Chapter Text
00: tell me 'you're the best thing', I tell you 'that's what you need'
Oona is 11 years old—waiting stiffly for the first bell on a new courtyard, shoulders forced back and hands tucked in her pockets in a way she hopes feigns laid-back ease because she's learned over the years that kids are meaner in middle school, sure, but they're also more impressionable, easily distracted with things like accents and bravado and colourful, oversized jewelry, all of which she's gotten very good at collecting—when she first sees Ramona.
She's short, straining on tiptoes to reach for the monkey bars that Oona's pretty sure they aged out of seasons ago, with hazel-streaked straight hair that catches the morning light, the tops all frizzy and sleep-fussed, and puffed up cheeks that'd rival a top chipmunk on the ecological pyramid. Her baggy, camo cargo pants are rolled up past her knees which are already asymmetrically littered with band-aids, like a premonition she's openly ignoring, and her pointy mouth is pursed in concentration as she lunges for the next bar, elbows bending as she springs through the air. Desperate, hopeful.
Oona watches, unblinking.
Briefly makes a mental note to tell her friends back home that North American teachers really are as lax as they're portrayed on TV.
Oona's lungs collapse in a gasp when the girl falls face-first into cedar wood chips. She breaks her spot in the attendance line to run towards her, join her on the mulch, eyes huge and hands hovering and jeans newly grass-stained. There's a split in the corner of the girl's lip where thin skin gives way to cracks of blood, vibrant and shining, and Oona can't tell if she bit herself on the way down or if they're just dry and badly chapped. She stares as the girl wipes at them roughly with the back of her hand, not similarly concerned.
Relief finally stirs under her sternum when the girl laughs, quiet but unabashed, breaking the still air, before turning to Oona to scheme her next attempt. Conspiratorial. Like Oona's in on it. Like she didn't even need to ask.
And from there, the rest is pretty much history.
Where there's Ramona, there's Oona pulling her through the door. Where there's Oona, there's Ramona trailing behind, expressions shuttering from shy amusement to sardonic goading to closed off and grim, depending on their age. Oona thought sometimes—after meeting Ellis and ransacking the stack of old, gifted, comic books he still thinks he's managed to keep hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser, to be fair—that the sun must've been radioactive that morning, to weld an invisible rubber-band looped into a figure-eight around both their wrists, photosynthesize a second set of organs that existed solely for them to experience each other. For Oona to feel how Ramona feels and know what she thinks and ache during that year-long stint in Barrie before flooding with reprieve when Ramona appeared like a mirage on the dock in front of her.
Oona can't imagine there's anything she doesn't know about the other girl.
That is, until, Ramona twists one hand into Oona's shirt in the dimly lit front porch of her cottage, pulls her closer and slots their lips together, wet and hurried and flying, and Oona learns something new.
01: rolling on those good looks, maybe it's just enough
They're at breakfast the first time she really notices it.
It's her first day off of the week and too early for even the locals to be crowded outside which means they get to hoard a booth meant for six without any of the usual dirty looks. Oona orders pancakes and eggs and potatoes done two different ways, for the table, and asks about the new, limited edition, experimental milkshake flavour that's written in white, curling cursive on the ever-changing, wall-hung chalkboard menu until Sully cuts her off—I'm not going to repeat your own 2-am brainstormed spiel back to you. And also I can't read your notes, thank God no one sane orders milkshakes on Tuesdays—only slightly exasperated at having to make three separate trips to the kitchen to cover every expansive inch of the smooth wood–plastic composite with food even as a stack of cardboard takeaway boxes is dropped sarcastically on the equally stiff seats—they really need to install some of those plush vinyl cushion coverings or something. Maybe she could get Ramona to guilt-trip Joe into letting them borrow his electric staple gun—which is all to say, that the maple syrup is almost an island away when Oona and Ramona both reach for it at the same time.
Oona taps accidentally against the soft arch of Ramona's palm but you'd think it was a sledgehammer making the contact and not her wrist bone with the way that Ramona wretches her arm back, curls it under the table's edge and blushes as she offers, "Sorry, you go first."
Oona smiles, curious. She's sat not quite touching but close enough to have felt the sharp inhale Ramona gave at the impact.
"Wow, what a gentleman," she flatters. Her mirth inflating like those overpriced hot air balloon tourist traps the mainland advertises during peak season when Ramona goes red, freckles blending even further into her flush.
It's interesting. She'd always known that Ramona was easy to rile up into anger—would have to press her teeth hard against her bottom lip to push down her grin as she, and a contrastingly concerned Ellis, watched Ramona pace circles into her hardwood floors, like an adorably disgruntled real life road runner, earlier that summer—but she hadn't quite considered what other emotions Ramona could be riled into.
She's considering now though. She's considering a lot.
The loud harping of a throat being cleared interjects from the other side of the booth, disrupting her train of thought.
Oona narrows her gaze. "Are you getting sick or something? This is your fifth cough this morning."
"I wonder why," is all Maple answers, flat and unimpressed. Her initial over-enthused joy at the two of them 'finally overcoming their double avoidant attachment dynamic' only lasted about five minutes into her first day of third-wheeling them.
Oona rolls her eyes, yawns and stretches both arms over her head, let's one of them fall across the top of the booth Ramona's leaned against and dangle over her back. She plays absentmindedly with the strands of hair not tangled in the straps of Ramona's ribbed gray tank top, runs a finger over the faint red marks on her shoulder that's gone weirdly creased from the way she must've slept with it tucked under her pillow last night. Watches Ramona pause mid-chew, swallow prematurely and wash down the knot with a gulp of orange juice, tapping a close-palmed fist lightly against her chest and ignoring the bemused once-over Oona's not being subtle about giving.
Oona has a crick in her neck the rest of the day from the way she spends their whole meal head tilted to side, adamant about not missing a single reaction.
And if she rams up the touching after that, borderline brazen considering her already above-average baseline, well she can't help herself.
Because she'd seen it before—how Ramona's gaze would get stuck, glued to linger on whatever part of her body Oona had taken to fidgeting with during dull stretches of lazy evenings, how her breathing had dipped then slowed like she was diving underwater that night by the lake, by what Oona had mostly meant to be a reassuring squeeze of her thigh, a don't-freak-out-which-I-know-you-are-because-even-I'm-a-little-dizzy-and-Maple-always-says-your-nervous-system-is-even-more-disregulated-than-ours-but-we'll-talk-about-this-later-and-it'll-be-fine-like-it-always-is sort of thigh squeeze—but if she's being honest with herself, in a way she rarely is, she'd kind of assumed Ramona would get used to it. Her touch. Grow tired.
She gets a lot of shit from the others about her two-week dating windows but the truth is that the inevitable ends are initiated just as much by the girls she's sleeping with as it is her interminable itch to bolt. A honeymoon period can only shroud a bottomless pit of unfulfilled intimacy as touchy love language for so long. A British accent is only hot when it's not grating.
So she pulls Ramona onto her lap as she's arguing with Sully about the legality of cramming everyone in Connor's new rental for the ten minutes it takes them to drive to the cliffs—Sully, I really don't think we should be basing our life decisions on what troops of clowns think is normal, no—and she deliberately slows during her walk-bys while waitressing to trace the line of Ramona's shoulder or, occasionally, poke at her spine on days the PDFs of paperwork are headache-inducing enough that Ramona's slumped forward onto her laptop and she sneaks her cold palms under the loose fabric of Ramona's shirt, absorbing the heat of her torso and feeling the repetitive pace of her breathing, when they're decompressing in her room after nightfall—watches Ramona stumble over her, otherwise very well debated, contestation and watches her press her lips into a thin line to hide her gasp as her fingers twitch against the keyboard and give her away as a long smash of random letters leave a trail on the blank signature line and watches her bite at the inside of her cheek, leaving a dimpling indent that Oona wants to press her thumb into as Ramona continues pretending to read the same page of the book she's been on since they first got home—and waits and waits for Ramona to stop reacting, to push her off, suffocated.
Ramona doesn't seem suffocated, though. On her bed, watching a movie they're both going to have to fake answers about when Maple tests for comprehension tomorrow, shuffling her head closer to Oona like she wants her hand in her hair but is too embarrassed to ask for it outright, her chin digging into Oona's collarbone as retribute when she doesn't immediately respond.
And it doesn't stop Oona from waiting. Not when it's only been a couple weeks and she's used to false starts and drawn-out endings, but she supposes she can wait with the pads of her fingers making patterns against Ramona's scalp.
02: living for the new thing, sometimes the new won't do
The last week of the month is always busy, booked out with a final wave of incoming tourists who've suddenly remembered they have dormant vacation days and fadings tans that need tending to now that offices are filling back up and stock investors are asking about Q3 deadlines, and the crew's split into pairs to divide the work at the marina, already haggard and patting uselessly at the sweat beading at their temples, and she should've seen it coming actually, from the way Ellis had tried to snatch the boat keys back when he realized which pair Ramona was reaching for, giving Oona unsubtle darting eyes that she couldn't decipher when she was too busy smiling down at the way Ramona's other hand was warm and firm in hers, intertwined.
She doesn't exactly recognize the boat either. Not until they're close enough to be greeted by the girl it's named after, a redhead wearing black vinyl bug-eyed sunglasses and a low-cut aquamarine sequined halter top that Oona's pretty sure Annie would call a fire hazard, vulturous smile stretched over pink glossed lips as she waves enthusiastically at them to the confusion of Ramona who tugs on her arm, whispers, "Do you know her or should we use concussion protocol?"
She was going to kill Ellis.
"Um," is all that comes out of Oona's mouth before the other girl is stumbling in her Gucci beige suede platform sandals into Oona, both arms coming up to circle her neck with enough force to break Ramona's hold on her.
Fuck.
"I was hoping it'd be you, my hero!! What are the odds we'd meet again?!" The girl—Georgia? Virginia? One of the states—squeals, squeezing her shoulders and taking a step back to sneak conspicuous glances at her lips, the flash of plaid underneath the branded shirt she'd cut to hang over one shoulder, her legs, back up to her lips, giving a satisfied little nod like Oona's passed her audit.
Ramona notices because Oona has always had truly wretched luck and before Oona can do the respectable girlfriend thing and introduce her, she grabs a fistful of Oona's shirt, dragging them onto the boat and unwrapping the rope from where it's anchored as Oona attempts to steady herself so they don't capsize to the stunned silence of a gaping—Dakota?
"Sorry," Oona calls out to her, "We're behind schedule! Nice to see you again! We'll have this baby back to you in like 20—"
"40," Ramona interjects.
"40 minutes!"
The girl just blinks at them, expression a mix of affronted disbelief. "Uhh okay, I'll catch up with you later?"
Oona laughs nervously, takes side-eyed note of the way Ramona raises her eyebrow like she's daring her, asking, 'Yeah, will you?'
"You know, who's to say, this is a really big island."
Ramona snorts at that and it eases something in Oona's chest that she hadn't even realized had seized up.
She doesn't know where they're actually driving, doesn't pay attention to what direction the waves are slapping against the metal exterior of the boat. Instead, she wonders whether there's a dating guidebook in those stacks of books Maple's always buying online on the Amazon account that's still logged in with their mom's seventh boyfriend's credit card, an instruction manual of information that she would know by now if she wasn't emotionally stunted and didn't wait until the only actual important relationship in her life to start seriously dating. Because other people got test drives, they got second-hand, paint-chipped Ford Tempos with broken stereos that looped scratchy vocals and seats with springs poking through ripped fabric to prick at the back of your thighs and so it wasn't a big deal when those cars inevitably crashed into someone's mailbox or against the parking lot door of a gym that denied entry based on the brand of athleisure you were wearing or, once, off a bridge. They could just brush off the crash and use the nail polish a past fling left beside their bed to fill in the scuff marks and not worry about the cost or never being able to find a replacement or going the rest of your life constantly reflecting shoe choice because you have to walk everywhere.
"I'm confused, are you the driver or the car?" Sully asks, elbows deep in a bowl of fresh whipping cream, the first time she popped by unannounced spinning out over this issue, missing the point entirely.
Which is that she doesn't think they make insurance for this, basically. She can't fuck this up.
The boat stops somewhere in the middle of the lake where the water is clear from floating particulates and looming reflections of trees and Oona tries not to worry her lip about how Ramona hasn't yelled at her yet, hasn't even paced or pulled at her hair or interrogated Oona. She just sits on the other side of the boat, both hands gripping the plastic beneath her, and stares silently at Oona like she's an especially complicated contract from those lawyers Annie hired for them.
Oona rocks back against her seat, stomach churning with nausea that she blames for the way the boat bobs at her displaced body weight before righting itself. She runs a hand through the ends of her hair, watches the curls deflate. "We didn't date or anything, if you were wondering, it was just—"
"A hookup, yeah I know," Ramona interrupts, tone contemplative, head tilted up so she's squinting at the sun.
Oona, feeling pretty out of her depth and thinking plaintively that she honestly would have preferred the yelling, stretches her legs out so they're knocking against Ramona's scuffed up slides. "Are you mad?"
Ramona shakes her head. Sighs at herself. "No."
Oona looks around the middle of the water that Ramona has dragged them to, furrows her brows. "Okay babe, you're kind of giving me mixed signals here."
Ramona rubs a hand over her eyes before abruptly leaning froward, legs spread with an elbow on each knee which Oona probably shouldn't find as hot as she does as she informs her, "She was wearing a mini-skirt."
Oona nods very slowly. "I know"
"I will never wear a mini-skirt," Ramona says, entirely serious.
Oona can't help the way her mouth twitches, her words skipping over a laugh as she repeats, "I know that too."
Feeling slightly more assured that they're probably not breaking up over this, Oona lifts herself off the bench, swinging a leg over the seat Ramona's on and shuffling forward to whisper like its a secret, "I probably won't either, for the record. If we're doing a headcount."
Ramona rolls her eyes, not similarly appeased. Still not looking at her, Ramona moves to bump her shoulder against Oona's but catches her collarbone instead and Oona takes the opportunity. She makes a big show of groaning in pain with both hands clutched over the spot and internally pats herself on the back when Ramona curses, shifting one leg underneath her body to pivot toward Oona, finally looking at her, even if it is with a concerned expression. She pauses when she notices Oona's smug grin. Goes to evade her gaze again after realizing the ploy before Oona clutches at her waist, trapping her in place. There's a second of tense silence and Oona squeezes her gently, preening when it gets her to relax, drop her shoulders.
"It just doesn't make sense to me," Ramona admits. "Because if that's your type, what are you doing with me?"
"First of all, I don't have a type," Oona says, one hand moving lower to tap against Ramona's leg. At first because it's easier to be honest when she's doesn't have to look at anyone, and then because it's fun to watch the way Ramona squirms from the cold of her rings. "Second of all, I had a crush on you way, way, before I had a crush on any of these other girls so if anything it's everyone who came after that should be confused."
Ramona's head snaps up. "What."
Oona smiles at the surprise in her tone, tugs at the frayed strings of her denim pants, teasing, "And honestly I'll have you know your decade old sun-bleached jorts with the tear on the side are just as sexually arous—"
Ramona slaps a hand over her mouth. Presses, "Sorry, when you say before…"
"You're 13th birthday. So that's what, three and a half years?" Oona asks, gently dragging down Ramona's hand so it's cupping her neck.
Ramona opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, the breath whooshing out of her. "What."
"You really didn't know?" She asks because it's not like pre-teen Oona was ever really that subtle. She'd thought at first that maybe Ramona just didn't know how to let her down easy and while that theory was categorically disproven the first time they made out topless, it is nice to finally get real confirmation.
Ramona's still shaking her head, eyes flitting to every corner of Oona's face like she's trying to catch an out of place micro-expression. "No you didn't, I would have noticed," she denies, voice firm.
Oona snorts. "You're about as oblivious as they come, I promise," she says, tightening her grip on Ramona's waist and inching forward until her height forces Ramona to lean back. The boat wobbles as Ramona reclines so her head is resting on the back edge and the tips of her hair brush against a rippling mini-wave, darkening from the dampness. "Just last week the concession worker at the movie theatre was flirting with you and you didn't even blink."
"The one who glared at you for being incredibly obvious about the candy contraband that was stuffed in the waistband of your shorts?" Ramona asks, disbelieving.
Oona grins. "She was glaring because she tried to flirt with you the entire time you were buying our drinks and then saw you making out with me in front of the soda machine. She was jealous."
Ramona's face does a twitchy thing that means she's secretly pleased but trying to hide it and her eyebrows are still furrowed, have been since they left the dock, and the whole picture of it sends a shiver of déjà vu through Oona's body. She's reminded of the late night fog of cold, of marijuana clouds and the feeling of chilled skin erupting in goosebumps under her palm and an unanswered question echoing across water. She really does look so pretty when she's jealous, Oona didn't notice last time, in the dark.
Oona can't help but to slant down, press a slow kiss to Ramona's lips before stating against them, "It looks much better on you though."
Ramona swallows, arches her head away and against the back of the boat like she needs distance from Oona to think straight. "Can we go back to my thirteenth birthday?"
Oona hums, rubbing her thumbs up the slope of Ramona's cheeks then down her neck, feels Ramona's hooded gaze waver back down to her lips. Her hands drifting from the bench to grip Oona's forearms, trusting she won't let her fall over. "We could, or…"
Ramona presses herself up against Oona until the rest of that sentence is swallowed in a kiss, tightening her hold as Oona gasps into her mouth. They meet each other in rhythmic swells, Oona licking into Ramona's mouth and Ramona biting at her bottom lip, pulling her down even closer with an arm twisting up over her neck to tug at her shoulder until Oona is so lulled into the dizzy haze of how Ramona tastes that she forgets to worry about anything else.
"You don't think," Ramona starts after pulling back with a sharp inhale, breathing shallow and choppy, and shivering from the cold air brushing her wet mouth as she suggests, "it's a little petty to have sex on your ex's boat?"
Oona doesn't even pretend to think about it. She slides herself off the bench until she's kneeling boxed between Ramona's legs, tilting her head all the way up to ask, "Does it matter?"
Ramona's answer is a tug of fabric, a hand fisted in blonde curls. A boat rocking on calm waters.