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Dinner at Commander Chapin's house was frequent. Agnes was always in attendance, of course. Where else would she be?
Every time she walked through that familiar door, Becka wouldn’t look away from her a single time. Hand wrapped around Garth’s bicep, brown eyes following her like a locked target.
She felt like prey sometimes.
Agnes knew she was doing it just to get a rise out of her, annoy her enough to break her usual control and drag Becka by her wrist into a quiet room, push her against the door, and kiss her until they both forgot how to breathe.
She didn’t know when it properly started, this thing they were doing. But Agnes had never felt more exhilarated.
After the wedding everything changed, not because Becka became a wife. But because they shared something that changed them both.
And then it changed again- happened again. They couldn’t deny it then, the pull that orbited them. After that it never really stopped, happened enough to become purposeful, planned.
Agnes pinning Becka against the wall, tucking a hair behind her ear while telling her how beautiful she was- with Garth in the other room oblivious.
The next time it happened, it was a warm Sunday evening. God's special day. And Becka had invited all her old school friends- and their husbands- to come round for dinner.
Becka placed herself opposite Agnes, Garth at the head of the table between them.
Previously that may have bothered Becka, but Agnes had chosen her, Agnes kept choosing her. The fear had faded and left her with an apathy towards him, he was just a faceless voice, a bodie without a soul to her.
Dinner was loud as always, especially when the drink got involved. Amber liquid sloshing in thick tumblers held in large hands that swallowed them. The whiskey made the men more pliable, less observing.
Just how they needed it to be.
The night was late, food long gone, and volume only rose as the men drank more. Their movements were stumbling and uncoordinated.
Becka sat with a polite smile, hands crossed in her lap, wearing that sickly wife blue that Agnes wanted to rip to shreds or burn to ash.
Blue meant ownership, blue meant she belonged to someone other than Agnes. The thought made her shudder.
Agnes much preferred red, especially when it painted itself on Becka's cheeks when she called her beautiful, or the shade of red her lips tinted after Agnes kissed her for too long.
Becka excused herself to go to the bathroom, manners as stiff as ever, Agnes used to think Becka was such a rule follower. Now she knew the danger that lurked behind her softest smiles.
She excused herself even if the men paid her no attention, too lost in their own endeavours, and Shunnamite was too busy asking Hulda what colour her nursery was going to be if she had a baby.
Her eyes lingered on Agnes as she stood, speaking unspoken words Agnes had learned the shape of. She had to hold back from instantly getting up and following Becka like a dog chasing his bone.
Instead, Agnes watched as she turned the corner and began ascending the stairs.
She sat, waiting for exactly two minutes and eight seconds before also excusing herself, politeness forgone with the speed she left. Still, no one even glanced her way. Trying not to trip in her haste, she walked with her hands folded over her stomach, as if she was taught, and her head lifted to god like she wasn’t about to find Becka and commit more sins than she had ever thought possible.
A cheer rang out as Garth putted the black 8 ball on the pool table. She had to restrain from rolling her eyes, God she has bad taste once upon a while. She’d come to her overwhelming senses- luckily.
The walk wasn’t long- up the stairs she’d been on thousands of times, through the small corridor, heels clacking against the wood. There it was, the second door on the left. The room Necka was waiting for her in.
Her hand grasped the door handle, she didn’t bother with knocking. With a twist it opened, she stepped inside. And watched as Becka sat on the bed, glass of whiskey in hand.
How did she even get that up here without Agnes noticing?
“Should you be drinking that?” Agnes voice was light, teasing.
“Why? Are you going to tell on me?” Becka smiled at her, slightly smug. Agnes found it endearing.
Agnes looked at the wall, then back ar Becka, trying to keep her smile from breaking out, “Not if you let me try some.”
Becka just laughed lightly, patting the bed next to her without answering.
Agnes moved accordingly, sitting with a patience she didn’t have.
“Well?”
Becka just looked at her, dark eyes and even darker pupils. She took another sip, swallowed it and let the taste linger on her tongue before pressing forward and kissing Agnes.
Agnes didn’t flinch, she wasn’t expecting the suddenness, but she adapted quickly.
She raised a hand to grasp Becka's jaw firmly in her grip, the other hand reaching out to grab at the blue fabric off her dress, pulling her closer than possible. She prayed the fabric wouldn’t rip, they couldn’t possibly explain that, but another part of her wished it would tear under her fingers.
Becka tasted like the hard notes of spice in the whiskey, it burnt Agnes’ tongue, but she still came back for more. Then there was vanilla, a sweetness hidden by the initial burn.
Agnes didn’t know if it was the alcohol or Becka being pressed against her, that dulled all of her thoughts to background noise. Static.
Becka pulled back slightly, close enough that their noses still grazed and Agnes could still feel the heat of her mouth, “Do you still love him?”
The question came from nowhere, but Becka had never officially asked before. Agnes didn’t think she had to, she thought it was clear where her loyalty’s -and love- stood.
At Becka's feet.
Agnes felt her heart stutter, she looked up into Becka expectant gaze, answering with all the honesty possible, “No. I don’t think I ever did.”
Becka kissed her again, soundly, sealing them together. Before pulling back once more, lips shining along with her eyes, “Good.”
Agnes felt adrenaline spark out of her fingertips, enough flooded her system to make her push Becka back onto the bed, crawl on top of her and pepper pecks all over her soft cheeks, her forehead, the corner of her mouth, and finally- once again, her lips.
The laughter that bubbled out of Becka's lips was like fireworks- colour and warmth.
“Stop-,” a laugh, "Hey!” Agnes was relentless, and Becka was out of breath by the time she was finished.
Becka was still catching her breath, Agnes hovering above her, smiling down with love in her eyes so clear it made Becka want to look away- just to escape the intensity.
And then Agnes' face changed, her eyebrows drew in and the headlight-like brightness of her eyes dimmed.
She opened her mouth, but no words came out, she was hesitating.
Becka sat up slightly, resting on her elbows as she layed. She lifted a hand and stroked Agnes cheek, soothing the storm brewing in her mind, “What is it?”
Anges looked down, moving her hand so it cupped the one on her cheek, “I wish you never married him. I wish we locked the door, in that room, and never came out.”
Becka fought the tears as they arrived, cringing when she felt them run down her cheeks like hot river streams, “I wish we did too. I really do.”
But that wasn’t possible, what’s done was done, wishing couldn’t change that. Even as strongly as they did.
So they existed in the inbetweens, in the blank spaces between the lines. In hidden rooms, on dark nights.
In overly bright bathrooms, sitting in the lip of the bath tub together fantasising about what it would be like to live somewhere else, be someone else.
It was enough, in reality it had to be, there was nothing else given to them. They barely got to have each other.
Hidden touches under tables, grazing hands when passing the salt, lingering glances across the table when no one was watching. That was all the public allowed, even then it was a risk.
Agnes thought she was willing to take that risk as many times as she was given the opportunity to.
They could string her up by a noose, but the memory of Becka's touch would still hold strong, sunlight clear. Wrapping around her until the darkness came.