difference.

A black car pulled up to the curb — the same driver as last night.. He got out and opened the door for her like they were in some old movie. Deborah slid inside, the leather cool against the backs of her legs.

“Where to, Ms. Vance?” he asked.

For a second, she almost said back upstairs. She almost said turn around. She almost said nowhere.

Instead, she adjusted the lapel of her coat, eyes on the blur of the hotel entrance.

“Just back to my hotel, please.”

He nodded and pulled away from the curb.

The hotel receded in the rear window, the lit windows shrinking to a soft, anonymous grid. Somewhere up there, in one of those rectangles of light, Ava was alone again.

Deborah let her head tip back against the seat, only for a moment, closing her eyes. Behind her eyelids, she saw Ava standing in that sweatshirt, chin tilted in defiance, eyes wet and furious. She heard her own voice saying I have someone too and felt, again, that ugly little twist of satisfaction when Ava’s face had flickered for half a second.

“No,” she muttered to herself. “You don’t get to be proud of that.”

She opened her eyes, staring at her reflection in the dark window. It looked like her. The real her. The one that no audience ever got to see.

“Fine,” she said under her breath, almost like a dare. “Enjoy your Cam, Ava.”

But the way her mouth tightened in the glass told her she didn’t believe herself.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

A month later, Los Angeles felt like a place Ava Daniels had once lived in a past life – familiar, but not quite hers, like trying on an old sweatshirt that still had someone else’s perfume on it. December sunlight washed over the hills in that smug, cinematic glow LA bragged about year-round.

She leaned against the balcony railing of her friend Reza’s Hollywood Hills house, denim jacket over her shoulders, sunglasses perched in her hair, half pretending she hadn’t spent that entire month doing mental gymnastics not to think about Deborah.

She’d told herself she hadn’t thought about her. Not once. Not at all.

That, of course, was bullshit. 

Because every morning she woke up, before her brain had even booted properly, the first thing that flashed behind her eyes – uninvited – was Deborah in her New York hotel room a month ago. Coat still on, cheeks pink from the cold, looking at Ava like something she’d lost and accidentally found again.

You matter, Deborah had said. And for a moment, Ava had almost wanted to believe it. It was the closest thing to those three other words Deborah had ever given her, and even though no one else in the world would have heard it that way, Ava did. It was small, it was practically nothing, but Ava had felt her entire chest flip inside out regardless. 

And then, god, there had been that moment. The moment when Deborah had brushed her hand across her cheek, the moment when she almost kissed her. Ava wanted it. God, how she wanted it. Every cell in her body had screamed yes. 

She’d replayed that half-moment too many times.

But she wasn’t thinking about Deborah now. Not at all. Except every time she walked past someone wearing something that smelled even faintly of Black Pashmina. Or saw a winter coat with fur trim. Or heard someone on the street laugh with the exact same cadence – half-scoff, half-laugh, like she was already bored of whatever she’d found funny.

But other than that? Totally not thinking about her.

A few years ago, Ava would’ve slipped into a party like this alone and hovered at the edge of the room pretending to be networking while actually scrolling through social media in a dark corner. But now – and this felt surreal every time she remembered it – she had friends. Real ones. The kind who invited her to weird artsy house parties where nobody asked for autographs, who teased her about her weird coffee habits, and who called her out when she spiralled. 

Inside, the living room was full of queer chaos: girls in leather jackets arguing about film scores, someone in a mesh top explaining astrology with the intensity of a TED Talk, two guys slow-dancing ironically to a Robyn song, and then forgetting the ironic part halfway through. Her friend, Jules, was somewhere in the kitchen yelling, “Nobody leave until I find my vape, I swear to God,” for the third time tonight. Someone else was dancing with Reza’s pitbull, who was wearing round sunglasses and a flower crown like it was his tax burden.

They were real, warm, obnoxious, loving friends. The kind Deborah swore she’d never have. You’re twenty-nine years old, and I’m your only friend. Yeah, well – not anymore, bitch. 

The house buzzed with a warm, golden energy: strings of bulbs casting everything in soft light, people drifting between the balcony and the backyard, their laughter rising and falling like the tide. It felt safe. Uncomplicated. The kind of party where Ava didn’t have to be impressive, only present. No one here wanted anything from her that wasn’t her. The closeness in the air felt familiar – the easy way her friends touched each other’s shoulders to move past, lent jackets, adjusted each other’s eyeliner in hallway mirrors. Queer intimacy without the caveat. No secrets. No hierarchy. Just chosen family in someone’s overpriced rental.

It was everything Deborah would hate – and that's why Ava loved it so much.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Cam: I’m five mins away. Got paint on my jeans. Don’t judge. 

Ava smiled despite herself.

Ava: Wouldn’t dream of it. 

Cam had been in LA for a week – a short artist residency, an exhibition, and a flimsy excuse to see Ava again. Things between them weren’t serious, but they weren’t meaningless either. Cam was fun. Easy. Light. All the things that Ava wasn’t, and all the things she wanted to pretend she could be. With Cam, she could be silly and flirty and stupid without feeling like she was handing someone a loaded weapon.

Reza, the host and serial meddler, appeared beside her on the balcony, pushing another drink into Ava’s hand. 

“You,” she said, jabbing a finger at Ava, “are doing a set tonight.”

Ava blinked. “...Excuse me?”

Jules appeared on the other side of her like she’d been summoned. “We already set up the mic,” she announced. “Poolside chic. Very on brand. Very ‘Sad Girl Netflix Special but with hummus’.”

“I’m off the clock,” Ava groaned. “Give me the night off to exist like a regular disappointment for once.”

“Comedy is your religion,” Jules said, stealing Reza’s drink and taking a sip. “You think Jesus took holidays?”

“Jesus died,” Ava pointed out.

“Exactly.” Jules winked. “For the bit.”

Ava rolled her eyes, but she felt a warmth press behind her ribs. Friends. Plural. Actual friends who bullied her into performing and then screamed for her louder than any paying audience. She had a brief, violent urge to text Deborah a photo of all of them just to prove a point. Deborah would be livid. 

The thought was almost as satisfying as it was pathetic.

About ten minutes later, she was mid-sip of something citrusy and questionably strong, staring out over the city lights, when a familiar arm snaked around her waist from behind, and a chin settled on her shoulder.

“There’s my favourite disaster,” she murmured. 

Ava’s shoulders dropped in a way they hadn’t all night. “Welcome to my natural habitat,” Ava smiled, turning in Cam’s arms. “Overstimulated lesbians and organic salsa.”

Cam grinned, paint-streaked hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, a few cobalt smudges still on her knuckles. She wore a cropped band tee and the promised paint-streaked jeans, complete with a tiny silver ring glittering in her nose.

“Hey,” Cam said softly, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. It was a quick, practised press that still managed to make Ava’s face warm in ways she’d never admit out loud.

“Missed you,” Cam added.

Ava coughed into her drink. “You saw me two days ago.”

“Exactly,” Cam said nonchalantly, like that settled the debate.

God, Ava hated how charming that felt.

They slipped back into the house together, and the first hour blurred into easy conversation and soft, overlapping circles of people. Cam fit into the space like water finding its level, like the room had been drawn around her. She complimented someone’s abstract insect tattoo, talked animatedly about her upcoming gallery show  – “It’s mostly big sad girls with knives, but like… tender knives” – and flirted shamelessly with whoever passed by, regardless of gender.

Ava orbited naturally around her, drifting away to talk to someone on the balcony, drifting back to find Cam laughing with Reza on the couch. Each time she returned, Cam’s hand found her waist or her wrist without looking, like there was a magnet threaded through both of them. It felt stupidly domestic in a way that made Ava’s chest ache; this queer little ecosystem of people who got her jokes and her pronouns and her worst days, who didn’t need her to be anything but exactly this.

Eventually, someone shouted from the backyard: “AVA! YOU’RE UP!”

Her friends descended in an instant, pushing her toward the set of stairs like they were stage moms and she was a reluctant toddler at a talent show. 

Cam gave her a mock bow. “Break a leg, soldier.”

“Break… both of mine,” Ava muttered, handing her drink over. “Then I can cancel the rest of the year.”

The poolside setup was aggressively DIY: a wobbly mic stand next to a flowering vine that someone would definitely be tangled up in by the end of the night, a tiny portable speaker, and fairy lights reflecting in the dark surface of the pool. People lounged on mismatched lawn chairs, beanbags, and pool floats, some with their feet in the water, like an audience of semi-wet goblins in thrift-store denim.

Ava took the mic.

“Hi, everybody,” she started. “Welcome to the only comedy venue in LA with a succulent-based fire hazard.”

Laughter rippled across the yard. It was nice. Soft. Human-sized. Not roaring or desperate, just people she vaguely knew and people she didn’t know at all, willing to give her their attention for a bit.

She riffed on LA wellness culture. “My therapist suggested hot yoga,” she said. “No, thank you. I prefer my emotional breakdowns at room temp.”

More laughter. Then, she moved on to Trader Joe's fame.  “A woman cried next to the avocados; unclear if it was me, or the prices, or the fact she realised she’s been dating the same man for seven years and he still says ‘lady doctor’.”

She talked about turning thirty and discovering that hangovers now counted as medical emergencies. The laughs rolled in easily, and she saw Cam at the back, leaning against the fence, eyes fixed on her, grin too bright for someone who had definitely heard a version of this material before. The sight made something low and warm settle in Ava’s stomach.

Then, without planning it, the next words just… happened.

“By the way, I have friends now,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the audience. “Plural. Like an adult. So if anyone from my past is listening, which they are, obviously, because they haunt me emotionally – please update your records.”

The yard burst into laughter and a few theatrical “whooo!”s. Jules wolf-whistled. Reza flipped her off with both hands and a smile.

Ava’s smile lingered longer than usual. Because for once, it felt true. Because it felt good to say it out loud: that she wasn’t alone anymore, that whatever Deborah had told her in Singapore three years ago wasn’t the final word on her life.

Fifteen minutes later, she wrapped up to applause and the clatter of someone knocking over a Solo cup, and stepped down from the raised patch of concrete, feeling warm and buoyant and a little high on something that wasn’t alcohol.

Cam intercepted her halfway back to the house with two glasses of wine. “Look at you,” Cam said, bumping their shoulders together. “A real human with a community. I’m so proud.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Ava said, but her cheeks flushed anyway. “Don’t say ‘community’ like I started a commune. I’m one charcuterie board away from a cult.”

They slipped into the house together, music muffling under the low hum of conversation. Ava leaned gently into Cam’s side, and Cam smirked, instinctively tugging her closer.

“You were… really good,” she said quietly. “Like, hot good.”

“Oh?” Ava arched a brow.

“Yeah.” Cam’s eyes flicked over her face, soft but hungry. “I like it when you’re confident. It’s a turn-on. Terrible for my self-control.”

Ava laughed. “Your self-control has never once been in the room.”

“That hurts,” Cam said. “Mostly because it’s true.”

They stepped into the house together, music muffling under the low hum of conversation, the warm chaos of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on couches and floors. Ava leaned gently into Cam’s side as they squeezed past a half-drunk game of Jenga on the coffee table. Cam smirked, arm sliding comfortably around her waist, tugging her closer.

“You wanna know what else is a turn-on?” Cam murmured.

Ava snorted. “Go on…”

Cam grinned and tugged her hand. “Wanna sneak away?”

Ava laughed. “Where? The coat closet? Very teen drama.”

Cam tilted her head toward the hallway. “Bathroom. Very ‘adult drama’.”

Ava arched her brow, but she let Cam guide her anyway.

They slipped into the hallway, past framed sketches and questionably shaped candles, then into the guest bathroom. It was small but gorgeous: honeycomb tile, a big circular mirror, and a plant tragically clinging to life on the windowsill. Cam shut the door behind them, the muffled bass from the party thinning into a soft, distant thump.

The second the lock clicked, Cam was kissing her; hungry, confident, hands looping into Ava’s jacket and pulling her close.

Ava let out a soft, surprised sound against her mouth. “Jesus–okay–hi.”

“Hi,” Cam whispered against her lips with a smile.

Ava kissed her back, harder this time, grabbing fistfuls of Cam’s jacket to pull her closer. Cam’s hands slid beneath her denim, fingertips tracing up under her shirt, dragging little streaks of heat along her bare waist. Ava hooked her fingers into the belt loops of Cam’s paint-streaked jeans and backed them into the counter, the edge bumping lightly against Cam’s hips.

Cam laughed breathlessly. “You’re in a mood.”

“You started it,” Ava replied, kissing along her jaw, pulse racing. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Cam tugged her collar down to press a kiss to the side of her throat. “I flew six hours for this,” she teased. “I’m sure.”

Ava’s mouth found hers again, deeper and needier now. Cam’s fingers tangled in Ava’s hair, nails scraping lightly against her scalp with just enough pressure to send a shiver skating down her spine.

“You were so good out there,” Cam murmured between kisses, her lips brushing Ava’s. “Like… fully unhinged hot.”

“Mhmm.” Ava tugged her closer, the edge of the counter digging into the small of her back in a way that felt anchoring. “Feed my ego more.”

Cam cupped Ava’s jaw, thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re smug onstage.”

Ava’s laugh broke on a breath. “Keep talking.”

Cam spun them easily, guiding Ava back until the counter met the backs of her thighs. She lifted her, hands firm at her hips, and Ava let herself be moved, letting out a startled little gasp as she landed on the cool marble. The stone stung through the denim, a sharp, grounding contrast to the heat scraping under her skin. She wrapped her legs around Cam’s waist instinctively, pulling her close until there was no space left to think.

“Ava,” Cam muttered, lips ghosting over the line of her neck. “You can tell me if you wanna stop.”

Ava curled her fingers into the hair at the back of Cam’s head, tugging her up for another kiss. “I really, really don’t.”

Cam’s hand slipped beneath Ava’s waistband; slow, teasing, and intentional. Ava’s breath hitched, her forehead dropping to Cam’s shoulder for a moment as she focused on not falling apart too fast.

“God,” she whispered, her voice fraying. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not tonight,” Cam breathed into her ear, smiling. “Tonight I’m here to ruin you in exquisite detail.”

And she did. Slowly. Intentionally.

Cam’s mouth found the hollow of her throat, teeth scraping lightly before softening into kisses. Her hands traced every inch of skin they could reach, learning the shape of Ava like it was something she’d been meaning to finish painting for months. Every look she gave her was hungry, and every movement came with a low murmur against her skin; praise, reassurance, filth, all braided together in a way that made Ava’s brain go wonderfully blank.

The world shrank down to sensation: the cool marble under Ava’s thighs. The faint scent of cedar from Cam’s hair. The tiny smudge of cobalt near Cam’s collarbone that Ava kissed without thinking. The way Cam looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, and pupils blown wide. The soft thud of Ava’s head hitting the mirror when Cam’s fingers curled just right, and Cam’s whispered, breathless, “Yeah, there you go… just like that.”

Ava bit down on a laugh, or a moan, she wasn’t fully sure which. The room blurred at the edges, lights smearing a little in the mirror as heat unspooled low and urgent in her stomach. Time loosened, the party thinning into a distant, irrelevant pulse on the other side of the door.

And when Ava finally came, it was with her hand fisted in Cam’s shirt, her breath catching in small, helpless gasps against Cam’s shoulder.

“Jesus, Cam–”

Cam kissed her through it, grounding her with slow, gentle pressure.

When the world finally returned to its proper shape, and Ava could breathe again, she leaned her head against Cam’s chest, still trembling.

“Well,” she exhaled, “That was… educational.”

Cam laughed softly, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Textbook material.”

Ava turned her head just enough to press a shaky kiss to Cam’s cheek. “You’re dangerous.”

“And you like that.”

“Unfortunately.” Ava sighed.

They lingered there in that small, stolen pocket of warmth for another minute, breathing the same air, hands resting against each other’s shoulders and hips, soft kisses trading between them with none of the earlier urgency. Something about it felt embarrassingly, achingly tender – the way Cam pushed a strand of hair away from Ava’s forehead, the way Ava smoothed a wrinkle from the front of Cam’s shirt.

Eventually, Ava slid off the counter, legs wobbling slightly. She straightened her clothes, splashed cool water on her face, and winced at the faint smudge of lipstick near her jaw in the mirror. She wiped it away, then leaned in for one last, lingering kiss that promised nothing and everything.

When they stepped back out into the hallway, they looked only vaguely like they hadn’t just defiled someone’s carefully curated guest bathroom.

Back outside, everything felt louder and brighter, as if someone had turned up the colour just a notch. Cam’s fingers laced through hers automatically, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soft, private gesture that made Ava’s chest ache with a strange, quiet fear. This is good, she told herself. This is enough. This is not complicated. She could almost believe it.

They drifted back toward the kitchen, Cam talking about some installation she wanted to do in Berlin, Ava nodding along, half-listening, half-floating. For the first time in a while, her body felt loose, her thoughts quiet. She could almost pretend the world was simple again.

Her phone buzzed. 

She almost ignored it. Until she saw the name.

Jimmy.

Her stomach dropped.

“Sorry,” she grimaced to Cam, untangling their hands. “One sec. My agent slash emotional support parasite.”

She ducked into a quiet hallway and answered the phone. “Hey, what’s up? Why are you calling late? Did someone die? Are you dying?”

Jimmy’s response sounded cheerful, too cheerful – the kind of cheerful that meant he was almost certainly trying to sell her something she wouldn’t like. “Calm Down. Nothing’s on fire. Yet. But listen – I’ve got an invitation for you.”

“Oh God,” Ava groaned. “Is it another charity gala? If I have to pretend to understand land conservation for one more night—”

“It’s a New Year’s Eve party,” he said. “Big one. Industry people. Great press – you should go!”

Ava leaned her shoulder against the wall, twisting the hem of her jacket between her fingers. It wasn’t the worst offer in the world. Another party. She could do another party. Easy.

“Fine. Who’s hosting?”

The line went silent for a few moments, long enough to Ava to look at the screen to make sure they were still connected.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “…Deborah. It’s at Deborah’s house.”

Ava’s breath stopped. The hallway tilted, or maybe she did. For a second, all she could hear was the whoosh of blood in her ears.

“Jimmy,” she said quietly. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I wish,” he replied. “Look, it’s a big event. Vegas people, LA people, network execs, critics – everyone. And before you freak out, she didn’t request you. It’s just… the list. It’s an industry thing. You’ll blend right in. You probably won’t even see each other.”

Ava closed her eyes.

If she was in Deborah’s house, there was no reality where they didn’t see each other. Deborah would make sure of it. And if she didn’t, Ava knew she would spend the entire night scanning every doorway anyway, just in case.

From the other side of the wall came the muffled thump of music, a peal of laughter, and the faint sound of Cam’s voice somewhere in the kitchen. Her present. Her actual, messy, warm life.

And then, there was Deborah. Always Deborah.

“Do you want to go?” Jimmy asked, softer now.

Ava swallowed, feeling bile and something else, something like hope, something like dread, burn in the back of her throat. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” he sighed, “you’ve got a week. Just… think about it. It’s good for you. Career-wise. And… maybe otherwise. I don’t know. I’m way out of my depth here.”

She made a noncommittal noise that could have been agreement, or could have been a scream, then hung up a moment later.

For a long beat, Ava didn’t move. She just stared at the floorboards, watching the little knots in the wood blur and sharpen as her eyes stung. Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears, like her body was banging on the door of her own attention.

Finally, she forced herself to turn.

Cam was there at the end of the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, brow furrowed, that easy brightness she wore slightly dimmed. She looked like she’d been standing there a while, giving Ava the illusion of privacy while still staying close enough to catch her if she fell apart.

“You okay?” Cam asked, voice soft.

Ava opened her mouth. She could still feel Deborah’s breath ghosting her cheek from a month ago. She could still hear you matter, could still taste the almost-kiss she’d denied herself replaying like bad syndication in the back of her mind.

She could also feel the warmth of Cam’s hand still pressed ghostlike against her waist, the echo of their laughter from ten minutes ago, the hum of a house full of people who loved her on purpose.

Ava swallowed. Her throat worked, but no words came out.

Not yet. Not with the ghost of Deborah still standing in the silence between them.