Honey Girl

by Morgan Rogers

  So, she cries when she gets home and boots up her laptop and sees Ximena and Agnes. She doesn’t just cry; she sobs, rib-cracking things that she tries to hide behind her hands.

  “Porter,” Ximena says, a laugh in her voice. “Are you that happy to see us? It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  Grace nods, because it has been that long. It’s been that long since she’s had Ximena’s uva de playa jelly or laid in her lap or shared her bed, the two of them whispering under the sheets like girls at a sleepover. It’s been that long since she’s smelled her ridiculously expensive coconut oil and the little bit of calendula oil behind her ear. Grace nods, because it has been that long, and she cries enough to fill all the days that have passed.

  Agnes leans in. Grace sees the dark circles under her eyes, the way she peers at Grace warily, like she isn’t sure what to expect.

  “You think she’s a ghost?” Ximena asks her incredulously. “Why are you looking at her like that?”

  Agnes blinks, aware that she’s been caught out. “I’m not looking at her like anything,” she says. She crosses her arms. “Hi, stranger.” And Grace hides a smile in the folds of her mouth.

  She knew if any of them would be angry with her, it would be Agnes. She wishes she was there with them. Agnes could lash out and scratch and bite, and she could feel that Grace was real in a way that’s difficult through a computer screen.

  “Hi,” she murmurs. “Missed you. You’ve been doing okay?”

  Agnes scoffs, and Grace waits. Ximena sits quiet between them. She doesn’t get it, the way Grace and Agnes work. She doesn’t try to get in the way of it, either. “Aggie,” Grace says. “I’m sorry, I swear. I was just—I needed some time.”

  “Don’t start crying about it again,” Agnes tells her. “I can only take so much.”

  “Agnes,” Ximena hisses.

  Grace sniffs dramatically. “No more crying,” she says. “It was gross anyway.”

  Agnes humphs and slouches on the couch. Her near-white blond hair is hidden under a navy blue NASA beanie that Grace recognizes as her own. “Fine,” she says eventually. “I won’t hunt you down and gut you. But this is the last time you disappear off the face of the earth. Next time you take us with you.” She stares her right in the eyes. “Promise?”

  Grace and Ximena both valiantly pretend they don’t hear her voice tremble.

  “I promise,” Grace swears. “Southbury’s boring without you guys anyway. Nothing happens here except orange picking and, like, gossiping with my therapist.”

  Agnes raises an eyebrow. “You got a therapist?” She looks impressed. “Tell us everything.”

  Grace shrugs, but she can’t help the smile that pulls across her face. “Yeah. Her name’s Heather,” she says. “She’s, like, disgustingly beautiful and competent and more put together than I will ever be. It’s annoying.”

  “I bet,” Ximena says dryly. “I mean you only have a dumbass PhD. Loser.”

  “Don’t be mean to me.” She pouts. “And don’t think I didn’t notice neither of you guys said you missed me back. That doesn’t hurt or anything.”

  “I missed you,” Ximena says primly. She nudges Agnes. “This one shares the bed with Meera sometimes because she says it just feels like you in there. I don’t know how, considering Colonel had a lot of your stuff moved back to his house. I think Agnes might miss you more than anyone.” She widens her eyes in fake disbelief when Agnes groans next to her. “Oh shit, was that supposed to be a secret, cariña?”

  “Fuck you,” Agnes mumbles, and slumps down so far she disappears from the screen. Ximena leans down and kisses her head obnoxiously. “And fuck you, Porter, for having Meera sublet.”

  “You guys love Meera.”

  “We do,” Ximena agrees. “She’s giving our poor little demon here a complex. Can’t imagine why.” She rolls her eyes.

  Agnes reappears, glaring. “She’s so—” She stutters, and her hands flail. Grace tries so, so hard not to laugh. “Cute,” Agnes finishes angrily. “She makes me this amazing tea and rasam rice since I’m trying a new set of meds and they make me feel like shit. Plus, she sings in the shower. She sings in the shower.”

  “This is bad?”

  “She has a wonderful singing voice,” Ximena explains.

  “It’s beautiful,” Agnes spits out. “And have you ever talked psych with her? God, her mind is just—”

  “Ah,” Grace says, suddenly understanding. “I get it. You have a crush on her.”

  Ximena bursts out laughing, nearly folding in half. “Such a crush,” she emphasizes. “I didn’t even know Agnes could give heart-eyes like that to someone.”

  Agnes makes a face. “I can think of someone else I give them to,” she snipes, just to see Ximena get flustered. “Anyway, yes. I have a crush. It’s terrible. Let’s move on.” She tilts her head at Grace. “What about you, Vegas Girl? Is the wife picking wheat and barley with you on your Florida farm?”

  “Okay,” Grace starts, mostly to give herself some time to gather her thoughts. She knew they’d ask about Yuki, of course they would. That doesn’t mean she knows what to say. That doesn’t mean she wants to say anything. She hasn’t even talked to Heather about all the details of Yuki Yamamoto. “First of all, it’s an orange grove? We pick oranges.”

  Agnes narrows her eyes and leans in. “Not what I asked,” she says. Ximena leans in, too, both their faces too close to the screen. “Spill it.”

  Grace tries to smile. The thing that comes out is shaky and painful. “Not much to spill,” she says, refusing to look at either of them. She looks at her blue stars instead. It’s strange how much comfort they give her. “I thought I—” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I had the chance to start trying to incorporate her into my grand life plan, and I didn’t want to give an inch. It felt like giving in, giving up. I always wanted, needed, to be the best, and she asked me what the best meant for me.” Grace grits her teeth. “I thought my best couldn’t possibly include her, because that would mean settling. I—” She shrugs. “I haven’t talked to her since my birthday. I left New York that night.”

  “Oh, Porter,” Ximena sighs. “Why do you never think you deserve anything good without having to kill yourself for it?”

  Despite her best efforts, Grace has to blink away some more stupid tears. She hates unburying all these feelings. She hates having to open up. She wants to fall back on her old Porter attitude because it kept her guarded and safe.

  She doesn’t feel safe, having her soft underbelly exposed like this. Heather would say it’s progress, but Grace is allowed to hate it. She has to be allowed to hate it.

  “I’m working on it,” she says. “My idea of best was—is still—so skewed. How could it mean a beautiful girl that—that I started to love, and who started to love me, too?”

  “Love?” Ximena repeats quietly.

  “I should have told her,” Grace says. “I should have told her what was happening in my head instead of getting so defensive. But I didn’t want her to know, really know, how screwed up I was. How terrified I was of doing it wrong. I wanted Yuki to think I was strong and fearless and unintimidated. I didn’t want her to see me as weak.”

  “You know being vulnerable and honest is not weak,” Agnes says. It was one of the first things she learned in group therapy after she was discharged, and she held Grace and Ximena to it, too. “It takes so much courage to be open with people and to let them help when you need it. It takes strength to tell someone you’re scared, you’re terrified. That you’re not perfect.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Grace wipes her eyes. She went to New York City in the first place because she felt deep in her bones that Yuki saw her. Saw the Grace Porter that was not perfect. The Grace Porter that was lonely and scared. “I let all my fear control me. I wasn’t honest, and I left.”

  “You left her b
ehind,” Agnes says.

  Grace swallows hard. “Yeah,” she says. “I did. I thought it was the right thing because she didn’t get it, you know? But now, I just want to apologize. I just want to listen. I want to be honest with her about everything.”

  “Jesus.” Ximena looks at her with such tender sympathy. “None of that makes you a bad person. You know that, right?”

  Grace rolls her eyes. “I’m learning that.” She lets out a long, heaving breath. “Can we not talk about this right now? I don’t want this to be all about me. I’m working on being a better friend.”

  “You were already a good friend,” Ximena says softly. “But, fine. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Grace lets their voices wash over her. She listens to Agnes complain about Meera some more, how she’s perfect and beautiful and kind and whip smart. Ximena complains about Raj being tight-lipped about the Boston deal.

  “He says he’ll only tell us the news once he talks to you first,” she scoffs. “Like, of course Meera knows, but she’s not budging, either. You guys are like a cult.”

  Grace smiles, burying herself in her bed. “We’re just close,” she says. She wonders, though, what the news is. She wonders, thinking of a drunk, angry, defeated Raj slumped over a table in Harlem, if any news would be good news. “Meera has been blowing my phone up. I’ll have to chat with them soon. It’s just—”

  “A lot?” Ximena guesses.

  “Yeah,” she breathes out. “It’s hard. This living in the real-world thing? Facing my problems head-on? A hundred percent don’t recommend.”

  Agnes leans over and starts flickering the side table lamp on and off. “Welcome to hell,” she intones somberly.

  “Oh, hey,” Grace says, sitting up. “I do have other news. I’m going to officiate Mom’s wedding.”

  “No way,” they both say. “We want details,” Ximena says.

  Grace loses herself in their rapid-pace conversation. It feels good to connect with them again, to hear their voices, to see their faces. They are just the first in the long line of people Grace has to reconnect with, and the first is always the hardest.

  She won’t let the fear and doubt keep her from moving forward.

  * * *

  It only takes her another day or two to call Raj.

  “I’m sorry to be calling now,” she says when she hears his sleepy and confused voice. It’s 5 a.m. in Southbury, 2 a.m, in Portland, and she’s given up on sleep. “And I’m sorry that the first time I’m calling you after weeks of silence is because I need advice. You can be angry and yell at me later, but right now—” Grace gathers her nerve “—I just need my big brother for a minute.”

  She waits, hating herself for a long moment.

  “Okay,” Raj says finally. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”

  She collapses on the front porch steps. “Remember when we were in New York?” she asks. “And you said you were envious of me because I got to choose my dream job, and I was being selfish for leaving just because it got hard?”

  “Oh my God,” he says. “I was mad drunk when I said that. I already apologized, and Meera laid into me about it. She even threatened to tell Baba, okay? I didn’t mean it.”

  Grace clears her throat. “You had a point,” she says. “I knew the field was going to be difficult to navigate, but I thought if I pushed long enough and hard enough, it would just bend to my will.”

  She closes her eyes. “But what if I was right to step away? What if I make my own career, instead of going after the most prestigious job? What if the best job is one that makes me happy and satisfied? Does that make me selfish?”

  Raj sighs. “You’ve never been selfish. Stop saying that.”

  “I’ve been selfish in more ways than I’m comfortable with,” she presses. “I don’t need you to protect my feelings. I just need you to be straight with me. Would you think less of me?”

  She can picture his face. The tightly pressed lips, the annoyed look in his eyes. The way he runs his hands through his hair in frustration until the curls turn into a mess.

  “I think,” he says, sounding tired, “since it’s you, and you’re my fucking sister, I want you to do what’s gonna make you feel good. So, what do you think that is, if not going after the most exclusive jobs in academia?”

  She feels her shoulders drop in relief. She trusts Raj, she believes Raj, and sometimes she needs his opinion. “I never said I want to leave academia altogether,” she says. “I’ve been told I’d be a good teacher, and I’ve been thinking about it. It would be nice to inspire some students the way I was. I don’t know. They could see me and know that there is room for all of us in astronomy and the stars and galaxies.”

  “Then that’s what you’ll do. I think that sounds like a brilliant idea,” he says simply. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” The line is quiet for a long minute. She leans against the railing and presses the phone closer to her ear. “Is this the worst time ever to ask about the Boston deal?”

  He groans, and Grace smiles at its familiar sound. “Go ahead and twist the knife,” he says. His voice sobers and quiets, like he’s trying to make sure no one hears. “It went through. The White Pearl Tea Room, coming to an east coast near you.” His voice, even at a near whisper, is dry.

  “And how do we feel about that?” she asks. “Raj, I’m—”

  “If you say you’re sorry one more time, I might actually scream,” he interrupts. “It is what it is, and besides, it’ll be cheaper to come visit you this way. I’ll be way closer.”

  “You know you don’t have to feel okay about this,” she tells him, and Heather’s voice echoes in her head. “Your feelings are valid, however mean or resentful you think they are.”

  “What’s this?” He laughs. “Did you go to Florida and gain some wisdom?”

  “Something like that. Mostly someone gets paid to be wise for me.”

  “Good,” he says. “One of us needs to be wise. I mean, it’s been me for so long—”

  “Shut up.”

  He falls quiet. “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he admits. “If I think about it, I’ll get angry. If I get angry—”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I get it. But you don’t have to hide it from me, okay? I know why you’re hiding it from Baba Vihaan and even Meera, but not from me. I wasn’t there for you like I should have been, but I’m here now. I swear I am.”

  “I believe you,” he says. “Dibs on the next late-night breakdown, then.”

  “Deal,” she says.

  * * *

  Only Kelly is in the house when Grace treks in. “Mel’s getting an early start in the groves,” he calls lazily, squinting at his laptop. “I’m ordering your wedding officiant materials now, by the way,” he adds, catching her eye before she disappears upstairs. “Last chance to run away screaming.”

  “Been there, done that,” she says. She leans against the doorway to the kitchen. “It still feels a little weird,” she admits. “Me and Mom still have so much to work out, you know? I still have so much to work out. It’s a process. But I still want to do this.”

  “Positive?” he asks.

  “Order it,” she says immediately. “I said I wanted to, and I do. Really.”

  “Sounds good, kid,” he says. “Go on and git now.” Grace takes another step up before he calls again. “And, Porter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’ll be good to talk it all out with her. It never feels right to let things fester, that’s what I’ve learned. Shoving things down just breeds resentment.”

  “I hear you. Thanks, Kelly.” Grace shuts and locks her door when she finally makes it upstairs. She has to force herself not to just fall into bed.

  There is something she wants to do. She wants to use the eleven years she spent working and researching and sacrificing and finally decide where t
hat will lead her. She can forge her own path. It does not have to be tumultuous and difficult. It just needs to be chosen by her.

  Dear Professor MacMillan,

  I hope you have been well. I apologize for the delay in my response. I did in fact receive your last email with the opportunity to interview again with Kunakin, Incorporated.

  I am sure the offer has since expired, but I want to let you know I would not have accepted. They were not accommodating, welcoming or respectful of my value as a person or an astronomer. As someone that appreciates your knowledge in the field and the people within it, I would not recommend Kunakin to my fellow peers. I hope that doesn’t come across as ungrateful. It would have been a mistake for me to begin my career with them.

  I have been thinking a lot about my next steps. In your email, you also mentioned a junior faculty position at Ithaca College. While I am unsure of feeling challenged in that kind of small environment, teaching has sparked a strong interest within me.

  The reason I am an astronomer now is because of my first class of Intro to Astronomy with you. I felt a part of something bigger, more complex and more formidable. It was there that I learned the vast universe has room for not just those who value science and logic, but those who are drawn to the romance and mystery and poetic storytelling it compels within us.

  If I can be of service to a student by introducing them to a field in need of more diverse and unique stars within its system, than I will have done my duty to all that it has given me.

  Are you able to set up a time to discuss this with me? I am currently in Florida, but in the next few months, I believe I will be in a better place to explore faculty positions. I’ll mention now that I have a preference for academic institutions in the surrounding New York area.

  I look forward to speaking with you. I am not just grateful for your tutelage, but honored to be held in your esteem. You propelled me toward the cosmos, and I will do my best to move others forward and farther into the unknown.

  Warm regards always,

  Dr. Grace Porter