Any Other Love

by Elizabeth Barone

  Char tore her gaze away.

  So Amarie was one of those girls who got a little flirty when she was drunk. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, it was completely obvious to anyone with a pulse that Char liked her. Amarie was vulnerable. She’d just been dumped. Of course she was going to latch onto the first person who was nice to her.

  The light changed, but Amarie’s hand remained on Char’s thigh.

  Sucking in a ragged breath, Char forced herself to concentrate on driving. “So I guess you’re feeling good, huh?”

  “So good,” Amarie crooned. “I don’t even need this ThermaCare thingy anymore.” She removed her hand, Charlotte’s skin immediately missing the feel of her. Pulling her sweater up, she yanked her jeans down, exposing the lace of her panties.

  “Whoa.” Charlotte slammed on the brakes and swung onto the shoulder. “Let’s, ah, not do that.”

  “Relax.” Amarie grinned. She peeled off the ThermaCare patch and held it up for Charlotte to see. “My hip doesn’t hurt that much anymore.” A frown tugged her lips down. “But these are kind of expensive.”

  It was the tequila, Charlotte reminded herself. “Let’s get dressed.”

  “You’re no fun.” Amarie turned in her seat, facing Char. “It’s my birthday, you know.”

  Making a strangled sound in her throat, Charlotte dragged her eyes up from the delicate curve of hip bone. Why Amarie had to flash the number one body part that turned her on, Charlotte would never know. Not tonight, Satan, she thought, inhaling deeply through her nose. She’d promised she would get her home, and she would. If it killed her.

  It just might.

  “My mom’s working third shift,” Amarie said, “and my dad could sleep through a hurricane. Wanna come over and watch a movie?”

  The drive was taking approximately one hundred times longer than it should, Charlotte mused wryly. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked, changing the subject. There was no way she was going into that house.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s kind of personal.”

  “I mean, you just saw me get dumped,” Amarie said. “It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”

  Charlotte glanced at her still exposed lacy panties. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “Rowan mentioned that you haven’t been doing too well lately.”

  “Yeah.” Amarie sighed. “That.” She tugged her clothing back into place, her playful demeanor gone.

  Great. She’d successfully changed the subject and killed Amarie’s buzz. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Amarie gripped the handle of her cane. “I have . . . an autoimmune disease. At least, my doctors think so.”

  “What’s that?” Charlotte turned onto her street.

  “It’s like . . . Well, you know how your immune system fights off sicknesses? Mine is confused. It’s attacking my body.”

  Both of her eyebrows lifted. “Damn.”

  “Pretty much. Mine seems to like beating on my joints.”

  “So you have arthritis?” Char eased the Sunfire to a stop in front of Amarie’s house.

  “Kind of?” Amarie grimaced. “I don’t exactly have a diagnosis.”

  “That’s got to be frustrating,” Char said.

  “Yes! Thank you.” Amarie touched her knee. “Everyone always says things like ‘How can you not have a diagnosis?’ or assumes I’m just making it up.”

  “You sure as hell don’t look like you’re making it up,” she remarked, remembering the way Amarie often limped with her cane.

  “That means a lot.” Amarie sighed. “I’ve been sick for a few years now, but no one can seem to figure it out. I’ve seen so many specialists,” she whispered. “People with medical degrees who have no idea.”

  Charlotte put a hand over Amarie’s. A warm current flowed between them. “Very frustrating.”

  “Yes.” Amarie’s eyes met hers. “My labs are . . . weird. Most people with things like Rheumatoid Arthritis or Lupus have clear cut blood work. Mine is . . . not. So they either assume I’m making it up to get painkillers, or tell me it’s ‘just’ Fibromyalgia.”

  “Just?” Charlotte lifted an eyebrow. “My grandma has Fibro. It’s far from nothing.”

  “Right?” Amarie shook her head. “I don’t have the tender points, though. It’s like they just slap Fibro on people when they don’t know what’s wrong, which totally erases people who actually have it.”

  Nodding, Charlotte looked down at their hands. Amarie hadn’t pulled away. Though she’d had a lot of tequila, she seemed to be sobering up. Which meant maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t just a drunk flirt. Charlotte’s fingers twitched with the urge to test the waters, to see if she could actually hold her hand. Her fingers tingled.

  “My rheumatologist now says I’m at the bottom of the bell curve. He’s ‘monitoring’ me.” She put vocal air quotes on the word, but did not remove her hand from Char’s thigh. “Sometimes he brings up birth control. Like the pill I’ve been on since I was fourteen just suddenly turned my body on me.”

  “Sounds like he really just doesn’t know,” Char said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how you deal with that.”

  Amarie laughed. “I don’t either.” She sighed softly. “There’s a rheumatologist in New York City, though, that specializes in autoimmune diseases. Her clinic is one of two in the entire country. No one knows much about autoimmune diseases. Sometimes they take a decade or more to diagnose.”

  “Ten years?” Charlotte squeezed her hand. “How far in are you?”

  “Two,” Amarie said, squeezing her hand back. As if in sync, their fingers twined together. Charlotte’s heart slammed in her chest.

  “You should totally go see this doctor,” Char said, her voice husky.

  “I would,” Amarie said wistfully, “but I can’t drive that far, for that long. My wrists suck at being wrists. All the shifting and steering . . .” She sighed again.

  Releasing her hand, Char held her hand out, palm up. “Give me your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Your phone.”

  “Okay . . .” Amarie placed the phone in Char’s palm, one eyebrow raised in question. “What are you doing?”

  “Pulling a Rowan.” Charlotte opened the browser and, sure enough, one of the pages still open was the doctor’s website. She navigated until she found a virtual appointment calendar. “Sometimes, you just need a push.” Opening the calendar, she scrolled through the upcoming weeks, searching for an open slot. Week after week was booked solid. It was no wonder, she mused, considering they were one of only two autoimmune clinics.

  Amarie leaned into her, peering at the screen. “Damn,” she breathed.

  “I’m into May now. Oh, look!” She held up the screen. The 18th was available—a Thursday. Before Amarie could argue, she booked the appointment, using the iPhone’s autofill. “You’re scheduled.”

  Amarie stared at her for several heartbeats. “I don’t know whether I should punch you or kiss you.”

  “Please don’t hit me.” Charlotte giggled, handing the phone back. She paused, realization dawning on her. “The 18th is the day my workshop starts.”

  “What workshop?”

  “The one that Rowan is making me go to. It’s for women restaurant entrepreneurs,” she said with a smile. “But, you know, since you can’t drive, and I’m kind of making you go . . . We could make it a road trip. If you want.” The offer tumbled out of her mouth before she had much of a chance to consider what she was saying.

  The smile that spread across Amarie’s face warmed Charlotte just as if she’d immersed herself in a warm bath. “I’d love that.” Amarie grabbed her cane. “Thanks,” she said softly. “For the ride home, for everything.”

  Charlotte smiled back. “Any time.”

  She watched her go inside, the Sunfire purring beneath her in time to the thrill that pulsed through her. As Amarie closed the front door behind her, though, she froze.

  She’d just offered to spend an entire weekend with
Amarie. Sharing a hotel. Possibly a bed, considering she hadn’t been the one to choose the room type. She’d have to ask Rowan.

  Heart fluttering, she looked down at her hand and thigh. Her skin remained cold and empty without Amarie’s touch. She closed her eyes, tipping her head back.

  She was playing with fire, and if she wasn’t careful, it was going to consume her.

  Chapter 5

  It’d been a mistake to go for a walk, Amarie decided as she limped along the side of the road. Her hip and knees protested each step, and her cane wasn’t helping much either. Both of her wrists were sore, too, and using the cane put excruciating pressure on them.

  Before she’d gotten sick, she’d gone for long walks every day—when the weather was good, anyway. She’d tried running a couple of times, but unlike when she walked, she felt hot, sweaty, and tired after. No runner’s high for her. Then she’d gotten sick and just getting dressed became a struggle because she couldn’t move—her joints wouldn’t move. She’d tried explaining all of this to her doctor, but he’d just brushed her off.

  She couldn’t win.

  So she walked when she could, for as long as she could. At least that way she could honestly tell the damned doctor she was trying. She couldn’t wait to see the rheumatologist in New York. Based on her YouTube videos alone, she had a much better bedside manner.

  Pausing to rest her hip, she let the early spring breeze caress her skin. It was hard to believe that just a week earlier they’d had two feet of snow dumped on them.

  “Hey,” chirped a familiar voice.

  She turned to see Charlotte trotting over to her, and winced. She did not want Charlotte to see her struggling. It was bad enough every passing car slowed to stare at the disabled twenty-something limping along with a cane, like she was some kind of rare zoo animal.

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m slow,” she warned, hoping Charlotte would continue without her.

  “That’s okay.” Charlotte smiled gently. It wasn’t a sympathetic smile, either. Her smile was a tentative but warm invitation—more than that, even.

  Charlotte hoped she’d say yes, Amarie realized. She took a deep breath. “Okay.” She started again, keeping her face carefully masked against each twinge.

  “I didn’t know you lived around here,” Charlotte said. She pointed in the direction she’d come from. “I’m right over on Caruso Drive. I actually just moved in with Rowan. But you knew that.” She blushed.

  Amarie looked away, her own face warming.

  It was cute. Char was cute. But she couldn’t think about that. Her track record was awful, her judgement when it came to dating even worse. Exhibit A: Lucas. She shook her head as if to clear away thoughts of him. That was over and done with. She needed to focus on her health, get things in order. Then maybe she could think about dating.

  Maybe.

  They walked in silence, Charlotte keeping pace with her without complaint. When they came to her usual crossing spot, she stopped, glancing up and down the street. Crossing always made her nervous. She wasn’t fast enough, and drivers didn’t slow even if someone was in the middle of the street.

  Cars whizzed past her, and she stepped back. She was far enough from the curb that they wouldn’t hit her—couldn’t, even—but her brain insisted she was in danger. She swallowed hard and wished she had never left the house.

  “I’m back that way.” Char nodded in the opposite direction. “Can I cross with you, though?”

  It was as if she sensed Amarie’s hesitation. Maybe she had. She wasn’t asking in an annoying way, though, as if Amarie couldn’t do it without her. She perceived it as more like an offer of company during a particularly tedious chore.

  Amarie nodded. “Sure.” She liked that, in their few interactions so far, Charlotte never treated her like something fragile. At the same time, she was there if needed. Without any coaching, Charlotte was the perfect spoonie ally. She was a good friend. A soft smile touched Amarie’s lips.

  She had to admit it: she wanted to be more than friends. If she jumped straight from Lucas to Charlotte, though, she’d look desperate. Even worse, she’d look like the stereotype that everyone threw on bisexual people—someone who couldn’t make up their mind. As if attraction was a choice.

  Besides, if Lucas didn’t want her, she doubted Char would.

  “Finally,” Charlotte said.

  Amarie glanced up at the empty street. “Okay,” she said, more to herself than to Char. Sucking in a deep breath, she started across.

  Charlotte remained right by her side as they crossed, reminding her a bit of a bodyguard.

  She pictured Charlotte yanking a driver who came around the bend too quickly out of their car, and chuckled at the image.

  “What?” Charlotte asked as they reached the other side.

  Amarie shook her head. If she explained her thoughts out loud, Char would think she was weird for sure. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “My house isn’t far from here, but I have to stop again.” She actually did, but it was a good distraction.

  “That’s okay. And don’t apologize. Ever. You come first,” Char said.

  Amarie shrugged. “I’m sure you have something better to do.”

  Their eyes met, Char’s baby blues blazing. Amarie swore her heart stopped beating. Actually stopped.

  “Never,” Charlotte said in a near whisper.

  A lump formed in her throat. It would be presumptuous to think Char actually liked her back. But hoping . . . That was another thing entirely. “Char,” she said slowly, tasting the sound of it.

  “Yeah?” The other woman took a step closer to her, almost unconsciously.

  Amarie wanted to kiss her, damn it. More than anything she’d ever wanted in the world. Maybe even more than her next dose of Tramadol and her Netflix sesh. She needed to kiss Char like she needed air to breathe.

  But she couldn’t.

  “I’m ready,” she said instead, cursing herself for chickening out. Before Charlotte could notice her blush, she started toward her house, moving as quickly as her limp would allow her.

  She could see the house up ahead. Her heart knocked wildly in her chest. If Char walked right up to her doorstep with her, she wasn’t sure what came next. Maybe they’d say yet another awkward goodbye, the ache in her heart deepening.

  An ache that shouldn’t even be, that she shouldn’t allow.

  “Is that you?” Charlotte asked, a finger lifted toward the house.

  “Yes,” she said softly, her heart a thunderous drum line.

  “Can I, um, walk you to your door?”

  It was weird to see someone so bubbly suddenly so shy. The tiny flicker of hope sparked into a wisp of a flame. It could be blown out easily, but with enough oxygen, it could smolder and burn brightly.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible over the passing traffic.

  Charlotte must’ve heard her, though, because she fell into step with her. The closer they got to Amarie’s house, the louder her heart beat in her ears. She was afraid that she was wrong, that Charlotte wouldn’t kiss her. She was also afraid that she was right, though—that she’d read every signal perfectly, that their unintentional walk had turned into a mini date of sorts. A kiss would be a promise of more to come, of real dates and hand holding and more kissing.

  Screw what people thought, Amarie decided. She and Lucas had only been together a little over a year. They’d been more casual than anything else. No L words had been dropped. And he’d dumped her. She had every right to move on, in whatever timeframe suited her. And, she decided, she wasn’t going to wait to see if Char kissed her.

  She was going to kiss Char.

  The realization sent a thrill of anticipation through her. If she’d misread Char, she’d lick her wounds with Netflix and a soft nest of blankets. But if she was right . . .

  “So,” Char said.

  Amarie realized they were standing on her porch.
Shit. She hadn’t had time to figure out how she was going to make her move. Mind racing, she leaned her cane against the railing. “Thanks for walking with me,” she said. There. That was a good lead-in. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. It’d been so long since she’d actively courted someone. Lucas had been the one to chase her.

  “It was my pleasure.” Char grinned. “It’s so nice that the weather is actually warm enough. And, you know . . . Maybe we can make this a regular thing. You know. Walking.”

  “Definitely,” Amarie said, too eagerly.

  She stood there, trying to drink in Char without making it obvious that she was looking. It was time. She had to just do it, make the damn move. Or else Charlotte would hop off her porch and walk away, the moment gone with her. Maybe even forever.

  “I’m bisexual,” she blurted. Squeezing her eyes shut, she blushed. “What I mean is, I like you. A lot. I’ve liked you since we first met while camping.” Without letting herself think it to death any longer, she took a step forward. “Maybe,” she said, “we can make us a regular thing.” The words came all on their own, as if they’d just been waiting for her to relinquish her tongue.

  “Yeah?” Char closed the gap between them.

  “Yeah.” She moved in, too. Her eyes checked Char’s, reading the other woman’s expression. All she saw there was heated anticipation. Still, she needed to be sure. Making the first move could be interpreted as sexy—or unbelievably disrespectful.

  In the fraction of a second her mind spent analyzing the situation, Char lifted an expectant eyebrow at her. Giddy confidence enveloped Amarie. With just one look, Char had given her the green light. Her eyelids came down enough so that she could still see. As her lips met Char’s, her eyes fluttered completely closed.

  Kissing Char was like being enveloped in the clouds during sunset. Her lips were soft, commanding explosions of pastel orange and red behind Amarie’s eyes as they moved against hers. She melted into her, her hands finding Char’s hips, tugging her closer. She needed more, all of her, all at once.

  And she wasn’t the only one.