In the Distance There Is Light

by Harper Bliss

  “Does the word bisexual mean anything to you?” I replied.

  “Of course it does, Soph. My own boyfriend identifies as such.”

  “Then why are you being so obnoxious?”

  “It’s just my personality, darling. You know I can’t help myself.” He pecked me on the cheek and poured me some more brandy.

  Most people we’ve told have come around in the end, even my parents. I blurted it out during a particularly taxing phone conversation with my mother one day.

  “Dolores, Dolores, it’s always Dolores with you,” my mother said, being more right than she could probably imagine. She said it in her whiny, woe-is-me voice, the one I can stand the least, and I just told her.

  “We’re seeing each other,” I said. “Romantically.” That shut her up for a good long minute. To my surprise, she didn’t hang up the phone there and then. I was glad for the little opening she left, for the words she spoke next, for not making it all about her for once.

  “Does she make you happy?” she asked, and with it, erased a great deal of fear I’d had about having to tell her. Mere minutes later the conversation took a different turn, and she broke out in a tiny yelp of disbelief, but I was grateful for those few seconds of initial acceptance, even though it didn’t last. What it told me was that there was a possibility this could be talked about at some point, Winters-family-style talk, but talk nonetheless.

  It would have been better if she’d come today, but I understand. Different things are hard for different people.

  I stop thinking about my own mother and look at Ian’s mother instead. Since I told her that red is really her color she’s bought a few new red dresses. “Just to please my lady,” she said, and darted around the living room with one of them clasped against her body. She’s wearing a red dress today and red lipstick and she looks gorgeous and in control and important—at least to me.

  Dolores is the most important person in my life. She has been since Ian died. And we’re still standing. We’re still together. In an ideal world, we would have celebrated our first anniversary together already, but the world is far from ideal and we were both reluctant to start counting from the day we first got together. Instead, we’ve decided to use the day of meeting Albert the truck driver as the official beginning of our affair. The day of our first official date.

  I tune back into Dolores’ speech. I should be listening more attentively but I’m mesmerized by the red of her lips, by the shape of them, by the way she angles her head before she says something jokey.

  “On behalf of Sophie and myself, I’d like to thank you once again for being here. Do stick around until the booze runs out.” Dolores ends her speech with a big smile and by lifting her glass in the air.

  “To Ian,” everyone says, just like they did last year.

  This time, I raise my glass with them. I put my hand up and keep my glance on Dolores. “To Ian,” I say.

  I still see him sometimes. Usually when I’ve drunk too much. I still go to Cooley’s. I prefer it to going to his grave. I sit there and drink too much beer and, in my head, I talk to him. I tell him things. Ordinary things about my day at work or something funny that Dolores said. I no longer write him letters. I stopped doing that when I started on my first piece of serious investigative journalism again. A long article about illegal toxic waste dumping. Maybe someday I should write one about the consequences of not wearing a helmet when cycling. Someday, when I feel capable.

  Dolores walks over to me, puts her hands on my shoulders and, in front of everyone, kisses me fully on the mouth.

  “Come with me for a minute,” she whispers in my ear after the kiss. “I need to show you something in the kitchen.”

  My brain is too fuzzy to realize what she’s getting at, but as soon as we reach the kitchen, she closes the door behind us and drags me into the pantry. This time, we don’t cry or break down or need each other in that raw, complicated way. This time, a year after the last time we were in there together, we exchange a kiss and a quick giggle and are out of there before it can raise any questions from our guests.

  I walk back in the living room and look for Jeremy, but all his attention is focused on Vasily, who is such a nice guy. “Way too good for you,” I keep telling Jeremy, in jest.

  Upstairs, baby Juno starts crying and, as new parents tend to do, Alex stirs immediately and rushes upstairs.

  Dolores grabs my hand and people cluster around us and we talk to them, hands clasped together.

  The two of us standing in her living room like that, surrounded by friends and acquaintances, sums up this whole journey so perfectly.

  Together, we made it through.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Endless gratitude to my wife, the far superior part of our high-functioning co-dependent unit. When I started this story, and believed I was taking my cougar love one step too far (and the words came slower than I was comfortable with), she paid me a slew of very un-British compliments that got me past the doubts and fears that came with writing this book.

  I respect no editor more than my trusted friend Cheyenne Blue, who never minces her words (she’s the only one allowed to call me ‘pompous’) and always makes my books better.

  Special mention to my beta reader Carrie (with whom I share a love for distinguished older women) who is so relentlessly nice, positive, and encouraging. I couldn’t ask for a better first reader.

  As always, my Launch Team are not only there for me when a book releases, but I get to avail of their support and smart wits whenever I need to. I’m well aware this is a great luxury.

  Last but by no means least: Thank You, Dear Reader! Every single one of you has made a difference in my life. We are on this crazy lesfic journey together and, thanks to you, it’s true what they say: There really is no better time to be a writer than right now.

  Thank you all.

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  Building a relationship with my readers is the very best thing about writing. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and giveaways.

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  3. You’ll have to wait and see, but I may have a nice surprise up my sleeve… ;-)

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Harper Bliss is the author of the novels No Strings Attached, The Road to You, Seasons of Love and At the Water’s Edge, the High Rise series, the French Kissing serial and several other lesbian erotica and romance titles. She is the co-founder of Ladylit Publishing, an independent press focusing on lesbian fiction. Harper lives on an outlying island in Hong Kong with her wife and, regrettably, zero pets.

  Harper loves hearing from readers and if you’d like to drop her a note you can do so via harperbliss@gmail.com

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  Read an excerpt of Harper Bliss’s bestselling novel now…

  Far from t
he World We Know

  (Sample)

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’ve left the past behind, I think, as I flatten the last cardboard box. This one held the few books I brought. I stacked them next to Aunt Milly’s on the built-in shelves in her living room—my living room. It’ll take some time before I can think of this house as mine, especially because it’s not—not legally anyway. Aunt Milly’s name is on the deed and she’s still very much alive, though not so much kicking anymore.

  Sweet Aunt Milly, who understood, without me having to say a word, that I needed to leave Chicago, if not for good, then at least for a long time. She’s the only person I know in Nelson, Texas. Speaking of which, it’s almost time for my daily visit to Aunt Milly at Windsor Oaks, the retirement home she now resides in. I offered—basically insisted—for her to stay in her house. It’s surely big enough for the two of us, and I work from home, so I could have taken care of her every need, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

  “It’s time for me to leave as well,” she’d said, and, in turn, I had understood her meaning in those few words.

  I put the flattened box in the garage with the rest and go in search of my running shoes. Windsor Oaks is in the center of town, about two miles from where I live. Running back and forth doesn’t come close to the distances I used to run along Lake Michigan, but it’ll do for now. I find myself exhausted after four miles these days. “This could be a result of the severe trauma you suffered,” the last doctor I visited in Chicago said. He must have been right. And then, out of nowhere, there are the flashes in my mind again. The ones I’m so powerless against. Blood pooling on the living room carpet and the sound of bone breaking, over and over again. I shake my head and refocus on tying my laces. Running is the only thing that makes that distorted movie in my brain stop.

  * * *

  “Are you taking care of my spider plant?” Aunt Milly asks, as she does every single day.

  In response, I show her a picture I’ve taken this morning on my phone.

  “How do I know you’re not showing me the same picture every day?” she asks with a grin.

  “You know because I’m your favorite niece and I wouldn’t deceive you like that.”

  “I have no choice but to believe you, but my favorite niece you are.” Her face goes blank for an instant. Every time it does, I can’t help but wonder whether she’s thinking about what I’m thinking about. About the events I asked her not to speak of anymore. That doesn’t mean every single second of it doesn’t still occupy my mind.

  “How was your run?” she asks. “It must be getting hot out there.” The temperature in Aunt Milly’s room is always exactly the same, no matter the conditions outside, and warm enough for the sweat to keep pearling on my forehead. “This is nothing,” Aunt Milly says, then falls silent again.

  I wish, for her sake, that I was the kind of person who could make endless chitchat, but that’s not me. So we often sink into a companionable silence for minutes on end, me racking my brain for a tidbit of safe information I haven’t shared with Aunt Milly yet, and, judging by how her eyelids sometimes droop, my aunt dozing off in her chair. As long as she knows she’s not alone, I think, as I always do when I fail to come up with more words.

  “Any exciting plans this weekend?” she asks, as her eyelids flutter.

  “Tending to your garden.” Although garden is a big word for the patch of overgrown grass and weeds at the back of the house. After she broke her hip last year, Aunt Milly wasn’t able to take care of it anymore.

  “It’s your garden now, dear.” By the time she gets to the word dear her voice has lost its oomph and I can tell she’s getting tired. She takes a few seconds to catch her breath. “Why don’t you go to Sam’s Bar on Saturday? It’s not good for you to be on your own all the time.” This last statement seems to have zapped the last conversational energy from her body.

  “I’m not though, am I?” I give her a kind smile. “I have you.”

  She just nods.

  “I’ll let you rest now.” I push myself out of my chair.

  “That’s okay, dear. Just stay a little while longer.” Aunt Milly closes her eyes.

  I sink back into the chair and wait until I hear her breath steady itself and she breaks into a gentle snore. Every day I come here, we perform a different variation of this conversation, and every time, when we reach this bit—contemplative for me, drowsy for her—I think exactly the same thing: being alone is good and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  * * *

  After I return home and take a quick shower, I stand in front of the fridge and realize it’s empty. I quickly push back the memory of how a not properly stocked refrigerator made Tracy feel. I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve become so lax about grocery shopping simply because I can now, then head to the supermarket. Nelson only has one and, when I first arrived, I was amazed by how spotless and brand new it looked. It’s not massive, but the aisles are wide and I never feel rushed when I push my cart through them and examine what’s on offer.

  I don’t get out much—Aunt Milly is surely correct about that—so when I do, I like to take my time. I wasn’t born a hermit. And a daily run works for me now, but I know its magic will cease to be enough soon. So I make a point of nodding at everyone I encounter, sometimes even throwing in a smile. I’m not out to make friends just yet, but having a chat with someone closer to my age range wouldn’t be a bad thing, I guess. I’m just afraid of what might slip out if I let my guard down even a little.

  I scan the vegetable aisle, pondering what to make for dinner, when another shopping cart crashes into mine.

  “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” a woman says, but she doesn’t pull her cart back. “I was rushing again, as usual.”

  “Never mind.” I give her a smile so as to reassure her that it’s really no big deal.

  The woman stares intently at me for a second too long. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” she asks. “I’ve seen you run along Main Street. I have my office there.” She paints a big smile on her face and extends a hand. “I’m Tess Douglas, managing editor of The Nelson Ledger, which basically means I do everything.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Laura.” I barely touch my palm to hers. “And yes, I am new.”

  Tess flicks a strand of hair away from her shoulders and looks at me again. “Welcome to Nelson,” she says. “Are you here to stay? Where did you move from?”

  “From Chicago. And I—I might be.” I start pulling my cart out of the way, anxious to get back to my shopping and not prolong this conversation.

  “Do you work here?” Tess quirks up her eyebrows. She really wants to know everything.

  “I’m a freelance graphic designer, so I can work pretty much anywhere.”

  “Oh!” She clasps a hand over her mouth. “You might just be what I’ve been looking for, Laura,” she exclaims, her voice going all high-pitched.

  I should be amused by this comment, but it terrifies me instead. What does this woman want from me? I pull my cart a bit farther away from her to indicate that I want to move on.

  “TNL—The Nelson Ledger—has been ready for a makeover since I started working for it in 2006… Well, actually, come to think of it, long before that, but I digress. I finally scraped a budget together and I’m ready to start talking about it to people like you.”

  “I’m very sorry, Tess,” I say with a firm voice. “I’m currently not looking for new clients.”

  Tess’s posture deflates a little. Then she inhales, and it’s as though the oxygen she sucks in instantly replenishes her bravado. “Maybe you can recommend someone then?”

  This woman really will not let up. “Maybe,” I mutter.

  She reaches into her purse and gets out a business card. “Here. Call or email me if you think of someone… or when you do have time for new clients.” She follows up with a wide smile, baring a row of ultra-white teeth.

  “Sure.” I take the card and, without looking at it, drop it into the side po
cket of my jacket. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “Yes,” Tess, who suddenly seems a bit flustered, says. “Take care now.” With that, she spins her cart around and heads into the opposite direction.

  Full on much, I think, as I follow her with my gaze. She’s tall and her full hips sway a little as she walks. Her blond hair comes to well below her shoulders and… her stare unsettled me a little. Perhaps I could have been more polite, but she made me feel so cornered, what with her cart blocking mine—though I could have just turned around.

  I refocus my attention on the vegetables to steady myself. I think I’ll have sweet potatoes with my dinner tonight.

 

  Far from the World We Know is available from Amazon US and Amazon UK

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