Work Text:
Sundays are for the girls.
Ava hears that once, passing some brunch place on her way home with a fresh loaf of bread in hand, sure steps heading back to their apartment where she’s hoping to convince Bea they don’t have to keep putting off Ava’s dream of a homemade bread bowl.
Okay, maybe what she hears is Saturdays are for the boys and maybe it’s from a bunch of guys with biceps the size of their heads. But she likes it enough to remember it as she strolls the rest of the way home so she can tell Beatrice.
“I don’t understand.”
Ava pauses in the middle of explaining her idea about the bread bowl (We hollow it out, we make some of that soup we like, with the little pasta in it, and we put the soup in the bread bowl). She frowns. “It’s bread we make into a-”
“I understand that part,” Bea interrupts, a slight wrinkle in her forehead. “I don’t understand the ‘Saturday is for the boys’ part of it.”
Understanding dawns. “Ooo, okay. So.” She puts down the bread - it truly is amazing, good crust. Sergio outdid himself this time - and fishes into her pocket for her phone. “I looked it up on Urban Dictionary and-”
Bea shakes her head. “You said you would stay off there.”
“It was for educational purposes. Aren’t you always telling me I need to expand my mind?”
Bea doesn’t bother with a response, but Ava grins anyway, pulling open her phone’s internet browser and reading from the screen.
“A legit excuse to tell your spouse you would rather hang out with your male friends on that day than engage in trivial activities with the aforementioned. Sundays can be for the girls, then.”
“Legit,” Bea says flatly.
Ava rolls her eyes. “A legitimate excuse to tell your-”
“I heard the rest of it.” Bea shakes her head again. “That sounds like a terrible way to say you hate your spouse. Why be married if that’s the case?”
“That’s an existential question I can’t get into when my mind is preoccupied with the thought of you making soup.” Ava shrugs when Bea’s eyes narrow. “I could make it, sure. But I always scald the broth.”
“You can’t scald broth. Only dairy products.”
“I’ve always been an overachiever.”
The scoff that escapes Bea’s lips surprises them both, but she keeps her composure. “I don’t think anyone has accused you of such.”
Ava lets that roll off her and starts pulling out their largest pot, gifted to them by Mary - who had zero faith in Ava’s cooking skills and maybe too much in Bea’s - and starts pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator, stacking them pointedly on the counter. She hears Bea sigh - that one long exhale of air that usually meant Ava was going to get exactly what she hoped for - and smiles, but to herself.
Bea doesn’t like it when she gloats.
Bea steps up next to her, their shoulders brushing in the small kitchen. Ava likes it here. She likes building her life in this space. She finds all kinds of signs and knick knacks at the small secondhand shop not too far from here and puts them up everywhere. She hung a Life, Laugh, Love sign above the stove where a clock should go and didn’t explain why it was funny when Bea asked.
But if she wants to live, laugh, and love, she could do it here, in their apartment, in their home. It’s the first place that’s ever been hers - the orphanage was an empty promise of a home, after all. But lucking across Beatrice in her laundromat, begrudgingly hanging up a ‘ROOMMATE WANTED’ sign as her friend Camila urged her on, has been the second best thing that had ever happened to her.
The first was the day Sister Frances gave her her walking papers.
She still has the bus ticket the hellish woman had reluctantly given to her, framed and hanging in her room, just as a reminder. (Bea wouldn’t let her hang it in the living room, even though Ava had done her best pouting. Award-winning pouting. Bea just didn’t crumble.)
“I still don’t understand,” Bea admits as she starts chopping vegetables. Ava fills the pot with water and places it on their lucky burner - sure to heat something evenly.
“Here’s how I see it,” Ava starts. Bea’s knife pauses. “It’s an excuse to leave our cares behind for a day. Do whatever we want, just the two of us.”
The chopping starts again. “We already do whatever we want.”
“Not always. Like, last week, you wouldn’t let me-”
“The birds did not want to wear sweaters,” Bea interrupts. “One of them would have attacked you if I hadn’t intervened.”
Ava sighs wistfully. “We should get a bird.”
“We will not.” Beatrice bumps her gently, holding the knife away from her. “If you’re going to be in the way, be useful. Get the pasta.”
Ava snaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am. Seriously, Bea. A whole day. Just us. No plans, no visitors. We can go out and do whatever we want.” She turns her eyes to Bea, finding that she’s already looking back at her.
Bea stares for another moment, eyes searching Ava’s face, before she purses her lips together minutely and nods. “Fine.”
Ava lights up. “Fine?”
Bea’s face gives nothing away. “Fine.”
Ava beams, leaping forward in the small space, her hands on Bea’s waist to steady herself. She presses a fleeting kiss to Bea’s cheek, her chin glancing off the back of Bea’s shoulder. “Sundays are for the girls. This is going to be great. You’ll see.”
There’s a soft sigh from Bea, unnoticeable except for the way her shoulders rise and fall, but Ava is too busy looking up the hours of the go-kart racing place nearby to see it.
~
Sundays are for the girls.
They come up with a sort of schedule. Ava won’t call it that because Sundays are very much no-schedule days, but she’s willing to find common ground between what she wants and what Bea wants.
Apparently, what Bea wants is to sleep in.
Ava can handle that. She’s not good with the silence, but she buys a new pair of headphones to replace the ones Lilith’s cat chewed through - something she swears Lilith told it to do, even if she rolled her eyes and told Ava she was being childish. She plugs them into her phone and has her own dance party, trying her best not to bump into the coffee table or the kitchen chairs or the couch.
It’s harder than Bea thinks it is.
But she must be quiet enough because Bea shuffles out of bed a whole hour later than usual on Sundays and bleerily accepts the coffee Ava presses into her hands. And she must hide her impatience well enough - or Bea is just still that sleepy - because Bea doesn’t seem to notice how she’s practically vibrating at the idea of going out on their adventure-of-the-day.
The first week, they go to a museum with an installation of a one-person, helix-shaped roller coaster ride. Ava is charmed by the soft pink track and the way the little kids light up when it brings them up 10 feet just to bring them back down again and even Bea doesn’t seem to mind the kids who don’t scream too loudly for the small room. At least, she doesn’t wince like every other adult in a ten mile radius.
She holds Bea’s hand the whole time, reluctant to let it go. The crowds, she tells Bea. And she isn’t lying. It seems like the museum on a Sunday is a common destination. And Bea is nice about it - is always nice about it. She lets Ava drag her from installation to installation, palm to palm, and not once does she let go.
Ava keeps looking back, keeps checking to make sure Bea wants her hand back. She never asks, though, afraid the answer is yes.
(Mary tells her she needed to stop being so stupid. That Bea would never tell her that because Bea doesn’t want to. She’s afraid of letting me down, Ava commiserates into a pint of beer. That’s about the time Mary either tells her to go home or makes her a bed on the couch.)
There are more things, of course, but Ava talks about the roller coaster for hours - all through brunch and Bea’s pick of a bookshop - and immediately wants to go back the next week.
They don’t. They go to the park to see the local kids theater put on The Princess and the Pea.
“The prince keeps picking his nose,” Ava whispers into Bea’s ear. She feels Bea shiver slightly and pulls back so she isn’t breathing directly on Bea. Her next breath glances off Bea’s cheekbone. “If he puts the next booger in his mouth, I don’t have to do the dishes.”
Bea’s hand drops onto Ava’s knee and squeezes tightly, a warning as the woman in the row ahead of them turns at Ava’s whisper. She talks out of the side of her mouth when she says, “You don’t do the dishes.”
“Maybe I was going to.”
Bea’s eyes cut to her and Ava grins widely. The woman turns fully now, glaring at them. Ava holds her hands up in surrender, giving her a sheepish smile until she faces front again. Ava drops her hand over Bea’s, their fingers slotting together neatly, and leaves it there while the prince picks his nose and wipes it on his costume.
“Guess I’m doing the dishes,” Ava says cheerfully when the play ends and the only place the boogers end up on is the ill-fitting costume. Someone is going to have to wash that before their next performance.
Bea lets Ava turn their hands over, lets Ava trace a finger down her palm. “That’d be a turn of events.”
Ava opens her mouth to say something when she spots the angry woman starting towards them. She curses under her breath and pulls Bea up out of her metal folding chair. “Let’s get something to eat. I saw a hot-”
“No hot dogs,” Bea says firmly, tone leaving no room for argument.
Still, she doesn’t say anything when Ava buys them each a hot dog ten minutes later. She even agrees to an ice cream and buys Ava two scoops instead of the usual one.
The third week, they only do brunch, each of them hungover. So Ava’s hangover is directly linked to the six lemon drop shots she did the night before under Bea’s careful eye. And Bea’s is more an academic hangover, eyes bleary after hours of finishing the first draft of her first part of her thesis. But the point stands; neither of them can bear the sunlight or trapiezing around the city fighting off the weekend crowds.
Their waitress - Ana Lucia, barely old enough to serve alcohol - takes one look at them and puts in an order of chilaquiles with roasted tomatillo salsa, Ava’s favorite.
“We have a waitress,” Ava says when Ana Lucia leaves them with their misery and menus. “Someone who knows my favorite brunch appetizer.”
“It’s not hard to remember when you say it every time we order it. And she probably memorizes it to better align herself with the customers.” Bea softens at Ava’s pout. “But you’re right. It is very nice to have a regular waitress.”
“It is.” Ava drums her fingers on the table, wincing at the sound. She forces her hands back into her lap. “I think I’d be a good waitress.”
Bea snorts softly. “It would require you balancing things. And we know that’s not your strong suit.”
“You drop one dish one time,” Ava grumbles.
“It was three dishes and then another dish on a completely separate day,” Bea reminds her. She sips her water - ice, lemon - and seems to consider something. “Maybe a bartender.”
Ava brightens. “A bartender. I could flip the shakers, chat up customers. Get them to spill their secrets, you know? We could compete for tips.”
Bea shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be a good bartender. People don’t divulge their secrets to me.”
“I do.”
Bea smiles softly. “You’re different, Ava. You’re…” Her eyes drift over Ava’s shoulder, the silence stretching.
“Better,” Ava finally supplies.
“Better,” Bea echoes softly. She smiles, ducking her head, meeting Ava’s eyes again. “Yes. You’re better.”
Ava’s words are swallowed up by Ana Lucia appearing at their side, dropping a steaming plate of chilaquiles between them. She leaves an extra stack of napkins in front of Ava with a wink and falls back into the growing brunch crowd.
~
( She called me better, Ava tells Mary that night, slumped against the bar where they know Mary’s name. Mary pats her not-so-gently on the top of the head. Not sure why. You’re an idiot, baby girl. Ava looks up, chin in her hands, and nods woefully. I really am.
She really is. She has been one for a long time. Maybe since the first day she met Beatrice, shoving her wet laundry into a machine and failing spectacularly. Bea had been there because her in-unit machine was being repaired. Ava noticed her immediately. How could she not? The stick-straight posture, the slight wrinkle of her forehead as she listened to the animated girl next to her sorting socks go on, the way she pursed her lips when she came across a pair of pants that didn’t seem to meet her satisfaction.
Ava was smitten, had learned that word just to describe what she felt upon seeing Beatrice for the first time.
Bea, she’s sure, had been annoyed.
Ava wasn’t sure how she wouldn’t have been. In a matter of ten minutes, she had stolen Bea’s intended dryer, called a cream-colored button up ‘nun-like’, used the last of the laundromat-issued dryer sheets, and invited herself over to check out Bea’s suddenly-empty bedroom.
Her sudden and intense desire to know everything she could about Bea was the only reason she didn’t slink back to her own dryer in embarrassment and silently vowed to do something totally normal like leave all her clothes behind and run away.
Bea’s cautious okay - only prompted by her friend (Camila, she introduced herself cheerfully, her smile matching Ava’s) - had been enough to make Ava feel like she could finally take on the dryer of doom, affectionately named by her friend Michael. She’d failed, of course, but she hadn’t let it bring her down. She just waited for Michael to come back from getting them something to drink at the small store next door and happily thrust the work upon him.
She knew, though, from the moment that Bea let her across the threshold into the apartment that Ava was going to make it hers. Bea had deep, sunken in couches and thick blankets over the back of them. Her kitchen was bare, a little utilitarian, but Ava could fix that. There were bookshelves lining one wall and Ava wanted to know what each of them said, if Bea had read every single one.
And maybe Camila had been the one to say yes when Ava declared she could move in within the week, but Bea had given her that first, small smile and Ava knew it: she was hooked.
She was captivated. Enamored. She could already tell that Bea’s smiles were going to be few and far between and she swore, sometime between being on the receiving end of the first one and bringing in the first crate of her meager belongings, that she was going to pull all of them out of Bea as often as she could.
She collects them the way Michael collects vinyl records, treating each of them like finding a diamond in a pile of rocks - or maybe nickels in ten pounds of dimes, she can never be sure. It’s something Michael’s mysterious mother says whenever she visits. The point of it is, they’re special. She has to weed through a lot of things, tell a lot of bad jokes and burn a lot of food, to work a smile out of Bea.
Michael hangs his vinyl on the walls in his living room. Ava can’t hang a smile, but can imagine they’re painted on the ceiling above her bed.)
~
Sundays are for the girls.
It goes like that for a few months: Bea sleeps in while Ava listens to whatever playlist Michael shared with her this week, they pick a place, they get brunch, they spend the rest of the day doing absolutely nothing at all.
For Bea, that means picking a book off the shelf - maybe something she’d read before, maybe one of the new ones she picked up earlier in the day - and curling into one side of the couch to read with a steaming cup of tea on the end table next to her.
For Ava, that means claiming the other side of the couch and stretching her legs across Bea’s lap with her headphones plugged into the remote (Oh, we’re fancy , fancy, she told Bea when she first brought it home), watching some mindless show. Sometimes she picks something random - Celebrity Jeporady had been fun for a few weeks - or a cooking competition show where she gasps as a contestant adds cream to the pan too early.
But it doesn’t matter what they’re doing, even if it’s nothing. They’re doing it together - a requirement of Sundays, Ava decided early on. Bea never argues with her about it, though. Part of Ava wants her to, just so she can passionately defend her thesis on why it has to happen. (It’s numbered and color-coded. Bea would love it.) But another part of her, the one that grows warm each time Bea smiles at her, doesn’t want to have to defend herself at all.
No matter where they go, no matter what they do, it always ends like this: just the two of them - Bea in her softest sweater and Ava in her shortest shorts - on the couch doing the bare minimum. Exactly what Ava has always set out to do in life.
Sometimes she convinces Bea to read to her. She doesn’t follow any of the words, just the timber of Bea’s voice as it goes up and down around vowels and punctuation. She can’t answer any comprehension questions, can’t name the characters. Bea might not even be speaking in English, for all Ava knows. She spends too much time watching Bea’s mouth form around the words, all of them sounding foreign to Ava. She’s never heard words the way Bea says them and she feels like each word is part of a new language she’s just discovering.
Sometimes she convinces Bea to watch some terrible reality show with her, ones where people are selling each other out to make some money or where hot moms are locked in a mansion with their sons. Bea hates them, talks through the whole show about the impracticality of the premise or the ridiculousness of what a ‘milf’ represents. But Ava delights in explaining how people will do anything for money, even hit on their friend’s sons while their own son looks on in horror.
It’s good. It’s hers. It’s theirs.
Ava loves it almost as much as she loves Beatrice.
~
(She fell in love with Beatrice sometime around the sixth month of living with her. The infatuation was real. Mary, one of Bea’s friends that was now Ava’s friend - even if Ava had wiggled her way into another relationship merrily - said it was visible from space. She had worried about it for a week, asked if Bea could tell, but Mary confidently told her that Bea wasn’t someone who looked through a telescope unless someone else told her to.
Ava didn’t understand that very much, but sometimes Mary said things Ava didn’t understand. She decided it meant no and moved on to convincing Mary she had to try Settlers of Catan.
But the thought stuck with her. Maybe everyone did know. She wasn’t good at hiding things - they hadn’t told her about Camila’s surprise birthday party because they were sure that she would ruin the surprise part of it. That it was Yasmine who did was just icing on the cake for Ava. But she feels like she’s terrible at hiding this.
It took her those six months to figure out what this is, though. Usually she’s quicker than this. It makes her good at things like chess or figuring out Michael’s mom’s increasingly difficult mind-bending puzzles she likes to email him. But this feeling snuck up on her like a cold does. It started with a sneeze, with a slight sniffle. And by the time she caught up to it, she was draped over the side of the couch with a box of tissues, a cold pack on her forehead, and the chills.
Loving Beatrice is not like having a cold, of course. But both make her a little delirious.
It had been something small, she was sure. A look across the piles of paper Bea was organizing as part of her thesis project, maybe? Or when Bea was passing her the salt. She would have known if it was something big. She would have recognized that.
But it had to be an accumulation of moments, like snowflakes in the air that suddenly resulted in six inches of snow. That makes the most sense.
When she did realize, it was like the world came into living color. Everything was brighter. The air smelled sweeter. She found herself smiling, even at the little old lady who lives below them and likes to complain that Ava listened to television too loud - another reason Bea bought that fancy remote, she claimed.
But suddenly things made sense. Her need to be close to Bea, always; the longing she felt when they were apart. Why she was suddenly enamored by things like footnotes and perfectly arranged highlighters. How she had a new appreciation for loose-leaf tea and the simple lines of a single-color mug.
Bea loved these things and Ava loved Bea.
It’s that simple, Mary told her.
Ava shook her head. It can’t be that simple.
Mary fixed her with a look that Ava quickly came to understand as ‘don’t be stupid, Ava.’ Have you ever loved anything in your life?
A thousand things ran through her head. She loved margaritas. She loved the color red. She loved a good breakfast burrito with spicy chorizo. She loved the sunshine after three cloudy days in a row. But she didn’t think that’s what Mary meant.
Mary’s face softened. Trust me. Love like that can be that simple.
Mary had to be right. She had been with Shannon for literal years and they were so in love that Ava was sure they couldn’t function without the other, even if Mary put on a good front. So Mary had to be an expert. She had to be telling the truth.
It helped that being with Beatrice was the easiest thing Ava had done in her life.
All she needed was Bea, her spot on the couch, and the promise that they were going to spend as much of their time together as possible.
Maybe it was that simple.)
~
(She’s never going to say anything about it, though. Because they have a balance, here. She pretends not to be hopelessly in love with Bea, Bea doesn’t notice that Ava’s whole world seems to revolve around her, and they carry on like two people who know absolutely everything about each other and still want to be around each other.
Michael called her a shit-disturber once. But this is the one thing Ava won’t disturb, the one thing she doesn’t want to unsettle. Toppling this tower will only end one way: Ava, heartbroken when Bea says they’re better off as friends, and Beatrice, giving her pitying smiles and keeping her distance.
Ava won’t stand for that, so she just won’t say anything at all.
But once she knows, she can’t unsee it. Every interaction feels charged for her. The casual touches burn her fingertips. Her body sizzles where they touch on the couch after a long day. She hums happily when Bea’s hands card through her hair as she drifts off to sleep.
Ava has carefully constructed this house and she’s no wolf; she won’t blow it down. She can love Bea at a distance while still holding her close. She can settle for that, she thinks.
She’ll only dream about crossing the kitchen and turning Bea by the waist and pushing her into the counter and stealing the sound of indignation out of her mouth.
She’ll only pretend that when she tells her coworkers she’s going home that she’s going home to someone who is going to kiss her hello and kiss her goodnight.
She’ll only play make-believe in a world where Bea is just a handprint away on the mattress and her hair is spread out across Ava’s pillow.
And in reality, where she gets to press quick kisses to the flat of Bea’s cheek and the soft skin of her forehead and the top of her head, where she gets to hold Bea’s hand in museums and parks and concert halls and bars, she’s going to take every moment she can get and string them all together like a love story she’s the only one reading.
Bea never needs to know. Ava never has to say anything.
As long as everything stays as it is, Ava can be satisfied with this.)
~
(Ava is an idiot.
Everything always changes.)
~
Sundays are for the girls.
Beatrice must have forgotten that. Which is ridiculous, because they’ve been doing this for literal months.
But then Beatrice gets asked out by a girl at the laundromat and Ava isn’t there to tell her that’s a terrible idea, so she says yes. Ava immediately calls the repairman again and demands he prioritize their washing machine because she can’t risk Bea going back to that laundromat and collecting someone else. She’s starting to develop a habit.
Her name is Jenn-with-two-n’s and she’s nice.
Ava can’t stand that. Jenn-with-two-n’s smiles and puts up with Ava’s admittedly aggressive line of questioning that even Camila thinks might be a little over the top. It doesn’t seem to faze her, though. She answers the questions easily - she’s a preschool teacher (of course she is), she’s just moved into the area (original ), her laundry machine in her building doesn’t work (a likely story) and when she saw Bea, she had to introduce herself.
That one, Ava can agree with. But she won’t say it out loud.
Their first date goes fine. At least, that’s what Bea says when she comes through the door later than expected. Ava is most definitely not waiting up to see her before she goes to bed. She is not that codependent or jealous. But she does feel a little burst of relief when the door opens at 11:24 and Bea comes through it alone, exhaustion clear on her face.
“That tiring?” she asks, already mentally high-fiving herself.
But Bea only says, “it was nice” and that they’re going to go out again. She hums contentedly at the cup of tea Ava passes her - the electric kettle has been on for what feels like hours while Ava waited patiently (impatiently) - and smiles at Ava and doesn’t complain when Ava turns on a show where old, rich women yell at each other.
It takes her ten minutes to say something about the insanity of the show but Ava finally exhales when she does.
She doesn’t bring up Jenn-with-two-n’s for three days and Ava thinks that was that. Things will go back to normal. That night threw her completely off-balance. The apartment felt empty. She didn’t even try to eat dinner on the couch - something Bea expressly forbade her to do after she spilled hoisin sauce on one side of the cushion. She hadn’t appreciated that Ava’s solution was to turn the cushion over. She hadn’t even put on the next episode of that show, because she knew it wouldn’t sound the same without Bea’s commentary.
Foolishly, she hadn’t considered Bea would even entertain going out with someone. Logically, it made sense. Bea is a grown woman - a beautiful woman - and people notice her. She just usually doesn’t notice them back. Truthfully, she knows she was stupid to think that it would never happen; that no one would ever catch Bea’s eye enough to warrant a small slice of her time and attention.
That idiot thing is coming back to haunt her.
But after three days, Bea’s phone beeps on the kitchen table and Ava checks out of habit - they’re waiting for a head count for game night - and sees Jenn-with-two-n’s name on the screen.
Okay, it’s just Jenn, but Ava still can’t believe she spells it with two n’s. Grow up, am I right? she asked Mary. Mary didn’t answer her, shooting the 8 ball into the pocket and taking another dollar of her hard-earned money.
Bea scoops it off the table and opens the message while Ava stirs pasta sauce on the stove and makes a small noise that Ava didn’t immediately recognize as something she’d heard before. “Camila answer you?” she asks casually.
“Not yet.” Bea is quiet for a moment. “It’s Jenn.”
“Ah, Jenn. The elusive first date.” Ava drops the spoon in the spoon rest and turns around to face her. “Letting her down gently?”
Something flickers across Bea’s face but it’s gone before Ava can grasp it. She doesn’t like this. She can usually read Bea - she knows sounds and faces better than she knows conjugations in the French class Sister Frances made her take. But she can’t understand these last few minutes where Bea made a noise she’d never heard before or a face that Ava couldn’t pin down.
“We’re going out again tomorrow night.”
Ava breathes in slowly, her smile tight on her face. “Oh yeah?” She congratulates herself on keeping a level voice. “I didn’t think you were interested.”
“She’s…” Bea’s face wrinkles in thought. “She’s nice.”
Ava wants to reach out and smooth away the frown between Bea’s eyes. “If ‘nice’ gets a second date with you, what does ‘amazing’ get me?” She wiggles her eyebrows, but Bea is too focused on her phone, fingers hovering over a message she’s debating. Ava sighs.
Bea blinks a moment later, mouth turned up at the corners. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ava says quickly. “Just, didn’t know you were out looking for love.”
She thinks she did a good job of not sounding bitter. She must have. Bea doesn’t look at her funny.
“I’d hardly call it love. Or looking. I just kind of… happened upon her.” Bea looks back down at her phone, closes the display, and turns her attention back to Ava. “You’re going to burn the sauce.”
Ava goes back to the sauce and they go back to their night. They eat their pasta - the sauce has a slightly charred flavor - and Bea reads to her from some classic story Ava is sure she should know. Things settle back to normal and Bea doesn’t bring up Jenn-with-two-n’s again and Ava goes to bed with the feel of Bea’s forehead against her lips from where she pressed them carelessly before saying goodnight.
She does the friend thing.
She lets Bea go on her second date - not a thing a friend needs to give permission for, Mary reminds her.
She stays up again and has one of Bea’s guilty-pleasure-pastries waiting for her.
She asks a hundred questions about it with an enthusiasm that feels more forced than the time she kissed JC, a boy she knew, just to see what it was like. Bea answers all of them with a tight-lipped smile and gives nothing away except that they haven’t kissed yet - the relief rushes through Ava like a cold glass of water on a scorching hot day, though she refuses to say that out loud - but they’re going to go out again soon.
Soon is apparently today, a Sunday.
“Excuse me?”
She hears Beatrice the first time. She just wants to hear it again, to be sure she doesn't need to give in and go to the doctor to get her hearing checked.
“Jenn is coming by in about an hour, to pick me up.” Bea takes a measured sip of her coffee - too bitter for Ava’s liking. “I thought I told you.”
Ava barks out something akin to a laugh. “Ha. Yeah, uh, no. You didn’t.”
Bea’s mouth turns down in a frown. “Is that a problem?”
Ava’s mouth matches hers. “Kind of?”
It must catch Bea off guard. Her frown deepens. “Kind of?”
“Yeah, today is our day.” She says it so plainly, because somehow yelling, Don’t pick her! feels selfish and too much.
Bea, standing in the kitchen in a big sleep shirt that shows her shoulder and a pair of soft pants Ava picked her up at Christmas, with reindeer on ice skates printed on them, tips her head curiously to one side, studying her. “Ava, every day is our day.”
Ava is shaking her head quickly. “No, Sundays are specifically our day.” She gestures to the clock. “You’re up a whole 30 minutes early. We don’t have to be at the duck boats until 11.”
“I wanted to take a shower.” Another measured sip of coffee, another five seconds of silence while Ava tampers down the sudden flare of anger, underpinned by confusion. “Before my-”
“Date, right,” Ava cut her off. “Except, you can’t go on your date because it’s Sunday.”
Maybe if she says it slowly, Bea will get it. She rifles through her memories; Bea has not sustained any head injuries lately, unless a pulsing headache from staring at board along one of their living room walls with all of Bea’s research could deal a head injury.
(Ava thinks it could. The number of notecards alone has her wincing.)
“Ava,” Bea sighs. “It’s one Sunday.”
“It’s our Sunday.” She holds up a hand when Bea opens her mouth. “Now, I’ve been patient about all of this, but-”
“Patient?” Bea says. Her voice goes up a little at the end and Ava realizes her mistake quickly.
“No, I just meant-” She stops herself and takes a deep breath. “Listen. I just don’t know why you have to go out today. Sundays are for the girls, right?” She smiles, wavering a little, but Bea doesn’t smile back. “Can’t you go tomorrow night?”
Bea’s voice is flat when she says, “Tomorrow night is game night.”
The flare of frustration rushes through her again. “So you can cancel our plans but not game night?” She has to bite back a growl.
Bea rubs at her forehead. Ava knows what’s coming next. Bea is going to sigh and say something logical to imply that Ava is being illogical - which, she kind of is, if she could be a rational thinker right now - and then she’s going to walk away and leave Ava standing there feeling silly for being so upset about something that probably means nothing.
But this means something. This isn’t just Ava being petty about picking what’s for dinner or what movie they should rent. This is Bea cancelling on their standing plans for Jenn-with-two-n’s who is just nice. She’s not even exciting or groundbreaking.
Ava is being passed over for someone who probably goes on about the number of times she has to bring little kids to the bathroom or what non-nose item she pulled out of some 4-year-old’s nose. Boring stuff like that.
And that, above everything else, pisses her off.
“Ava.” There’s the sigh. “It’s one Sunday in a long line of Sundays. Surely, one Sunday isn’t going to make or break our friendship.”
It might. It might just dismantle everything.
But she’s being illogical. Of course she is. Because there are 52 Sundays in a calendar year and spending time with Bea on only 51 of those is still - she can’t do math with her head on fire, but she knows it’s close to 100%.
And she can’t argue with Bea. She can never argue with Bea. And even if she did, she’s not sure she would win. Because she has all the extra information. Bea doesn’t know that Ava is in love with her. Bea doesn’t know that Ava feels like she could fling herself into the sun every time Bea’s hand brushes against her shoulder. Bea doesn’t know that the next time Ava sees Jenn-with-two-n’s, it’s on sight.
So she does what any logical person would do.
She crosses her arms over her chest, scowls, and turns sharply on her heel to lock herself in her room until she hears the door open and close exactly an hour later and the apartment descends into silence.
~
(She pouts. She pouts and pouts and nearly drowns herself in the bathtub. But that’s a little dramatic, even for her, so she settles for overfilling the tub and letting the water soak through the bathmat and then immediately puts it in the dryer so Bea won’t notice.
She settles for thinking about day drinking. She settles for pretending that she’s going to decline all of the calendar invites waiting in her email, things Bea tries to invite her to with the intention of keeping their schedules straight.
And she pouts.
She nearly calls Mary, who will most definitely tell her how stupid she’s being. She nearly calls Camila, who will most definitely come over and watch crappy movies with her. She nearly calls Lilith, but she’s not that much of a mascohist.
She picks a movie instead, one she said she’d wait to start until Bea could see past the copious notes she’s taking on whatever article she’s reading this week. She’s going to watch it and pretend like she doesn’t care that Bea asked her so nicely to wait. Because if Bea wanted to watch it, she’d have stayed, right? She wouldn’t be off with Jenn-with-two-n’s doing who knows what.
She gets through the opening credits before she turns it off. So what, the opening song was stupid. No one even likes Megan Thee Stallion.
Ava immediately apologizes to Ms. Stallion. She doesn’t deserve that kind of disrespect.
But neither does Ava. And Jenn-with-two-n’s has disrespected her. She’s come into Ava’s place of living, place of worship, and flipped everything upside down, leaving Ava in the wreckage and Bea off gallivanting around with some woman none of them even know.
She does call Mary. Mary does say she’s dramatic.
But she also comes by with the Bring It On DVD trilogy she swears she threw out years ago and lets Ava cry into her shoulder.)
~
Sundays are for the girls.
But it’s another Sunday and another date for Beatrice.
When Bea got back last week, there was a moment where the two of them were suspended, apologies at the tips of both of their tongues. Ava had been working on it all day after she shoved Mary out the door, counting the minutes until Bea came home.
But when she opened her mouth to tell Bea the truth - all of it, the good parts and the bad parts and all the hopeful stuff in between - there was a knock at the door and Jenn-with-two-n’s was bringing back Bea’s jacket, left behind by accident, and all of Ava’s courage went out the window.
She gave Bea a shaky smile instead and asked how the date went. If Bea was disappointed, she didn’t say so, choosing instead to tell Ava about a man riding a unicycle in the park.
Ava would have loved to see a guy on a unicycle. It’s on her bucket list. And maybe that’s why Bea was telling her, to be kind. But the fact that she didn’t get to see it herself - and that she could have had the chance to see it with Bea - stings worse than not knowing at all. She forces a smile, though, listens attentively as Bea tells her about the blue bowler hat he was wearing that he kept tipping to people as he went past them.
They settled into the rest of their Sunday rhythm, but something felt off, like a sour note in the middle of a good song. They sat an ocean apart on the couch, carefully keeping their limbs to their own cushions and awkwardly letting each other pick a show until Ava sighed and picked something she was sure neither of them wanted to watch.
But on Monday morning, things felt normal. Ava happily told Mary to get bent when she asked if there was still trouble in paradise. She cheerfully poured Bea a cup of coffee before she went off to work and left Bea among a sea of research papers. She joyfully stopped at the bakery on the way home and picked up Bea’s favorite-but-she-won’t-admit-it croissant and splurged on the fancy box because she knows Bea likes the way they put a bow on it.
It was like nothing happened. They cleaned up at game night, something they always did. Mary, who suggested charades, immediately remembered why she put a ban on that game when Ava and Bea ran the score up. And when Bea laughed, unrestrained and bright, as she leaned into Ava’s side, it felt like all the tension had melted away.
She wasn’t going to be petty. She wasn’t going to hold onto the anger of Bea skipping one Sunday. There were still 51 left in the year. 98%, she figured out hours later. She had 98% of Bea’s Sundays. She could live with that.
Bea didn’t bring up Jenn-with-two-n’s again for a few days. Ava nearly forgot about her. A blip on the radar that was their life together. Jenn-with-two-n’s was nothing compared to their nearly-two year friendship. They survived Ava’s cargo pants era, Bea’s on-the-brink-of-setting-fire-to-this-profressor phase, and even the month where Lilith lived on their couch.
They could survive a girl with two many n’s in her name who was just nice.
But on Saturday, when Ava presented her plans to explore the city's haunted sights - a recommendation from their pizza delivery guy when Ava stopped in for a slice during the week - Bea had sighed that one sigh that meant she was about to turn Ava’s plans on their head.
Ava used to find it endearing. Now, she never wants to hear it again.
“Let me guess.” Her voice was flat. “Jenn.”
Bea had the decency to look upset this time. “She couldn’t get time off work today, so we were going to go to the movies tomorrow. But that’s not until the afternoon?” she said, voice lifting hopefully.
Ava sighed. “The tour is at one.”
“Oh.” Bea’s shoulders dropped. “You could come-”
“Seriously.” Ava fought back a scoff and tried a tight smile instead. “I’m not crashing the movies with you guys. I’ll just… see if Yasmine and Camila want to go.”
Bea frowned. “We can go another day.”
But Ava was going to be cheerful about this. She was going to be supportive. She was going to go kicking and screaming through this hellscape that was Bea’s sudden dating life.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Yasmine would love to go. She’ll probably know more than the tour guide, actually. So, it should still be a good time.” Her smile loosens a little. “Not as fun without you, but we can give it a try.”
“Ava,” Bea said softly, reaching her hand out to drop it over Ava’s.
She hoped when she pulled it back, she did a good job of pretending that the mere thought of Bea touching her was going to set her on fire. “Actually, maybe everyone wants to come over.” The thought of being alone with Bea now, after being turned down, was suffocating. “We can get Indian. You like their biryani, right?”
“Ava, I…” Bea stopped again, mouth open in a question she couldn’t seem to ask. She closed it and nodded sharply. “I’ll call Lilith.”
Ava made a show of groaning, smiling genuinely at the look of exasperation on Bea’s face. “Do you have to?”
Bea ignored her, lifting her phone into the air pointedly and opening Lilith’s last message, typing out an invitation. It felt normal to laugh and lean down, pressing her lips to the crown of Bea’s head in a thoughtless kiss before she took off to call Mary. It felt normal to dance away from the halfhearted jab Bea made at her side.
It felt normal, hours later, shooing their friends out the door into the night, to grab Bea around the middle and shove her towards the couch, demanding that they get in at least two episodes of America’s Next Top Model before they cleaned up the kitchen.
And it felt more than normal to curl into Bea’s side on the couch, listening as Bea’s voice rumbled in her chest, and fall asleep with their hands laced together and Tyra Banks making yet another model cry.
She had startled awake in the middle of the night, an image of Bea and Jenn-with-two-n’s kissing on a beach wearing white gowns stuck in her mind. Bea had turned towards her and shook her head. You’re too late, she had said, voice disconnected from her mouth. Ava gasped herself into consciousness, disoriented for a moment until Bea woke up and calmed her down.
She turned down Bea’s offer to walk her to her bedroom. She had a shred of digity she wanted to hold onto.
The sunlight trickles in through the window and her phone beeps in her hand. She lifts it above her head, nearly losing her grip on it and ending up with it crashing down on her nose. A message from Mary. She opens it, scowling when she reads, You’re the dumbest person I know.
She’s the one going out with her again.
The three gray dots pop up and Ava waits impatiently as Mary types something out. And she wouldn’t do that if you just said something.
Ava bites down on her bottom lip, screwing her eyes shut. No, Bea wouldn’t do that if Ava just said something.
Another beep, another message. Baby girl, we love you, but pull your head out of your ass before she elopes with that girl.
A flash of her nightmare startles her enough that she sits up, her chest tightening. Her fingers shake a little as she texts Mary back.
What if she doesn’t feel the same way?
It takes a minute but then an image comes through: a gif of Buzz Lightyear speaking into his transponder. There seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere.
Ava sends back a middle finger emoji and throws her phone down as she climbs out of bed and pulls on some sweats before she slides into the large Cars-themed slippers Lilith bought her after she made one comment about Lightning McQueen. Jokes on Lilith; they’re comfortable as hell.
She opens her bedroom door to find Bea on the other side of it, hand raised as if she’s going to knock.
Bea looks started. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Ava echoes. She waits another moment but Bea doesn’t say anything. “Did you need me?”
Bea blinks once, then twice, before she speaks. “You hadn’t come out of your room yet. It’s…” Her cheeks flush slightly. “Oh, it’s only 8:30.”
Ava shrugs. “I was awake. Just, taking my time. Not all of us have somewhere to be today.” She says it as lightly as she can, but it must not be light enough. Bea’s mouth turns down slightly.
“I can cancel.”
Yes, Ava’s mind screams. “Don’t be silly,” she says instead. She pulls her lips back in a smile. “You’ve got a girlfriend. You should spend time with her.”
Bea’s flush deepens. “Oh, she’s not- We haven’t-”
Ava lets her hand flutter down to Bea’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Seriously, Bea. Don’t worry about me.”
Mary’s voice is in her head now, telling her how stupid she’s being about the whole thing. Bea just gave her an opening and instead of taking it, she’s doubling down on this forced cheerfulness.
“I do worry about you,” Bea says quietly. “You’ve been… Different.”
She thinks about waving Bea’s concern away. It would be too easy to do that. Bea would linger on it for just another moment before she accepted Ava at face value. Because Ava has never lied to her before - not about things that matter. About drinking the last of the milk or spending their loose quarters on the temporary tattoo machines in the grocery store, maybe. But not about anything that really means anything.
Not about something this big.
Her shoulders drop. “Actually, I-”
Bea’s phone beeps, three times in a row, and her attention wavers, flicking to the side before she meets Ava’s eyes again.
Ava’s stomach sinks. “Actually, it’s nothing.”
“Ava.”
She smiles, all teeth, and takes a slight step back, putting some space between them. “Bea,” she says, matching her tone by lowering her voice a few octaves. It doesn’t get a smile out of Bea. “I’ve actually got to go, now that I think about it. Yeah, Mary text me. Her and Shannon got into a fight about…” She searches her brain frantically. “Potatoes. You know how… Mary is about… potatoes.” Her foot can’t fit any further in her mouth. “Mashed all the way. But Shannon likes them fried. So they, uh, need me to, you know. Be the tiebreaker.”
She takes a step back, embarrassment burning the tips of her ears. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Wait.” Bea’s hand shoots out and hovers between them. “We need to talk.”
The four words every girl loves to hear. She swallows hard against the lump in her throat.
“About what?”
Bea suddenly looks nervous, shifting from foot to foot. She twists her fingers together and Ava stops, frowning slightly. Bea isn’t fidgety except when there’s something serious, like when she had to tell Ava that they’d been overfeeding the beta fish they bought and it died. She takes a small step foward, hand flexing at her side as she stops herself from calming Bea’s hands.
“I’ve just been… doing some thinking. And I’ve come to some conclusions.” She smiles tightly. “But I need to discuss them with you.”
Ava smiles tremulously. “You’re not dying, right?”
Bea softens slightly, the growing panic in her eyes subsiding. “No, I’m not dying.”
She tries for funny, an attempt to lighten the mood. “Because if you are, I call dibs on your bedroom. Yasmine can move out of her mom’s house and into my room.” She shrugs when Bea frowns. “You have a better view.”
It takes a little bit of the edge off. Bea’s shoulders inch down. “I’ll be sure to start a will, then. And the first thing I’ll do is leave the apartment to Lilith.”
Ava gasps dramatically. “Not Lilith.”
Bea shakes her head, a slight smile on her face. “I know you two secretly love each other.”
Her stomach ripples at the words. No, the only person I’m secretly in love with is you.
“One day, I’ll get you to admit it,” Bea continues.
Not likely, she thinks, Bea the only thing she can see.
“Not likely,” she says out loud. She smiles crookedly. “You’ve got a better chance of me falling from a 13-story drop and living to tell the tale.”
The tension isn’t gone completely but it’s an undercurrent now, not suffocating them on the surface. Ava can breathe a little easier. Bea looks more relaxed.
“I’ll let you get to Mary’s so you can help with the… potato debate,” Bea says delicately, easing her way around Ava’s obvious white lie.
Ava fires two finger guns at her and hopes the next thing that happens is the ground opening up and swallowing her whole. But all that happens is that Bea smiles softly and ducks her head a little before she steps back and closes Ava’s door gently.
Ava throws herself back on her bed and grabs her phone, opening her messages and quickly tapping something out.
If Bea asks, you’re on the mashed side of the potato debate.
She doesn’t have to wait long. Do I want to know?
“No,” Ava says to the ceiling. “You really don’t want to.”
~
(She panics.
She runs home as soon as she knows Bea is gone and changes her clothes twice. She’s not sure why; Bea has seen her in snot-covered pajamas and during that week when the apartment’s central air was broken and it felt like their skin was melting off so Ava walked around in a pair of Michael’s boxers she stole and a sports bra. But this feels important. She needs to look her best.
She also talks herself out of going to get flowers. She doesn’t know what “conclusions” Beatrice came to - for all she knows, Bea could be telling her that she has to move out because Jenn-with-two-n’s just went from casual girlfriend to live-in girlfriend and they’re turning her bedroom into something ridiculous. Like a scrapbooking room.
She shudders. Bea is not a scrapbooker.
Her phone goes off but when it’s not Bea, she doesn’t bother opening the message. She goes back to pacing: three steps ahead, sharp twist on her heel, three steps in the opposite direction. God, she really needs to listen to Bea the next time she suggests some kind of mindfulness practice. She’s practically crawling out of her skin.
There’s so many unknowns. Maybe Bea is asking her to move out. A less - far less - rational thought is that Bea is coming back to the apartment with Jenn-with-two-n’s and asking her to join a threesome. She immediately squashes that idea - one, because Bea would never and two, because there’s no world where Ava would agree to that. She very obviously can’t share Bea with anyone.
The anticipation is starting to kill her. She opens the refrigerator and stares at her emergency bottle of tequila, considering breaking into it. But tequila never leads to good things and she has a feeling she needs to be in the right state of mind for this conversation - whatever it ends up being. So she leaves it alone for now, and makes herself a cup of coffee.
“It’s cool. You’re cool,” she tells herself. She checks the clock. Bea should be home soon. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. A movie takes about two hours… She tries to do the math in her head, but she’s too keyed up for the numbers to stack and for 60-minutes-in-an-hour to make sense to her right now.
She nods, sure of herself on the outside and trembling on the inside. “Just a little bit.”
Bea won’t be too long.
It still won’t stop her from panicking a little more.)
~
Sundays are for the girls.
It’s nearly Monday by the time Beatrice lets herself into the apartment, but it’s still Sunday, according to the clock - that feels important.
Ava jumps up from the couch, nerves shot after waiting so long.
Bea stands in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hallway. Ava suddenly realizes she’s been sitting in the dark and quickly turns on the lamp next to the couch. She blinks a little bit, eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light.
“Hey.” The word feels stretched out but it must not sound weird to Bea.
“You’re up.”
Ava looks around the room, confused. “You said you wanted to talk.”
“I…” Bea steps into the living room, closing the door behind her. “I guess I thought you’d given up on me.”
Ava feels her heart stop in her chest before it beats twice, trying to catch back up. “Never.”
Bea’s eyes darken a little at the word. She carefully puts down her keys in the ugly, handpainted bowl Ava bought at the farmer’s market from a kid who made his own stall out of a stack of milk crates. It was hideous on a good day, but Ava loved it for its charm, it’s one-of-a-kind-ness. It holds their keys like it was made specifically for them, like-
“Did you hear me?”
Ava flushes. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I was thinking about…” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bea sighs. “Maybe we should talk in the morning.” She takes a step towards her bedroom.
Ava matches her step, still an arm’s length away. “No. Now is fine. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about the day we bought that.” She gestures to the bowl. “How much it took to convince you to pay for it.”
“You ‘conveniently’ forgot your wallet.” Bea’s voice is flat.. “Like you ‘conveniently’ forget it when we go most places.”
Ava smiles sheepishly. “I’m a forgetful person.”
Bea’s mouth threatens a smile. “You certainly are something.”
“Sorry,” Ava fills in. She clarifies at Bea’s look of confusion. “I’m sorry. I’ve been…” She huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been something lately. And I’m sorry.”
Bea takes a step back towards the couch, curling her hands around the back of it. “Why?”
A good question. A great question, even.
She asks her own. “Is she better than nice?”
Bea blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“Jenn-with-” She stops herself. “Jenn. Is she better than nice? Or is she just nice?”
“Does that matter?” Bea asks slowly.
“Yes.” Ava swallows back a lump forming in her throat, one that’s threatening to choke her off.
There’s a stretch of silence where Ava starts to feel herself wanting to squirm. She curls her hand into a fist instead, feeling the half-moon shapes her nails leave behind. The weight of the answer she’s sure must be coming stars to bear down on her shoulders, pushing her into the floor.
“She’s nice,” Bea says, maddeningly.
Ava feels her patience start to stretch like the silence. “But is she better than nice? Is she worth-”
“Worth what?” Bea asks. She’s frustratingly calm, the opposite of what Ava feels right now. She stares at Ava with wide eyes, giving nothing away.
She deflates a little. “Worth us fighting about,” she finishes.
Bea’s eyes flash. “I knew we were fighting.”
“Of course we are.” Ava throws a hand into the air then runs it through her hair. “I thought that was obvious.”
“Of course it was.” Bea crosses her arms over her chest, mouth set in something Ava might call a scowl if it was anyone else. “I was just waiting for you to say something. But instead, you… clammed up. And shut me out.”
Her shoulders slump, shame worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a strange noise that comes from Bea’s mouth. Something like a scoff or a growl. Another thing Ava has never heard before. She wonders, briefly, if Jenn-with-two-n’s has heard this sound before; if there’s parts of Bea that she’s discovered that Ava never will.
“Stop being sorry and talk to me.” Bea’s voice ripples in frustration and she drops her arms, holding them out with open palms.
Ava read a body language book once before, something someone donated to the orphanage. She runs through her mental notes. Open palm is asking for trust.
It sucks, because she does trust Bea. She trusts Bea more than she’s ever trusted anyone in her entire life. But she hasn’t been acting like it and now Bea obviously doesn’t know where she stands anymore.
“I was jealous.”
The words hang between them. She can’t reach out and shove them back in her mouth and ask if Bea wants to go for late-night tacos. She can’t swallow them down and tell Bea she actually is tired and they should do this in the morning. Because Bea is staring at her, hands curling back into themselves. Closed hands when feeling threatened or sensing conflict..
“Of me.”
Ava barks out a laugh, surprising them both. Tears spring to her eyes, hot dots in the corners. She wipes at them, body shaking. “Of- No, Beatrice. Not of you.” She shakes the last of her laugh away. “Of her.”
Bea doesn’t laugh. Bea doesn’t recoil. Bea doesn’t do anything but stand there and let the truth settle over them like the snow settling over a quiet street. She can see the gears turning in Bea’s head, is watching them spin her eyes. Bea likes to calculate. She likes to weigh the potential possibilities of everything before she commits one way or the other. Ava finds it mystifying. She throws herself in whatever direction she feels like in any given moment - something that’s dampened since she met Bea and learned to stop and take in her options. But Bea is careful. Considerate. She takes her time with each choice and Ava loves that about her.
It’s not in her top ten list, of course, but it’s up there.
“I was spending a lot of time with her.” Bea’s hands start to unfurl. “I didn’t stop to think about how it affected our friendship.”
The word friendship knots itself around Ava’s ankle like a weight and starts to drag her down. Mary’s voice booms in her head. What have you got to lose?
Her home. Her life. But most importantly - Beatrice.
“Bea,” she sighs.
She can’t let this go on with Bea thinking this is about friendship. It’s not fair to her, to either of them. If she doesn’t do this now, doesn’t say what she needs to say, then this will just be the place where they start to fall apart.
God, that’s dramatic. But it seems that’s her only setting these days.
“Bea,” she sighs again. She takes a step closer and watches as Bea straightens up just a little bit more. “It was- yes. You were spending more time with her. I felt… left behind.”
“I didn’t realize exactly how important Sundays are to you,” Bea says quietly. “If I had, I wouldn’t have agreed to going out with her those days and picked something else.”
Ava shakes her head. “It wasn’t just Sundays. Like, yeah, they’re important to me. And I was upset because I thought they were that important to you too, but you just kind of, went out with her and didn’t tell me you made plans until it was already too late for me to really do anything about it. And when I did…”
“I still went,” Bea finishes. She sighs. “I’m sorry, Ava.”
“But that’s not just it,” Ava pushes on. She takes a deep breath. She needs it. She’s about to let out a lot in a single stream of air. “I was jealous because she had all of your attention and I didn’t like it. I don’t like sharing you. I know how that makes me sound. It’s selfish. And-and archaic. Because you’re in charge of your own, like, person. And you get to decide what you want to do each day and that’s not up to me, but…” She swallows. “I really wish it were up to me.”
“Ava…”
She shifts gears. She’s not good at that; Mary forbade her from trying to drive after the first time she got behind the wheel, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. She just takes a deep breath and angles the car towards the center line, trying to stay off the sidewalk.
“I did this really dumb thing where I didn’t tell you something really important and then held it against you for not knowing.” She breathes in deeply, feeling it shudder in her chest. “Because I went and fell in love with you and told everyone but you. Or least, they figured it out and I just never said anything to you about it.”
She braces herself for impact, locks her elbows and grips the steering wheel tightly and closes her eyes before she hits the wall. What she doesn’t expect is a warm hand curling around her wrist, pulling her attention back to focus. She blinks down at it, frowning for a second before her eyes follow Bea’s hand up her arm to the slope of her shoulder and the curve of her neck and the cleft of her chin.
“Ava.”
“I can take it back, if you need me to. Just, shove that back down and hide it away for the next fifty years until we’re old and gray and living in adjoining rooms at some fancy nursing home you can afford after you publish your research paper.” She smiles tightly. “I’ll just, you know.” She pulls her fingers across her mouth like a zipper.
Bea catches her other hand. “Are you done?”
“I think I have another one in me,” she jokes. She doesn’t even laugh at herself.
Bea is patient, though. She lets Ava shift restlessly on her feet and waits until Ava stands a little more surefooted before she takes a deep breath. “I need you to forgive me.”
Ava frowns. “Forgive you?”
“I… What did you say?” The space between Bea’s eyes wrinkles. “I did this really dumb thing.”
“I don’t think dumb is a word I’d ever use to describe you,” Ava protests. “You’re probably the least dumb person I’ve ever met in my life. Least dumb? Is that right?”
“Ava,” Bea admonishes lightly, taking the sting out of her name with a slight smile. Ava’s cheeks still burn for a moment. “Let me tell you.” She waits until Ava nods before she takes another deep breath, mouth working around words she’s not saying yet. Ava watches a thousand thoughts flash in her eyes and she wonders which one is going to come to the surface. She almost misses it.
“I love you.”
Ava feels the air rush out of the room. She feels the floor open up and her stomach drop. She feels Bea’s hand in hers, the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. She feels dumbstruck when she exhales, “What?”
“I thought it might go away. This is… the happiest I’ve ever been and things were so good between us. I had never met anyone like you before and I knew I never would again. I didn’t want to upset anything just because I-” Bea smiles tightly. “But quite like you, the feeling wouldn’t go away. It just grew more persistent.”
“I can be annoying like that, Sister Frances always did say,” Ava says stupidly.
Hot fingertips press into her hand, quieting her. “Jenn asked me out and I thought, I could try. I could see if those feelings would go away and you would never have to know they ever existed.”
“This whole time,” she says. “This whole time, I’ve been trying to forget about being in love with you because there was absolutely no way you’d even be slightly interested in me and you’re telling me… you’re telling me you were.”
“I am,” Bea corrects.
She blinks once, twice, then three times for good measure. “Beatrice.”
“It didn’t help. Jenn,” Bea clarifies. “If anything, it made things worse. She was…”
“Nice.”
“Nice,” Bea echoes. “She liked the same things I liked. She had similar worldviews. But she didn’t… make me want to try ice skating.”
“You hated ice skating,” Ava reminds her. “You told me it was the single worst thing you’ve ever done in your whole life, right after you told me that you once had to try that goose liver thing. So I assumed you hated ice skating, like, more than any other person I’ve ever met.”
Bea’s thumb brushes over the back of her hand in tight circles. “I knew I would hate it. I’ve never been skilled on skates, despite my parent’s best efforts to make me a well-rounded athlete. But you still made me want to try it. Because I might have hated it, but I loved you.”
“You do,” Ava corrects.
Bea’s hand moves up, fingers looping around her arm. Ava takes a cautious step forward. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous of Jenn.”
And Ava knows that. She knows Beatrice would never do something like that to purposefully hurt her. It soothes some of the ache of it, takes the sting out of the memories of those days alone in the apartment while she counted down the minutes until Bea came home.
It was only weeks, but it felt like years taken off her life; years she had to spend apart from Bea. Okay, chill, she tells herself.
“I know,” she finally says. “And I wasn’t trying to be… I wasn’t trying to make it hard for you to choose.”
Bea laughs, the sound light and sweet. “Ava, I know it might not have seemed like it, but there was never really a choice. I’d pick you. If it came down to you or her, I would pick you.”
Something hot sizzles through her, striking her in the center of her stomach. She swallows hard against the feeling. She’s never been anyone’s first choice before. Or least, not since her mom was alive. Something about knowing that she’s someone’s now feels like it’s too big to hold onto.
She thinks about saying something - anything, really. A million thoughts race through her head - Beatrice, I’d pick you in a hundred lifetimes. Bea, there’s never going to be anyone else like you - but all of them fade away the moment Bea steps in, one hand moving to her cheek and quieting all of the thoughts in her mind.
Beatrice kisses her, eyes closed and mouth trembling slightly. Ava inhales sharply, hand flexing at her side before it settles lightly at Bea’s hip, afraid to shatter this moment that feels more delicate than anything she’s ever held in her whole life.
But Bea makes a noise, a fluttering sound that’s going to live in Ava’s head for the rest of her life, and she doesn’t care about not smashing anything anymore. She grips a little tighter, pulls Bea a little closer, kisses a little harder. Bea sighs against her lips, fingers burning hotter against her skin, and it’s the closest to the sun she’s ever been. She feels the couch against the back of her legs as Bea nudges her further into the living room, feels the corner of the end stand in her thigh.
Her hand moves to Bea’s back, their bodies flush as Ava steps to the side, around the couch and between the cushions and the coffee table. Bea feels everywhere at once: hands on her neck, hands on her cheeks, hands sliding down both of her arms and pulling them tighter around her own body. Her kisses are a little messier now, a little more desperate.
What’s the saying? About letting all the pressure out of the bottle?
She’s a champagne bottle, bubbling on the inside and tense, ready to be released. Bea, hands like a sharp knife, glides along her neck, fingernails digging into the soft skin there as she tips Ava’s head back and presses open-mouthed kisses to her pulse point. Ava feels a groan build in her throat and it loosen slowly in a long stretch.
It pains her to say it, but she gasps out a, “wait” and spreads her hand flat against the small of Bea’s back.
Bea lifts her head, eyes glittering darkly in the low light.
“This is a lot to process.”
Understanding blooms on Bea’s face and she starts to pull her hands back. Ava catches them, holds them tighter.
“No, no.” Ava breathes in, trying to calm her racing heart. “I-I’m giving you an out. We can just sit and-and do that thing where I use you as a human pillow. You can read- what the hell are you in the middle of reading?”
“The Sacred and-”
“And the Profane, right.” Ava nods, head feeling unbalanced. “I remember. I pay attention.”
“Ava.”
Ava takes in a shuddering breath. “What I’m saying is, we can stop. I can make you some tea and we can watch whatever you want or you can read and I can play Candy Crush on my phone - I almost beat level 328 - and that can be that. No pressure.”
Bea’s eyes search her face and Ava can see every freckle, every line. Some loose strands of hair fall from her bun, brushing her cheeks. She swallows back the urge to tucks them behind Bea’s ear and curls her hands into fists instead, waiting for Bea to let her know what comes next.
Bea’s lips part. “I don’t want the out.”
“Oh,” she says dumbly. “Good.”
She doesn’t wait a second more, leaning back in. If her kisses earlier were unrestrained, this is something else. Something unleashed. The cork pops and Ava is rushing out of the long neck of a bottle. She lets herself sit first, their arms tangled up in each other as they try to navigate the change. She hears someone hiss in frustration and knows it’s not her. Then Bea is urging her back against the cushion and Ava is sinking into the deep, sunken couches she fell in love with.
She has a new appreciation for them now, for the way they mold to her body when she lays back across the cushions as Bea slides like silk across her. Bea, legs bracketing her own. Bea, rising up above her and hands hesitating at the hem of the sweater she’s wearing.
Ava covers her hands, meets her eyes, and pushes up. Bea takes over when Ava’s arms don’t reach anymore, pulling the sweater up and over her head, tossed to the side in a way that Bea-ten-minutes-ago would never. It’s obvious in the way that Bea immediately flushes and reaches down to pick and put it gently on the coffee table. Ava smiles, charmed, and wiggles out of her own shirt, leaving it on top of Bea’s.
There’s a sharp inhale as they both come into focus. A finger runs down her sternum and Ava follows the finger to a hand to Bea’s arm, up to her face. She’s staring, forehead creased in thought, but after a moment, the look passes and she meets Ava’s eyes, smiling.
Ava’s hands spread out along Bea’s waistline, fingers flared out. She can feel Bea’s muscles rippling under the miles of skin she’s touching and she knows this is it for her. Now that she’s touched Bea like this, casual hands around Bea’s arm as they walk or toes digging under her thigh as they sprawl out on the couch is never going to be enough. She’s going to need all these soft parts of Bea she’s never seen before or it’s nothing.
Bea leans down, lifting Ava’s chin up to meet her halfway. This is tamer, sweeter. Bea captures her bottom lip between her own and Ava’s hand slides, fingers curling under the waistband of Bea’s pants. She’s never been more grateful for the loose fabric Bea is so fond of and the way it crushes under her fingertips. She works over the small button keeping her out, sighing into Bea’s next kiss when she finally loosens it. She works them down over Bea’s hips, waiting as Bea lifts onto her knees. They only go down so far and she pushes them uselessly at the unforgiving muscle of Bea’s thigh.
Bea frowns slightly and stands, impatient hands pushing the pants the rest of the way off. Ava laughs, feeling some of the tension drain from her body, and wiggles out of her soft gray sweatpants with the stain on the knee - another reminder of the hoisin sauce incident - leaving them in a pool on the floor. She breathes in, her whole body shaking with potential. Bea seems steadier, hands convincingly firm as she slips her fingers under the strap of Ava’s bra. She sits up again, sliding them off before she reaches behind her and unclasping it. It falls off her and she breathes in again, suddenly nervous.
She’s been naked before, but Bea has never been the one looking at her.
Bea’s fingers walk across her skin, leaving goosebumps behind. Ava fights back a shiver, but can’t hold all of it in.
“Sorry,” Bea says quickly, pulling her hand back.
Ava grabs her hand, lacing their fingers together. “No, don’t.” She smiles. “Don’t stop.”
Bea replaces her hand with her body, pressing into Ava in a hundred ways she didn’t know she wanted before. She’s hooked now, addicted after just one touch, and she’s never going to give this up. A demon masquerading as angel could come to Earth and demand she cast aside her earthly possessions and godly aspirations and she would tell him to shove it up his ass; she’s keeping this.
Fingers walk back across her shoulder and down her front, dusting over sensitive skin that sends her pressing up into the palm of Bea’s hand. She keens, a sound she’s never made before, and Bea’s fingers twitch as she pauses. She presses her hand over Bea’s, presses down, and sighs in relief when Bea leans in, lips replacing her fingers.
She grabs at Bea’s shoulder, nails scratching lightly over the skin. Bea leaves open-mouthed kisses against her chest, back up her neck and under her chin. She lifts Bea’s head, kisses her hard and smiles against Bea’s mouth when she hears the sharp inhale of air as her fingers drift down her sides to the soft skin of her stomach. Ava’s fingers drift in a lazy A while Bea breathes hard, their foreheads pressed together.
And then her fingers are sliding, down Bea’s front and past the last thin line separating them. Everything is hot - her hand, Bea’s body. It feels like too much heat, like they’re both going to burst into flames and burn up. Bea gasps, the loose strands of her hair hanging down between them and whispering against Ava’s chin. Ava has never played the piano but she treats Bea’s body like an instrument, working out high notes until Bea gasps again, the sound flickering between them.
Bea adds a melody, a quiet hum that starts in her throat and builds and builds. She moves with Ava, a steady push and pull that grows a little manic as the chorus layers and the bridge reaches its pressure point. Ava presses down on the keys, a vague memory of the sound of an A-sharp coming to her mind, and feels the way that Bea’s body fills with air before it rushes out against her ear and she goes taut, a string pulled tight above Ava that unravels slowly, until she’s sinking down against Ava, boneless and heavy.
Ava kisses her sweetly, nipping gently at her bottom lip while Bea smiles and draws a lazy circle against her side.
“For the record, when people ask, I made the first move,” Ava breathes against her mouth. She feels Bea’s smile more than she sees it. “At least pretend, for my sake? Mary will never let me live it down.”
Bea’s other hand drifts, thumb curling around her jawbone, under her ear. “I promise not to tell them right away.”
Ava considers it for a moment. “I can live with that.”
She glances at the clock as Bea drops her head to Ava’s shoulder, fingers still dancing at her waistline. One minute to midnight, still one minute left of Sunday.
“Can Sunday still be for the girls?” she mouths against the side of Bea’s forehead.
Bea turns, her cheek pressed to Ava’s bare skin. “I still don’t understand that,” she admits. “But I like spending Sundays with you. And if you want to call it something ridiculous, then that’s fine with me.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” she protests. “It’s a totally respectable practice. Tons of people do it. Lilith probably even does it.”
She feels a smile against her bare skin. “I sincerely doubt Lilith does it, but you’re free to ask her at game night.”
Ava considers that for a moment. “No, I don’t think I will.” She ignores Bea’s soft laugh. She hooks a finger under Bea’s chin instead, lifting her head up and leaning in until their lips brush. “But we’re doing the ghost tour next weekend because our tickets were non-refundable and I really want to learn about Seville’s greatest paranormal events. And because it goes right past our brunch spot and I’m sure Ana Lucia has been missing us.”
“I’m sure.”
“So have I,” she admits. “So you can see why this sudden development is such great news for me.”
“For me too,” Bea whispers. She lets her head drop again, her body a little heavier.
Ava strokes a hand through her hair. “I love you. And you’re going to get really sick of hearing that.”
Bea hums contentedly. “I don’t think I will.”
“We’ll see.”
She looks at the clock. Five past midnight, Monday morning.
Bea is starting to breathe a little deeper, a little steadier, and she’s going slack where she’s laying against Ava’s chest. Ava doesn’t stop her fingers from dancing along the back of Bea’s head, tapping out a slow rhythm that reminds her vaguely of the theme song to The Golden Girls.
If she had known Sundays would end up like this, mouth swollen from kissing and Bea’s skin against hers, she would have made up this rule a lot sooner. But maybe this is when it needed to happen. Maybe Bea had to meet Jenn-with-two-n’s and maybe her carefully constructed tower of balance had to come crashing down.
Maybe all their moments, snowballing from that fateful day in a laundromat to now, were leading up to this.
Sundays are for the girls.
She’s going to have to add that on Urban Dictionary. She just might have to leave a few things out.