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It took two years of misplaced hope before Cate realized her birthday no longer mattered.
Birthdays only mattered to the living, and she stopped living the day her bedroom door was ripped off its hinges and replaced with steel six inches thick. With the heavy clunk of reinforced locks bouncing off the bolted window a person died and all that lingered was a product. A little girl became the consequences of her mother’s greed, shackled by the gloves once offering freedom to build snowmen to her liking before being inevitably sabotaged by her irritating brother until nothing remained.
Soon nothing remained of Caleb, either.
It was an accident, Cate didn’t know about her powers, but ever since the ones supposed to love her wished she never existed.
Maybe if she stopped existing her mom would love her again.
So Cate stopped existing.
Pretending that was her choice—like she ever had a choice—was the only way to survive. She never screamed, never complained, never did anything to imply this house harboured a monster. Instead it harboured a husk, her skin turning so pale she consistently covered up to conceal the ghastly iridescence of her veins. Her body changed but her room stayed the same, outgrowing her short childhood, suffocating from stolen innocence and normalcy. The upbeat CDs she used to duet became her sole reprieve from the endless discord of her mother’s rage blasting inside her skull. Time passed with the awful creak of that door, with the exchange of her daily meal, with the flash of her mother’s cautious glare and the mocking illustration of trees just beyond.
Those few seconds when the door was ajar always offered the illusion of choice, as she was more than strong enough to bulldoze past her mom and escape into the woods. But surviving meant understanding she still had a birthday even if it no longer mattered, so she kept playing pretend.
She used to anticipate weekends, Halloween, Christmas. With only her reflection for company she quickly learned Santa Claus wasn’t real, she’d never eat candy again, all days were equally lifeless and nothing was worth celebrating anymore.
Except for Caleb.
He was the exception to everything, his birthday included. The irony tasted as bitter as her prison food, given she dreaded his birthday when he was alive. He was annoying enough without the extra attention, and being the youngest meant he was spoiled with gifts. Each year more and more creepy Black Noir memorabilia clung to every surface of the house like fleas, unlike Queen Maeve and Crimson Countess reigning exclusively in Cate’s room. He always demanded chocolate cake, the bigger the better, the most recent crowned with chocolate chips, sprinkles, even cookies, all the more perfect for the little prince since Cate hated chocolate. She always had, even before he made it worse. It was too much, just like he was too much, and after learning her distaste Caleb got as much enjoyment smearing the frosting across her face as he did eating it.
It was her fault he’d never eat chocolate cake again, so all she could do was dedicate sketchbooks to him eating as much as he wanted.
Drawing was her favourite pastime even before incarceration and thankfully her room was crammed with all sorts of supplies. Her original goal was improvement, for her paintings to adorn galleries one day, but now she drew so she wouldn’t forget Caleb’s face. She was already forgetting the sound of his voice and without any photos his features would’ve followed, but her intense guilt kept his bright eyes and impish grin clear enough to scrawl. Despite death, both hers and his, she honoured him each year with sore hands and stained gloves, well aware the brother she knew would’ve crumpled these like trash and the one who might’ve displayed them was nothing but wayward bones.
Caleb would’ve been fifteen the day Cate was brought back to life.
She was resurrected by a welcoming smile, by fearless strides, by calm thoughts that didn’t intrude her mind but instead shared space. Intelligent eyes weren’t pinned on her the way prey carefully observed its predator but rather to indicate her undivided attention—and this attention discovered no monster, no husk, merely a girl lost in time. Graceful fingers peeled away her gloves with the delicacy one would with protective film and then warm hands cradled her own like a cocoon, thumbs stroking back and forth like demons didn’t bide beneath her skin, and with a hitch of breath Cate registered this was her first time being touched in nine years. She didn’t need to earn it, didn’t need to beg for it, didn’t even need to pretend she could’ve survived without it. On a day like any other a stranger strolled into her cell, trusted her more than her own flesh and blood, and presented the opportunity to step beyond that steel door and never look back.
Enough birthdays had passed for Cate to reach adulthood but she sobbed like a child in Indira’s arms.
Snug in this unfamiliar blanket of security Cate understood what it meant to worship a higher power, for a miracle to provide meaning to the mundane and inspire hope amidst despair, because in one moment Indira did that for her. She was a goddess, her saviour, not only the first person in nearly a decade to display a smidgen of kindness but to also get her a birthday gift. She even wrapped it, looking equally embarrassed and wistful at the Frozen packaging, but the extra few minutes Indira spent making this gift special restored some magic from the birthdays Cate missed. Indira admitted she was unsure what to get her, that she’d aim for a more personal present at Christmas, but just the promise of a Christmas with Indira, a future with her, was more personal than any present could ever be.
Even still, Cate’s heart stirred from its icy coffin after unboxing brown leather gloves. They were stylish and comfortable, practically a second skin, to start her freshman year at God U as the version of herself she was meant to be. Even more heartwarming was Indira’s reassurance that she never had to wear them if she didn’t want to. Never in this house, never in her presence, never anywhere if they’d freeze Cate in the past.
But these felt nothing like her old gloves, where shame polluted every stitch. These felt like the hands that reached for hers willingly, held with no hurry to release, anchoring her to the present. These felt like she would never be alone again. Cate chose to wear them every day.
Cate wanted to return the favour but Indira waved off all questions about her birthday, saying she stopped celebrating after reaching a certain age. At the time Cate thought she was just being cheeky; joking about getting old despite being the most gorgeous woman Cate had ever seen. Even goddesses had birthdays, they were celebrated eternally, and Cate wanted to celebrate Indira.
That remained true even after learning why Indira didn’t want to. Even after learning it had nothing to do with her age but was rather similar to why Cate stopped celebrating hers. Even after learning Indira was painfully mortal, was simply going through the motions, and was as breakable as anyone else.
It began with cracks, little chinks in her sophisticated armour unnoticeable to anyone not looking closely, but Cate never looked anywhere else. They expanded like lightning whenever Indira examined photos of her family too long. Family that didn’t live here. Cate formed assumptions the day she moved in but never commented, too afraid of upsetting the most important person in her life. The occasional afternoon Cate ate lunch in Indira’s office she caught the cracks bubbling like lava as Indira glared at the gaudy bust of Homelander, like she was one twitch away from launching it through the stained glass of The Seven. What concerned Cate the most was Indira’s rapid heart rate whenever a plane passed overhead, pounding louder in Cate’s skull than her mother’s scorn ever had, only this noise couldn’t be muted by miracle pills.
Cate wanted so badly to help, she’d do anything for the woman who helped her, but how could she piece her back together when she didn’t know why she was broken?
She kept observing, kept trying, until her annual guilt consumed her so completely she couldn’t focus on anything else. She skipped classes and locked herself in her dorm to draw but simply being on campus surrounded by strangers, by carefree assholes who’d never done anything monstrous with their powers, stressed her to the point of shaky lines. She needed quiet to work, to honour Caleb with ink and tear stains, and that wasn’t possible with idiots playing hooky to remodel the hallway into a hockey rink. She still couldn’t handle crowds so she waited an hour for the bodies slamming against walls to fade before tucking her sketchbook into her bag and scurrying to Indira’s, the only place she felt known and accepted and safe enough to crumble.
When she found Indira crying just as hard, she learned her daughter’s name was Lily.
She learned Caleb and Lily shared birthdays.
It was immediately obvious Indira never intended to be seen in such an improper state and it was very possible Cate was the only person still breathing that had. Furiously swiping at her eyes couldn’t hide how they looked more bloodshot than Cate’s when she overused her powers. The contrast between this Indira and the one who rode into her cell on a white horse couldn’t be clearer. The protector who never needed protecting was just too proud to ask, the listener who never spoke about herself wailed at her reflection, and like a mirror her perfect façade shattered.
But now Indira was more perfect to Cate than ever before.
Because today they were the same.
And when Indira realized that too, she told her everything.
Well, maybe not everything. Cate sensed there were specifics Indira omitted, at least for now. She didn’t mind. They had all the time in the world.
Indira squeezed her bare hand in a crushing grip when revealing her husband and daughter died in a plane crash, each fractured word bleeding with profound loss that ricocheted in the cavity of Cate’s chest, up her throat, until an offer to block Indira’s agony was poised to catapult off her tongue. Indira refused before she could, apparently predicting Cate’s compassion before this conversation started. She said it was vital she lived with the pain. Vital for what Cate wasn’t sure, but she was sure how vacant she’d be without Caleb haunting the edges of her thoughts. So if Cate could only support Indira by squeezing her hand in return, she’d twine their trembling fingers and never let go.
Indira’s grip slightly relaxed when talking about Lily. Said she was kind, always smiling, always trying to make others smile, and based on how Indira actually achieved one despite her tears, Lily always succeeded. Unlike most kids Lily was never interested in supes and instead was obsessed with princesses, a fact of which Indira appeared especially fond. All it took were a few Disney movies and a tour of a medieval castle when visiting Indira’s hometown and the interest solidified, evolving to a fascination with royal fashion and history. The Frozen wrapping paper must’ve been leftovers from happier times; a window Indira cautiously opened but Cate hadn’t the means to climb. The window opened wide as Indira brandished a photo album dedicated to Lily’s Halloween costumes—Cinderella, Belle, Anna, Elsa—and the only thing more radiant than her dresses was her irresistible smile.
One story led to another and Indira rambled for a long time, each shaky breath devoted to maintaining her daughter’s memory. Cate gladly let her, paying attention to every detail the way she should’ve with Caleb. She was enchanted by the depth of a real mother’s love, by who Indira really was, by the absentminded strokes of her thumb as if Cate’s cursed hands brought her comfort.
Enough that instead of pulling away when silence filled the air Indira shifted closer. Her eyes were red, her cheeks were soiled and her smile was sad. Even then her beauty was unmatched.
“She would’ve loved you.”
Cate was stunned by the statement and the certainty. “How do you know?”
Indira gently swept some errant strands behind Cate’s ear, gaze flickering between Cate’s eyes and lips. “Because I do.”
Love was another illusion of choice, although not as obvious as the illusions Cate dispelled before. You couldn’t choose to fall in love nor choose who you fell in love with. Your only choice was how you loved. And Cate chose to love the same way she was loved.
By recreating life.
The next year was spent ensuring success, stealing more than a few edibles from Indira’s awfully hidden stash to manage the stress and sleeplessness that accompanied ambition. Her garbage bin overflowed with scrapped ideas, researching and redesigning with each shred of information Indira entrusted her with. Thanks to Godolkin’s permanently sealed windows her dorm often reeked of paint fumes no matter how often she utilized her fans and odor absorbers, but the resulting headaches were cakewalks compared to when she abused her powers so she stubbornly persisted.
She’d never been this meticulous with her drawings of Caleb because the goal wasn’t to improve, just remember, so for the past decade her hand was dictated by the numbness of limbo. She regarded the face she recreated every year—eternally six and bursting with joy—but the fact he would never see himself the way she saw him dulled the emotion the drawings deserved.
This piece, however, would be the first one seen by the person she created it for. She only had one chance to do it right; to make every glide of her brush as meaningful as Indira’s trust was to her. It had to memorialize the best of the past while providing a path to a bright future. Not as bright as it should’ve been, but the brightest Cate could bestow. She channeled everything she learned about this girl she never met into something she hoped was worthy of the woman she was forever grateful to meet.
Hiding her progress hadn’t been easy, not when her nosy friends liked to barge through her door whenever they felt like it. Typical Top 10 behaviour, but she allowed it with affectionate eye rolls because once upon a time the idea of anyone feeling safe enough to do so, of genuinely enjoying her company, was unfathomable. Luke was especially curious about her art, in that encouraging way he always was with people’s passions, long ago recognizing she was in love. His teasing was supportive rather than inquisitive and she was thankful for his tact. She treasured her friends deeply, never thought she’d have friends who treasured her the same, but her relationship with Indira was personal, Lily was personal, and some secrets required steel six inches thick.
On Caleb and Lily’s birthday she waited until most students were in morning classes before sneaking the painting off campus, letting herself into Indira’s house. Their house, she reminded herself, even though the only place bearing evidence of Cate’s presence was her bedroom. It was a precaution in case another student made an emergency visit to their dean and assumed she was playing favourites—which she was, Indira had declared with a wink that claimed Cate’s heart. As much as Cate would’ve liked seeing pictures of herself with Indira framed over the fireplace, she understood and respected the limitation. This was her favourite bedroom, anyway. It welcomed her with dusted furniture and clean sheets and peaceful stillness every summer, holiday and night she needed to feel safe. It was the only one that never resembled a gilded cage and if it wouldn’t arouse suspicion she’d sleep there every night. She’d be with Indira every night.
She wondered if Indira wanted that, too. If a life with Indira awaited her after she graduated. No more stealth, no more excuses, simply waking up to the face that convinced her waking up was worth it. That would make her so happy. Cate couldn’t imagine being happy anywhere else.
For the longest time she couldn’t imagine being happy at all and today was an annual reminder why.
When Indira finally got home that evening she didn’t look surprised to see her, unlike last year, nor was she surprised by her haggard state. Any other day had Indira found Cate curled in bed clutching a pillow to her chest she would’ve gathered her up and whispered sweet nothings in her ear until Cate was stable enough to disclose the problem, and if it was within her power Indira would’ve resolved it as promptly as she resolved everything. Even if she couldn’t, hugs from Indira always helped Cate feel better. Indira always seemed to know when she needed one. She would’ve known Cate needed one now.
And Cate knew Indira needed one more.
When Cate sat up and opened her arms the mask Indira donned all day shattered, anguish distorting her expression until she was unrecognizable to anyone outside this room. Indira collapsed into her embrace and Cate latched on tight, sobbing her burdens into the safety of Indira’s neck. Indira clawed her desperately closer and Cate cried at how needed she was; how she was the only one able to help.
She was the only one able to help because of why she needed help, too.
Cate never should’ve been injected with Compound V as a baby, but if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be here. She never should’ve been condemned to her room for nine years, but if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be here. Caleb never should’ve died by his big sister’s command, but if he didn’t she wouldn’t be here.
Cate never wanted any of those things to happen.
But Cate wanted to be here.
If she wasn’t, Indira would be crying alone right now. Maybe she wouldn’t cry at all. Maybe she’d bottle her sorrow until she was more husk than human. Maybe the anger simmering in her blood would boil over, her inevitable eruption irredeemable. Maybe the loving mother would see a stranger in the mirror until being swallowed by her shadow.
Attending superhero school didn’t make Cate a hero—she knew she wasn’t and probably never would be—but saving Indira from herself made her feel like one. A real one, exactly the opposite of the media conscious caricatures her teachers endorsed, because no one would understand the importance of her actions except for Indira. Cate would be the outlet for all of Indira’s feelings just like Indira was for her. Indira accepted even her worst parts, everything that was ugly and scary and raw, and the moment Cate learned Indira wasn’t a goddess, that their experience with mortality was strikingly similar, she was determined to do the same. She’d stay by her side no matter what.
When Indira untangled from the embrace she looked as exhausted as Cate felt, but the glossiness in her eyes reflected relief more than misery. “Thank you, Cate,” she croaked, soft as a prayer, like Cate had been her goddess all along.
The concept was as confusing as her words. “For what?”
“Existing.” Indira cupped her cheek, thumb catching a stray tear. “You’re the reason I still do.”
She’s also the reason someone didn’t.
Her hands itched beneath her gloves, beneath her skin, down to the V electrifying her veins. Although she mainly used her powers to calm patients and swipe alcohol—and occasionally castrate sexual predators—she’d never forget what she was truly capable of. How tiny Caleb’s arm felt in her grip. How her voice silenced his. How easily she made him disappear. How easily she could make anyone disappear. One mistake and she was a monster again.
But Indira never viewed her that way, not once. Not even the first time they met. Indira’s thoughts that fateful day were analytic but not apathetic, starkly contrasting the coldness of hazmat suited doctors who thought of nothing but medical jargon amidst their impatience to flee the animal’s cage. Instead of judgement, Indira formed accurate assumptions based on Cate’s situation—her poorly maintained appearance, how she handled her fingers like knives, how time warped an enriching environment into a psych ward—with the goal of discerning the best way to help. No one ever wanted to help. Why would anyone want to help a murderer?
Indira didn’t see a murderer or a monster or anything subhuman her mother convinced her she was. She saw a lost girl who needed help finding her way. And that way would never be locked in her room and treated like something she wasn’t. It was reintegrating her into the world, letting her be a person instead of just a supe, so she could explore her powers with wonder instead of fear or pride. Where they could be openly acknowledged without disdain and she could see firsthand how beneficial her persuasion could be to others, to Indira, to herself. How she shouldn’t be defined by the day her powers awakened but by how she decided to use them since. How her powers were special but they weren’t the only thing special about her. Indira made her feel special all the time.
That effort to see, what Indira saw so easily when her own mother never bothered to look, was more than enough reassurance that even when her opinion of herself was low she could always rely on Indira’s. Cate had no desire to stop taking her pills to double check. She didn’t need to. If she wanted to see what she was, what she could be, she would find herself in Indira’s eyes.
Those eyes were set on her hands, uniquely unafraid, and the past melded with the present as Indira peeled off her gloves with the same care she did the first time, second time, every time the fabric hooked into Cate’s flesh. Cate eagerly allowed the exposure of pale skin, her familiar awe and reverence shifting to shock as Indira planted kisses on her sensitive palms. Sparks shot through Cate’s arms and exploded like fireworks in her chest, continuing to flicker as nails lightly traced the framework of veins on her inner wrists like they were intricate tattoos instead of defects she used to hide, the overwhelming intimacy splintering the silence with an insuppressible whimper.
Cate knew her guilt over Caleb’s death would never go away—but neither would her powers, so the best atonement was to master them so she’d never hurt someone she loved again.
With a shaky exhale Cate closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Indira’s. “You’re my reason, too.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Cate.” The promise was tender against Cate’s lips, filling her lungs with life. “Not without you.” Indira’s commitment was emphasized with a lingering kiss to Cate’s forehead and Cate sighed, relaxing despite the rush of butterflies in her belly. “From the moment we met it’s been you and me. Together.”
“Together,” Cate echoed, equally devoted. “Speaking of… together.” This time the sentiment cracked apart like a broken dish as she struggled segueing through her jolt of nerves, pulse racing under Indira’s touch. “I got you something. Made you something. Well, technically I made it for—I mean I did make it for you. Obviously. Wouldn’t bring it up otherwise. I just—it’s for you to enjoy. If you want. Hopefully.” Cate winced, face hot, shyly tucking her hair behind her ear. “Was any of that coherent?”
Indira’s smile was just as amused as it was affectionate. “I assume you’re referring to that mysterious painting that wasn’t there yesterday,” she said, gesturing to the veiled easel in the corner. She stroked Cate’s warm cheek with the back of her fingers, only increasing the heat. “You haven’t let me see your drawings in months, darling. Not even your sketchbook.”
Her tone was lighthearted but primed with a thin layer of disappointment, like Cate’s silly doodles actually meant something to her. Like she missed their hushed evenings of individual paperwork because of the breaks spent huddled together indulging in more colourful pages. Like that was her only refuge from reality. Like she worried she’d done something to deter Cate from sharing them with her anymore.
Cate should’ve quelled those worries from the get-go—Indira would always be the first person she shared them with, shared anything with—but Cate’s instinctual apology was supplemented with, “I’ve been working on this. I wanted it to be a…” Surprise wasn’t right. Neither was perfect, which it certainly wasn’t. But it didn’t need to be. What mattered was that it existed, thanks to those that still did and those that always would. “I wanted to show you today.”
Indira’s smile faltered, her instant recognition sinking Cate’s stomach to the floor. Both plummeted beyond reach when Cate reluctantly pulled away from the fingers frozen at her cheek, legs numb as she stood from the mattress but fueled by the excuse of approaching her painting instead of escaping the unbearable proximity of Indira’s wariness that she caused. Cate gripped the sheet with the intention of ripping it off like a band-aid but hesitated after noticing Indira’s gaze darting cautiously between her and the painting, like any sudden move would infect the permanently bleeding wound until it became contagious.
If Indira reacted like this just from an implication, how would she react when she saw it? What if she hated it? What if it pushed a boundary? What if it ruined everything? What if it was just a constant reminder of the family she lost? The family that should still be here.
The family that should be here instead of Cate.
The truth of her poor substitution punched a hole through her chest—she wasn’t a husk, a monster, a murderer; she was nothing, nothing, nothing—a gaping hollowness made violent in this moment of vulnerability, her knuckles straining as she fought these insecurities from showing on her face.
There was no point in fighting. There never was. Not when it came to Indira.
Because it was then that Indira’s expression shifted. Softened. Like seeing Cate spiral snapped her from her stupor. And with one adoring look Cate snapped from hers too, remembering how much Indira loved her. That Indira chose her. That each stroke of this painting was the result of everything Indira had given her, everything she’d risked for her, everything she’d become for her, erasing all traces of an empty canvas.
When Indira finally walked forward Cate’s gut still prickled with anxiety but the whirlwind in her mind settled to a calm breeze, much like the day they met. Indira squeezed her hand briefly, the display of trust ceasing her trembling, and Indira’s encouraging smile, one balanced by strength, supplied Cate with strength, too.
“It’s a birthday gift for Lily.” Cate took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. “And for you.”
Cate disposed of the sheet, hoping for the best but bracing for the worst, and she was so used to the soothing lullaby of Indira’s heartbeat that the silence was deafening when it skipped. When it stilled for long enough to vanish, abandoning a vacant shell that sputtered through autopilot for too long. A choked gasp harbingered the sudden rapid hammering, syncing with the cacophony attacking Cate’s ribs. When Cate gained the courage to check there were fresh tears overlapping the salt staining Indira’s cheeks, wide eyes glued to the source of her astonishment.
The painting portrayed the festive ambiance of a medieval castle’s banquet hall, stone and lavish tapestry illuminated by candles and the glee of everyone in attendance. Circling the large wooden table were Cinderella, Belle, Anna and Elsa, their dazzling dresses fleetingly demanding attention before directing the eye to the middle where three people were sitting.
Indira, Paul and Lily.
A queen, king and their princess, clad in royal gowns and gold jewelry greatly inspired by the ornaments often glowing against Indira’s skin. Cate depicted Indira with a fancy updo, fuchsia silks and an ecstatic smile, characteristics sadly limited to tranquil daydreams. She’d studied the pictures of Paul arranged along the mantle religiously, determined to replicate his gentle laugh lines and the ease in his posture when he held his family.
But it was Lily who stole the spotlight, everyone’s eyes fixed on the birthday girl. She wore the biggest smile of all, the elation curving her mouth based less on photos and more on the love enriching Indira’s voice when talking about her. Lily beamed down at an oversized tray of chocolate cake, Cate forgoing historical accuracy for the sake of the most accurate joy she recalled from a birthday, and that joy stemmed from a menace smearing chocolate frosting across her face.
Indira quietly observed the painting for a long time and Cate didn’t rush her, recognizing the faraway look in her eyes from nights engrossed in irreplaceable photos, but Cate never thought her art could inspire a similar experience. She knew Indira wasn’t here right now. She was absorbed into an imagined scene that probably took no imagination at all, effortlessly blending into the love that used to imbue her existence. She would always be a wife and mother, just like Cate would always be a sister, and for a moment that truth brought more than just suffering.
“To the world they’re just… a statistic,” Indira murmured, more to herself, like awakening from a dream. “Reduced to names and dates on paper.” She reached out to touch their faces but paused at the last second, instead turning to cup Cate’s cheek, and how tenderly Indira looked at her—like she was her salvation, her purpose, her everything—was nearly Cate’s undoing. “Thank you for letting them be more.”
“They are more,” Cate insisted, resting her hand over Indira’s. “They’re you.” Her thumb softly brushed the elaborate grooves of Indira’s wedding ring. “They’re your warmest memories.”
A small, incredible smile carved through the grief streaking Indira’s face. “So is this,” Indira whispered, stepping so close her body heat enveloped Cate like a blanket. “So are all my memories with you.”
Cate ducked her head sheepishly, undeserving of such a comparison. “We’ve only known each other for two years.”
Indira lifted Cate’s head with a finger curled under her chin, ensuring Cate met her earnest gaze. “Without you these two years wouldn’t have mattered.”
That sentiment reverberated in Cate’s skull with so much certainty, so much affection, it nearly scrubbed the surplus grime from how often her mom wished she’d unlock that steel door one morning and find her dead. And if Indira hadn’t saved her she definitely would’ve died in that shrinking room, lonely and tormented and completely unaware how much someone could love her.
Such love was limitless, unhindered by expectation and unhindered by death, gleaming like eternal stars in the eyes that always saw the best of her. Cate’s stung with an onslaught of fresh tears, burrowing into the damp crook of Indira’s neck and melting in her embrace. Their arms secured around each other but this hold lacked the desperation from the one before, where they would’ve drowned in turbulent waves if not for their life preservers. This hold was relaxed, unhurried, butterfly kisses and languid caresses, floating in calm waters because they knew nothing would split them apart. No matter what shore they washed up on, they’d strike footprints in the sand together.
There was a tickle of dark hair at Cate’s cheek when Indira tilted her head and Cate knew she was scanning her painting again, fulfillment and relief flooding her bones knowing what she envisioned honoured Indira’s family the same way she always tried to honour Caleb. “I always knew you were talented, Cate, but this…” A wet chuckle met Cate’s ear. “This is stunning, sweetheart. Truly.”
Cate smiled against Indira’s skin. “I wanted it to be my best work yet.”
“It is.” A polite confirmation from anyone else but she knew Indira meant it, wouldn’t lie about something so personal for both of them, and Cate’s heart leapt at the praise. “You included so many characters that made Lily happy. I only mentioned them once.”
Cate shrugged casually. “I listened.”
“Though,” Indira retreated just enough to advertise the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, “I am curious about Rapunzel in the background.”
Anxiety twisted Cate’s stomach, unsure if that reaction to her risky addition was good or bad. “Did Lily not like her?”
“She liked every princess,” Indira affirmed, admiring her daughter’s excited smile. “I just don’t recall mentioning her.”
“You didn’t,” Cate said, and before she could stop herself, “Rapunzel’s my favourite.” Cate bit the inside of her cheek to prevent spilling more confessions but Indira’s intrigued glance pried further nervous ramblings past her lips. “I mean, I’m practically her twin. Blonde girl with magical powers spends her childhood locked away by her terrible mother until she’s rescued by a…”
Cate paused, unsure how to proceed without thoroughly embarrassing herself. By a goddess, by a queen, by the most beautiful woman in the world. By someone torn straight from a fairytale. By someone who restored her hope. By someone who gave her a home. By someone who didn’t need powers to be a hero. By someone who made her feel like a hero.
Indira waited patiently for any of those answers but the flutter of her eyelashes as her gaze dropped to Cate’s lips stole her voice, her breath, every rational thought beyond how deeply Cate was in love with her. She swallowed the cotton lodged in her throat, attempting to focus less on the adrenaline spiking beneath her skin and more on the safety of Indira’s presence. Almost instantly she calmed, basking in her warmth and familiarity, in the mystical phenomenon where everything was suddenly okay when she was in Indira’s arms.
“By someone special,” Cate finished in a fond whisper, as if such a meagre term could ever encapsulate what Indira meant to her.
But Indira seemed to appreciate it, seemed to hear everything Cate didn’t say, given her soft smile. “Rapunzel’s pretty special herself,” Indira said, combing the length of Cate’s hair, and Cate leaned into the affection until Indira stopped with a mild frown. “Why isn’t she up front with the others?”
Cate knew Indira would notice. Every aspect of her art was intentional. “I didn’t want her to distract from what matters,” Cate said, even though it was painful to say and even more to accept, but she wouldn’t intrude where she didn’t belong. She knew she was important to Indira. She was fine knowing she’d never be the most important. She wasn’t trying to be. “I just wanted her to be there.”
“Oh, darling,” Indira sighed, heartbreak flashing in her eyes that pierced Cate’s chest like a bullet, but before Cate could shrink away Indira gently cradled her face, ensuring Cate couldn’t hide while reminding her why she didn’t need to. “Her being there is what matters.” Thumbs delicately brushed at the tears dwelling in the corners of her eyes, offering a clearer view of the smile, both nostalgic and grateful, brightening Indira’s face. “This birthday wouldn’t be the same without her.”
Cate released a shaky breath, fingers twitching at her sides, and one of Indira’s hands lowered to grasp hers. A simple squeeze was never simple because it was more than anyone else would risk, was more than her younger self thought she deserved, and it anchored her to the significance of this moment. She let Indira’s double meaning resonate with everything they’d shared, what they withstood together, knowing how excruciating this was alone. Today was often spent drawing until her skin turned to ash, until her eyelids were branded with the back of Caleb’s head, until her palms tingled with the temporary comfort of a police dog’s fur because those meant to protect her were afraid to touch her. Indira had never been afraid, always made her feel wanted, and maybe it was impossible for her to intrude when her fingers blended so perfectly with Indira’s.
When Cate realized Indira’s smile was for her, only existed because of her, her own was reborn.
“It also wouldn’t be the same without that impressive cake.” Indira’s airy statement purified any lingering melancholy and she put space between them to gesture at the painting, but they remained tethered by their joined hands. “Chocolate was Lily’s favourite. Never got her one quite so extravagant, though.”
“Caleb was spoiled,” Cate said, rolling her eyes, recalling every surface of the house soiled by puddles of pure sugar.
“This dentist appointment was a regular occurrence, then.”
“Every year. He was like a wild animal when it came to chocolate. Dummy always ate so much he got sick.” Cate shook her head with a wistful grin. “Never stopped him from having more.”
Indira chuckled. “It appears my daughter paced herself more than your brother.”
“He would’ve devoured the whole thing before she got a slice.”
Indira raised a challenging brow. “I never said she was a pushover.”
This surprising bout of playfulness loosened Cate’s jaw, a pleasant weightlessness settling over her body like she’d sprouted wings. Even that fantasy sounded more plausible than joking about those they lost like they all could’ve been a family.
They were a family, though. Even though she’d never meet Lily and Indira would never meet Caleb, they were the everlasting core of their relationship. Caleb existed in every page of her sketchbook Indira fawned over. Lily existed in every overprotective text asking if Cate got home safely. Caleb existed in every pulse when Cate pacified patients in The Woods. Lily existed every chance they could cuddle up for a Disney movie. They both existed in the wisps of every breath, especially today when Cate and Indira relied on each other’s lungs to breathe. So much of their mourning was restricted by resentment and remorse but one gulp of joy after endless suffocation proved this type of mourning was just as impactful. Just as necessary.
This would keep them alive.
Cate toyed with the lapels of Indira’s blazer, mirroring her amused expression. “Is it weird that I kinda wish I could’ve seen them fight over one?”
Indira’s free hand gravitated to Cate’s waist, gradually urging her closer. “Only if you assume your brother would win.”
“Are you kidding? I’d be rooting for Lily to kick his ass.”
The delight illuminating Indira’s face could’ve banished any shadow and Cate yearned for her divine luminescence, yearned to bask in the glow that suited Indira even better than gold, and a thrill rocketed up her spine when Indira tugged her exactly where she wanted to be, their foreheads meeting instinctively. Cate soaked up her warmth, her fingers drifting to splay along the smooth column of Indira’s neck. Her soothing heartbeat fluttered under her fingertips, an intimate accompaniment to the rhythmic thumping in her ears, and this time Cate wasn’t startled when it skipped. This time Cate relished the pause, relished the revitalization, relished that this heart beat for her just like hers beat for Indira.
For a while they just enjoyed each other’s presence, surrounded by the love emanating from the painting and the four walls where Cate felt safest. It was these quiet moments she felt most seen, most known, so attuned with Indira they could read each other’s minds, and even without her telepathy Cate knew what Indira was going to suggest.
“Let’s bake one together.”
Like every year Cate spent that evening proving, if only to herself, that her hands favoured creation over destruction. Unlike every year she savoured the process because she got to create with someone she loved.
Instead of berating herself like she might’ve attempting this alone, she laughed while removing bits of shell after failing spectacularly at cracking an egg. She laughed even harder at Indira’s shocked expression as a puff of flour bleached the tips of her hair—and when Indira laughed too, unrestrained in a manner previously unknown, Cate felt resurrected all over again, that musical lilt inspiring the bounce in her step as she danced around their kitchen. Laughter eased into soft sighs as her hands were guided into properly measuring ingredients, as comforting arms held her from behind as she whisked, as kisses adorned her scalp while she poured the batter into the tin. She watched with adoration as Indira popped the cake into the oven, then with curiosity as Indira scraped the remaining batter from the mixing bowl with a spoon, offering her the bite.
It wasn’t the first time Indira fed her directly—after nine years of stale leftovers Cate eagerly accepted the trial bite of Indira’s new recipes—but it was the first time Cate wasn’t tempted. Indira wouldn’t know why, of course, her brow pinched into a thoughtful frown at Cate’s refusal. Then that frown shifted into a look so mischievous it gave Cate even further flashbacks, half expecting the batter to get flung onto her face.
Instead, with a twinkle in her eye, Indira slid the spoon into her mouth, all of Cate’s thoughts jarring to a halt as she slowly pulled it out. And rather than catching the batter lingering on her lips with her tongue Indira just gazed at Cate keenly, a choice dangling in the blazing air.
The illusion dangling with it was just as irrelevant as Cate’s bubbling temptation because she’d never felt more alive than when she surged forward to press against Indira’s growing smile with her own. Gentle warmth blossomed in Cate’s chest, spreading to her cheeks as Indira cradled her face, keeping her close to roll one tender kiss into eternity. Cate wrapped her arms around Indira’s shoulders, holding tight even after the celebratory ding of the cake’s timer, finding everything worth celebrating in the eyes that found her.
Cate still hated chocolate.
But it never tasted better.