No Other Love

by Harper Bliss

  “Would you rather we didn’t have the party in the shop?” Annie didn’t care if she had to lose an evening of excellent business to save Jane from an extra dose of mortification.

  “No, of course not. As long as I’m not writing, we can’t afford to turn down opportunities like that.”

  Annie didn’t feel like adding a discussion on Jane’s writing and the sense of, at times, illogical responsibility and pressure it provoked in her, on top of the one they were already having. “If you’re sure,” she said, and gave the back of Jane’s neck an extra gentle squeeze.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Jane failed to write, she read everything she could get her hands on, hoping that being confronted with the written word would fill her with such joy and awe, she’d want to produce some of her own. At the moment, she was right in the middle of a Google vortex of inspirational writing quotes. She’d come across most of them before: “All first drafts suck”; “A small number of words every day will add up to a full-length book soon enough”; “Procrastination is just another form of resistance” and so on and so on.

  Until she came across an article saying that when you’re prolific, you can’t expect everything you create to be a masterpiece or become a classic. This gave Jane pause. It came pretty close to thoughts she’d been harboring herself, because didn’t writing mediocre prose—that could always be fixed later—trump not writing at all? Yes, throwing away her last work in progress had been a huge relief at the time, but not long after it had started grating. She wasn’t producing anything new and Jane’s preferred state was production modus. When she wasn’t writing, she felt less than she could be. She got worked up about minor things that would otherwise be absorbed by the buzz of creation. She figured she would even be dealing better with the whole Kristin business if she wasn’t feeling so inadequate in her professional life.

  Jane leaned back in her chair and pondered which one of her books could stand the test of time and become a classic. It was hard to say, because every book held a different meaning for her and this meaning didn’t necessarily align with the reader’s experience of it—and reader experience was, in the end, what it was all about.

  This led her to Facebook. She let her mouse hover over the group she’d set up a while ago. She could just ask her most devoted readers. But that would be gaming the system. And just another way of looking for instant gratification, the sort of short-term pleasure that—according to the many quotes she’d been scrolling through today—was just another form of procrastination. No, Jane knew she shouldn’t go down the Facebook rabbit hole of ego stroking and fishing for compliments. Instead, she should write. She should just write. It was as simple as that. Perhaps not easy, but the logic was as simple as could be.

  Maybe enough time had passed. Maybe her creative well had been replenished. If anything, her subconscious was bursting at the seams with emotions that needed processing. Jane needed to write. She didn’t care if what she wrote was the biggest drivel ever written. She just needed to touch her fingers to the keyboard and channel some of the emotions that had been eating at her from the inside. It was the only—and best—way she knew how to deal with life.

  She opened a new document and closed all the other applications on her computer. It was just her and the page. Facing each other. Going head-to-head. It wouldn’t be a discreet, bordering on cowardly confrontation like Sheryl and Annie had sat through the other day—another thing Jane needed desperately to write off her. When it came to facing the page, Jane could be brave. Not always—and not nearly as often enough as she’d like—but she could be and that was all that mattered. She had precedent. She had a shelf full of books in the shop downstairs that had her name embossed across their spine. Books she had written and that had brought joy to hundreds of other people, people she didn’t even know. That had to count for something.

  Besides, the blank page was hardly her nemesis. It was her companion—like her wife. Something that, more often than not, brought out the best in her. On her happiest days, Jane knew that all she needed in this life was her wife and something to write on. She didn’t need all the rest. She didn’t need a boat load of friends and acquaintances. She didn’t need to make the kind of money writers in mainstream genres did. She certainly didn’t need publication days and the anxiety they provoked. The vulnerability of putting her work out there for review and waiting for the first opinion that would tear it to shreds. When it came down to it, all she needed was to sit in this very chair, let her fingers hover over the keyboard, and let the words flow out.

  It wasn’t an easy state to be in, because writing always equaled tension, a discomfort with what was happening—the transfer from brain, through fingers, onto the page. It wasn’t a state she could linger in, slip in and out of casually, throughout the day, but it was something she needed for her survival. Without writing, Jane was sure, she would slowly go insane.

  So she straightened her back, got her hands into position, and stared at the blank page in front of her. The page itself wasn’t intimidating. If anything, it stood for a new beginning. For the chance of something great. Something formerly nonexistent. Something she could invent. The real challenge lay in the translation of the emotions inside of her onto that page. And the story with which to convey them. Jane didn’t have a story yet. Not one she felt excited enough to start. She had documents filled to the brim with story ideas, but none of them had been tugging at her sleeve of late. None of them had burst open and transformed into the enthusiasm needed to start a new book. But this moment wasn’t about a new book. That would come later. The reason she sat in front of her computer was to reacquaint herself with the best side of her. Her writer side. To go through the motions. To see words appear on the screen—unmistakably black on white. To channel some of the negative energy that had been building up inside of her since the last time she’d written a full sentence. Whether she felt inadequate or not, or even capable of being a writer anymore, didn’t matter. As soon as her fingers touched down on that keyboard, she would be a writer again. She would be Jane Quinn again.

  So Jane began. She wrote. She added word after word until full sentences began to take shape in front of her. She wrote about Annie, about the shop downstairs, about Sheryl and Kristin, and about herself. Just to get it all out of the way so, perhaps, tomorrow or the day after or the the day after that, she could start on something real. A new story. A new beginning. It crackled somewhere in the back of her brain. A new idea was forming, she just hadn’t got hold of it yet.

  Jane wrote, her fingers flying over the keyboard, unleashed and eager. A picture formed in her head, one she couldn’t dislodge: Mia’s face. Mia, who was downstairs right now, and with whom Jane had had many an unexpectedly satisfying chat. Mia with her smile and her questions and her easy way. The great coffees she made and the wonderful, laid-back events she put on. Mia who walked around the Pink Bean as if she was born for nothing else.

  Jane paused, trying to grasp what her brain was trying to tell her. Something about Mia. They weren’t romantic thoughts. This was her subconscious sending her a message about something important. About her next book, perhaps. Jane wrote down her stream of consciousness, hoping that whatever needed to be uncovered would emerge soon. Then it hit her.

  Something Annie had said about the Pink Bean potentially being a great setting for a new series. And to Jane, Mia represented the Pink Bean in her life. Yes, that was it. Jane paused. She leaned back in her chair. The idea she’d been craving had been right under her nose all along. A coffee shop. A book shop. A bunch of lesbians frequenting both. What better recipe for drama?

  Jane closed her eyes. She didn’t even have to invent any of the settings. And if she needed the sort of inspiration that came from a snippet of overheard conversation, she had only to descend the stairs, sit down with a cup of coffee, and observe. What better way to expel her own recent demons than to layer them into a story about a place so close to her heart—and her home. Or was it all too
close to the bone? Jane wanted to run down the stairs right now and tell Annie. How ironic that, because of the Pink Bean, and how business had picked up, Annie was hardly ever alone in the shop anymore, so she couldn’t do that.

  Unless she asked Mia, or Taylor, or whoever was minding the shop that day, to keep an eye on their side of the store. Because she needed to run this idea by her wife before she could take it any further. Excitement burned in her chest. Her stomach tingled. Jane hoped her idea would pass the Annie-test. She had to know now.

  When Jane walked through the shop’s back door, the first person she saw was Mia. She was sitting at a table with her laptop and Jane took in her profile. That was the blueprint for her protagonist right there. She looked around the place. Taylor was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, reading. The only one who had looked up when she’d entered was Annie. There was one customer drinking coffee at the table closest to the front door.

  “Hey, babe. Need your caffeine shot early today?” Annie flashed her a wide smile. No matter her wife’s faults, Annie always seemed so happy to clasp eyes on Jane. Even just in the middle of the day, when they’d been in the same house since they’d woken up—and had gone to sleep together the night before.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Jane couldn’t keep the urgency from her voice. “Just for a few minutes. In private, if possible.”

  Annie squinted. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. I would just really like to run something by you. Do you think Mia could mind the book shop for ten minutes?”

  “She’s been hunched over a spreadsheet all morning. I’m sure she would welcome a break.” Annie grinned. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  Jane didn’t go upstairs immediately, but watched how Annie approached Mia. Mia rolled her shoulders back and stretched her neck. She gave Jane a quick wave when she spotted her. Jane responded with a wide smile. She thought about what Mia had alluded to the other day about her and Lou having history. Jane didn’t need the details of that—that was Mia and Lou’s private business—but it did give her the idea of providing her main character with a mysterious past. A new frisson of excitement ran down her spine. She couldn’t wait to tell Annie. She cast one look at the shop, at the rows and rows of books, then headed up the stairs, preparing her pitch for Annie. Even though Jane was certain that her sheer enthusiasm would have her tripping over her words either way.

  “Where’s the fire, babe?” Annie asked when she walked into the kitchen where Jane was making tea.

  “In here.” Jane pointed at her belly. “I think I’m about to get my mojo back.”

  Annie tilted her head. “Tell me more.” She sat down at the kitchen table.

  Jane ignored the kettle with almost-boiling water. “Remember when you said having the Pink Bean in the shop might give me an idea for a story?”

  Annie put her elbows on the table and glued her glance to Jane. “Yes, I think so.”

  “I think I’ve had the idea. Or I finally remembered the idea you handed to me.” She threw in a quick smile. “It would be a great setting for a new series. Something I can really sink my teeth into. As long as you don’t think it’s untoward. It would be pure fiction, of course. I would just draw, er, mild inspiration from the goings-on downstairs.”

  “Do you mean you won’t have a sexy, silver-fox book shop owner as your main character?” Annie pushed her chair back.

  Jane burst into a chuckle. A second later, Annie stood in front of her. Jane heard the water boil behind her, but she didn’t care. “Maybe she would make an interesting side character. I don’t know. I need to consider it.”

  Annie grabbed her hands and pulled Jane close. “I think it’s a great idea,” she whispered in Jane’s ear. She let go of Jane’s hands and folded her arms across Jane’s back. “I’ve been waiting for that glint to return to your eyes.”

  Jane stood in Annie’s hug for a few silent moments. It was just an idea for a story, yet, to them—very much to the both of them—it was so much more.

  When they broke from their embrace, Jane asked, “It’s not too much? Or too on the nose?”

  “No, because I know you.” Annie’s smile softened. “Remember when you started writing the Broken Hearts series and what inspired that?”

  Jane had to think for a second. She’d written that series for so many years, and had strayed so much from the original idea, she could hardly remember what had sparked it in the first place. Plus there was the excitement of this new idea and the layers upon layers of enthusiasm to dig through to get to the germ of the series she had ended a while ago. Then it hit her. She had used the Broken Hearts series to write something off her as well. No one not in the know could ever guess just by reading the books, but Annie knew—and so did Jane, of course.

  “Beth Walsh,” Jane said, and, perhaps for the very first time, when she said that name, she didn’t feel like being swallowed up whole by the ground beneath her feet.

  Annie nodded. “If this is something you need to write off you, just like you did with Beth, then I know it’s going to be great. Because it’s what you do best. Turn your emotions and your fears and all that goes on inside that pretty little head of yours into gripping tales of exquisite lesbian drama.”

  “Let’s not go overboard.” Jane glanced at her wife. Everything that was so wonderful about Annie was on display that very minute. Her belief in Jane. Her optimism. Her ability to see good things where bad things once were. Her unwavering support. The fact that she knew Jane through and through. The offhand comment she’d made weeks ago that had now translated into this moment. Jane knew that the hard work was still ahead of her, but this was where it started—and where she got to relish in the new-born excitement of it.

  “Who? Me?” Annie gripped Jane by the shoulders. “I’m just happy for you. That you have this again in your life.”

  “I love you,” Jane replied. Three words she said so often to her wife—although it had been a while—but still meant from the bottom of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Annie entered the store earlier than usual the next morning because she had woken early with Jane, who was too excited about plotting her new series to stay in bed for long. She wondered if things would become fully all right between the two of them again now that Jane had her writing mojo back. Annie was level-headed enough to realize it wouldn’t be that simple. It was just one piece of their puzzle that had been missing. Others remained tucked away in their hiding place and would not find their rightful place until… until what? Annie wasn’t sure about that. Until enough time had passed? Because time would pass and Jane would forgive her for having a crush on Kristin eventually. Just as Annie had forgiven Jane for her indiscretion with Beth. That was what wives did. They moved past things and then onward. They realized life wasn’t perfect and people were flawed, and they had the companionship of each other to face all that imperfection.

  Annie unlocked the door and pushed the button that rolled up the screen in front of the shop window. While the screen folded in on itself and more light streamed into the shop, her glance fell on the poster touting pre-orders for Caitlin and Josephine’s upcoming book. The launch party was only two weeks away. She could hardly ask Kristin to stay away from her friend and employee’s party. She wouldn’t. As she flipped the sign on the door to Open, she asked herself whether she was looking forward to the party because Kristin would be there, or just because it would be a wonderful evening for the shop in general.

  Just as she turned her back and headed for the counter, the door opened. Mia greeted Annie with her habitual kiss on the cheek.

  “A coffee in return for asking you a burning question,” Mia said.

  “Yes please, and shoot.” Annie followed Mia to the coffee counter. Mia was always full of burning questions. Annie had gotten used to them by now.

  She watched Mia flip the switch on the coffee machine. Annie’s coffee intake had definitely soared, but the coffee the Pink Bean served was superior to
the one she brewed in their kitchen upstairs and thus hard to resist.

  A few minutes later she took a steaming mug from Mia and they sat down.

  “Last night, Lou and I had dinner with Kristin and Sheryl and, well, let’s just say I finally put two and two together,” Mia said. “I’m usually faster than that, but Kristin is just so damned discreet. Sheryl less so.”

  “I see.” Annie’s heart didn’t start beating faster, nor did she burst out into a tell-tale blush. “Did she have a go at me?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.” Mia looked pensive. “But you know Sheryl. She has a hard time hiding her feelings and she lets slip the odd remark. Add the fact that Kristin has barely set foot in here lately and you hardly need to be Sherlock to figure it out.”

  “It’s all rather embarrassing.” As she said it, though a slight hint of embarrassment was still present, the utter mortification Annie had felt previously seemed to have dissipated. “And I can understand Sheryl is a little upset. She seems quite… territorial. But it never meant anything more than it was, which was just a silly bout of infatuation for a, er, beautiful, accomplished woman. It was more admiration than anything else. But of course Sheryl wouldn’t see it that way. And nor does my wife.”

  “Kristin apologized for Sheryl’s snarky comments just before we left. And, well, she asked me to ask you and Jane when she could come round. She wants Jo and Caitlin to have a great launch and she wanted to run a few things by you.”

  “Oh, I see.” That did ignite a little tingle in Annie’s stomach. It was a tingle of embarrassment because now Mia was involved in this, as well as one of misplaced pride as Kristin had asked after her. “Of course she can come by any time. This is her shop too, after all.” Annie would need to tell Jane as soon as possible. Tonight. Today. She hoped Jane’s excitement for her new story would wash out her annoyance at having to hear Kristin’s name. Then again, Jane had handled Sheryl gracefully the other night. Maybe she—they—were ready.