Gwen: So you ran off to L.A. to become a rat I see.
She glares at the numbers flashing over the door while she waits for a reply. 9...10...11...12...13…14...15...
Spencer: I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.
Her jaw clenches, her nostrils flare, and she clutches her phone so hard the edges dig into her skin. 16…17...18...19... A gray text bubble pops up next to Spencer’s name with the scrolling ellipses that mean he’s typing. It disappears. Comes back. Disappears. Finally, he sends something.
Spencer: It’s hard out here. I needed money.
Gwen shakes her head and goes back to glaring at the numbers as the elevator gets closer to the top floor. Of course it’s hard to make it as a new stylist with barely any experience, and that’s why they gave him an internship in the first damn place, but too late now. He’s burned his bridges; he can sink on his own. That’s what she should say.
But she remembers being young and impatient, tired of being told what to do and who to be, figuratively and literally giving the entire world the middle finger. Hell, who is she kidding? She still does that; she’s been doing it all weekend.
And she also knows what it’s like to have someone who saw her as she was and as she could be. Someone who believed in her. She stops in her tracks and calls Flora first, but it goes to voicemail. “Hey, Flora, I, um. I’m coming home. I just... I love you, okay?”
Then she replies to Spencer.
Gwen: I really see potential in you. A fearlessness and a shrewdness that can’t be taught. But you do need to learn things. Most importantly...
The elevator doors open and she steps off.
Gwen: Most importantly that connecting yourself to—and relying on—other people is not a weakness. It is vital to success.
He doesn’t reply, not even an indecisive text bubble. She hopes that maybe she planted a seed, at least. Bridges can be rebuilt with care and thought and patience. She has some she needs to get working on. Gwen speed-walks down the hall, no shoes, no makeup, hair a mess, and wearing yesterday’s wrinkled, smelly clothes, only to encounter the solid wall of Kevin blocking the door to Clementine’s room.
“Excuse me, Kevin, I just need to—” Then she notices her luggage at Kevin’s feet. “What—”
“Miss Campbell,” Kevin intones, “has requested that I inform you there is a jet waiting to take you and Mr. Dawson back to Nashville.” His expression, always so staid and stiff, seems pitying. “Whenever you’re ready to leave, Ms. Pasternak.”
26
Six years ago...
It was the cats that finally spooked Gwen. On a bright Sunday morning they’d gone grocery shopping. It was the perfect day people move to Southern California for: sunny and warm with clear blue skies and just enough of a breeze to keep the heat pleasant instead of suffocating. They drove with the windows down; cheesy pop music that Gwen had long given up pretending she didn’t like murmured in the background. She sang along or chattered excitedly about work, and Flora could see their lives stretching on like this for miles and miles.
“You know Nico, that hairstylist I was telling you about?”
Flora pulled into a space near her apartment, next to the dumpster. Someone had ditched a broken particleboard bookshelf next to it. “The pretty one that you have a crush on?”
Gwen scoffed, jabbing the button to release her seatbelt. “I do not.” She tipped her head and reconsidered. “The man has presence.”
“It’s okay,” Flora said, getting out of the car. “I’m not the jealous type. You can think he’s pretty.” She popped open the trunk and pulled at one of the cloth grocery bags.
Gwen grabbed two bags and they walked across the parking lot, weighed down with their first load, as Gwen continued. “Anyway, he and I were talking about how the salon has a lot of celebrity clients, and I mentioned that I really wanted to get into fashion styling, but don’t really have funds to start up my own firm.”
They dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and went back for the second load. “And he said he had the money his parents set aside for college still because he never went, and that we should go into business together.”
Flora pulled out the last bag and slammed the trunk closed. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Gwen scuffed her boots along the cracked pavement of the parking lot. Flora’s apartment was nicer than Gwen’s, but on a first-year teacher’s salary, not by much. “Is it crazy?” Gwen asked, then decided before Flora could answer. “It’s crazy. Honestly, it’s so hard to make it as a new styling firm, and neither of us have interned—”
“Gwen.” Flora stopped just past the rancid sour milk smell of the dumpster. “I think it’s a fantastic idea. You absolutely have what it takes.”
Gwen rose up on her toes, smiled, and walked backward to ramble, “I mean. Between my fashion knowledge and his cool in the face of bratty celebrity demands, at least we—” Something in the dumpster squeaked. Gwen set her bag down. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” Flora moved closer, holding her breath at the stench. Goodness, what died in there? They waited and waited and…
A cry. A miserable mewling cry.
“Oh! A kitten!” Gwen was halfway into the dumpster, using the wobbling broken bookshelf as a ladder, giving no thought or care to the stench or the fact that she was climbing into a dumpster.
“Let me go get a net or something—Gwen!” Too late. Gwen hauled her other leg over and dove in. Just the bright blonde top of her head was visible as she dug around.
“It’s okay, oh, I won’t hurt you, shit.” From the sound of it, Gwen dove for the kitten and missed. Flora took a breath, held it, and craned up to see. “Is there meat or something in one of the grocery bags?” Gwen whisper-shouted, sunk to her hips in reeking garbage. “It’s terrified, but it looks so skinny. I bet it’s hungry.”
Flora rushed to the bag, found lunch meat and fumbled with it, and finally managed to tear off a corner of a slice. She handed it to Gwen and could see the kitten’s wary green eyes hiding behind a black bag that was oozing something orange and lumpy from a tear in the middle. Flora grimaced and called, “I hope you’ve had a recent tetanus shot, Gwen.”
As disgusting as it was, and it really, really was, watching Gwen coo to and soothe this terrified, emaciated kitten in a dumpster, heedless of her own comfort or safety—or smell—only concerned for this cat and its well-being, made Flora’s heart glow with affection. Gwen would make a wonderful mother.
And then. A louder, more demanding meow. “There’s another one!” Flora called. The second kitten, its orange fur matted with dirt and grime, came out of hiding, falling over the uneven piles of trash to get to the shred of turkey Gwen held out. It came close enough for Gwen to scoop it up and hand it to Flora. With some patience and after a few grabs that sent it running back behind the slimy black bag, they managed to get the other little orange cat, too.
Flora sent Gwen off to shower and change while she put the groceries away and called a vet. The kittens were secure in a box with a blanket and water in a custard cup.
“We can take them in tomorrow; for now we should probably go get some kitten food.” Flora said when Gwen emerged. She hadn’t bothered to blow-dry her hair or put on makeup, just crouched over the box with her hair dripping on the collar of her shredded Union Jack T-shirt. “Hey, do you want chili tonight? I can throw it in the crockpot now.”
“Sure.” Gwen reached into the box, and tiny nails skittered on the cardboard. “So scared, poor babies. Hey, so how do you want to split this?”
Flora looked up from washing a green pepper. “Split this?”
“Yeah, like—” She was sitting cross-legged next to the box, one hand placed very still inside. “Should I take one and you take one? Or we keep them together and share custody.” She looked up with a silly smile. “You take them to school during the week, and
I can be fun weekend-mom.”
Flora put the pepper on the cutting board and dried her hands on the tea towel that hung from the oven handle. Gwen had picked out the towels; they had mermaids printed on them. “Gwen, when was the last time you actually slept at your own apartment?”
“I—” Gwen’s face pulled together. “I was just there... to get more clothes...” She frowned down at the box of kittens. “Huh.”
And perhaps it wasn’t the kittens so much as what Flora said next because of the kittens. “Your name may not be on the lease, but we live together, Gwen. So the cats can stay here and we can all be a happy family unit.” Flora sliced the peppers into strips. “So, meatless chili or—”
But Gwen was up and moving toward the door and avoiding eye contact as she said, “I should, um, go get ready for work. I’ll see you later.” Then she left. And Flora was alone with two filthy, hungry dumpster kittens, a kitchen full of food, and one chopped green pepper.
She made spicy chili verde and went shopping for the kittens while it cooked. She bought food and bowls and a little bed and toys and tiny collars with tiny jingling bells. She ate one bowl of piping hot chili and froze the rest of it. Gwen never came back.
Later, Flora was tucked on the couch with Band-Aids and antibiotic ointment on her arms—she’d decided to give the kittens a bath. After all that trauma, she figured she might as well name them: Mac and Cheese. She was reading a novel and sipping tea, with the kittens curled up in their box, asleep, when her phone rang.
“Hello?” She was hopeful, expecting to hear Gwen’s voice.
It was mostly background noise, though, talking, glasses rattling, music playing. A bar. “Hey, Flora! I was calling to see if you and Gwen wanted to come out, but Gwen is already here! You guys good?”
Brianna. One of their nosiest friends in common. Flora didn’t set her book down, just kept her thumb where she’d left off. “We’re fine.” Maybe they weren’t, but Flora wasn’t ready to jump to the worst-case scenario. Even if she had been, she certainly wouldn’t tell Brianna of all people.
“Really?” Brianna’s voice was heavy with disbelief and barely-contained delight. “Because she’s looking awfully cozy with this rando chick at the bar.”
Against her better judgment, Flora found out where they were and went. She trusted Gwen and she wasn’t the jealous type, but Gwen was acting so weirded out and Flora just—she wanted to see for herself. She couldn’t focus on her book after the phone call, so the night was a wash anyway.
What she saw was Gwen leaning into the space of a skinny, black-haired girl with tattoos everywhere and a leather jacket, who looked as if she were fresh from some clichéd biker bar. Gwen’s hair was a blunt asymmetrical chin-length bob, her latest style, and Flora couldn’t see her face, just a swaying fringe of blonde. But her body language was flirty and open, her skirt was micro-short, and she was wearing what Gwen herself called her “Fuck you, fuck me” thigh-high boots.
Flora went sick and cold all over: skin clammy and heart heavy. Still, she walked over. Still, she refused to just turn and away and let this happen, because she was not a doormat. Her kindness was not weakness. She tapped Gwen on the shoulder. Gwen turned; her face went cartoonish; her eyes bugged out and her mouth gaped on soundless words. Flora held up her hand. Gwen’s mouth snapped closed. The wannabe biker chick glared at both of them.
“I just want you to stop and think,” Flora said. “Really think about if this is the way you want it to end, Gwen.” Gwen started to speak again, and Flora shook her head. “Stop. Think.”
Then she was the one who got to leave.
Gwen called her that night and again the next morning. She called while the kittens were getting an examination, shots, and flea and ear mite treatment at the vet. She called while Flora was teaching and studying and at home. Flora needed space and time, and Gwen could wait. And if she couldn’t, then…
“So did she cheat on you?”
Flora was stretched on her couch; it was dark outside and mostly dark inside. One of the cats, Mac, was warming up to her. He’d settled on the armrest with his eyes half open and his fuzzy little body crouched, staying there even when she’d scratched at his ears. The vet said that they were on their way to being feral and would probably always be shy and skittish.
“I don’t know.” Flora sighed, her breath rattling through the phone’s speakers. “The bigger point is, I can’t be the only person in this relationship. I want commitment. I want a future. Gwen knows this. And if she doesn’t, I’m not going to force her. She needs to want it too.” Flora may be calm and nurturing and gentle, but she refused to be stomped all over, “fuck me” boots or no.
“That’s very reasonable and mature, Flora,” her sister replied, not without some bemusement. “You’re also allowed to be sad. Or angry. Or to go out and find a biker chick of your own.”
Flora huffed out a laugh. Mac startled and moved closer to the wall. “No thanks.” She scratched gently under Mac’s chin. “Enough about me. How are you?”
“Ugh,” Selene groaned. “Big as a house. Constant heartburn. Thinking about moving into the bathroom I have to pee so much. Mom calls me every fifteen minutes to ask if my mucus plug came out, my god. I am so ready for this kid to vacate the premises.”
“Soon,” Flora reassured. As miserable as Selene sounded, Flora was a little envious. She wasn’t sure if kids were even in the ten-year plan for her; she didn’t know if Gwen would be in the picture for the next ten minutes. “I can’t believe I’m going to miss baby Evie’s birth.”
“Me too. But you’ll be here right after. And... You know you can always come back out this way and teach.” This was not the first time Selene—or one or both of their parents—had brought this up.
“Maybe someday. Or at least somewhere closer than across the country.” A knock on the door caused Mac to bolt to another room. “Hey, can I call you back?”
Flora opened the door, and a frantic, sallow-skinned, bruised-dark-circled-and-bloodshot eyed Gwen rushed in. “I had to say this in person.”
Flora braced herself. “Okay.”
Gwen took a breath. “I act out and screw up on purpose because I know that I’m going to screw up eventually. And you look at me and you don’t just see me, you see the person that I can be and the person that I am. No one looks at me like that. No one has ever believed in me like that, and I am just waiting for you to realize what a terrible mistake you’ve made.”
Flora watched her push off the door and stand in the center of the living room. She looked even smaller than usual with her bony shoulders hunched in and her head ducked, wearing ratty sneakers and clothes that looked as if she’d picked them up off the floor. It was unsettling.
“So you figured you’d just get it over with?” Flora said, arms crossed.
Gwen laughed a little. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You know.”
Flora summoned all of her courage and said, “If you’ve come to break up with me, just do it. You should know that I’m keeping both of the cats and I’ve named them Mac and Cheese.” She doesn’t want to separate them, and anyway, she likes their quiet, standoffish company.
“No, Flor—” Gwen shook her head and dug a hand into the pocket of her wrinkled pants. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything. I should be more open with you, and I will. Because somehow, despite all my efforts to be a disappointment, I got you. You look at me and you see something to believe in, and I don’t understand why or what you could possibly see, but I want to be that person. You make me want to be better, but you also make me proud to be who I already am.” She held something out between her thumb and index finger, a glint of metal and stone: A ring. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Flora blinked at the ring, then up at Gwen’s hopeful, nervous face and back at the ring. “Are you seriously asking me to marry you right now?”
A raised eyebrow. An impish grin. “I did a lot of thinking like you said. I left the bar right after you and cried in my bathtub for like three days. And then I hocked some of my vintage albums and sold some plasma and took some extra shampooing shifts at the salon. And bought this. Because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’m sorry I had to freak out a little before I realized that.”
Flora just shook her head and laughed and dropped her arms loose at her sides. “What am I going to do with you, G?”
Gwen shrugged. “Marry me?”
27
“You’re really bringing ‘travel chic’ to a whole new level today, Gwennie.”
Gwen lifts her chin, smooths the puffy layers of her black tulle skirt, tugs at the mesh and leather crop top, and crosses one metallic silver, rhinestone-encrusted heeled boot over the other. “Last night I went straight from jumping off a building to vomiting into a recycling bin to getting a tattoo to making sure your boyfriend got back to the hotel safe and sound, you’re welcome, and I didn’t get a chance to wear my club look.” It’s not the most comfortable outfit for flying, but, “Indulge me.”
Nico purses his lips and raises a sharp eyebrow. He flicks a finger at her. “I have a black lace pillbox hat that would be perfect with it.”
In Nico-speak, that means: “I missed you” and “Thank you for being there” and “Fine, I’ll indulge you.”
“I was thinking a skull headband,” she says. Nico frowns. “Kitten ears? A tiara!”
Nico puts his thumb on his bottom lip and sighs. “I feel like I’ve been gone so long that I can’t even tell if you’re messing with me or not.” She is messing with him; it’s just so easy. Nico rolls his eyes at the teasing look she gives him, then turns to the seat next to him. Grady conked out almost immediately after boarding; he’s dropped sideways on his oversized chair with his head pillowed in Nico’s lap.
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