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Frances is halfway through a fairly terrible movie and still trying to figure out why she added it to her Netflix list when her intercom buzzes. As a rule, people don't tend to show up at Frances' apartment unannounced and she panics for a brief moment, wondering what she's forgotten, but when she goes to answer it's a familiar voice on the other end.
"Hey, Frances." It's Sophie. Sophie, who should be in Japan with Patch.
"Come in, come in," she says, buzzing Sophie in and practically dancing in excitement. They haven't seen each other in too long, not since Frances' show, and back then they hadn't had a chance to hang out nearly enough.
And now Sophie is here, and—
Frances abruptly stills when she opens the door and sees Sophie's face lined with tears. A suitcase and three bags accompany her.
"Hey," Frances says. "Is everything okay?"
"Sure," Sophie says, attempting a blasé manner which is wholly unconvincing. "Well, Patch and I are getting a divorce. But it's fine. It's just… could I crash here for a bit?"
"Of course." Frances scoops Sophie up into a hug. "Stay as long as you want."
Frances only has one bed. It's plenty big enough for two, but that night Sophie still presses against Frances' side, close enough for her to feel Sophie's breath on her shoulder, and Frances tries not to smile.
The next morning Frances makes French toast with more cinnamon than is strictly advisable, because that's the way Sophie likes it. She takes it into her bedroom where Sophie is still tucked up in bed and places it on the nightstand, and for a few moments she dithers while she waits for Sophie to wake up. It's not long before she needs to leave for work but Sophie shows no signs of stirring. Grabbing a couple of bites of her own breakfast, she finishes getting ready and when she really needs to go and Sophie's still sleeping, she leaves a little note next to the plate.
Good morning, sleeping beauty x
At 9:18 she gets a text from Sophie—a simple thanks for breakfast—and the warm feeling that curls inside her stays with her all day.
"This will only be for a few days," Sophie says. "Just until I get back on my feet."
A few days stretch into a few weeks in no time at all. Frances isn't complaining.
A warm, late summer breeze wafts through the window, blowing smoke straight back into the bedroom. Sophie laughs and it's only when she exhales smoke directly into Frances' face that Frances realizes how close they are, sharing the windowsill. Their old place was better; at least they had a window each.
Not that Frances really minds the closeness. She pokes Sophie with her toe and smiles back at her, but her smile soon turns to a yawn.
"Bedtime already?" Sophie teases.
"It's been a long day," Frances says, only half-joking. "You know how it is with these office jobs—so much photocopying, so many emails. The printer jammed today, so that was a whole debacle."
"Printers are the worst."
"Being the kind of person who complains about printers is the worst." Not that Frances is unhappy in her new job. It's okay. The people are mostly nice and she's still in the general field she wants to be in, and she's not constantly broke anymore. So it's fine, but she's still adjusting to having new (she refuses to call them lower) expectations for her life.
Sophie places a comforting hand on Frances' leg. "You're not boring, Frances."
"Who said I was?"
"I can see you thinking it, and you need to stop." Sophie can be kind of stern when she wants to be.
"Fine, I'm not thinking it. I'm not boring, I'm delightful."
"Damn right." Sophie gets up, giving Frances a clumsy kiss on the top of her head. When they go to bed Sophie cuddles up close, and it's not like Frances is really that upset, she's just cranky, but she appreciates the comfort all the same.
Frances doesn't get much chance to dance anymore. It's fine; she's happy to be pursuing choreography, which she's decided is her true calling anyway, even though she's been spending more time in the office than working on her new piece. But she still loves to dance, and one afternoon when she's alone in their apartment—in her apartment, rather, because it's technically not Sophie's apartment even though it feels like it is—she shoves the living room furniture to the walls, puts on her favorite music, and starts to dance. She's working on a new routine but she abandons that now, letting her body take her where it will. The song ends and she finishes with a flourish, feeling more exhilarated than she has in a while, and it's only when she comes to a stop that she notices Sophie standing in the doorway to their bedroom, a broad smile on her face.
"I thought you were out," Frances says, shuffling her feet where she stands. Sophie has seen her dance a million times before, has danced with her a million times, but this feels awkward somehow.
Sophie shrugs. "I was asleep."
"Sorry, did I wake you?"
"Don't worry about it. I like watching you dance, you were good."
"I'm a bit rusty."
Sophie walks over to her and squeezes her arm. "Take the compliment, Frances."
Summer turns into a crisp fall, and that's when Frances discovers that the heating in her apartment is broken. She spends a frustrating, fruitless hour on the phone with her landlord arguing about the boiler and eventually admits defeat, grabbing every blanket she can find in the apartment and burrowing underneath them. It's not even that cold, but that's not really the point.
By the time Sophie gets home from her new job at Simon & Schuster, takeout in hand, Frances has discarded most of the blankets. Sophie joins her on the couch, flipping through the tv channels until she finds an old black and white movie to watch. It's one that Frances has already seen and not particularly liked, but she doesn't mind. She rests her head on Sophie's shoulder, pulling the blanket closer around them, and there's nowhere on earth that she'd rather be.
"I think it might be time I found my own place," Sophie says, and Frances' heart drops.
"Why?" She didn't mean for the word to come out sounding so confrontational, and when Sophie's eyebrows shoot up she tries to play it off like it's nothing. "I mean, it's fun living together. Don't you think?"
Sophie shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes. It's fun. But we only have one bed. Don't you think that's getting weird?"
Frances flops down on said bed and spreads out like a starfish. "It's a big bed. And if the problem is that my feet are cold, that's really your fault for not letting me wear socks.."
"Wearing socks in bed is crazy, and should probably be illegal." Sophie carries on brushing her hair and grins at Frances in the mirror, but after a moment she sobers. "I just don't want to be the reason you're not dating. You haven't dated anyone since I moved in."
"I'm not not dating." Honestly, it hadn't occurred to Frances that her love life had been thin lately. "The thing is, guys I meet tend not to pass the Sophie Test."
"There's a test named after me?"
"It's simple: would I rather hang out with this douchebag or Sophie?" Frances shrugs. "Most of the time I'd rather hang out with you. Is that weird? I don't think it should be weird. I feel like I'm just trying to have standards."
Sophie stops brushing her hair for a second, her fingers fidgeting and tapping on the brush. "I guess it's not weird."
"So you'll stay?"
"Sure, I'll stay."
Frances hadn't really thought about their bedsharing before, but that night she lies awake, painfully aware of Sophie's presence beside her, the heat radiating off her body. It takes her a long time to fall asleep.
A new hipster bar opens in their neighborhood and it's not really their scene, but they decide to check it out one Saturday when they have nothing better to do. The drinks are overpriced and the clientele is young enough to make Frances feel old, but they stay for a while anyway.
One guy, who's kind of attractive despite his over-styled hair, hits on Sophie, offering to buy her a drink.
"I'm all set," she says, gesturing to her mostly-full glass of wine, and when he tries again she drapes her arm over Frances' shoulder. "Not interested, pal."
He slinks away but Sophie doesn't move her arm. Frances finds herself leaning into the touch, because she's tipsy and it feels nice and why not.
"He was cute," she says, leaning close to Sophie's face because it's loud in the bar.
"He's not what I'm looking for."
"Still hung up on Patch?" Frances asks, and Sophie gives her a long look before shaking her head.
"It's not Patch I'm hung up on."
"Wait, what?"
The bar is really loud and Frances isn't sure she heard that right.
"Let's just go home."
It takes Frances a long time to fall asleep that night. But that's normal; it doesn't mean anything, it's just been happening a lot lately.
One day Sophie comes home with new glasses. They're a little smaller, a little squarer, and at first they just look wrong. Sophie is the kind of person to keep the same pair of glasses for longer than she should, even after the prescription needs updating, and Frances has only seen her change pairs a couple of times since she's known her.
"You hate them," Sophie says.
"Oh my god, no." Frances steps closer, reaching out to hold Sophie's shoulders so she can survey her properly. "No, I like them. It's just weird seeing a new version of my favorite face."
She swears she sees Sophie blushing slightly.
"It's still the same face," Sophie says, taking her glasses off to prove her point.
"It's a great face," Frances says softly, her heart inexplicably in her mouth. This vibe between them is new and she's not sure how to make sense of it—until Sophie leans forward and kisses her, and it all clicks into place. The kiss is gentle and unexpected, and so lovely it makes Frances' toes curl in surprise joy.
Sophie pulls away after a moment and Frances just says, "Oh," which is not really an adequate response to such a great kiss with her best friend, but in her defense she's still a little bit in shock.
"Sorry." Sophie's halfway to putting her glasses back on and she's starting to fold in on herself like she does when she doesn't want to talk about something.
Frances doesn't know how to talk about it either, so instead of struggling to find words she takes Sophie's face in her hands and kisses her again.
It's weird that being with someone so familiar can still feel new. Sophie is mostly in silhouette as she lies in their bed, the city lights coming in through the thin curtains behind her, but Frances can just see the quirk of her lips in the darkness. Her hand curls around Sophie's waist, her thumb tracing circles on soft skin.
"We're such dumbasses," Sophie murmurs, and it's like a bucket of ice water over Frances' heart.
"For doing that?"
"No, stupid." Sophie leans forward and kisses her forehead. "For not doing it sooner."
The flight to Sacramento goes smoothly, but Frances can still feel nervous energy bubbling inside her. She keeps turning to Sophie and squeezing her hand, and every time she does it Sophie laughs.
"I've met your parents before."
She has, but this is different.
The house is all decked out with Christmas lights and already filling up with various family members: aunts and uncles and cousins, most of whom remember Sophie from previous holidays but don't know her well enough to ask about her divorce. Sophie kind of gets cornered by Frances' most boring uncle when she's not paying attention, so she goes over and takes her hand to rescue her. They go into the kitchen where her mom and dad are bickering over which bottle of wine to open next.
Frances is pretty sure they'll end up opening both of them.
"Hey, so, I wanted to say something," Frances says, because now is as good a time as any. "The thing with me and Sophie is that we're together. Like dating together. But more serious than just dating." She's still holding Sophie's hand and she raises it to reinforce her point.
Her mom doesn't look up from where she's rooting around in a drawer for a corkscrew. "I know, sweetheart. You've been living together for some time now."
"No, but we literally just started dating two weeks ago."
Her dad frowns. "Are you sure? I thought it had been going on longer than that."
Sophie nudges Frances' side, smiling, and squeezes her hand. "I guess in some ways it's been going on for a while now."
Spring is still a ways off but their boiler has been fixed and the apartment is cosy now. At some point in the last few months it became home—their home. Sophie snuggles into Frances' side, her head resting in the crook of Frances' arm. "Tell me the story of us."
Frances grins at the familiarity. They've done this routine so many times now. "Well, Sophie, we are gonna take over the world. You'll be this publishing mogul with your own firm, and I'm going to be an award-winning choreographer."
Sophie squints at her. "New story?"
Shrugging, Frances says, "I like this version better."
"We're still going to have the apartment in Paris though, right?" Sophie asks.
"Of course. It's the perfect backdrop for our famous love affair—"
"Which spans decades and continents."
"We'll collect broken hearts along with all those honorary degrees."
"We'll sell the film rights for our story for millions of dollars."
Frances pulls Sophie closer and softly kisses her temple. "And we'll be so busy being famous and brilliant that sometimes life and work will take us apart—"
"But we always, always find our way back to each other."