by J J Arias
“Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “Georgie got in late last night, I think,” he said with a knowing giggle.
George’s heart sank. She hadn’t realized that he hadn’t recognized her. She pushed the sadness from her thoughts and focused on enjoying a nice, quiet meal with her dad. There was so much to be grateful for, even in that.
“Don’t make that face, Gloria,” he whispered sternly. “You’re too hard on that girl,” he added as he dunked his toasted Cuban bread into the sweet take on a latte. “We raised her right. She makes good choices, even if you don’t like them.”
George was stunned into silence. It felt like she was eavesdropping on a private conversation or reading a diary. “Okay,” she managed, feeling even worse that she was tricking her dad. “You’re right. Let’s just enjoy our breakfast.” Her tone was unnatural as she vacillated between trying to imitate her mother or remaining silent. Neither seemed right, and she just wanted her dad to stop talking before he said anything else. She choked down a piece of toast as she tried to act casual.
“Bah,” he grumbled. “You never want to talk about it. As if ignoring it will make her interested in boys. You can’t browbeat her into being someone she doesn’t want to be, Gloria,” he said in a way that made her believe he’d repeated that warning a thousand times.
George tried her best to look forward and chew, but it was like her mouth had been filled with a rubber ball. She sipped the hot coffee to break down the immovable mass in her mouth. The hot coffee that landed on her shirt drew her attention to her violently shaking hands.
“I think that best friend of hers is a nice girl,” he added with a wink that made George want to faint. “I know you think they spend too much time together, but Georgie is so happy. She comes from a good family, she’s cute as button, sweet, well-mannered, and smart as a whip,” he said, describing the first love of George’s life. “There are worse matches,” he added with a mouthful of scrambled egg.
“Papi, I’m not —” George didn’t know what to say. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t her mother, but that would upset him. She’d learned that early on in his illness. Confronting him was never the way to go; it frightened and angered him. But she couldn’t listen to anymore, either.
“I know, I know. What will people think? What about grandchildren?” he waved his hand as if waving away the concern. “Your great aunt lived with her friend for forty years. They were the happiest spinsters I’d ever met.” He made the effort to wrap the word in air quotes. “She adopted that baby whose mother died in labor, and didn’t they all live nicely? No one was kicked out of the family. No fuss, no muss,” he shrugged. “My point is, Gloria, stop worrying about it. Stop pushing her. Trust our daughter. We’ve done a hell of a job raising her, if I do say so myself.”
George could hardly breathe. “Excuse me a second,” she said as she stood, slamming into the table as she darted out. “I’ll be right back,” she tried to smile, but it only aggravated the nausea and tears stinging the back of her eyes.
The house moved around her in a blur, and she’d only realized she’d run into her bedroom when twenty years of memories stared back at her. So much for seeking solace from the despair.
Her room, with its ornate white furniture and colorful bedspread was in a thirty-year-old time capsule. Her mother hadn’t allowed posters stuck to the wall, so her Taylor Dane, Janet Jackson, and Wilson Phillips concert tour posters hung in neat frames behind her bed. Where most of her friends had pictures stuck to the sides of their vanity mirrors, George’s were framed and neatly arranged on top of her dresser.
It wasn’t until well into adulthood that George realized her mother’s preoccupation with organization bordered on the obsessive, but as a kid she never noticed. It was normal to always have a place for everything and everything in its place.
George reached for the white frame at the center of the cluster on the dresser and stared at it as she took it to her bed and sat. She ran her thumb over the image of two girls, both in matching black cap and gowns, both excited to be graduating high school.
George’s heart was heavy through the smile. So many years later and she still regretted the way she’d abruptly stepped out of the other brunette’s life. Guilt stung her belly and ricocheted up her chest.
They’d loved each other with the all-consuming depth of perfectly unscarred hearts. With the levity and ignorance of a baggage-less existence. Brand new and empty of preconceived notions or societal expectations, they’d intertwined the fierce loyalty of teenage best friendship with the devastating emotional commitment of a first love. Everything they shared had been a first. A fumbling kiss, nervous exploration, and the discovery of intimacy on all levels. Their love had been deep and all-encompassing.
Then came graduation day. George fulfilled her dream of becoming a Goode Girl, and her great love had gotten into an excellent school in California. In a time when long distance phone calls were expensive and personal computers were a luxury, George couldn’t see any way to stay together. She’d ended things with the cold logic of impossibility and left a broken mess without giving her a chance to prepare.
George swallowed hard. For years she’d held on to the utilitarian reason for breaking up. It was only in the inescapable silence of her conscious that she acknowledged the truth. She’d said goodbye to love because it was time to grow up and she had enormous goals in her sights. No one ever had to explicitly tell her that doing something as frivolous as falling in love would lead to disaster; she was always sure of it. There had always only been one path that counted. The one that ended in great accomplishments. Service to her community. Honor and pride for her parents. Self-serving, short-lived, impermanent things like love stood in the way of her purpose.
Swallowing the salty tears streaming down her face, George held the frame tight to her chest and grieved for the girls in the picture.
Chapter Twenty
A soft knock at Mila’s door went unanswered the first two times. On the third, she pulled down the top of her suitcase, stepped over the pile of shoes, and cracked it open.
“Yes,” she snapped, resisting the desire to ask what instead.
“May I come in?” Josephine asked from the sliver of space between the door and the frame.
Mila tightened her jaw. She wanted to say no. Partly because she was sick of Josephine doing the governor’s dirty work, and also because she was a little disappointed the woman in question hadn’t appeared herself.
Without a word, she left the door open as she went back to her task of neatly folding her belongings into tight rectangles and placing them in the open suitcase. Soon, it would join the packed ones at the door, and then they’d all be out of there.
“You’re so very tidy,” Josephine remarked as she glanced around the room, setting something wrapped in paper on her nightstand. Mila had done what she could to mitigate some of the garish decor. Most of the clutter had been neatly arranged in the now empty closet.
“I can put it back,” she replied dryly, her eyes fixed on the t-shirt she was folding. “And I already washed the sheets and cleaned the room.”
“You didn’t have to do that. The staff—”
“I’ve been doing it myself since I’ve been staying here. I’m too old to have someone clean up my mess,” she said pointedly.
“Fair enough,” Josephine muttered before leaning against the bed post. “I’m sorry you want to leave.”
“Yeah, well, there’s not much point anymore. The tabloid trolls have found another bridge to hide under, I suppose. All these months later, I’m old news. Even Blankenship’s lackey has found someone else to torment.”
Josephine nodded. “I thought maybe you’d want to stay anyway.”
Mila’s laugh was almost a sneer. “Yeah, well, your boss hasn’t given me any reason to stay,” she replied after throwing down the shirt and putting her hands on her hips.
“Is she not your boss too?”
Mila knew it was meant a
s a joke, but she was in no mood. Her reply was a silent glare.
“Right,” Josephine said before clearing her throat. “Listen, I’m not exactly sure what happened, but George—”
“Maybe you should go talk to the governor’s husband about it,” she snapped. “I don’t know anything about her.” She injured herself with the words but stuck to them.
“Mila, can I be frank with you?” Josephine asked as she took the liberty of sitting on the edge of the bed. “Talk honestly with express confidentially?”
Her soft tone caught Mila off guard and stole some of her rage. She scoffed but kept herself from sniping that she didn’t know anyone knew how to do that around here. At Josephine’s gesture that she have a seat on the borrowed bed, Mila complied and plopped down on the only side not occupied by luggage and clothing.
“Go ahead,” she said after a few moments. “I’m listening.”
“You’re an intelligent person. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve, perhaps, assisted in creating some opportunities for you and George to spend some time together,” she said coyly. Her constant use of the governor’s first name was a little unnerving.
“I’m sure her husband appreciates that,” she snapped.
Josephine looked at the closed door and then back at Mila. “This is where some of that confidentiality comes in,” she explained, looking as uncomfortable as a frog on skates.
Mila relaxed her body and tried to release some of the animosity making her tense. It wasn’t Josephine’s fault her best friend was making terrible decisions. “You have my word,” she said with a handshake. “I promise not to repeat anything we discuss.”
“George and Nathan have never so much as shared a bed,” she said as if she’d been holding that ten-pound secret on her shoulders for years. “They have always been great friends, and their marriage has been based on that friendship and mutual convenience.”
Mila’s eyes widened in surprise. She’d expected that their marriage had turned loveless over time, not that it had been a sham from the beginning. “So she’s a true closet case, rather than a potential adulterer,” she mused. She’d had enough therapy to know that her sudden interest in the governor’s husband arrived very tardy to the front of her mind.
Josephine shook her head. “George has no problem with her sexuality, but she has put aside what she wants to serve her family and her country. She’s not repressed about her sexuality,” she repeated as if she hadn’t been clear enough the first time, “she’s repressed about everything she wants that serves the singular purpose of her own happiness.”
Mila crossed one leg over the other and her arms across her chest. “Why are you telling me this?”
Josephine sighed before flashing her a disappearing grin. “You’re so similar,” she muttered. “I’m telling you because you’ve been good for George. Since meeting you, it’s like she’s come back to life in certain ways. I hate to sound trite, but you really have been a re-energizing breath of fresh air. My guess is that she’s done something for you too.”
Mila made no effort to conceal her dubious expression. “I’m sorry, Josephine, but I’m not sure she’d agree with you,” she laughed dryly.
“Listen, she is a good person with a unique and giving heart, but vulnerability is not her strong suit. Plus,” she chuckled, “to be perfectly frank, you scare the heck out of that woman.”
It was Mila’s turn to chuckle. The idea that the governor was afraid of her, or anyone, was preposterous.
Josephine squeezed her hand before standing. “I can’t tell either one of you what to do. If I could, you would both be much happier. What I can do is encourage you not to give up on her. If you’re up for a challenge, she is worth fighting for,” she paused and smiled. “Even if it’s her you have to fight.” She winked and left.
Mila plopped herself down on the window seat and relaxed against the cool glass. She stared at all the packed bags piled up by the door. The last thing left to grab were her parents’ picture and her dad’s pocket watch. They were the last pieces of her, and when they were in her purse, it would be like Mila had never been here. The thought made her stomach churn.
After discomfort turned to full-on nausea, she noticed the package Josephine had left on her nightstand and fetched it. Retaking her seat, she opened the small parcel hastily wrapped in tissue paper.
Mila closed her eyes briefly as if to brace herself. She hadn’t been expecting the governor to be looking back at her. It was the photo she’d taken with her on the first day of the fellowship. She traced the cold glass over the two women standing together with apparent irritation in their faces. There was no way she could have anticipated all the strange twists her fellowship would take. Mila pressed the photo to her chest as emotion seized her.
Get it together, she decided, turning in her seat to give the garden a last look. On a Sunday morning, the expansive landscape was empty. February in Florida looked just like summer, except the air was cooler, the humidity was lower, and the mosquitos were gone.
As she admired the sea of rose bushes, she considered what Josephine said and looked again at the photo in her hands. The sight of George’s face was an assault on her resolve. Part of her understood that George’s upbringing was different than her own, with its own pressures and expectations. Apart from her mother’s accident and her dad’s illness, her childhood had been pretty idyllic. Her parents had never pushed her to be one thing or another. As long as she tried her best, they were proud. It never occurred to her that she couldn’t be anyone she wanted to be.
Mila slumped against the window. Her gaze fixed on a Banyan tree in the distance. Amanda’s words from so long ago rang in her ears. Even if she took Josephine’s advice and went for it, what kind of relationship could they even have? It would be such a scandal. Not to mention she’d have to leave her job if they ever wanted to try.
You’re leaving anyway, an annoying voice in her head pointed out. Mila wished she could glare at herself. As she pondered whether she wanted to push for someone who was so resistant, and whether it would be worth it, a large figure cut across the lush grass with two smaller figures running ahead.
Electricity shot through Mila’s system. One more try, she decided as she leapt over the packed bags. As she did, she rolled her eyes. The imagery wasn’t lost on her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Humid grass licked at the hem of George’s jeans as she walked behind her runaway dogs. Her head was still spinning from the conversation with her father. Despite the pit it made in her stomach, she couldn’t stop playing it over and over in her mind. The rustling behind her derailed her train of thought.
Staring at the blonde woman jogging toward her, George’s feet itched to bolt in the other direction. Her heart, however, told her to stop being a coward and stay. Mila moved faster than George’s ability to make a decision.
“Hey,” she said, barely winded as she stopped a few feet away.
“Hey,” George repeated, swallowing the dry knot in her throat. She was still a raw nerve and the idea of being plucked further turned her guts to stone.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Mila started, her eyes glittering like polished cobalt in the sun.
“That would be a first,” she said, trying to joke, but her words were stilted and choppy.
Mila smirked. “I’ve been packing my things,” she said abruptly, and George’s heart went into a tailspin. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
Each word was punctuated with a stab to her exposed chest. George looked away, afraid she would read the pain in her eyes. Terrified that she would call out her conflicting feelings. She wanted her to stay and go. She wanted her to be hers and not jeopardize her future. She wanted to risk it all with the safety of a certain happy ending.
“Unless,” Mila started again, reaching for George’s hand, “you don’t want me too. Not for security or for the fellowship, but because you want me to be here.”
George stared at the elegant fingers outstre
tched and reaching for her. She looked back up to her face, its sharp angular lines looking softer than ever. George’s eyes darted in every direction, glancing around for the sight of any possible onlookers
“There’s no one here but us,” she said softly as she inched closer. “I’m pretty sure Josephine made sure of that.”
George wondered how long they’d been on a first name basis. “What would it matter?” she asked, clinging to resistance like a life preserver. “Do we have reason to be alone?” she asked rhetorically as if her meaning were unclear.
Mila shook her head with a deep exhale as she dropped her hand to her side. “Aren’t you tired of this part?” she asked, ignoring her rebuff, likely seeing through its weakness. “This bullshit game. There is more on the other side you know. I promise,” she said in a tone George couldn’t decipher.
George looked away. She couldn’t breathe under the weight of her accusatory glare. As they stood in silence, the birds continued to sing and the breeze moved through leaves. It was a lovely backdrop to the motionless pair.
Mila broke the silence again. George wondered what sort of reserves the woman had to continue her fruitless attempts. “I care about you. As frustrating as you are,” she said with relaxing shoulders.
Her words forced George’s eyes back to her. It didn’t take sight to understand Mila was holding herself open despite George’s best efforts to push her away. As she looked at her, George’s eyes softened against her will.
Mila held out her hand again. “So?” she asked. “Do you want to see what this is?”
George stared at the outstretched hand. It was the gauntlet on the ground. The lit match an inch from the fuse. If she accepted, there would be no turning back. As it was, she felt guilty for the back-and-forth. It wasn’t right and she couldn’t be so cavalier with either of their emotions anymore.
“I want to,” George admitted to her own surprise. It seemed her mouth was moving of its own accord while the rest of her stood by and let it happen.