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The morning after comes with the bright sun shining on Eleanor’s face through the open window. It comes with waking, limbs sore and aching in the best of ways. It comes with two hands on her waist, tangled together. It comes with someone’s nose nuzzling the back of her head. It comes with her face pressed to someone’s neck, Anne’s, she realized when she cracks an eye open, who’s the last person she’d expect to be holding her so gently. It comes with a mess of limbs piled and tangled on each other on a bed that’s almost big enough, but not quite.
It also, unfortunately, comes with doubt. Eleanor is filled with it, she feels it crippling her and taking hold of her. It comes with thoughts of inadequacy, with the feeling that she shouldn’t be here; that she’s intruding in what should be a private moment. Anne and Max’s moment. Not hers.
Morning comes with the knowledge, almost certainty that she will not have this ever again. That Anne and Max will most likely not let her into their bed, into their lives once more. The thought makes her sick, and she almost wants to get out of bed right then, but a part of her is begging at her to stay, to treasure this for as long as she can.
She’d be fooling herself if she thought she only wanted to get into their bed, because her feelings run deeper than that. She loves Max, she knows as much. She already did, before it all came crashing down around her. Max has always been her safe haven, and she’d always hoped she could return the favor someday, but instead she’d ruined everything between them. And Anne, she doesn’t know how she feels about Anne yet, but she knows she likes to be with her, has grown to enjoy her company. She knows she could love her, with time. But she also knows that what she wants is something she cannot have; she wants them to love her back.
And it’s selfish of her. After all, was she not the one that broke Max’s heart? She would also be fooling herself if she thought she deserved their love at all.
She’s distracted from her thoughts by lips pressing to the back of her neck, by Max shifting slightly and mumbling a sleepy “Good morning.”
“Hey.” Anne croaks out from her place in front of Eleanor, lifting her hand to rub tiredly at her eyes.
As she feels Max press closer against her back, Eleanor decides to let herself enjoy this, at least for now.
-
A couple of days go by and Eleanor hasn’t seen Anne nor Max again. Though she deliberately stays out of their way, she can’t help her thoughts from drifting to them more often than she’d like. She thinks about how they felt beneath her hands, the sounds they made, how soft their lips were on her skin. She also thinks about how right it felt to wake up beside them, to be tangled with them as they exchanged soft kisses and hellos.
She mentally berates herself, for all of it, for thinking about them when she should be avoiding them, and for avoiding them in the first place. But she knows she couldn’t bear it, if they didn’t want her once more. Couldn’t bear it if she hurt Max again.
So, she avoids them, and she fills and signs paperwork, and tends to the bar, and hopes for the best.
-
It’s on the fourth day that Anne confronts her.
She’s at the bar nursing a beer, her third of the night, when she spots them. Max and Anne walk into the bar, shoulders so close they brush together with every step, and take a seat a few tables away from her.
Eleanor looks straight on, and pretends. She pretends she doesn’t spot them, even though her gaze lingers a second longer than it should. She pretends she doesn’t wish she were with them, sharing their quiet laughs and private smiles.
She’s sure they won’t notice her because the bar is brimming with people chattering and laughing and drinking, so she takes her time to finish her beer. She’s more than halfway through her glass and pondering if it’d be wise or not to order a fifth, when she feels a tap on her shoulder.
When she turns she finds Anne glaring at her, then at her pint of beer, then back at her again. “I just got one question for you, Guthrie,” She starts, and the sharp tone sends a jolt of pain through Eleanor. “Haven’t you hurt Max enough?”
“What?” Is the only thing Eleanor says in response. She feels her chest tighten and a lump form in her throat at Anne’s words, because she has, she knows she has.
Anne sighs. “We fucked.” She says as she looks Eleanor in the eye. “We fucked, and you liked it. I know you did. So,” She takes a deep breath. “Why the fuck are you avoiding us? Haven’t you hurt Max enough?”
“I have.” Eleanor agrees, and how could she not? “That’s exactly why I’ve decided to keep away.”
“Bullshit.” Anne spits. “That may be one of the reasons, but I think you’re afraid we won’t want you back.” She takes Eleanor’s pint and drinks a big gulp before continuing. “Which is stupid, if you ask me.”
Eleanor just stares at her, at a loss for words, until Anne rolls her eyes and talks. “Let’s finish this beer and go talk to Max.”
And Eleanor does.
-
The next time she meets up with Max, it’s at the beach. The skies are bright and blue and the sun is beating down on them as they laugh. Max’s hands are all over her, teasing, and they joke about the old times as if nothing bad had happened in between. But sometimes when Max kisses her, Eleanor still feels like she shouldn’t be here, like she doesn’t deserve to be enjoying this as much as she is. Max, however, is always quick to soothe her worries.
They know they have their issues to work through, and it will not be easy to do so, but for now they decide to sit back and enjoy the afternoon, feeling like together, and with Anne, they can sort through anything.
After a few hours, Anne finally gets there; she’s just returned from a week at sea, and they’d agreed to meet here to welcome her. And so the next time Eleanor kisses Anne, she smells of salt and wind and gunpowder, and Eleanor marvels at how she’s all sharp edges where Max is soft, but she likes it just the same.
When they part, it’s Max’s turn to kiss Anne and as she watches them with Max’s hand held tightly in her own, Eleanor feels happy for the first time in a long time.