by Lea Santos
“I can.” Sourness assailed Paloma’s middle, and she wound her hands into a fist and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to fly off. She just caught me by surprise.”
“You and me both.”
“We should talk about things, Deanne. The boys. The truth. And our families, which sucks, but it has to be faced. There’s a lot to be worked out.” She stood, smoothing the front of her already smooth yoga pants. “Can I get you anything? Have you eaten?”
“You don’t have to wait on me, Paloma. I never expected that.”
Paloma’s posture straightened. “I’ll make coffee.”
Deanne glanced from her wife to the long, tubular gym bag on the chair with her water bottle and keys. “Look, if I caught you on your way out—”
“No, this is more important and you’re already here, so…” Paloma shrugged, then continued through the archway that led to the kitchen and breakfast nook. She spoke over her shoulder. “I’m too late for yoga anyway. The boys were absolute demons this morning and I’ve been two steps behind ever since.”
Ugh. Small talk. She couldn’t bear it. She stood at the sink and filled the coffee carafe with cold water, staring without really seeing out into the backyard. How strange to be merely civil to a woman she’d loved since childhood. The sooner they could get past all this “legal” business and move on, the better. When she turned, Deanne stood in the archway, studying her with those inscrutable deep brown eyes.
“You’re taking yoga?” Deanne’s gaze traced the scooped neckline of her skimpy royal blue tank.
Paloma ignored the suggestive trail of her gaze and suddenly noted the cut on Deanne’s chin, held together with a butterfly bandage and framed with an aura of bruising. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Standing on tiptoe—damn tall counters—she poured the water into the coffee machine. “What happened to your chin?”
Shoulder braced against the wall, Deanne crossed her arms. “I had a car accident. When did you start taking yoga?”
The carafe hit the countertop with a glass-on-granite clank. “An accident? When? Please tell me it wasn’t in the Chevelle?” That restored muscle car was Deanne’s pride and joy.
“No.” She raised the pads of her fingers gingerly to the chin injury. “At work. Tell me about yoga.”
She waved the persistent and irrelevant questions away, jangling the carafe into its spot on the warmer. “It’s just a damn class, Deanne. Something to fill my days.”
So.
There it was.
Deanne had crashed her cruiser at work and no one thought to call? She was still Deanne’s wife, the other mother of their sons, and she deserved—wait. She was acting like a territorial idiot. Nervous fingers lit on her temples before raking through her hair.
Stop it.
But she couldn’t. Jealousy’s ugly, unnamed cousin took up residence below her breastbone, making her want to lash out. She took her time measuring coffee grounds into the filter and starting the brew cycle. When she felt able to speak calmly, she turned. Her gaze settled on the angry wound, and she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me, Deanne?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about yoga class?”
Her voice sharpened. “When was the last time you gave a single thought to how I spent my days or nights?”
Pain flashed over Deanne’s face. “That’s completely unfair, Paloma—”
“No, wait. Wait. You’re right.” She spun toward the sink and gripped the edge until her knuckled whitened, breathing deeply to regain her composure. “I don’t want to fight. Honestly. We never fight—”
“No, we don’t. Maybe…that’s not so good.”
She heard the rustle of Deanne’s jeans behind her. Swallowed. “You want to fight?”
“No. But maybe if you had vented when things got to be too much for you, it wouldn’t have come to this.”
Was it true?
Should she have hollered when she felt like it?
Told Deanne when small irritants nagged at her until they became big issues?
She’d been so well trained to smile sweetly and keep petty grievances and dirty laundry to herself, but her doubts about her mother’s favorite lesson were mounting. Fuck, she was practically straight, if she thought about it. The good little wife. She and Deanne were better than this.
“I don’t know. It’s just…” Paloma turned and shrugged helplessly. Her tone softened. “You had a car accident, and I didn’t even know. I’ve known everything about you for the past seventeen years, Dee. It’s just weird.”
Deanne spread her arms and looked around. “I don’t live here anymore, remember? I didn’t think you’d care that I had a little fender bender at work.”
“Of course I care.”
A tortured sound pushed out from deep within Deanne. “I consider myself pretty well-versed in being a woman who loves women, but this time? I don’t understand what you want from me. Details about my life or for me to get out of yours?”
God, Paloma didn’t want Deanne out of her life. She wanted her back in their life…but like it used to be. And, that was impossible. Couldn’t Dee see that?
She approached Deanne and reached tentative fingers up to touch the bandage, careful to keep her voice neutral. “I care.” She sniffed. “And I’m glad it was a patrol car and not the Chevelle. Stitches?”
“No.” Deanne’s tone was husky. Arms tensed at her sides, she stood very still, watching Paloma beneath those crazy-thick lashes. Her breaths came slowly, measured.
Paloma traced the small bandage again, aware of the runaway pulse in Deanne’s muscular neck, the aching softness of Dee’s skin on her fingertips. Some wild, idiotic part of her wanted to rise up on her toes and kiss Deanne there, and on her throat, her chest, just to see if she could incite any kind of reaction. A weak voice inside urged Paloma to invite Deanne to bed for the day, just like she used to. So difficult to be near Deanne and not want…
Don’t do it, Paloma. It will only complicate things.
Her gaze flittered up to Dee’s eyes, and she read confusion, pain, and scarcely banked desire, too. She was sending mixed messages. Unfair. Clenching her jaw, she curled her fingers into her palm and pulled her hand back until it lay clutched against her chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” Deanne wrapped one of Paloma’s auburn curls around her finger, rubbing the strands with her thumb.
Easing away, Paloma moved stiffly to the far end of the breakfast nook and took a seat, avoiding eye contact. Coffee gurgled, the only sound in the otherwise silent house. Its rich scent spiced the charged air, but when Paloma reached up to scratch her face, the scent of Deanne’s soap on her fingers was all she could smell. What was happening to her? “I’m thinking about college,” she blurted, eager to obliterate the painful awareness crackling between them.
It took Deanne a moment to reply, but thankfully, she followed Paloma’s lead. “That’s wonderful. You should go.”
“Yeah?” Paloma felt suddenly vulnerable, knocked off axis. “It makes me nervous. I’ll be older than everyone.”
The corners of Deanne’s mouth tipped down in sync with that familiar “not a problem” shrug. “You have life experience, baby. Don’t devalue that.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, still standing in the archway. “You could have taken yoga or gone to college any time, P. You know that, right? I would have supported any dream you had. I do support any dream you have.”
Paloma bit her lip for a moment. “I guess I wasn’t ready until now.” And perhaps that had been a mistake. If she’d had more of a stake in her own life, she might’ve held Dee’s attention.
“Did I hold you back?” Deanne asked, tone morose, regretful, laced with pain.
Paloma considered it. “No.”
“Because if I did—”
“You didn’t, honey. I would tell you.”
Deanne expelled a caged breath. “God, I love you, Paloma. I love you so much, I don’t know where to put
it, don’t know how to deal.”
Chest tight, Paloma met her wife’s eyes across the room.
Deanne shoved off the wall and stepped cautiously closer, as though trying to gauge Paloma’s reaction. “I love you,” she repeated, more passionately, “I’m in love with you, and none of that will ever change. Whatever I did, I’m sor—”
“Dee…please don’t.”
“No.” Deanne tossed her plea aside with an impatient motion. “I have to say it. If it really is over, I at least want you to know the truth.”
Paloma glanced over the countertop that separated the nook from the kitchen, chewing the insides of her cheeks to buy time before answering. “I love you, too. But I can’t live like this anymore, don’t you see? Damnit!” Her voice cracked, and she bit down good and hard to control the painful ache in her throat.
“Okay.” Deanne’s calm but intense voice soothed her. “I hear you, baby girl, loud and clear.” Dee continued to advance on her, then squatted and captured one of Paloma’s hands between her own, massaging the knuckles as her words caressed Paloma’s soul. “I may not have heard you before, but I do now. You have my undivided attention. If we love each other, we can find a way out of this together. God knows, I…I want you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
It all sounded good. Yeah. But if Paloma gave in, that would mean settling. Again. After a brief honeymoon phase, Deanne would fall back into her workaholic pattern, things would once again turn lonely, and then Paloma would be stuck. She shored up her resolve. “If you want me to be happy…then you have to go.”
The caresses stopped. Deanne looked away. After a long pause, Deanne’s ravaged gaze swung back to meet hers. Paloma saw moisture there, which shocked her. Like her, Deanne hardly ever cried. Such paragons of control. Ha.
“Me leaving would make you happy?”
The pause stretched. Paloma shrugged one shoulder, desperation swelling inside her. “I don’t…it’s all I know to do at this point.”
Deanne’s lips pressed into a hard line, then she pushed to her feet and claimed the chair across from Paloma. She settled her elbows on Teddy’s Batman placemat, looking life weary, so goddamn bleak. “Tell me what you want from me, then.”
Paloma’s words came in a jumbled rush. “I don’t want us to be enemies, Deanne. I’m tired of being angry. What’s done is done. For the boys’ sake—”
“Punky.” Deanne splayed her hands across her chest. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I could never be your enemy. I. Love. You. You’re the love of my life.”
Paloma smiled sadly. So easy to say now. What about the past several years, when Deanne had gotten so wrapped up in work that she’d rarely even smiled? Burning questions roiled in Paloma’s chest. What’d she have to lose? “Why haven’t you touched me? Why haven’t we made love in so long?”
Deanne’s brows dipped, and she blinked in confusion. “B-because you had no interest, obviously.”
Oh, now it was her fault. “You’re so sure?”
Deanne spread her arms wide. “I may not be Ms. Intuition, but there are things I do understand. Your signals have always been pretty damn clear.”
“Maybe you were misreading them. Maybe it hurt that you didn’t want to make love.” She leaned closer across the small table. “Did you ask or try?”
“Did you?” Deanne reached over and grabbed Paloma’s upper arm gently. “Why couldn’t you just tell me what you needed? When was the last time you came on to me? You used to do it all the time. When you wanted me, you took me.” Dee let her eyes wander down Paloma’s body. “When was the last time you showed me anything but cold, polite, scary distance? I’m not a mind reader.”
Emie’s identical words rushed into her mind, and guilt cracked down like a judge’s gavel on Paloma’s brain. Exasperated and unsure, she sighed, tangling her fingers in her hair. “It’s not just…the sex. That’s not what this is about. I shouldn’t have brought that up. Forget it.”
“I don’t want to forget it.” Deanne’s thumbs moved in slow, intoxicating circles on her arm. “If it’s lovemaking you want, baby girl, then we’re on the same page. Believe me. Say the word and I’ll take you upstairs right now and show you how much I love you, how much I want—”
“Stop.” Paloma wrenched away, jerking her palms toward Deanne stiffly. “Just stop. It’s moved beyond that. I don’t want you to make love to me to prove a fucking point.”
A sound of feminine indignation pushed up from inside Deanne, and Paloma knew she wasn’t going to let the disturbing seductive talk drop. God, she wished Deanne would.
“It wouldn’t be to prove anything. It would—”
“Deanne, pleas—”
“—be two people who love each other, who want—”
“No more. Seriously.” Paloma interjected, unable to hear another word about lovemaking. It hurt too much. Making love wouldn’t cure their problems, and she couldn’t bear the painful throbbing the topic conjured.
She sighed, pressing two fingers to the sharp pain in her forehead. Her eyes drifted closed. “What I want is to figure out how we’re going to tell our families. How we’ll handle time with the boys. That’s what we should be discussing. Not making love, please—”
“Fine, I got it,” Deanne said, sharply.
Paloma’s face lifted. Deanne’s expression told Paloma she’d immediately regretted the harshness of the statement.
Gritting her teeth, Deanne took a moment to still the taut air between them, the muscle in her temple jumping. “Okay,” she said, softer. “I’m sorry. But hear me when I say I don’t want this. I want our life back. And I want you,” she added pointedly. “I’ve wanted you since sophomore English class. Believe it.”
Paloma stood and moved past Dee into the kitchen, preparing their coffee with wooden motions. Dee’s eyes burned into her, but she concentrated on her task, on slowing her pounding heart. On ignoring what Deanne insisted on telling her.
I want you.
She carried the mugs back to the table and set one in front of Deanne with a decisive clunk, determined to stay on track. “What are we going to do about the get-together at your mom’s?” Did Deanne truly want to make love to her right now? Desire swirled hot and low and wet within her. “You could tell her you have to work. She’d believe that.”
Deanne’s wistful gaze had settled on the family photos above the buffet, and Paloma tracked it. The boys as babies, school pictures, a family photo…and her favorite candid wedding shot, laughing just after she’d committed the most heinous of errors and shoved cake in Deanne’s face.
“She’d still want you and the boys there.”
“True.” Paloma made a mental note to put the wedding picture away.
“Besides, she knows I’m on vacation.” Deanne scrubbed a palm over her face.
An unfamiliar bitterness flared inside Paloma, and she turned her attention from the photo wall. “You never take vacation.”
Deanne sipped her coffee. “Well, after the crash, Obermeyer strongly suggested I get my head together. That or visit the department shrink, probably.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “Eh, what the hell? It’s been too long since I’ve taken time off anyway.”
No goddamn kidding. Paloma wanted to ask why they hadn’t enjoyed more family vacations. Why they hadn’t stolen a weekend now and then to rekindle the flames that used to burn so hotly between them. She didn’t, but the kick of resentment wouldn’t disappear. “How long will you be off?”
“Open-ended. I guess that depends…”
Surely it didn’t depend on her. Deanne Vargas didn’t let garden-variety emotions like heartbreak interfere with her tunnel-vision work ethic. “So, what about the football party?”
Dee quirked one eyebrow. “We could just go. The boys would love it. What could it hurt?”
“Deanne.” Paloma’s tone was droll but tender. “We can’t lie. We have to tell her. All of them. It’s not fair to the boys.”
A little ray of hope fiz
zled in Deanne’s eyes, turning them dull and flat. “Fine, P, I’ll tell them. I’ll tell everyone that we’re just another sad family statistic. Another argument against gay marriage. Because we’re no better than anyone else, and we just can’t make it work.”
Paloma lifted her chin, refusing to let Deanne goad her into an argument. “Do that. The sooner the better.”
Deanne drank, watching her over the cup’s rim. “What’s the next step in your grand plan to reach the greener grass on the other side?”
Paloma’s spine bristled, but she forged ahead. “Some kind of legal mediation.”
“We’re not legally married, remember?”
Her hands tightened around her mug. “I know. But we need to put the boys first.”
“Jesus, Paloma.” Deanne shot to her feet, stalked to the doorway, then spun back. “You’ve got this whole thing scheduled and booked, don’t you? How long have you been planning to leave me?”
“Deanne—”
“An opportunity to make things better”—she held up a finger, sarcasm lacing her words—“a single second chance to save two decades of love would’ve been downright considerate of you.”
Paloma shot to her feet. “I’m trying to make things easier, not harder.”
Deanne braced one hand high on the jamb. A muscle in her biceps ticked. “We haven’t been apart a month yet, and you’re talking what amounts to a divorce. What’s easy about that?”
Paloma crossed the room, softened her tone. “Why prolong the agony?”
Deanne’s disbelieving expression caved into resignation. “Fine. Mediation. But, for the record, separating children from a mother who loves them just as much as you do isn’t in their best interest.” She knocked the side of her fist on the wall twice before turning to leave.
Paloma’s breathing constricted. She didn’t want Deanne to walk away with bad feelings. “Dee—!”
Deanne whirled back. “Oh, yeah. One last thing.” In a single, powerful stride, she stood right before Paloma, her chest at Paloma’s eye level.