Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

February 1943

When she first sees the advertisement in the newspaper, Carson almost shouts with joy. 

It had already been a decent day, all things considered. She had managed to get hold of a fair slab of butter at the store, the like of which was usually impossible to find even if you had the ration points and money to buy it. But then she sees the announcement and the butter is suddenly put into perspective. 

It is a quarter to four on a particularly miserable winter’s day, the weather all grey and gloomy with air so damp and drizzly that a good downpour would probably be preferable. Even with a vest under her shirt and her coat drawn tightly around her, Carson still hadn’t felt warm all day. 

Although she had nabbed a free seat earlier on the route, it is now standing room only on the streetcar and, even surrounded by a mass of bodies, she could still see her breath if she huffed. 

She is making her way home from her job as a secretary at Baker & Sons Solicitors and looking forward to a good sit-down before an evening shift volunteering with the Motor Corps. 

She had already read every word in today’s issue of The Chicago Tribune and was looking at the horoscopes, considering that they might be worth a try even if she wasn’t sure she believed in them. 

Her roommate’s reads, ‘A happy week if you make the effort. Lucky animal: deer,’ while her own says, ‘Formidable forces to be met: you won’t get your own way. Learn to compromise. Lucky animal: pigeon,’ which in comparison was far less inspiring. 

But then she sees it, under Situations Vacant and squeezed between a position for switchboard operators (training offered) and another for experienced trailer driver (must be sober and reliable. Preferably married but not absolutely essential). 

WANTED: Part-time Junior required at Tribune Publishing Ltd., publishers of The Chicago Tribune. Must be capable, enthusiastic hard worker with 60 wpm typing/110 wpm shorthand. Letters soonest to Mrs M. Wilkinson, Tribune Publishing Ltd., 160 N Stetson Ave, Chicago IL 60601.

It is the best job advertisement she has ever laid eyes on. 

All her life, she had been a voracious reader and, in turn, also desperately wanted to write. It didn’t even particularly matter what she wrote, so long as it was something of substance. Ever since she was a child, she had dreamed of writing books or newspaper articles or great poetry anthologies. At present, all she did was take notes for the solicitors at the office and, at times, it was a wonder she didn’t fall asleep while recording the minutes in shorthand. Once or twice, she had nodded off while typing them up but, in her defence, she had taken a night shift with the Red Cross beforehand, and on occasions those didn’t finish until well after midnight. 

She reads over the advertisement again, her heart now beating hard beneath the vest and coat which still did very little to keep her warm. Thinking of the opportunities that might come from a job like this one, she cannot help but wonder if securing the role might prove to her family that her aspirations were not quite so unattainable after all. 

In particular, her sister Meg had always thought it strange and unbecoming for Carson to aspire to something like being a writer, persistently telling her that the only women who became writers these days were ones with loose morals. 

Meg disapproved of all Carson’s greatest interests, including (but not limited to) writing, baseball, and the Motor Corps. The only thing she ever had approved of was Charlie, and that was another matter entirely. 

Nonetheless, Carson had persevered. After Charlie was deployed, Carson even moved to Chicago in an effort to find a job she liked that paid better than the ones back at home in Idaho. Meg had been particularly displeased at the idea of her moving to a strange city but had been somewhat placated upon hearing that Carson had a roommate to keep her company (or, more likely, to keep tabs on her). 

All the same, while finding a job in Chicago had been easy, finding one in her preferred field when she had almost no experience had proven much more difficult. 

But now, in front of her in black and white, there is a real chance to do something she loves. She can’t wait to apply. 

She leaves the streetcar at the next stop, grabbing onto her handbag, the newspaper, and the butter, and shouting a word of thanks to the conductress. In her rush to get home and show off her discovery, she manages to leave one of her gloves behind but, by the time she realises, the streetcar has already pulled away. 

As she hurries along the oddly empty sidewalk, she spots Guy wiping down the windows at Hillman’s bar. He glances up in time to see her, offering her a small smile before turning his head to either side to check who else might be walking past.

It was only upon moving to Chicago that Carson had realised just how very little she knew of the world outside her tiny hometown. Lake Valley was traditional, and its inhabitants were undiverse and allergic to change, and it had taken moving away for Carson to realise just how different life was for people who weren’t like her.

At the start, she had made mistakes. A lot of mistakes.

By now, however, she had learned not to stop and talk to Guy if there were too many passersby.

Today, all is quiet, and Guy greets her warmly as she approaches. Carson grins and sends him a quick wave. 

“You look like you’re in a good mood today,” he says once she is within earshot. “And a rush, too.” 

Guy works in the kitchen at Hillman’s bar, a quiet and – crucially - affordable spot where Carson likes to sit and read on rainy weekends. It had been on a particularly slow afternoon that Guy’s wife and her friend had called by. The only patron at the time, Carson had been occupying a cosy corner table and leafing through a new book when she heard Guy caution the women about being out front with the customers.

In response, one of the new arrivals had simply popped up from behind one of the half-open staff doors, given Carson a hard stare and said, “she doesn’t care. Do you?”

By now, Carson knows Max as a friend but, at the time, even if she had minded (she hadn’t) she wouldn’t have said so. Max cuts a confident and intimidating figure, and she had given little room for negotiation. By comparison, Clance - Guy’s wife – is bubbly, bright, and effusive. They are both a genuine delight but, as Carson has learned over time, Max is a force of nature in all kinds of weird and wonderful ways.

Consequently, in their first interaction, Carson had done little more than shake her head and return to her reading.

After that, she always made an effort to say ‘hi’ to Max, Clance, and Guy whenever she saw them. It took a while, but eventually they became friends. In particular, Max and Carson’s shared love of baseball sealed the deal and, if there is no one else at Hillman’s, they often sit together and listen to whichever game is on the wireless.

For his part, Guy is a nervous but genuinely sweet man who often sneaks extra portions onto Carson’s plate when she orders food. He lets her hang around after closing while he and the servers wipe down tables and stack chairs.

So, at any other time, Carson would stay awhile and chat to Guy, but she is keen to get home and start on her application before she has to head back out again.

“Page twelve,” she replies, breathless from excitement as much as from the walk and cold air. “The Tribune needs a Junior. This might be the one!” 

Guy likes books too, and he and Carson would often speak about whichever title the latter was reading. He knows how much Carson wants to write. His smile grows wider. 

“Good luck! Tell me all about it when you come in for a drink.” 

Carson promises to keep him updated and hurries on to the end of the road, crossing and continuing on past the nearby bakery and towards home. 

After a quick march up the stairs to the top floor, Carson bursts through the front door and across the hallway. She finds Shirley in the living room, sitting in an armchair with her feet propped on the matching footstool as she blows on a cup of tea to cool it down. She is still in her work dress and good stockings, and had probably only just arrived home from the bank, where she works as a teller. 

“Guess what amazing news I’ve just had!” 

Shirley glances up, looking startled. “Oh my God. We’ve won the war? Shoot, I haven’t had the wireless switched on. Will you put it on while - ” 

Carson shakes her head. “No. Something better.”

Shirley blinks up at her, wearing an owlish expression. “Something better than…the war being over?” 

“Okay, fine. Next best thing.” Carson shoves the newspaper onto the armrest of the chair. 

“Switchboard operator? Really?” Shirley asks, furrowing her brow. 

“No Shirls. Beneath that.” 

Shirley scans the advertisement and smiles. 

“Oh ,” she breathes. “Carson…this is it.”

Carson nods, perching on the edge of the other armchair, the one that they arbitrarily treat as hers through some unspoken habit. “I mean, it could be, right? It could be the start of something.”

Shirley carefully sets her cup down on the coffee table and sits up straight in the chair. 

“Of course it could be. You’d do an amazing job at The Tribune.” Like Guy, Shirley is well aware of Carson’s aspirations and immensely supportive. She is also incredibly practical and level-headed. “But you should apply today or first thing tomorrow if you can, to make sure you’re first in line and to show how enthusiastic you are. Mr Baker will give you a good reference. Or perhaps someone from the Red Cross? Or - wait. Will you still be able to do your shifts with them?” 

Carson had joined the Red Cross Motor Corps a year ago, fed up of feeling guilty that Charlie was away fighting while she was trying to pursue a career. She volunteered on a few evenings every week, usually driving men, letters, or supplies across the city. She and some of the other women in her volunteer group had had their picture taken last summer for a newsletter, all of them in their grey uniforms and smiling at the camera. Carson had put the cutting in with one of her letters to Charlie. He wrote back to say the picture had cheered him up, and he was glad Carson was keeping busy. 

“It’s part-time,” Carson says, and Shirley checks the listing again to see for herself. 

“It sounds perfect,” Shirley replies seriously. “Perhaps it’ll be your big chance. Plus, you’re already up to date with current affairs.” She flips through the newspaper. “I’ll test you. We can pretend I’m interviewing you. Ah, here we go: where did they just tell us the President was last month?” 

“That’s an easy one. Casablanca, Morocco.”

“Good.” Shirley rifles through a few more pages. “Who’s just been chosen to lead the Allied armies in Europe?”

“General Eisenhower,” Carson says, although it feels like a bit of a cheat given that she had read the paper only half an hour ago and there had been another write-up about him. “Give me a more difficult one.” 

“How much do you have to earn to pay the Victory Tax?” Shirley asks, not looking at the paper this time. 

Carson thinks for a moment. Eventually, she replies, “over $12 a week?”

“Question or answer?”

“Answer,” Carson says firmly. 

Shirley smiles again. “You’re going to do great at the newspaper, Carson. But - oh,” she adds suddenly. “That’s a thought. What do you think Charlie will say? I think he’ll panic that they’ll end up making you a war correspondent or something. I’d panic if they did that, come to think of it. Oh God - do you think they will Carson?”  

Carson pauses for a moment. She wants to jump to Charlie’s defence, but she has to admit that Shirley has a point. Although he was glad she had joined the war effort in her own way, Charlie did tend to worry. His letters had taken on a distinctly concerned tone when she told him she was considering moving out of Lake Valley, and this had only worsened when she sent him her new address in Chicago. He was her best friend, and she valued his opinion, but he had taken time to warm up to Carson’s writing aspirations. In truth, he wasn’t really all the way warmed up yet, and Carson was growing increasingly concerned that he would come home keen to settle down and have kids. A few of his letters had implied something to this effect already.

“Firstly, I haven’t got the job yet, so steady on. They’re not about to make me a war correspondent. And Charlie’s not one for a fuss, so I’m sure he’ll be pleased if this all works out.”

“Will you take the job even if he isn’t pleased?” 

“Yes,” Carson replies quickly, guilt heavy in her stomach at the thought of acting so selfishly. All the same, she couldn’t pass up this opportunity waiting for a letter from Charlie about his opinion on it all.  “If I’m even offered it.” 

Shirley smiles again and crosses her fingers.

“Right, well,” Carson says, rising out of the chair. “I’m going to work on my application and then head out for my shift. I’ll see if anyone there can give me a reference.” 

Shirley looks at the paper again. “Good idea. It does say ‘letters soonest’.”

Carson leaves Shirley skimming through the headlines and makes her way to her bedroom, seating herself at the vanity and taking out her very best pen in order to write to The Chicago Tribune. 

*

One week later, and Carson is a mess of nerves. Since writing to Mrs Wilkinson, she had been painstakingly keeping up with the news, and Shirley had tested her every morning over breakfast. She had even roped in a couple of people on her Red Cross shifts, and they were all very supportive and excited. 

And now, as impossible as it had seemed a few weeks ago, she is on her way to an interview. 

The weather isn’t particularly different today than it had been when she first saw the advertisement; still bitterly cold and dreary, albeit with a merciful reprieve from the drizzle. 

Carson is wearing her smartest shirt and newest skirt, having worried that her dresses were too simple for an interview. What with all the rationing, it was hard to find the right fabric to make anything more professional. She was also making do with a moderately worn-in pair of shoes, as she only had a couple more pairs on her ration allotments to last the entire year. Still, Shirley had been kind enough to lend her a hat and, all told, Carson thought she looked businesslike enough. 

She had taken the day off work and had caught a streetcar to make it to the interview without looking dishevelled, although the building was conveniently within walking distance of the apartment. Being so nervous, she had allotted far too much time for her journey and, as a result, is forced to wait outside the offices and contemplate the dizzying thought that she might soon be able to work there. 

When she can handle the nerves no longer, she forces herself to stride into the building with as much confidence as she can muster, which was to say not a particularly substantial amount. 

Although Shirley, Max, and her friends at the Motor Corps had been remarkably supportive, Carson is under no illusions that no one else really thought she was cut out to be a writer. Perhaps Mrs Wilkinson would think the same. 

The Tribune offices’ entrance hall is ornate but not particularly well heated, and the polished floor gives Carson another thing to fear: the possibility of slipping and making a fool of herself. Placing her steps as carefully as a foal on ice, she manages to approach the mahogany reception desk without incident.

A nice woman directs her to the fifth floor with instructions to take the elevator to the third - as high as it would go, apparently - and then go down a corridor to the right, and up two flights of stairs. 

“Go through the set of double doors, no need to knock, and you’ll find someone there to direct you further.”

“Thanks,” Carson says, managing to muster up a nervous smile that must appear rather lacklustre. 

“Good luck,” the receptionist says with a smile. 

Carson steps into the elevator and joins two men in business suits who are arguing about the censors implemented by the Motion Picture Production Code. 

“...didn’t even get a chance to see The Outlaw before they pulled it,” one grumbles. “Damned codes.” 

“From what I heard, the advertising was scandalous,” the other says, although the grin on his face suggests that he himself might not have felt particularly put out by it. “Too much focus on Russell’s assets so far as I can tell.” 

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the first replies, chortling to himself. “Well, now I’m even more sorry to have missed it.” 

Carson attempts to suppress a grimace but is perhaps too slow, because the second man suddenly says, 

“What about you sweetheart? Think they should have let Jane Russell display her talents on the big screen?”

Carson feels herself grow hot for a moment. Russell had hardly shown anything in the advertising, although it was a little more suggestive than she was used to seeing in movies. 

“Well, if the codes deemed it inappropriate, then I suppose it must have been,” she says mildly, trying to banish all thoughts of Jane Russell from her mind before her big interview. 

The first man laughs to himself and mutters, “see - they can’t even make their own minds up, yet we have to work with them while the war’s on.”

Before Carson can think to respond, the elevator door rattles open and the men stride away. Squaring her shoulders and trying to brush the comment aside, she finds the staircase and climbs to the fifth floor, reminding herself that this was never going to be easy. 

She pauses at the top of the stairs to fix her hair slightly, using the glare on a framed picture of an austere-looking old man as a mirror. Then, she pushes the double doors open and enters a poorly-lit corridor, one which appears to be far more worn-in than the main lobby downstairs. This is clearly a staff-only area, lined on both sides with doors demarcated with slim plaques and nameplates. 

It is quiet here, so much so that Carson feels like an intruder creeping through a stranger’s home. Behind some of the doors comes the quiet sound of typing, but there are no other signs of life anywhere. It is far less action-packed than she had imagined.

Casting about for someone to report to, she finds a half-open door halfway down the corridor. Taped on it is a small piece of card - a far more rudimentary nameplate than some of the others. The name written in a neat, slanted hand is ‘Miss Fox’. 

Just as Carson is about to knock and call upon the unknown Miss Fox for assistance, someone else beats her to it. 

“Miss Fox…?” a voice shouts from a half-open door a little further down the hallway, sounding slightly panicked. “Miss Fox? Oh for heaven’s sake…I’ll just get it myself.” 

After some scuffling around, a man with a moustache and round glasses appears in the doorway. He is dressed in a smart suit, rather like the men in the elevator, although he is not wearing a jacket and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, presumably to avoid contact with the large quantity of ink on his hands. He doesn’t introduce himself, but stares at Carson for a moment as if trying to work out why she isn’t the elusive Miss Fox. Carson pretends not to notice that he has ink smeared above his top lip, mingling in rather impressively with his moustache. 

When the journalist shows no further signs of speaking, Carson says, 

“Hello. I’m Carson. Shaw. I have an interview with Mrs Wilkinson.” 

“Oh for pity’s…” the man huffs, cutting himself off abruptly. “Surely not already?”

“I was instructed to arrive by eleven o’clock,” Carson tells him helpfully. 

“Mrs Wilkinson isn’t here,” the man tells her, now sounding much more sympathetic than he had a moment ago. “Not that she ever is these days.”

Carson feels her stomach twist in disappointment. That isn’t a particularly promising statement. 

“Well, I can wait for her to come back.” 

“Who knows when that will be,” the man says with a grimace. “I suppose I’d better see to it.” 

He reaches out to shake her hand before thinking better of it. “No, don’t worry about that. All this ink…nevermind. Why don’t you come with me?” 

Carson elects not to mention the ink on his face as she follows him into the office and finally gets a look at the name on the door: Mr H. Luehrman, Features and Editor at Large. 

Beyond the sign is a room in total disarray, with papers piled high both around and on Mr Luehrman’s desk, half of them stained with the contents of what appears to be an inkwell that has gone awry. As he weaves around stacks of books on the floor, he finds a blotter on the ground and begins to mop up the spilled ink. 

“I think I got it all, but watch out just in case,” he warns eventually, sounding glum. “Do sit down.” 

Carson positions herself on a spindly-looking wooden chair and waits for Mr Luehrman to settle in a far more comfortable-looking leather seat on the other side of the desk. 

“Right,” he says thoughtfully, still gazing at his desk for stray puddles of ink. Eventually, he looks up and meets Carson’s gaze. “Why on earth do you want this job?” 

This catches Carson off guard. She had expected to have to prove her enthusiasm, not to defend it, which the question seemed to imply she should do. 

“Well, er, I’m very interested in writing. I’ve always been a hard worker and I’ve worked as a secretary at Baker & Sons Solicitors for almost a year so my typing speed is sixty-two words per minute. For shorthand, it’s one hundred and twenty.” 

For a moment, Mr Luehrman simply blinks at her, and Carson wonders what she might have said wrong. 

“I have…” she begins again, speaking slowly in case the editor might want to ask another question. When she is met with silence, she says, “…very good references from Mr Baker and from one of the senior volunteers at the Red Cross Motor Corps.” 

“Yes, yes, yes, very good,” Mr Luehrman says, rather bravely running a hand over his brow. As it would happen, he manages not to smear more ink across his face this time. “But let’s get to the crux of the matter. Are you likely to be easily intimidated? Can you take down dictation well?” 

She thinks of Meg, lecturing her down the phone about this interview only a day ago while Carson had simply remained silent and let her sister bluster on until she was done. It would be no good admitting that she didn’t have a provable history of standing up for herself, however, so she crosses her fingers in the material of her skirt. 

“I don’t think so. And yes, one hundred - ”

“- and twenty-five, yes, sorry. You said.” 

Carson wonders if this is an impressive speed or not. After all, the advertisement had only called for one hundred and ten, so she should at least get a point for exceeding expectations. This was not something she had found herself doing much in her life, other than defying some of the neighbors’ expectations that she would turn out like her mother. Although, that being said, she had left Lake Valley just as her mother had…

“...so you’ll need to agree that you’ll be able to handle her moods. The last Junior only lasted two weeks.”

Carson realises that she has let her attention wander. This seems like an odd request, but she could hardly ask Mr Luehrman to repeat himself, so she crosses her fingers again and nods, thinking once more of Meg. She had handled her moods for over twenty years. 

“Yes, that should be fine.” 

Mr Luehrman fails to entirely hide a look of scepticism, but doesn’t press the matter further. 

“Okay. Well, in that case - when can you start?” 

Carson tries not to let her mouth fall open. Surely it couldn’t have been that easy…

“Oh. Wow. Well, thank you very much. I’ll need two weeks for my current job. If - if that’s alright?”

An unreadable expression fixes itself on Mr Luehrman’s face and he sighs, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a cigarette. Before he lights it, he finally shakes Carson’s hand. 

“Yes,” he says eventually. “That will have to do.” 

*

After two weeks of reflection, Carson realises she probably should have asked at least one question about the nature of her new job. This, it turns out, had been quite the oversight. 

But, between the men in the elevator talking about Jane Russell, the absent Miss Fox, and the ink debacle, the interview had simply passed her by in what was now a complete blur. When she returned home to the apartment that afternoon, Shirley had bombarded her with questions about the job and had been horrified when Carson was unable to answer a single one. 

In the fortnight since, she had left her job at Baker & Sons and had managed to procure a few outfits suitable for the new office. There had, however, been little else she could do to prepare, given her complete and utter lack of information about the role. The only new details she possessed had come in the form of a letter sent to her, detailing her start date (Monday, March 15th, 1943), her new working hours (9am to 2:30pm with two ten minute breaks), her wages ($21 per week), and her annual leave entitlement (five days). 

As such, she returns to the headquarters of The Tribune with some trepidation, but also a great deal of excitement. She makes her way back up to the fifth floor and is surprised to find it just as empty as on the day of her interview. She had thought Monday mornings might be a little busier. 

This time, at least, Miss Fox appears to be at her desk. Her door is slightly ajar and Carson can hear the sound of rapid typing coming from the room. 

She taps lightly on the door and peeks inside, finding a pretty woman with a cheerful face and bright blonde curls sitting behind a battered oak desk, much smaller than Mr Luehrman’s had been. Miss Fox glances up from her typewriter and offers Carson a big, beaming smile. 

“Hi. Good morning,” Carson says. “Sorry to interrupt you. I’m the new Junior. I was wondering if you could tell me which floor Mrs Wilkinson works on?”

Miss Fox looks confused. “Which floor?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Oh, you’re in the right place already, hon. She works on this floor. The door to the left of this one, as you’re facing them.” She points at the wall to her right - Carson’s left - showing off perfectly manicured red fingernails. She smiles again. “I think she’s in a fair mood today. By her standards.” 

Carson nods, her confusion and trepidation both growing by the second, as she thanks Miss Fox and knocks on the next door down. She hears a shout from within, so cautiously pushes the door open. 

“Mrs Wilkinson? I’m Carson Shaw, I’m - ”

“Late,” Mrs Wilkinson supplies haughtily. “I hope your timekeeping skills are generally better.” 

Startled by the tone of the response, Carson glances towards the clock on the wall just in time to see the minute hand tick away from the 12 to mark her as one minute late. 

“I - ” she begins, before deciding that contrition is probably the best approach. “I’m sorry. I was trying to find your office.” 

“Yes, yes, the damned sign fell off and no one has come around to fix it.” 

Even sitting down behind her desk, Mrs Wilkinson is an imposing figure. Looking to be in her sixties, she is stout and seems to be very tall, clad in a matching Glen plaid skirt and jacket, with a felt hat perched squarely on her head. She seems to have affixed a feather of some kind to the hat and, coupled with the strands of grey in her hair, it made her look very grave and stern. 

Privately, Carson wonders why Mrs Wilkinson can’t fix the sign herself, but already knows she would not ask the woman in front of her such a question. 

For some reason, Mrs Wilkinson had thrown the window in her office wide open despite the winter weather and Carson shivers, although she is not entirely sure whether this is down to the chilly air or Mrs Wilkinson’s cold demeanour. 

“So, Mrs Shaw - I take it from your title and ring that you’re married?” 

Carson glances down at her left hand before nodding. “Yes ma’am.” 

“Good, good. I prefer hiring married ladies; they give me much less trouble. And is your gentleman in the war?” 

Carson nods again and repeats her answer. 

“Well, we try not to talk about the war too much here. Extremely dreary topic,” Mrs Wilkinson says with a put-upon sigh, as if Hitler had started the whole conflict merely to be bothersome to her personally. 

Carson feels her expression go blank. The Tribune runs multiple headlines about the war each day…

“Henry told you all about the role, I assume?” 

Carson couldn’t be entirely sure whether Henry (Mr Leuhrman, she assumes) hadn’t told her, or whether he had laid down the basic information while she wasn’t listening. 

“Yes, he did,” she lies. 

“And you have a typing speed of…?” 

“Sixty-two words per minute.” 

“Yes, well, that will do. In addition to typing letters, you’ll be required to do any other typing I might need. If there’s time, you might also assist Henry. Miss Fox will let you know if I can spare you for an hour or two.” 

“Typing letters,” Carson repeats, confused. 

“Yes. You are the Junior Typist, after all.” 

Carson feels her stomach sink. This was not the job she had applied for at all, but she was loath to let Mrs Wilkinson know that. At least she was still working at The Tribune, after all. That had to count for something.

“Yes, of course,” Carson says, trying to sound enthusiastic. 

“Good, then please go and speak with Miss Fox. She’ll get you settled in. Please also sign the Confidentiality Agreement, and don’t waste time reading any unsuitable or unpleasant letters. You’ll be surprised how many we get.”

The prospect of confidential and perhaps unpleasant letters doesn’t sound too dry or dull, so Carson excuses herself with a lingering sense of optimism.

Whatever this job is, it will still be more exciting than anything that had ever happened at home in Lake Valley.

*

“You can just call me Maybelle,” says Miss Fox within a few minutes of Carson’s return. “I can already tell we’re going to be friends.”

“Thanks, I hope we will,” Carson tells her. “I’d prefer to be called Carson, by the way. Not Mrs Shaw.”

Maybelle tips her a grin. “Gotcha sweet.”

Carson’s new officemate is bubbly and lively, seemingly unaware of the way she is the only blot of colour in the otherwise drab surroundings. Or perhaps she is simply happy to be that way. It is already hard to imagine Maybelle feeling particularly cowed by Mrs Wilkinson.

Indeed, she all but bounces around the tiny room as she gathers up a few supplies, chattering away about the work, how it’s pretty dull but still better than her last job, although she does not specify what this was.

“My last job wasn’t very interesting either,” Carson admits, trying her best to be friendly and make a good impression. “I love your sweater, by the way.”

Maybelle glances down at the green knitted jumper. “Thanks! I just finished making it this weekend. I’m pleased with it although you shouldn’t look too closely, or else you’ll break the illusion that I can knit well.”

Carson laughs. She had always been absolutely terrible at anything involving a needle or a crochet hook. Her mother had taught her much more about baking than about sewing or knitting before she left, and even in that context Carson’s skills were limited. Some of the women in town would laugh about it, as well as her inability to keep a house as naturally as Meg or the rest of the women at church. They would generally play the amusement off as gentle teasing, but the malicious edge to the whole thing had always made Carson feel even more strange and out of place than she already did. As such, in reply to Maybelle she says only,

“I’m sure you’re great at it. Much better than me, probably.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure,” Maybelle counters with an easy laugh. “But we all just have to make do at the moment, don’t we? Anyway, better not get too caught up talking about the war. Or about anything, really. Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t like it.” She flashes Carson a mischievous look. “We can get to know each other better when she goes out. She’s always doing something with a charity or a cause - as if those poor people don’t have it hard enough. Anyway, that’s your desk there.”

She points unnecessarily to the only other desk in the cramped room. It turns out to be identical to Maybelle’s and just as battered, although it is currently empty except for a typewriter, a stack of in-trays, and an Anglepoise lamp.

The two desks are lined up against opposing walls, so that Carson and Maybelle will be facing each other as they work. Maybelle’s own desk coasts a fine line between chaotically disordered and acceptably busy. She has a few messy stacks of paper either side of her typewriter, a cup lined with a few congealed tea leaves off to the right, and a wilted-looking potted plant teetering precariously close to the left edge. Pinned to a board on the wall behind her is a calendar covered in circles and heavy annotations, several sewing patterns, and what appeared to be a hand-written list of telephone numbers.

Maybelle bustles to Carson’s desk and sets down a notepad, pencils, and a rather old fountain pen, along with a single sheet of paper.

“She’s probably already told you, but you’ll need to sign this confidentiality thing. Everyone does it. It’s just because there are a lot of personal details in the letters, but honestly sometimes we share a story or two amongst ourselves. Some of the stuff is exciting. And racy.” She pauses. “But don’t tell her I said that. I need to keep this job, unfortunately.”

Carson comes to stand next to Maybelle.

“What sort of letters does Mrs Wilkinson receive? And what articles does she write?” she asks.

Maybelle looks puzzled. “Articles? Well, that’s generous. I wouldn’t really call them that. Henry did… explain the job to you, right?”

Carson looks back at her for a moment, knowing she probably appears vacant and rather ridiculous.

“No, I mean, he probably didn’t,” Maybelle murmurs to herself before rifling through her desk drawers for something. “Always in a flap about something, that one, although he’s sweet enough.”

While she searches, Carson glances at the confidentiality agreement. 

I ………………………………………………… agree that as an employee of Tribune Publishing Ltd., I will treat all reader correspondence to Woman & Home with strict confidence. I agree that I will not discuss the contents of letters with anyone outside of Woman & Home’s staff. I understand that failure to comply may result in my termination without a reference.

Woman & Home? What the hell was Woman & Home?

She asks Maybelle, who throws her an encouraging look and brings her a colour magazine.

“Sorry hon, I hoped you might’ve heard of Mrs. Wilkinson Helps. She’s been an agony aunt probably since before either of us was born, so I think some of the older staff just assume everyone knows of her.”

Maybelle flips to the penultimate page and Carson glances down to find a women’s problem page staring smugly up at her. Her heart sinks and she quickly feels immeasurably stupid.

Maybelle pats her lightly on the forearm. “I tried to tell them to change that advertisement but no one here listens to me. You’re the third one this has happened to, sorry sweetie. Tribune Publishing Ltd. owns Woman & Home, but the newspaper writers treat us like the embarrassing cousin no one wants at dinner. Mrs Wilkinson retired ages ago, but our editor got called up last year and so she was asked back until the war’s over. That’s why she’s never here; she’d rather be back in her retirement but didn’t feel she could say ‘no’. But listen, it’s not all bad. I’ll make sure we have lots of fun.”

Carson reaches down and flips to the front of the magazine. The cover says it was a December 1942 edition. It boasts the title of the magazine and the tagline: For the American Woman . This issue offers festive recipes that won’t put a strain on your finances or your ration card, as well as ‘a gay little jumper-suit and other knitting patterns’. The rest of the space was occupied by a picture of a woman sitting at a writing desk with pen in hand, gazing at a photograph of a G.I. in uniform, along with some writing that said ‘letters from home lift our brave boys’ morale! Pick up a pen and do your patriotic duties today! Conversation dos and don’ts, questions to ask, and much more inside.’

It is precisely the kind of dull housewife’s magazine the women back at home would read.

“I do quite like some of the patterns,” Maybelle confesses as she watches Carson. “They’re quite helpful, especially at the moment. But the rest could send me off to sleep if I’m being honest.”

Partly to avoid staring at the photograph of the G.I., Carson flips back to the problems page. Glumly, she says, “so I guess it’s my job to type up the letters.”

“Yes, although you’ll have to pick the ones that meet Mrs Wilkinson’s rules. She’s a worse censor than the Motion Picture Code, and I’m still put out that I never got to see The Outlaw. Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll show you around, then I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we’ll get started afterwards. How’s that sound?”

Carson turns to Maybelle – who really is very nice – and gives her the best smile she can muster, although she feels anything but happy right now.

Of course this had happened to her. Of course she had taken the wrong job.

*

“So, the magazine used to sell a lot more copies,” Maybelle explains before dropping her voice. “Can’t imagine why it’s in decline.”

She leads Carson along the dark corridor and past all the closed doors. Carson’s heart sinks even further than it already had. Not only did she leave a perfectly admirable job at Baker & Sons, but who even knew how long this job would last?

“We used to have more typists than just you and I,” Maybelle goes on, back at normal volume as they walk past Henry Leurhman’s office without stopping. “But now there’s barely anyone here so everything is quiet and a bit emptier. We still use the old typists’ room to store back issues and office supplies so if you need anything, it’s probably in here.” She points to a closed door.

“How long has it been like this?”

“Since before I worked here,” Maybelle answers. “I joined back in late ’41, and it was already like this. I don’t think the magazine really kept up with the times. There’s now a lot more to read: short story publications, magazines for working women, and so on. I personally think we should start answering some of the more risqué letters, but Henry tells me that we’re not allowed to ‘scare off’ our existing customer base, if there even is one. Of course, there’s also the problem of the war, meaning that a lot of staff joined up and a lot more women work and probably don’t have time to bother with the magazine anymore. Still, everyone who’s left here is really nice, so let’s go meet them.”

She trots off down the corridor with Carson hot on her heels. The whole place is so quiet and dark that she feels like she had been accidentally locked in a department store after hours.

Maybelle points at another door. “Just here is what’s left of the advertising team, which is basically just Ana. She doesn’t work on Mondays because there’s not enough work for her now that advertisers are going to other publications.” She moves on to the next room. “This is the art team; they do all the illustrations.”

She knocks and walks straight in. “Morning Ruth, Helen. Good weekend? I’m just showing Mrs Shaw round. She’s our new Junior and told me she’d rather we call her Carson.” 

This office, much like the others, is dreary and far too small. Two women about Carson and Maybelle’s age look up from their desks. One of them has dark hair, and the other is a blonde with pigtails, and large, round glasses perched on the end of her nose. 

From the door, Carson can see that the dark-haired one is drawing a picture of a glamorous-looking woman in a red dress. She greets Carson first and introduces herself as Helen.

“And I’m Ruth,” says the other. With a smile, she adds, “I also do Production, so please don’t miss your deadlines.”

There is a third, empty desk in the room, so Carson asks, “who sits there?”

“Oh, that’s Terri,” Ruth says. “She must be running a bit late this morning, but we won’t tell on her.”

Apart from Mrs Wilkinson herself, everyone here does seem very nice, but Carson still cannot help but feel disheartened. She would have been better off staying with Mr Baker, and she certainly would have been better off not telling her sister and father about this new job, although she supposes Meg will be delighted. Charlie will likely be pleased too – no chance of her being sent to write about the war here. She imagines that Shirley will be quite sweet about the whole thing, but will no doubt tell her that she should have asked more questions at the interview.

Maybelle begins to explain the job once they are back in her office (although Carson supposes it is their shared office now).

“So, firstly, you’ll need to open all the mail and put the letters on Mrs Wilkinson’s desk. But you can only leave the acceptable ones. Anything remotely off-colour gets cut to ribbons and put in the wastepaper basket. There’s a list of unacceptable topics and another of words and phrases she won’t publish or respond to, both of which will probably give you a good laugh. We tell readers that Mrs Wilkinson will reply in confidence if they supply a stamped addressed envelope, or will publish the letters if not, so almost everyone writes in anonymously or using a fake name. We also print some crap about the mailbag being very full so that readers expect a delay, but that’s just because she won’t reply to most of them.”

Carson skim-reads through the December ’42 problems page and quickly finds that Mrs Wilkinson is not very sympathetic in any of her responses. Most of the time, she blames the women for their problems, such as the girl looking for a cure for toothache who was told that it was her own fault for consuming candy, and that she was suffering the consequences now.

“Is she always so…” Carson pauses, casting about for an appropriate, diplomatic word.

Maybelle, however, seems unbothered about subtlety. 

“Harsh?” she supplies. “Yes, pretty much. She seems to think our generation has gone to the dogs and it’s her job to step in and give us all a talking to.”

Carson reads another letter, this one from a woman whose mother had died at a young age, and who was struggling to find anyone to help instruct her in housekeeping matters like cooking and cleaning, although she is apparently fair at sewing and darning. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Wilkinson had not taken a tender approach, and had merely chastised the girl for not seeking support from friends and neighbours. She advises her to make more of an effort, and to follow the recipes and cleaning tips printed in Woman & Home.

Carson cannot help but wonder what Mrs Wilkinson would think of her.

“Here you go,” Maybelle says, pulling Carson’s attention away from the magazine and its cold attempts at advice. She hands Carson a list of unacceptable topics, noted at the top as confidential and not exhaustive:

• Relations –
• Premarital
• Marital
• Extra-marital
• Intimate
• Physical or sexual (including all mentions and results of)
• Politics
• Religion
• Illegal activities
• The war (excluding queries about rationing, volunteering, and the suchlike)
• Cookery

Carson blinks at the last word. “Does this say ‘cookery’?”

“Oh, yeah,” Maybelle answers. “That stuff usually meets the acceptability criteria, but it goes to Terri; she writes Mrs. Cobell’s Cookery Corner. Here, you’ll need this as well.” She hands Carson another list, this time of words and phrases that will not be published or receive a response. It is several pages long and alphabetised:

• A-B
• Affair
• Allies
• Allied Forces
• Amorous
• Axis
• Axis Forces
• Bed
• Bedroom (unless seeking home-keeping advice)
• Berlin…

On and on it went.

Finally, Maybelle produces a slim stack of envelopes. “And without further ado, here’s the newest letters. Don’t be surprised if you end up throwing them all away. Of course, if they’re shocking or scandalous, don’t forget to let me know first.” She tips Carson a wink. “What Mrs W. doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Although she still feels pretty downtrodden, Carson cannot deny that she is intrigued by what some of the letters might hold. She had always felt rather sheltered back at home, and no one really talked about anything racy or private, not even amongst friends, although she had had precious few of those. As a teenager, she had tried to ask Meg the kinds of questions she still felt a young person ought to ask, about love and romance and human bodies, but Meg had simply swatted her away and told her never to mention any of that awful stuff again.

Carson felt that, if she really wanted to help, Mrs Wilkinson probably should offer that kind of advice, but judging by the lists of restrictions, anything remotely on the topic of relationships, even when completely chaste and innocent, would result in the letter getting torn to shreds. 

If nothing else, this job would give her new insights into the world; they just weren’t the insights she had expected.

She gets to work opening the envelopes and finds quite the odd mix. There are some typed letters, many of them signed with a phrase or vague description rather than a name, such as ‘Confused Fiancée’ or ‘Worried Mother’. Others are handwritten in ink with both a proper name and signature, while still others came in pencil and generally seemed to be from girls and teenagers. All the letters appeared to be from women, although Carson did find one from a man writing in about his wife.

For a while, things look promising. Carson finds a letter from a woman whose arthritis was making it difficult for her to complete a knitting project. She puts that one in the approved pile. My daughter is extremely energetic, another woman writes, even for her age. She is quite skilled athletically, and I would like to know which activities are most ladylike. Thinking that this one would probably slip through the censor on the basis that the mother wanted to find ‘ladylike’ pastimes, Carson keeps it.  

After that, however, things became trickier. Someone had written in to ask whether it was acceptable to begin dating again as a young war widow with a child. Another young reader had a crush on a boy and wanted to know if she should let him kiss her. Feeling incredibly guilty, Carson takes a pair of scissors and cuts the letters up. Yet another reads,

Dear Mrs Wilkinson,

I am a nineteen-year-old woman currently completing my nursing training. I am very passionate about the work and can’t wait to help people. However, my parents are worried about the job being improper, particularly if I am caring for soldiers. A male friend of mine has recently asked my father if we can marry. I am not sure how much I love him. We have kissed a couple of times, but I didn’t enjoy it all that much. My mother thinks I probably do love him, but I’m just reluctant to marry because I’m enjoying my training so much. She says he’s a good man and will support me if I still want to be a nurse once we’ve tied the knot. I know how happy it would make my parents if I got married, but I just want to focus on my work. What should I do?

Yours faithfully,

Aspiring Nurse

Carson’s heart goes out to Aspiring Nurse. She and Charlie had gotten married rather quickly, all things considered, and mostly she had agreed to rush because she felt she had to. Carson would have been more than happy to take things slow.

While the nineteen-year-old’s question seems perfectly reasonable in Carson’s eyes, she suspects her boss would have a different opinion. Relationships were a prohibited topic and, flipping to the K-L section on the list of banned words, she discovers that ‘kiss’ and ‘kissing’ are both definitely a problem. She cannot quite bring herself to cut this one up just yet, however, so she sets it to one side and gathers up a few letters to read to Maybelle.

“Dear Mrs Wilkinson. I am all set to marry my fiancé next month, but I worry that I am going to be too ignorant about some aspects of married life - ”

“No,” Maybelle says quickly without asking to hear anything further. Carson quickly rips the letter into eighths with her hands.

“Okay, well, what about: Dear Mrs Wilkinson. I am worried about the lack of interest my husband shows in me, particularly when we are alone.”

“Not a chance.”

Carson tears the paper up.

“Dear Mrs Wilkinson. My husband of three years has always complimented me on my housekeeping, and he particularly enjoys my cooking.” Carson pauses for a moment. Maybelle’s expression seems much more encouraging. Then, Carson reads on. “Oh. Never mind. She goes on to say that her husband had no complaints about how she keeps the house, but is encouraging her to try and be a bit more adventurous in other parts of her life.”

“Bedroom?” Maybelle asks knowingly.

Carson skims the rest of the letter. “Not just that but…yes.”

“And another one bites the dust,” Maybelle says, voice grave. 

“Dear Mrs Wilkinson. I would like to know how to make my rations go further for my family of seven… Nope, forget that one too. That’s for Terri.” Carson groans and snatches up the next envelope. “Doesn’t she answer any of her readers?”

“Not if she thinks it’s improper. No swearing, smoking, drinking, or sex in a magazine for women.” Maybelle affects an exaggeratedly scandalised tone before laughing. In reality, she doesn’t seem to be someone who is easy to shock.

“I thought she was supposed to help people.”

“Well, she thinks she is helping them,” Maybelle points out. “But obviously, she isn’t. She’s just being an old battle-axe. I once saw a streetcar conductress write in for advice about how to fend off unwanted attention from her male passengers. It was supposed to be destroyed but Mrs Wilkinson found it and threw it away herself, saying that this woman shouldn’t be making herself so desirable. It’s horrible, but there’s just not much we can do about it unfortunately.”

The whole thing makes Carson feel very uncomfortable. The magazine receives letters from many women and girls who are brave enough to ask for help, only for it to be refused because their problems aren’t considered important enough. Carson remembers what it was like before moving to Chicago - before Shirley and Max and Clance. She had had no one to talk to about some of these topics. It had been incredibly lonely. Some days - most days, if she is being honest - it still is lonely, even though she loves her friends.

Listening to Maybelle talk about other letters which have been rejected in the past, Carson realises that most of the correspondents to the magazine are simply feeling the brunt of this difficult time. Some of them are feeling lost and scared while their husbands are away at war; some are young and need advice about work and marriage; and although some had got themselves in a bind, Carson isn’t sure there was any use in castigating them now. They need help.

It pulls at her heart to think of people baring their secrets in these letters, only to never receive a response. Still, Maybelle is right. There’s nothing to be done, so she opens the last envelope. The writing is perhaps the nicest of all the letters so far, the hand clear despite also being extremely pretty.

Dear Mrs Wilkinson,

Some years ago, when I was seventeen, I met my first love. We were inseparable and very intimate emotionally, as well as in other ways. He always treated me very well and I knew I wanted to spend my life with him. Unfortunately, his mother found out and thought I was an unsuitable partner. We were separated, but I always missed him dearly and don’t think anyone else has ever really known me so well as he did (except for my best friend, which is different). I feel very lonely without him. Now, I am in my twenties and feel very restless with my life. I feel as though I am always looking ahead and moving towards the future without any care for the present. So, I am thinking of trying to find him again. My best friend says it’s a bad idea and recommended I get an outside opinion. 

Yours faithfully

Caged Bird

Carson glances across the room at Maybelle, who is working on a few pages of spring-themed sewing patterns. For some reason, she feels compelled to keep this letter to herself. She reads it again, and her chest aches at the thought of the writer being separated from someone they loved so much, only to find themselves so lonely at such a young age. Carson understands, albeit for different reasons.

The mentions of a love affair would get the letter banned and, even if Mrs Wilkinson would answer it, the advice the reader would receive would likely have something to do with how she should have improved herself to be approved by her love’s mother all those years ago. But Carson doesn’t think Caged Bird is necessarily to blame. Many families have a say in someone’s love life, and often their feelings aren’t always in line with what that person wants.

She didn’t like to admit it to herself, but Carson hadn’t even really wanted to marry. It wasn’t about Charlie. He was great and they got on and loved each other, and if she was going to have to become a housewife it was always going to be something she did with him. But truly, she’d have been happy to never marry at all. She had never yearned to keep a home or learn to sew dresses or to have babies. In fact, she found the idea of parenthood completely unappealing. If there had been a way she could have become a writer or a famous baseball player and simply lived her life as she wanted, that would have been perfect. But her father had wanted her to marry Charlie, and Meg had insisted it was the only way to get by as a woman. Perhaps Caged Bird’s boyfriend’s mother hadn’t really understood what her son wanted, just as Carson’s family didn’t understand her.

Looking up at Maybelle again to make sure she isn’t watching, Carson quickly puts Caged Bird’s letter - along with the stamped and addressed envelope for a private response - on top of the one from Aspiring Nurse, and slides them both into her drawer. 

*

“A problems page?!” Jess cries. “How the hell did you get lumbered with a problems page?”

“Miscommunication,” Carson answers with a scowl she knows Jess can’t see. She hopes it is evident enough in her tone. 

Jess lets out a huge, poorly timed laugh from beneath the hood of Carson’s car, right as Beverly - retired from the Marines, now coordinator of a Red Cross Motor Corps division, and commonly referred to only as Sarge - passes by. 

“Miss McCready. I’m positive Mrs Shaw would like her vehicle back before the sun rises again.” 

Jess, who had always seemed to Carson to be something of a survivalist without the prerequisite of an adequate survival instinct, straightens up from the car and tips Sarge a wink. 

“Aw, come on Bev. I’m just taking an interest in Carson’s new job. I’m nearly done here anyway.” She pats the wing of the car affectionately before looking at Carson. “She’ll live to drive another shift.” 

“More than one, I hope,” Beverly replies coolly before turning on her heel and walking away. 

Only Jess calls Sarge Bev. It is unclear how she has thus far survived this flagrant act of insubordination. 

As if Carson’s first day on her new job hadn’t been bad enough, the car she shared with Shirley had started to conk out on the way to her Red Cross shift. She had coaxed it gingerly to headquarters, where she knew that Jess, who was perpetually covered in engine oil and goodness only knows what else, would be able to diagnose the issue. Like Carson, Jess has a paying job (although hers is in a munitions factory) and volunteers with the Motor Corps in her spare time. She is one hell of a mechanic, which is probably why Sarge overlooks her playful irreverence and complete disregard for the uniform code. 

Drivers are expected to supply their own vehicle and gas, and they are made to wear a grey skirt and jacket as part of the uniform. Carson had never seen Jess in anything but pants or overalls, but she had never been written up. 

Deep down, Carson suspects that Sarge didn’t particularly mind how Jess dressed or spoke, and only chastised her for the sake of appearances. 

Jess starts poking around in the engine again.

“So, what? Does that mean you’re answering questions about doilies all morning?” she asks with a snort. 

The thing about Jess, Carson has come to learn over time, is that she doesn’t take much seriously, and teasing is just her way of building a rapport. She never pushes too far, and she quietly and subtly takes a lot of interest in people, so much so that she had remembered it was Carson’s first day without any prompting. However, she is also quick to anger and not a force Carson would reckon with lightly. 

All the same, Jess is still the kind of person you could say honest things to, and rely on to say honest things back. As such, Carson tells her that she will not even be answering the letters, just typing them up. 

“That’s,” Jess pauses, looks for any sign of Sarge and, finding her absent, says, “a load of shit. Sorry Carson, I know you were really excited.” 

“Yeah,” Carson says, feeling downcast. “I really was. I shouldn’t have left the job with the Bakers. Everyone at home is going to have a field day about this.” 

Jess straightens up again, this time shutting the hood firmly. For a moment, she watches Carson carefully as she wipes her hands on an old rag. “Do you have to tell them? If they ask, just say the job is going well. Be vague. Who cares what they think?” 

“I do. And it’s not going well, is it?”

“Shaw, don’t take this the wrong way, but you should care less. It’ll be good for you. Plus, it’s only been one day.”

“I know, but this job is utterly ridiculous. I don’t – I don’t even care about dress patterns or burned frying pans. It’s all just so…so… trivial.”

Jess grins and takes a few steps closer so that she can look Carson directly in the eye. “I agree. But it’s a job. At a publishing company. Give it time. You’re on the same wages for fewer hours – that’s a win.”

“More time to spend with you and Sarge,” Carson jokes.

“You fuckin’ know it,” Jess says with a laugh. “Besides, I bet not all the letters are trivial. I bet some are fun.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. “You can tell me all about them on our next shift.”

“I’m not allowed,” Carson sighs. “I signed this piece of paper saying I’d keep things confidential.”

“Oh, well if you signed a bit of paper.”

“You know what I mean,” Carson chides gently. “These are people’s secrets. They write in about private things. Their words should stay private.”

Jess nods. “I know. I’m just fucking with you.”

“I know you are. And you made me feel better, so thank you.”

Jess laughs and moves back to the car so she can start the engine. It fires up perfectly. “Tell me about it. I should start a problems page.”

”I think you’re happier just starting the problems,” Carson replies, glad when this earns a huge guffaw from Jess. “And I think you’d be even more fed up with some of the questions than I already am.”

Jess shakes her head. “Nah, I’d just answer people to tell them to leave their husbands and buy a certain kind of car. Or I’d write out instructions on how to change a tire. I’d be so good at it.” She smiles again before killing the engine and clapping her hands together, suddenly all business. “Well, that’s me done for the day. I think my roommate has a night shift, so I guess I’ll have to go home and be bored out of my mind. What’s on your list? Picking up returning soldiers? Delivering depressing telegrams?”

“I’m helping move some medical supplies around, if you want to come.”

“Yeah, I better had,” Jess says seriously. “In case your piece of shit car falls apart again.”

*

Over the next few weeks, Carson tries to apply herself to her new job.

Shirley had reacted as Carson predicted: by lamenting her failure to be more inquisitive at the interview. Other than that, she had been as sympathetic as Jess. Guy and Clance had also been very sweet about it, and although Max had laughed until she had to dab her eyes, she had later told Carson that it was only a matter of time before she landed a real writing job.

Carson hadn’t yet written to Charlie or Meg about the mix-up and was intending to put it off as long as possible. She hadn’t received a response from Charlie yet about getting the job, and although it hadn’t been long enough to hear back about that, she had noticed he was writing much less frequently at the moment. She tries not to worry or press the matter, but it is impossible not to question whether something has happened to him.

At the magazine, Mrs Wilkinson’s presence varies from sporadic to non-existent. Whenever she is present, she always seems to be annoyed about something, and often directs her ire at the small pile of approved letters. One morning, she cornered Carson while she, Mrs W., was heading out for the day. With an almost literal captive audience, the boss had delivered a hearty lecture on the vices of this new generation (Carson’s generation) and how disappointed she is in all of them.

Carson tries to put on a brave face and make the best of things, but even the most exciting part of the day (when the mail arrives) quickly starts to feel completely miserable. There were hardly a lot of letters, and even some of the more demure ones had to be disregarded because Mrs Wilkinson’s restrictions are so broad that the magazine often found itself with very similar queries left over each week. There are only so many times the Woman & Home team can send identical suggestions to print.

The letters from Caged Bird and Aspiring Nurse remain hidden in Carson’s desk drawer. She wants to help both the women, but Mrs Wilkinson makes a point of regularly expressing her disdain about anything remotely scandalous. Carson hadn’t told Maybelle about keeping the letters, but she is already of the opinion that her colleague would understand why she had done it.

Because it wasn’t only those two correspondents. Other people continued to write in with fears about a lover’s infidelity or cold feet over a marriage. Carson had tried putting the latter into the approved pile, but had found it on her desk the next morning with ‘NO’ scrawled across it in red ink. Underneath, Mrs Wilkinson had added PREMARITAL RELATIONSHIP, POSSIBLE INFIDELITY. INTIMATE. with each word underlined three times. Carson got the point.

It proves to be incredibly frustrating to see perfectly reasonable letters returned to her desk, and to sit and type up bland responses to really quite minor problems. When Carson had thought that it wouldn’t matter what she wrote, so long as she was a writer, this wasn’t exactly what she had had in mind.

Although Woman & Home is far from a popular magazine, and Mrs Wilkinson no longer receives reams of correspondence, it is clear that the women writing in and having their letters destroyed were not alone in their problems. And yet, they clearly felt that they were. Carson frequently left the office wishing she could help them all.

By the end of her third week in the role, Carson finally picks up a bit of typing work for Mr Luehrman, who – like everyone but Mrs Wilkinson – goes by his first name in the office. He mostly writes features, fiction, and film reviews. As dissatisfied as Carson is with the job, she thinks that Henry is a pretty good writer, and typing up his stories is much more enjoyable than taking notes about dry and dusty legal documents at Baker & Sons.

Earlier in the day, she had sorted through a small batch of new letters to Mrs Wilkinson, only salvaging a question about War Bonds, another about a pet cat, and a final one on the subject of treatments for dry hair. Although Carson had felt bad for celebrating someone’s hair troubles, that letter did mean that there would be enough questions to fill the next issue’s problems page.

Feeling somewhat edified, she gathers them up along with the latest instalment of Henry’s story and puts the papers in two different cardboard folders.

Mrs Wilkinson is absent as normal, so Carson leaves the letters on her desk and knocks on Henry’s door. He calls her in and she weaves around the mess of his office. This kind of harried, overworked disorder just seems to be his way. Carson is gradually managing to learn his messy handwriting, and she is just about used to the way his final drafts sometimes arrive with pages torn in two, or in the wrong order, or taped back together the wrong way up.

She hands over the typed pages and he thanks her, before asking her how she is settling in. Carson recalls that her predecessors didn’t all last this long.

Rather than being entirely honest, Carson says, “it’s going well, I think. I’m learning a lot about the magazine’s readers.”

Henry nods. “I’ve heard from Maybelle that we’re struggling to fill the page.”

“Well…” Carson says, suddenly nervous. “We do have many more submissions than we print. But we don’t answer most of them. Mrs Wilkinson thinks they’re too unpleasant.”  

“I’m certainly glad I don’t have to write back,” Henry replies diplomatically. “I would rather create and solve fictional problems than interfere with someone’s real life.”

“It makes me sad,” Carson agrees, thinking of a woman who had today written in to seek help after a baby she had conceived out of wedlock had been taken away from her. “Some of the problems…they’re sad in themselves. But most of the time, a lot of them could be solved if someone would talk to these women. And, by the looks of things, no one really is. That’s the saddest part, I think.”

Henry looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t think anyone could take on Mrs Wilkinson and win. And I don’t advise you try. She lets me get on with my features, so I suppose I should let her get on with hers. Everyone’s doing what they can to keep the magazine alive. I’m doing my best with my stories, so on, so on…”

“They’re great, Henry. I really enjoy reading them as I type.”

Henry offers her a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. And hey, look at what Ruth and Helen can do. Ana’s doing such hard work trying to find advertisers, and you, Maybelle, and Terri keep the ship afloat. I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep worrying about Mrs Wilkinson. Let’s all just do what we can, to the best of our abilities. God knows, that’s all any of us has been doing across the whole world since the war started.”

Carson nods. It is sound advice, really. She never had been any good at letting things go. Even as a child, she had always wanted to prod and poke and fix. She kept notebooks full of written instructions about anything that mattered to her. She had made copious notes about baseball, with diligently researched information about as many teams as she could follow. After her mom left, Carson filled another notebook with every pie, pastry, and cake recipe her mother had ever taught her. She would write her own book reviews every time she finished a new title, keeping them all in yet another notebook. She was always writing and gathering information, trying to make sense of a world where she didn’t really fit.

Henry glances back at whatever manuscript he is working on and Carson takes it as a sign to leave. She returns to her desk feeling better than she has in ages.

Maybelle notices, because she smiles and asks Carson if everything is alright.

“Yeah, fine thanks,” Carson replies absently, replaying the conversation over in her head.

Let’s all just do what we can, to the best of our abilities.

Consequences be damned, Carson can help these people.

“I need to run an errand for Terri,” Maybelle says, rising out of her seat and putting on her coat. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

Carson refuses the offer and waves goodbye to Maybelle. Once alone, she reaches into her drawer and pulls out the letters from Aspiring Nurse and Caged Bird. With her heart racing in her chest, Carson sets up her typewriter and, without really thinking of the words in advance, begins to type. If she were to be caught doing this, then she could wave goodbye to her job, but Carson is sick to death of doing nothing and feeling powerless.

Responding turns out to be easier than Carson had thought. She advises Aspiring Nurse to have a conversation with her suitor and her parents, and to reiterate her commitment to her career. If the man is the right one for her, Carson writes, then he will be understanding about waiting things out a little longer. If he doesn’t understand, then perhaps this will reinforce her misgivings, but - either way - she shouldn’t marry someone she isn’t keen on. 

When she gets to the end of the letter, however, she has no way to sign it off. She wishes Aspiring Nurse the best of luck and simply writes ‘on behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson’. That way, at least she hadn’t directly impersonated her boss.

Quickly, she slips the letter out of the typewriter and into the stamped, self-addressed envelope. Then, she adds a new sheet of paper to the typewriter and begins again.

Dear Caged Bird,

Your story has resonated deeply with me. Although I have no experience of losing my first love, it is true that many people’s families decide what is right or wrong on behalf of their relatives, and often do not make the right choice. Your loneliness strikes a chord with me because, although I am often surrounded by good, caring people, I usually feel I watch the world from somewhere outside of it. Although I cannot claim to always be looking to the future, I feel as if I have spent my life dreaming of other things. This may not be helpful to you, but I hope it confirms you are not alone. 

As for your predicament, I’m afraid I might not know enough about your situation to offer wise advice. Perhaps you should speak again with your best friend, who undoubtedly knows you well, and ask why they are so convinced your idea is a bad one. Perhaps they might offer a new perspective. Also, because you say you are always looking forwards, perhaps it would be worth asking whether your desire to find your past love might also be a way of not living in the present.

I wish you all the best. 

Yours faithfully,

On behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson.

Chapter Text

It is only as she is getting into bed later that night that Carson realises she had used the magazine’s headed paper to write her responses. Immediately, a powerful wave of nausea overtakes her at the thought that she had done something so stupid and so easy to trace back to her. If Mrs Wilkinson found out about this, Carson would be in deep trouble. 

Typing letters for Woman & Home might not be the work she had in mind, but the magazine was connected to Tribune Publishing Ltd. and Mrs Wilkinson might be able to give her a good reference if the right job ever came up. If her secret replies are caught out, however, then she will have absolutely no chance of a real writing position.

As she burrows under the covers and tries to get warm, Carson shakes off her nerves by reminding herself that it was only two letters. So long as she never does it again, things would probably be fine. It’s not as though either of the people she wrote to would ever respond.

She vows to tell absolutely no one about this. She certainly cannot blab to Shirley, who will immediately panic, and although Max or Jess would probably brush it off in an instant, she knows it would be better to simply keep this moment of recklessness quiet. And as for Charlie, even if he knew the truth about her job, he would definitely think she’d lost her mind. No, she would just have to keep to herself and buckle down at work - there was nothing else for it. 

The next morning, she half-expects to be tackled to the ground by a pair of burly security guards (who absolutely did not exist but might have been hired for the task by Mrs Wilkinson) when she steps into the office. But, of course, no-one knows about her lapse of judgement yesterday. 

For a while, Carson works even harder at the job, as though putting in twice the effort might make up for breaching Woman & Home’s rules about propriety and confidentiality. She is fairly sure that she isn’t actually supposed to read past the first mention of what Mrs Wilkinson deems ‘unpleasantness’, much less share the contents of the letters with Maybelle. 

“This woman says that her boyfriend had persuaded her to go to bed with him before he deployed,” Carson says out of nowhere one morning in early April. Outside the tiny window in the office she shares with Maybelle, the sky has turned an optimistic colour somewhere between blue and the drab wintry grey they are all so sick of. Spring is on its way, and not a moment too soon. 

Maybelle types out a few more words to finish a sentence and then glances up from her typewriter. 

“And is she knocked up?” she asks, not unkindly. 

“She says she doesn’t know yet. But she’s apparently going out of her mind with worry that she might be. She seems to think her parents will turn her away if she is. She’s not even a woman, really. Just eighteen, so an adult only on a technicality, and not even by law.” 

“Poor thing,” Maybelle remarks gently, a look of genuine sympathy on her pretty face. 

Carson sets the letter down on the table, letting her palm smack against the wood in frustration. 

“I just feel so…goddamn ridiculous!” she exclaims. “I’m reading all these awful letters every day, and we don’t help any of these women. Instead, we’re barely scrabbling enough content together for a single page, because she’ll,’ Carson jerks her head in the vague direction of Mrs Wilkinson’s office, “only answer questions about makeup or childcare. As if these women only matter once they’re wives and mothers, and all that’s important is what their eyebrows look like. I feel so guilty when I cut up these letters.” 

Maybelle lets out a little huff, an odd look settling on her face. 

“Oh honey. To a lot of these people, we do only matter once we’re wives and mothers. And even then some of us still get left in the dirt. It isn’t fair; it makes me angry too. But it’s no use feeling guilty. It’s not your fault.”

Carson simmers down slightly. She had been out with the Motor Corps last night, ferrying returning soldiers from Union Station to different parts of the city, with Sarge sat in the passenger seat as a chaperone of sorts. She had been up late and, as a result, was particularly tired and tetchy. 

“I know. Sorry. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Maybelle cocks her head to one side and watches her carefully. After a moment, she rises and says, “I think it’s my turn to make the tea today. Set the letters aside; we’ll take our ten minutes now.” 

Carson smiles gratefully. Maybelle had been right on the first day: they were turning into good friends. 

Maybelle has a way of making daily life at Woman & Home feel much better than it has any right to feel. She always manages to brighten up even the dingiest of days; she finds Mrs Wilkinson’s rules just as ridiculous as Carson does, and she never minds lending a sympathetic ear to Carson’s frustrated outbursts. 

These tirades had grown more frequent recently. It is just so difficult to come up with enough letters once all the unsuitable content has been weeded out. It is becoming increasingly untenable to begin reading each letter with the hope that it will be less upsetting and more trivial than the last, only to skim a few lines and read about how one woman didn’t enjoy making love to her husband or another was being forced by her parents to pursue a career she didn’t enjoy. 

Worse, the advice that Mrs Wilkinson gives to any of the personal problems that do slip through her net is always that the correspondent should keep their chin up, brush off their feelings, and perhaps take a nice walk in the fresh air. 

Fresh air wasn’t going to cure a war widow’s loneliness, or erase the hurt of an unfaithful husband. These women needed to know someone out there cared. Still unable to bring herself to cut up many of the rejected letters, Carson had started storing more and more of them in her desk. She adds this newest letter to the contraband, shutting the drawer right as Maybelle bustles back in with a mug of tea in each hand and a parcel tucked under her arm. 

“Here you go. Not a cure-all unless you’re Mrs W., but hopefully it’ll brighten you up a bit.” She sets one cup down in front of Carson and passes her the parcel. “And maybe you’ll find something in here. There was a mix-up in the mailroom and they forgot to add a few of the letters to yesterday’s pile.” 

Carson thanks her, and they spend the next few minutes sipping their tea and chattering about nothing in particular. Maybelle tells her about a man she’s going out to dinner with tonight. Carson is still preoccupied by the frustration of all the rejected letters and finds she must force herself to tune into Maybelle’s story. 

“...doesn’t really matter anyway because he’s only here on leave for a few more days before he ships out again. Seems like a real nice guy though, so who knows. Maybe we’ll stay in touch.” 

Carson gives her an enthusiastic smile. “Is he taking you somewhere nice?” 

“He says it’s a surprise. He’s picking me up at six o’clock, but it better be somewhere nice. I’ve got my best dress ready.” 

“You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.” 

“Oh, I will,” Maybelle says with a laugh. “What about you? Your fella got any leave coming up?” 

“Not that I know of,” Carson replies. “Apparently his last two requests for home leave got turned down. I’m not too sure why.”

Maybelle gives her a sympathetic look. “Oh, you poor things. You must miss him so much.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Carson says, suddenly feeling very uneasy. “It’s always worrying, wondering where he is and if he’s okay.” 

“Oh, I bet. But I’m sure he’s doing just fine and being very brave. And he’s got the thought of coming home to you to keep him going.” 

Carson nods. 

“Yeah, I - I hope so.” Without thinking too much, she dives suddenly for the packet of letters Maybelle had given her earlier. “Better, um…better get back to work before we get caught slacking.” 

A confused look passes over Maybelle’s face, but she doesn’t press for any more details, probably under the impression that talking about Charlie being at war is too painful for Carson. 

The truth, however, is much more complicated than that. Carson does worry about Charlie, almost every minute of every day. She feels incredibly guilty that he is in such a horrible situation while she can only wait at home for news. It makes her angry, too, that they’ve got all these young men suffering and dying far from home, in some horrible ditch on some foreign front. It’s so soon after the last time, too. How many more wars are people going to have to suffer through? The letters Mrs Wilkinson receives are a testament to just how the war is ripping families apart, and they’re only a reflection of life in one part of the world. 

All the same, her missing Charlie is another question entirely. There is no doubt in her mind that she misses him, but she thinks that the things she misses the most have been absent for longer than Charlie has been in the army. She misses how simple things were when they were in school, when they were just best friends and there was none of this complication over being husband and wife. Going steady and then getting married had changed so much, and not just because it meant they were intimate in new and different ways. Carson had liked being Charlie’s best friend, and she hadn’t even minded being his girlfriend. But being his wife just changed things, somehow. It changed their dynamic, it changed the roles they were expected to play, and it changed the way they looked at the future. Charlie was always talking in his letters about coming home and finding a new place of their own, one with enough space for their future kids. Yet, whenever Carson thinks about Charlie, in her mind’s eye they are still kids. They are still nine years old and haring around the schoolyard together. 

There is so much Carson wants for the future, and most of it hasn’t even crystalised in her own mind yet. She just knows she wants more than one life in one town for the rest of time. She wants to explore and experience and live a little. A few years ago, it would have been exciting to do those types of things with Charlie. They would have had a great time finding work and seeing new places. But now, the future just seems to be tied to one place and one idea, all settled and filled with household chores and multiple little kids. The war had changed things for him, but it had changed them for her too. 

The war has given her some breathing space. It is an awful thought, and Carson is ashamed of herself for even entertaining it when so many people are suffering. But, whether she likes it or not, it is the truth. The war has given her a grace period to just think. 

The war, after all, is the main reason she and Charlie got married in the first place. Just like so many people had done, she and Charlie got married after he received his letter. It had been mostly his idea; Carson had felt that they shouldn’t rush things, although she hadn’t ever said so quite so directly. But then her father and sister had found out about the idea, and then their neighbours, and Carson hadn’t really come up with an adequate reason to say no. 

Saying no, even just for the time being, meant questions about whether she wanted to marry Charlie at all; it made others wonder if she was going to stay true while he was away. An upstanding, modest woman who genuinely loved Charlie wouldn’t delay getting married, at least in the eyes of her family and neighbours. So Carson hadn’t said no. She planned a wedding. 

They had barely been married a few months when Charlie was sent away, and she had only lingered in Lake Valley a few months more before moving to Chicago. She hadn’t been able to stay in Idaho in such a strange state of limbo - married but living in her sister’s spare bedroom, watching the way Meg’s life had shaped into the sort of thing now expected of Carson too.

She knows this grace period won’t last forever (and, for the sake of everyone else, she is glad it won’t), but she also does her level best not to think about why a future she should want makes her feel so trapped.

In an attempt to distract herself, Carson starts sifting through the new letters, hoping for something that will make it to Mrs Wilkinson’s desk. 

Dear Mrs Wilkinson

I am a twenty-three year old woman, and I am currently single. I love my family dearly, but they always insist that my mother chaperones me on dates with young men…

The word ‘dates’ is definitely banned. Carson sighs and shreds the letter. 

Dear Mrs Wilkinson

My fiancé is currently fighting in the war. We have been engaged for a year, and I am very much in love with him. Last week, I received a letter in which he told me he had been having an affair with a nurse and they were about to get married…

The word ‘affair’ would probably send Mrs Wilkinson into the doldrums. Carson slips the letter away so that it can join the others in her drawer. That poor woman’s situation seemed far too sad to cut into pieces. 

Soon enough, there is only one letter left and the rest have all been rejected. Despondent and unenthused, Carson rips the envelope open and immediately chokes on the dregs of her tea when she unfolds the paper. 

Dear ‘on behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson’...

Maybelle looks up, startled. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Carson wheezes. “Sorry. Went down the wrong way.” 

“You see something juicy in that letter?” Maybelle asks, looking as though she might get up from her desk. 

“No!” Carson yelps, before descending into another coughing fit. When it subsides, she says, “sorry, sorry. No, it’s just another letter about someone having a crush on a boy their parents think is unsuitable.” 

“Huh. Poor kid,” Maybelle mutters, mercifully staying seated behind her typewriter while Carson tries to clear her throat. “You need me to thump you on the back?” 

“I’m okay,” Carson lies, trying to steady her nerves. 

She thanks her lucky stars that Mrs Wilkinson never opens the mail. The last thing she had expected was for one of the people to write back. Surely that wasn’t normal, to have a back-and-forth with someone working on a problems page? 

Sending a furtive glance at Maybelle, who is once again occupied with her work, Carson reads the letter. 

Dear ‘on behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson’, 

Thank you for your letter, it was certainly unexpected in more ways than one. I have only ever seen very different problems printed in Woman & Home and thought that questions about relationships weren’t on the cards. 

I thought you might like to know that I took your advice and talked to my best friend. She still isn’t convinced that my idea is a good one, and had a list of reasons far too long to record here. Perhaps you have a new suggestion? 

I must admit, what you wrote did make me feel less alone. This response might not be necessary or entirely expected, but I wanted to say thank you for sharing your story with a stranger. I hope you have found a way to make your own decisions, and not to live by the choices made by those around you. It seems that a lot of people secretly dream of other things, but aren’t always brave enough to admit it. I will need more time to think about whether I’m looking to the past in order to avoid the present, but perhaps you’re onto something. 

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this letter, except to say thank you in the hopes that it might remind you that you are part of the world, and not only watching from somewhere outside of it. 

Yours faithfully,

Caged Bird

Carson hadn’t expected any kind of response from the woman who had been separated from her childhood love, but she especially hadn’t expected a letter like this. She reads it over a few more times, once again taking in the writer’s elegant script. She wonders whether the woman had been careful enough to write it out in pencil first, or if perhaps she was able to simply put down her thoughts so neatly in one go. Perhaps this is a second or even a third draft, or perhaps the correspondent had written it in stages, pausing between paragraphs to make tea or even go to work. 

Carson lingers over the words ‘what you wrote did make me feel less alone’. It gives her a thrill to imagine that her response had an impact. She wishes she could show that part to Mrs Wilkinson. In truth, she wishes she could show the whole thing to Mrs Wilkinson. 

Wasn’t this what Carson had been saying since she joined the magazine? That, in many cases, the women writing about their problems just needed to know that someone cared? More than that, Caged Bird had tried to help Carson in return, picking up on her sentiment that she often felt like she observed the world more than she participated in it. She even took Carson’s advice, although it hadn’t entirely paid off. This, Carson firmly believes, is only the start of what can happen when people actually look out for each other.

Across the room, Maybelle rises and picks up a folder of papers for Henry, slipping out the room and leaving the door ajar. As soon as she is gone, Carson slides the letter off the desk and buries it beneath the other papers in her drawer. 

Carson wishes she could write back but replying once had been foolish. To do so again would be asking for trouble. 

*

“Have you heard much from Charlie recently?” 

Carson wishes people would stop asking her that, but she knows it is a perfectly reasonable question and Clance means no harm. 

“A little. He seems as well as anyone can be in that situation,” she says blandly, picking up a card. The five of clubs - not ideal. She keeps it and relinquishes the four of spades before turning to Shirley. “Your go.” 

Shirley studies her own hand of cards for a moment, evidently caught in indecision. Whether it be through her inherent sense of caution, her analytical skills, or the fact that gambling makes her nervous, Shirls is fleecing the rest of the group at rummy today. 

They are playing with Clance and Max, and they aren’t really gambling because the only stakes anyone can spare are a handful of pennies each. Hillman’s is particularly crowded even for a Sunday, probably owing to the spring downpour outside, and Max, who is losing worst of all, blames the noise and Shirley’s infuriatingly slow gameplay on her recent string of bad cards. 

“Just choose, Shirley,” Max groans. “We’ll have won the whole war and the next one before someone wins this round.” 

“Please don’t rush me” Shirley protests quietly, not looking up from her cards. “I need to consider all my options.” 

Carson sends Max a look, and they both smile. 

Shirley was perpetually nervous and a little idiosyncratic, but they all loved her just the same. Eventually, she picks up Carson’s discarded four of spades, puts one of her cards down, and the play moves to Clance, who begins her own internal deliberation. While she thinks, she says, 

“One of Guy’s cousins in Louisiana got his letter the other day. They’re all really worried, and so is Guy although he won’t admit it.”

“Everyone’s worried,” Carson agrees, and instantly thinks that she might have come off as dismissive. Quickly, she adds, “it’s just such a tough time whether you’ve been left at home or sent away. And even worse for you and the rest of Guy’s family, I’m sure.” 

Max raises an eyebrow. “You secretly got friends all over Chicago now or something?” 

“Well, she practically does, doesn’t she?” Shirley offers kindly. “What with all the letters to the magazine.” 

Max snorts. “You know, I picked up a copy the other day. Didn’t see any of those kinds of problems in the back.” 

“Doesn’t mean people aren’t writing in with them,” Clance points out, picking up a card from the stock in the middle of the table. She grimaces and immediately puts it back down, face up. Jack of hearts. “Just means they’re all being turned into kindling.” 

Max leaps on the Jack with a look of triumph and swaps it out accordingly. Perhaps things were looking up for her. 

Carson sighs. “I feel so awful, throwing away people’s concerns like they’re nothing. Doesn’t everyone feel alone enough as it is? People don’t think they can talk to anyone, so everyone just thinks they’re the only ones feeling this way, and it just goes round and round.” 

“You know,” Shirley says, “lots of other women’s magazines are much more with the times. They print lots of advice about relationships and what to do if you’ve got someone in the war. Maybe you should look at those and show them to someone at work. Surely they’ll want to keep up with the competition.” 

Carson reviews her hand of cards again. It’s not looking great. She thanks Shirls for the advice and says nothing more about work. Deep down, she doesn’t think Mrs Wilkinson would be particularly won over by anything their competitors are doing, even if they are all very much winning in terms of popularity and sales. Still, Shirley had given her an idea, even if she hadn’t meant to…

*

Monday comes and Carson once again finds herself dutifully trying to ignore multiple women’s entreaties for help. She sets aside a couple of letters for Terri’s column and finishes up with a particularly upsetting account from a young woman in her early twenties who had just found out that her husband had been lost at sea. There is nothing that Mrs Wilkinson would deem ‘unpleasant’ in the letter, though Carson personally thought that it was far more unpleasant to hear about a person in grief than one who simply had a few questions about their wedding night. 

She has been trying to play ball with Mrs Wilkinson recently, given that she is still fearful about getting fired for writing back to Caged Bird and Aspiring Nurse. Still, she is tempted to see if this letter would be well-received and is halfway to putting it on the ‘approved’ pile when Mrs Wilkinson’s response flashes in her mind: 

Dear Mrs Logan

While I am very saddened to hear of your tragic loss, I am afraid this is the situation the world over. Dwelling and hiding away will do you no good, and will certainly not help the war effort. Hitler and his men are relying on those of us on the home fronts becoming downtrodden and thus we cannot shirk our patriotic duties. 

I suggest you put a brave face on the situation and soldier on, just as many of our brave boys are doing overseas. 

Yours faithfully,

Mrs M. Wilkinson

Surely that wouldn’t help the poor Mrs Logan at all…

“Maybelle?” 

“Yes, sweet?” 

“Would you rather receive heartless advice or no advice at all?” 

Understanding immediately what must have motivated the question, Maybelle laughs hollowly to herself before asking, “what’s happened to one of our readers then?” 

“A young woman’s husband has died,” Carson says glumly. “Or, gone missing at sea, so…” 

“Same thing, probably,” Maybelle agrees solemnly. “Well…I think not hearing back would make me feel as though my situation didn’t matter, when it very obviously does. But I see your point…I assume Mrs W. will just tell her to pull her socks up and move on. But, the thing is, we can’t exactly hide any letters from her. If it meets the criteria, I think you’ll have to pass it on unfortunately.”

Carson suddenly grows very hot. If hiding letters is seen as bad judgement, then what Carson had done is a thousand times worse. She wonders if she should come clean to Maybelle and tries to work out if her friend might understand. She thinks that she would, but also realises that telling her would rob her of any kind of plausible deniability. 

“I guess so,” Carson agrees after a while, dropping the letter onto the pile. “I just think - if I got that note about Charlie - having someone tell me that I just had to dust myself off and carry on would make things worse.” 

“I’m with you hon,” Maybelle says sympathetically. “But we’re not on the front lines. We get to choose our battles. We all only have so much energy these days, and it’s better to give it to the people you can already help. Plus, who knows? Maybe Mrs W. will actually have something nice to say.” 

It is obvious that Maybelle doesn’t believe her own words, and that she doesn’t expect Carson to believe them either. 

All the same, Carson cannot help but think about Caged Bird’s second letter, still pressed between several others in her drawer. She shouldn’t write back, but wasn’t this unknown woman now technically one of the people Carson could help? Hadn’t she set an expectation with the reader that she would help? Would not writing again now erase any of the good her first response had done? 

Later that morning, when Maybelle slips out to use the restroom, Carson flicks through the secret letters, finds the one with the most beautiful, graceful penmanship, and slides it into her bag. 

*

Dear Caged Bird

Thank you for writing back - it was nice to hear from you. It’s true that the magazine covers a broad range of enquiries, but it was important to us that you felt we cared about your situation. 

I’m sorry that your best friend hasn’t come round to your way of thinking. I’m sure she has your best interests at heart. Is it absolutely imperative that you convince her of your plan? Also, have you thought of how you would find your old sweetheart? By that I mean, is it even possible? Do you know where he is now, or how to contact him? (I hope I don’t sound disparaging). 

I can’t tell you how happy it made me to know that you felt less alone. I think that is all any of us wants, in a way - to feel like we’re surrounded by the right people. I am making my own way the best I can at the moment, and it seems as though you are too. Perhaps we need to set an example to others by admitting we have bigger dreams and wish to follow them. 

There are no thanks necessary as this is my job, but I am very glad to try and help. As you say, I’m not actually watching from the outside (and neither are you). It is nice to feel that way for a change. Thanks for sharing your story with a stranger in the first place.

Yours faithfully,

On behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson

Carson carefully writes out her response by hand that evening while Shirley is out volunteering for a branch of the Office of Price Administration. They were practically beholden to unpaid workers preparing and sorting through ration books and writing out documents every time something changed or was added to the list. Being so good with numbers and having such an eye for detail, Shirl offers a few evenings per week to the local rationing board, going over the ration books and handing them out as required.

Admittedly, Carson embellishes her response in a few ways, particularly the part about this being her job, but she decides it is unlikely that Caged Bird will find out about the white lie. She wonders who this woman really is, exactly how old she is, what her life is like beyond the longing for her old flame that caused her to write to Woman & Home in the first place. 

Carson surreptitiously types the letter up at work the next morning and mails it on her way home again, right after she goes to the newsagents and buys as many women’s magazines as she can find. She is playing a dangerous game, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t starting to enjoy it.  

*

The response comes more quickly than Carson could have possibly imagined. Receiving it from the mailroom is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. 

Dear ‘on behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson’,

Do you correspond so fully with all of your readers? I’m intrigued to find out…

Speaking of intrigue, is it also common for someone to reply so candidly on behalf of Mrs Wilkinson? I must admit that, this time, I’ve written back out of sheer fascination about your identity, dear stranger. 

To answer your first question, no my plan does not hinge on my best friend’s agreement, but we have known each other at least a million years, and she is my ‘voice of reason’ as often as I am hers. I’m convinced we make better decisions on each other’s behalf than for ourselves. If she says it is a bad idea, I’m half-sure it must be. As for whether it’s even possible, or whether I have a plan, the answer to both is that I’m not sure. Perhaps I have been living in the past for no reason. 

I think you’re right in what you said about everyone wanting to feel that they aren’t alone. What, then, is your best advice for loneliness? I already have several good friends, but sometimes I can’t help that I still feel very lonely. Are you, at least, surrounded by the types of people you mentioned? If I’m snooping too much now, then please understand my position, mysterious stranger. I am fascinated by you and your responses…

Yours faithfully,

CB

P.S. Thank you for making me feel important. You seem quite good at doing so. 

Carson is as beguiled by this conversation as the woman writing seems to be. She catches herself smiling down at the page as she reads the letter through. Doing her best to school her features into a more neutral expression, she bypasses her drawer entirely this time and slips the paper directly into her bag. She does not even bother to deny that she has every intention to write back as soon as possible. 

*

That evening, she unintentionally turns up early for her Red Cross assignments, having overestimated the traffic. She finds Jess in the tiny kitchen of the makeshift base, which is only a small, vacant workshop that had been repurposed for the cause. 

Stirring a mug of what seems to be coffee, Jess flashes her a slanted grin. 

“The return of the agony aunt. How’s life with the problems page?” She takes a sip of her drink and instantly grimaces. “Fuck. I know I should be grateful when they manage to get any coffee, but this shit really tastes like dishwater.” 

Before Carson can answer, Sarge glides imperiously into the room. 

“Language, Miss McCready,” Beverly interjects, choosing, as ever, the most inappropriate time to pop up out of nowhere. Carson is half-convinced that she has both a sixth sense for rule breaking and an ability to silently teleport into the middle of it. 

“Oh, sorry Bev,” Jess replies, doing a horrible job at feigning contrition. “What I should have said was ‘...this shit really leaves the most dreadful aftertaste,’” she adds, putting on a terrible upper-class accent. 

Sarge lets out an almighty sigh and couples it with an icy glare that someone should probably put General Eisenhower onto. Carson is pretty certain it would be enough to have the Axis troops in retreat long before anyone fired a shot. 

Choosing not to engage Jess any further, Beverly turns instead to Carson. 

“You’re here early, Mrs Shaw. Are you looking to get a headstart on today’s tasks?” 

Carson hadn’t intended on it, but she might as well make herself useful, so she nods. 

“Well, since promptness is to be commended, I’ll let you have first choice of the jobs. We have a depressingly large quantity of telegrams to deliver this evening, as well as a number of soldiers arriving at Union Station who need to be taken to a variety of destinations around the city. However, I will be unavailable as chaperone tonight, so please keep this in mind.” 

Carson weighs up the options for a moment. She doesn’t want to appear blasé about being unsupervised with the soldiers, but she always hates being on telegram duty. The news is almost never good if it comes in that form, and she has had her fill of seeing parents and sisters and wives break down on the doorstep upon being handed one. 

“I’m happy to go to Union Station,” she says, and she knows that Beverly understands all too well the reasons for her choice. 

“As you wish,” Sarge replies, a surprisingly gentle look on her face. She hands over a few sheets of paper. “Here are the details. Do have a cup of tea while you’re reading over them. I hear the coffee here is awful.” She sends a pointed look at Jess before exiting the room. 

Once they are both alone, Jess lets out a loud laugh and pours her coffee straight down the sink. 

*

It is nearing midnight by the time Carson makes it to her last assignment. She stifles a yawn as she wanders into Union Station for the umpteenth time. It is closed to the public now, but her uniform and the plaque she puts on the car both give her special access, as well as rights to park her vehicle more or less wherever she wants. 

The concourse is mostly deserted and the lights have been dimmed. The floor and walls are covered in strange and eerie shadows from the model aeroplanes strung across the ceiling. Sometime during the war, they had been put up to send an unmistakable message about the kind of patriotic duty Mrs Wilkinson was always writing about. A sign tells travellers that there are over 4,000 planes of varying sizes, flanked on either side by enormous murals encouraging the purchase of War Bonds. One artwork shows the Bonds showering down from the sky above Capitol Hill, and the other shows a similar downpour - only this time it is bombs and not Bonds - over enemy insignia. Someone who didn’t routinely pass through the station would need no more than one guess to work out where the model planes were pointing: towards the enemy. As if that weren’t enough, smaller murals all show images of soldiers and home front fighters alike. 

Carson knows that the intention behind the installation was that it should be inspiring, but she just finds it oppressive. She would like, just for once, to forget about the mess the world is in, and she knows she isn’t alone in her feelings. She can hear Mrs Wilkinson chastising her for her views, telling her that the brave armed forces don’t get to forget about the carnage of the war, and wishing to do so is irredeemably selfish. 

Carson finds it incredibly ironic that this is the land of the individual - the land where supposedly everyone came to make their Dream - only until an individual wanted something just a little bit different. When they wanted to wait to get married or become a mother, when they wanted to grieve their dead husbands in their own way, when they wanted a reprieve from the real world for one goddamn second - that was when they were supposed to blend in and be just like everyone else. 

Even if they wouldn’t admit it, the men she had driven around the city tonight didn't come back to the USA feeling just like everyone else. If the women waiting for them weren’t supposed to talk about how the war had made them feel, then the soldiers certainly weren’t. But what good is the not talking when the heat of every unspoken thing was just turning people to ash on the inside?

Tonight, some of Carson’s passengers had been in high spirits, coming home for leave and arriving too late to catch a streetcar or take a taxi. They were simply in need of some assistance to get to their loved ones. Many more were here to be taken to hospitals or specialist medical centres. The ones who were seriously injured were transported by ambulance, but there were too many walking wounded to hand over to the nurses and doctors. That was always where the Motor Corps stepped in.

She had done numerous trips between the station and a specialist treatment centre for wounded soldiers, but there wasn’t enough room in the car on her last run. One soldier had agreed to stay behind, and Carson was keen to have him on his way so that she could get home and steal a few hours of sleep before reporting to Woman & Home. 

She spots him waiting patiently on a bench, facing away from her and seemingly lost in thought. His right arm is in a sling and he has a nasty scrape on his cheek. 

Well aware of the drill by now, she takes care to make her footsteps as loud as possible, and calls out before she gets too close. 

“Private Maxwell? Are you ready to leave?” 

The man doesn’t respond. Carson tries again, slowing her pace slightly. Still, the man doesn’t turn. 

“Excuse me. Private? I’m here to transport you,” she raises her voice ever so slightly and, this time, poor Private Maxwell starts. He whips round and does his level best to appear calm. Carson steps closer. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean - ”

He shakes his head and cuts her off. “No, no need to apologise. My fault. I was in a world of my own.” 

Private Maxwell is surprisingly soft-spoken. He is also surprisingly tall. He rises and picks up his bags with his good hand, towering almost a foot over Carson as he lets her lead the way back to the car. He is slight too, and looks as though this is as much about his build as it is about the food on the front lines. As an afterthought, she introduces herself and he offers her a small smile as he throws his luggage into the trunk of the car. 

“Thanks so much for doing this, Mrs Shaw. Can’t tell you how much we all appreciate it.” 

“Please just call me Carson, Private. And it’s no trouble. It’s the least we can do.” 

“In that case, please call me Freddie.” 

Poor Freddie has to hunch to avoid grazing the top of his head against the roof of the car, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Carson smiles and starts up the engine, happy that the roads are half-deserted. 

“I’ll have you there in no time.” 

“Thanks so much,” Freddie says, turning to look out of the passenger window. “Although, I don’t mind too much how long it takes. It’s my first time back in the country.” 

“Well, it’s good that you’re safe now,” Carson offers quietly, thinking it is such an inadequate thing to say to someone who is so clearly injured and haunted by what he has seen. 

All the same, he looks back over at her and smiles, his eyes wide and kind. “Thanks. It is.” 

They drive in silence for a while, before Freddie asks, “what’s it been like here, since it all kicked off?” 

“Oh. Well, we can’t complain. Rationing can be a bit of a pain sometimes and of course we’re all on edge every day waiting for news, but it’s nothing like being in Europe I’m sure. I don’t think I could bear having the Luftwaffe raining bombs overhead every night, like they do in London.” 

“I have family in London. My mother wrote to tell me that they’re all in surprisingly good spirits, but the things they describe are horrible. Just horrible.” 

Carson asks, “does she live nearby? Your mother?” 

“She’s in Burlington. I think she’s going to try and make the trip, but it’s hard for her with my younger siblings. Money’s tight, although I send her most of mine.” 

Stopping at a red light, Carson chances another glance at Freddie. She realises he must be several years younger than her, perhaps twenty. Up close, she can see how boyish his face is, framed by dirty-blonde hair that was starting to grow out of its regulation length. He looks so sad, so defeated, and Carson feels her heart break in much the same way it does every day, at work. She is exhausted by how sad the world is. It is so heavy, so fractured. 

The lights change and Carson sets off down the road.

“Anyone else? Other family or some friends?” 

“No,” Freddie says quietly. “They sent me here for my injuries, said that they couldn’t find a space anywhere closer to home and that needs must.” 

“Hopefully you’ll meet some nice people at the medical centre.” 

Freddie offers her a sceptical look. “We’ll see.” 

“Well, I do deliveries there sometimes,” Carson finds herself saying. “Come and say hi if you ever see me pull up.” 

If pressed, she couldn’t quite say why she makes this offer. This is hardly the first time she has ferried a sad, quiet soldier to and fro. But something about this feels different, somehow. When she came to the city, she was all alone too, and it was only pure luck that meant that she picked Shirley’s apartment. There had been no guarantee that they would become such good friends. 

“I will, thank you. They haven’t said, but I think I’ll be here for a while. This,” he gestures at his injured arm, “is completely useless to me at the moment.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carson offers. “Is it really painful?” 

“Yes, but I try not to think about it. Mostly, it’s a huge inconvenience because I’m right-handed. I can’t write to anyone like this.”

“Will someone help you? One of the nurses?” 

“I hope so, although I’m sure they’ll mostly be too busy. I can’t tell you how much the letters help. It’s really horrible, not being able to write back. It makes me think that my family won’t write to me quite so much, even if I know that’s not true. They know about my injury, after all.” 

Although the situations are vastly different, Carson cannot help but think about how deeply she understands. 

In fact, she thinks about it for hours, long after she has dropped Freddie off with her best wishes for his recovery. Sleep evades her, despite how desperately tired she feels. 

*

After speaking with Freddie, the last of Carson’s fears about writing to her anonymous penpal fade away. People need ways to feel connected with others. More than that, she feels connected to this reader, although she acknowledges that it is a strange thing to feel when she has no idea who is on the other end of the letters. 

A rational part of her tries to express caution: the person she is writing to might not have her best interests at heart. All the same, some kind of sixth sense tells Carson that ‘CB’ really understands her, and she wants to maintain the connection. 

She drafts her response the next day, after work. CB hadn’t sent an addressed envelope with her third letter, but she had written her address on the back of the letter. Carson notes it down and leaves it on her dresser for safekeeping. 

Dear CB

I suppose you might just think of me as a concerned citizen. I read a lot of letters for the problem page, and it’s difficult not to become invested. So, here I am replying again. If you are asking whether I write so regularly to all the readers, then the honest answer is no. Does that make this conversation strange…?  I’ve been told I’m a strange person.

I have to confess that, without knowing you and your situation better, I’m not sure whether to advise you to listen to your best friend or not. It’s been my experience that our friends often know us better than we know ourselves, but it doesn’t mean everyone is right all of the time. I’m worried I’ve reached the end of my usefulness. I’m no Mrs Wilkinson, I guess. What I can say, is that I know what it’s like to live in the past. I’ve been doing a lot of that for myself recently. I know the best thing to say is that we should both try to live in the present, but I also think there’s nothing wrong with seeking comfort in good memories from time-to-time too. We just have to make sure we don’t forget to make new good memories along the way. 

Thinking about my best advice for loneliness took a lot longer than it should have. I’m currently surrounded by very good people, but like you I still sometimes feel lonely. I think that, sometimes, it’s okay to be lonely. No one wants to feel that way, but feeling lonely has forced me to think about who I am. My roommate would say that the only way to solve a problem is to understand it. To be entirely clear, she’s a good mathematician and she’s usually talking about a numbers problem, but I think it applies here too. In your quest to feel less lonely, have you taken time to understand your own feelings? 

I am glad to have made you feel important. You are. 

Yours faithfully,

On behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson

*

Dear ?????

A concerned citizen? Well that’s not very illuminating now is it? Go on - don’t be boring. Give me a hint about who I’m writing to… 

At this point, I’m quite certain that we’ve reached an unorthodox level of correspondence for a magazine problems page, so I have to assume that you’re doing something you shouldn’t. Not that I mind, of course. I’m enjoying this back-and-forth. 

You’re certainly no Mrs Wilkinson and for that I am grateful. I’ve seen some of her responses and they’re not nearly so kind and caring as your letters. (I’ll keep my fingers crossed that she won’t see this! I think she won’t, because I’m assuming she doesn’t know we’re writing to each other). 

So…you want to know more about me? I suppose it’s only fair given that I’m angling for more information about you too. Well, I have already said I’m in my twenties and I assume you already know I am a woman. I was born in New York City (between twenty and thirty years ago!) and my best friend and I moved away when we were eighteen. We have travelled a lot since but have been in Chicago a while now. I am feeling a little restless here, but I think that says more about me than the city. I have brown eyes, red-brown hair, and I like the color red. I am a Sagittarius. I think that is why I’m so restless all the time. I have been resolutely avoiding thinking about my feelings for a while now. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of your roommate’s book, although I am horrible with numbers. 

Well? Has this helped? 

Write again soon, stranger. I do look forward to your letters. 

Yours faithfully,

CB

P.S. I like strange people. They’re always my favorites. 

*

Dear CB

I’m afraid you’d find me very boring as well as strange. I think it’s probably for the best that we establish that now. In fact, I’m worried that these letters are giving you a very false impression of me. 

I haven’t worked for the magazine for very long, so I’m probably not qualified to say whether this is unorthodox! (Of course, I’m well aware that it is, but perhaps pleading ignorance will help my case if you get me into any trouble!)

I think I might be pressing my luck too far if I respond to your opinions on my boss’s advice. But rest assured, she does not open the mail. That dubious honor is all mine. Although, if it wasn’t part of my job, I wouldn’t have seen your letter, so perhaps it is true that every cloud has a silver lining. All the same, I think we’ve strayed quite far from your original problem, but I’m not too sure how to get us back on course. 

I must admit that I was quite jealous to read that you grew up in New York. I’ve never been, but I’d love to see it. I’m from a very small town that couldn’t be further from how I imagine New York to be. What was it like? Plus, you’ve traveled! I’d never seen anywhere but my home state before I moved to Chicago (now you can tell that I’m not a native of the city, at least!) so I’m very envious. Where have you traveled to? 

You’ve certainly painted a picture, although it doesn’t help me to offer better advice. Perhaps if I understood astrology, I might have a better insight. I read the horoscopes in the Tribune sometimes - are they accurate? They always seem much kinder on my roommate than me, although she doesn’t like hearing about them. She says she doesn’t believe in it all, but I personally think she’s just too superstitious! I don’t want to tell her though, because I’m not as good with numbers as her (though perhaps better than you?) and she organizes the household bills and such. 

I hope this reply arrives soon enough - I get the sense that I’d better not keep you waiting! 

Yours faithfully,

On behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson

P.S. I look forward to your letters too. I can’t tell you how much they improve my workday. 

*

“You know, I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Shirley says, trotting along at her usual intense pace. “I feel as though we haven’t spent any time together recently.” 

Feeling as though she is following a drill sergeant, Carson ups her pace. She has to admit that Shirley is right. Most of the time, they have been like ships in the night, bound by volunteering schedules that always seem to place one of them on duty while the other has a night off. Most of the time, they have condensed their conversations into half an hour over a rushed breakfast, and perhaps another half an hour over dinner if they are lucky. Shirley has been offered overtime at work, and often she returns home right as Carson leaves for a Red Cross shift. 

However, if Carson is being honest, this has made it easier to write her letters without being caught out. On the evenings she is alone in the apartment, she either drafts a response to her anonymous new friend or she works her way through the stack of women’s magazines she had bought. She has started keeping notecards of the problems pages, writing out the different questions and the ways in which the other agony aunts answer. She has a separate card for each individual type of problem, with corresponding cards for individual scenarios. 

All of Woman & Home’s competitors take a slightly different approach, but Mrs Wilkinson’s is by far the most distinct. Carson does not mean this in a particularly good way. While some of the other magazines are slightly conservative and cautious, they still tackle a wider range of issues, including relationship problems. Some of the responses are sterner than the rest, but none are so unsympathetic as the ones Carson’s types up every week. 

Some of the magazines aimed at younger, working women cover a far wider gamut of real-life issues, and they are by far the most open about discussing relationships and emotional issues. They often even offer to send out pamphlets which might help, provided interested readers send in stamped envelopes. In many of the responses, they mention having contacted other organisations for more information and they print those contact details on the problems pages. 

It really leaves Woman & Home in the dust, and the whole thing makes Carson feel quite bleak. They could be doing so much more and, given the state of the competition, it’s a wonder anyone writes to Mrs Wilkinson at all. Carson harbours an unsubstantiated but fervent suspicion that many of the people writing are in situations that don’t allow them to read the other magazines. Perhaps they have strict parents or judgemental roommates or traditional husbands who wouldn’t like them to read the stories in some of the more up-to-date magazines. Henry’s stories are easily the best part of Woman & Home , but he has a lot less leeway than some of the other authors in other publications. Their stories are far racier, if still very proper for the most part, and much more exciting and invigorating. Carson is certain Henry could do just as good a job if Mrs Wilkinson wouldn’t lose her mind over such content. 

At present, she has no idea what exactly she intends to do with all this research, only that it helps to vindicate her conviction that Woman & Home could be doing much more to help their readers. This reconnaissance mission has also helped her to believe that it isn’t her fault that she feels so helpless, particularly when she is so evidently being hamstrung by her boss, who seems to possess a mindset so backwards it is basically Victorian. It makes sense, given Mrs Wilkinson’s age, but that doesn't mean Carson has to like it. 

Ideally, she would love to get Shirley’s insight into this, but her friend is astute and knows Carson well enough to work out that she probably hasn’t idled on the sidelines quite as much as she would like it to seem. As a result, their choice of Sunday afternoon activity - a trip to the movie theatre - is perfect. There are limited opportunities for chatting and hence equally limited opportunities for Carson to give into the impulse to tell Shirley about Caged Bird. 

In truth, Carson thinks about the letters from the mysterious CB more than she would like to admit. She finds herself mulling over the words in each letter as she works or drives around the city. She keeps trying to picture the woman writing them: russet hair, brown eyes, and a penchant for red. Carson imagines her with polished nails, bright red and shining as they grip a fountain pen to write. She imagines soft, red lipstick when CB seals the envelope. 

The whole thing is a mystery to be solved, and Carson is gripped by it as though she is reading the newest Miss Marple instalment. Even as she and Shirley take their seats and the opening frame of Above Suspicion lights up the room, Carson finds herself less interested in the work of fiction on the screen than the real-life riddle she wants so desperately to solve. 

She feels indescribably drawn to CB, like the two of them are supposed to know each other. For every time she tries to write some advice into her own letters - still trying her best to act as some kind of agony aunt - she takes much longer to think about the more personal elements of her replies. 

The movie passes her by; it is only mildly interesting and, given the subject matter, does little to distract her from the real world. Joan Crawford and Fred MacMurray play a married couple whose European honeymoon turns into a veritable spider’s web of espionage as, improbably, they begin to spy on the Nazis on behalf of the British government. 

As they join the mass of bodies pouring out the theatre when the final credits roll, Shirley chatters away about her own lukewarm thoughts on the story. 

“...just seems so improbable, doesn’t it? I know we all have to do our bit, but who goes on a honeymoon and ends up on an international hunt for some kind of scientist? And…four years ago? The war was barely in full swing. I suppose that accounts for why they were in Europe in the first place, but I can’t quite understand it. Perhaps the book is more comprehensive. Do you think I should buy it? I might see if they have it in Barnes & Noble . I imagine they will, given that it’s about the war.” 

“Mm,” Carson says, only half-listening. “I think they’ll have it.” 

“Did you like it? It seemed like you didn’t.” 

“It was alright. Not my favourite.”

“No,” Shirley agrees, pulling Carson by the sleeve of her coat and directing her towards the restrooms. “Mine neither. But I thought it wasn’t too bad. Will you wait for me while I use the bathroom?” 

“Sure.” 

Shirley bustles off and reappears a while later, still talking about Above Suspicion. By unspoken agreement, they walk towards the exit. 

“I thought Fred MacMurray looked very handsome though, didn’t you?” 

“I’m not sure he’s my type.” 

“Oh. Well, I still think he looked quite nice. And Joan Crawford really did look beautiful in that dress. The one from the scene where she’s standing by the window.” 

Carson tries to focus on the conversation. Joan Crawford. Pretty dress. She casts her mind back to the scene. Crawford had looked very beautiful. She says so to Shirley, who looks much more heartened than she had a moment ago.

“Oh good. You were watching,” Shirl replies. “I was starting to worry you were really bored. Shall we stop at Hillman’s on the way home if it’s quiet inside? It’s still quite early. Maybe Max and Clance will be there.”

Ordinarily, Shirley would never propose going to a bar, but she is so used to Hillman’s that she only refuses to go if it is painfully busy. 

“Yeah, that’s fine.” 

They board the next streetcar and fight their way to a pair of empty seats. Once they pull away, Shirley nudges Carson. 

“Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet tonight.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Carson says. “Sorry Shirls, I’m being rude. I’m just a bit caught up thinking about work, but I’m having a nice time.”

“I bet some of the letters you receive must be really horrible,” Shirley responds, voice very sympathetic. 

“Some of them,” Carson agrees. “But others are nice to receive.” 

“Well, that’s good,” Shirley says, doing her best to be encouraging. “Just try to focus on those ones.” 

That is precisely the problem, Carson thinks. She cannot stop focusing on the good ones. 

*

Monday brings a healthy dose of early-May sunshine, as well as a new response from CB. Carson recognises the envelope immediately and uses all the self-restraint she possesses to tuck it at the bottom of the miniscule pile. 

She works her way through another disheartening line-up of inappropriate letters. She puts one aside for Mrs Wilkinson and holds another back for Terri, but the rest are all no-gos. She cuts up the ones that aren’t too heart-wrenching and hides the rest, as has become her habit. 

She has her mind set on CB’s letter and, as she shuts her drawer, she hears the sound of someone very pointedly clearing their throat. 

Stomach twisting in fear, she glances up to see Maybelle watching her closely, an amused look on her face. 

“Forget where the waste paper goes?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Carson says, feeling her face go red. “Head in the clouds today, I guess.” Feeling incredibly stupid, she reaches for the drawer again, but Maybelle cuts her off with a laugh and a shake of her head. Her blonde curls bounce and catch in the weak sunlight. 

“I take it you forgot on Friday too? And a few days before that.”

Carson sends up a silent prayer for the ground to open up beneath her. She had gotten sloppy. 

“Maybelle, please just let me explain.” 

“It’s okay hon. I’m not going to run to Henry or Mrs W., but you gotta be more careful than that. You’re a really bad liar, by the way. Take me at my word on that one; I’m saving you from yourself.”

“I - ” Carson begins and then trails off rather pathetically.

Maybelle’s face creases in sympathy. “Before you joined, I did that job for a month. I get it, Carson. It feels impossible to just toss those stories in the trash. But I gotta wonder, why save them? What are you planning to do with them? Because I’ve worked here a minute, and I can tell you now that if she catches you - and she will, she’s like a goddamn bloodhound when it comes to sniffing this stuff out - you’ll be sacked. Or worse. Can you afford to risk that?” 

“I don’t know,” Carson starts, before changing direction entirely. “Do you ever read the magazine? Or any of the ones out there like it?”

Maybelle snorts. “There aren’t any others like it. At least not since about 1930. I read it here because I have to, and because there isn’t any other reading material to hand, but I prefer Vogue in my spare time.” 

“Then you’ll know that other agony aunts actually help people.” 

“I do,” Maybelle says. “But unless you’ve been skimming them for inspiration, then they don’t really matter in this office.” She pauses and inclines her head towards Carson’s desk. “You seem pretty sure you’ll be keeping that one.” 

Carson feels her face grow even hotter as she glances down at CB’s envelope. She has been so stupid by becoming this bold in the office and not having an adequate cover story to hand. 

“What rule-breaking would you report to Mrs Wilkinson?” she asks meekly, knowing that the game is up. 

“Nothing, probably,” Maybelle says easily. “I like my time here with you more than I really care about what she thinks. But it doesn’t mean I won’t worry about what you’re getting into. My mom always says it’s the quiet ones. So, thinking about it again, maybe I’ll bribe you somehow. Get you to buy my silence.” 

The longer this conversation goes on, the closer Carson thinks she is to being sick.

“How?” she whispers, certain her face has now gone from bright red to deathly pale. 

Maybelle bursts out laughing and Carson jumps in surprise. 

“Well shit, I’m not really going to bribe you. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d actually believe me. I was just going to say you had to make the tea this week or something, and I wouldn’t even have followed through with it!” 

“Oh,” Carson says, feeling incredibly stupid. “Sorry, I just…I haven’t ever done something like this before - directly disobeying someone’s rules so brazenly. And I know it’s bad, I don’t actually know what's wrong with me. And I am sorry. Well, in a way, I’m sorry. But in other ways, I’m not.” She pauses when she recognises how badly her words are running away from her. 

Taking a deep breath, she tells Maybelle everything as quietly as possible. Mrs Wilkinson isn’t in the office this morning, but that doesn’t mean someone else from the team won’t overhear. Before she can stop herself, she is telling Maybelle all about the way the readers’ stories make her feel, about Private Freddie Maxwell and his fear of his mom’s letters stopping, about Aspiring Nurse, and, finally, about Caged Bird. When she confesses how many letters she has sent to CB, Maybelle looks shocked, but she recovers quickly. 

“But I never signed them from Mrs Wilkinson, not directly. I just said it was on her behalf. And I’ve started bringing my own paper to write my letters, so that it doesn’t have the Woman & Home header. I use my own envelopes and my own stamps. I’m not stealing, except perhaps a bit of ink from the typewriter. I - ”

“Okay, okay,” Maybelle says, holding up her hand. “I think maybe you need a moment. I get it, okay? I’m not gonna tell anyone, and I’m not gonna tell you to stop because I can already tell that you won’t. Just be careful, okay? I’ll stick up for you if you need, but I gotta tell you now, I can’t lose this job. I have people at home relying on my money. Oh, and a word of advice? Don’t use her name on the letters anymore.” 

Carson nods. “I really am sorry Maybelle.” 

“Don’t be. I know you just want to help. I actually think it would be better if more people wanted to help women who…made some missteps, I guess. Who hasn’t? I know I have, and I would have handled them better if people had been kinder. But, if you don’t mind, I’m going to make a fairly long trip to the bathroom and pretend I haven’t seen that envelope.” 

Carson nods, and gets the hint. Open the letters from CB when Maybelle can’t see. 

Before Maybelle is quite out the door, Carson murmurs, “thanks Maybelle. You’re a really good friend.” 

Maybelle turns back and smiles. “Don’t mention it honey. You are too.” 

* 

Dear ????? 

Wow. Am I perhaps speaking to a spy? There are people in the OSS who aren’t so good at keeping secrets. Never mind, I’m nothing if not determined. So, how about this? I’ll tell you about New York and my foreign travels if you tell me just one simple thing about you. But you have to be honest! I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying (don’t ask me how - it’s Top Secret!) So, do we have a deal? 

Given that you’re secretly writing to me when, presumably, you were never supposed to, I simply won’t accept your claim that you’re boring. What could be more exciting than a clandestine conversation with little old me? 

I think I ought to be very glad that my letter fell into your hands. Would you like to know another secret? (See how sharing information works? I’ll tell you my secret as an example). I wrote that letter after I’d shared a drink or two with my friends, and it left me feeling particularly sad. The next day, I was embarrassed by it, but something told me I should send it and so I did. I guess there was some reason why I just knew I had to write to you. 

I will have to teach you about astrology. It’s really very interesting. I bought the Tribune today just to look at the horoscopes and answer your question. They seemed okay, but not all that engaging. Perhaps your boss would be interested in adding a horoscope feature. You could employ me. Wouldn’t that be fun? Then we wouldn’t have to write these letters back and forth.

(On second thoughts, I’d miss writing to you too much I think). 

You know the drill! Don’t keep me waiting, will you? 

Yours faithfully, 

CB

P.S. I’m not entirely sure if it has escaped your notice, but I’m not actually writing to you for advice about my teenage romance anymore. 

P.P.S. I think you need a new sign off. I’m quite certain you are no longer acting on behalf of Mrs M. Wilkinson! 

That takes the number of people who have told her not to write her boss’ name on the letters to two. Carson knows she needs to find a new way to sign her letters. She mulls it over all day and makes sure she puts CB’s letter into her bag when Maybelle isn’t in the room. She feels unspeakably guilty about putting her friend’s job in danger and vows to be much more careful from now on. 

Shirley is still at work when Carson arrives home that afternoon, so she makes herself a sandwich and sits at her dressing table, pen in hand. She knows that she would be better off writing her responses by hand and using her home address so that she doesn’t run the risk of being caught in the office, and to better protect Maybelle from the whole situation. 

More than that, she knows this will be a much harder letter to write. She needs to find a personal detail to share, one that isn’t too specific but is personal enough that her correspondent will feel that the conversation hasn’t become too one-sided. Rationally, Carson knows that she has no real obligation to follow CB’s instructions, but she wonders how many more letters she would receive if she continued to withhold. This back-and-forth has fast become the most exciting thing in her life, and she doesn’t want it to stop. 

After a moment’s reflection, she begins to write. 

Dear CB

Today at work, my colleague told me I was a horrible liar, so I can assure you I’m not secret service material. If you’re particularly eagle-eyed, you might note that this letter is being sent to you in my handwriting (I’m sorry it’s so horrible). I was tempted to tell you this was my effort to be more personal, but the truth is my colleague now knows I’m writing to you. I wasn’t supposed to because the magazine has guidelines for the letters they publish. The ones that don’t meet the criteria aren’t supposed to be acknowledged. But I want to keep writing and so I won’t be typing any more responses at the office. I hope you’ll be able to read what I write. 

Well, you drive a hard bargain, but I have to admit it’s a fair deal. So, a little about me. I am 26 years old and I was born in Idaho (I won’t bother writing the town as you won’t have heard of it - it’s very small). I have brown hair, brown eyes, and I like the colors blue and green (not necessarily together). I am an Aquarius. I want to be a writer one day, but I don’t yet know what I want to write about. As a child, I played baseball and would dream of playing professionally, until I realised that women aren’t allowed. I miss believing it was possible. I can’t think of anything else to write at the moment, but I hope this has earned a few accounts of all your adventures. 

I truly hope you no longer feel embarrassed about your letter. It was one of the first I held back when I knew it couldn’t be printed. When I read it, I truly felt as if you were talking to me, even though I didn’t know who you were (and still don’t). Is that strange? There is nothing embarrassing about missing the way things used to be. I miss things from my past all the time. Perhaps that’s why we both feel so lonely sometimes. 

I would very much like to learn about astrology from you. Will you tell me a little about what Aquarians are supposed to be like? Or do I need to trade more information for your knowledge? Please state your price in your next response. I will consider whether I can afford it. 

In truth, I think you seem far too interesting to work at Woman & Home and I have a suspicion (don’t ask me how - it’s Top Secret!) that you would hate the rules even more than my colleague and I do. They’re very stifling and restrictive. 

Well, I hope the wait was short enough. Please get back to me as soon as you can. 

Carson gets to the last line and pauses. She has no idea how to end the letter. She casts about for a good pseudonym, but nothing feels quite right. ‘Secret agony aunt’ doesn’t really describe the situation adequately anymore. She toys with writing ‘mystery Aquarius’ but it makes her sound too interesting and she doesn’t want to be a disappointment to CB. She already has enough experience of that with Meg and her parents. 

So, with nothing else forthcoming, she takes a deep breath and signs it the only way she can, knowing that, if this all goes wrong, she has just placed herself directly in the firing line. 

Yours faithfully,

Mrs Shaw

Chapter Text

Dear Mrs Shaw

How thrilling to finally know your name! Perhaps now I’ll come to your office and ask for you, just to see what you look like. (Just kidding! I already feel a bit guilty that you’ve become entangled in a nefarious web of lies at work.) Not only am I eagle-eyed enough to spot your new means of communication, but I’ve even put my skills of deduction to good use and worked out that you’re married. Will you tell me a little about your guy? Oh, but don’t be too boring! A few words will do. 

Well, a deal’s a deal. But first, I thought you might like to know we have a little in common. I’m also 26, and I also played baseball as a child. My best friend and I met in Queens when we were both playing ball, and that is how we first became friends. A few of our friends in the city are also fans and from time to time we fool around and try to hit a few pitches. One of the group throws a really mean curveball. Perhaps, if you’re ever brave enough to reveal the rest of your identity to me, you could join us. Us ball players have to stick together! 

But now, onto my side of the bargain. My best friend and I have been all over: we’ve lived in Jersey, Boston, Houston, and now Chicago. In ‘38 we travelled to Paris, but we ended up leaving after about a year. I’m sure you can imagine why! And, before you ask, no - neither of us speaks much French! I think the most complicated sentence I can say is: ‘mon amie s’appelle Dorothy’. Do tell me if you know what it means. Growing up in New York was often a lot of fun, there is always a lot to see and much more to do. It feels as though there is always something happening which is very exciting but sometimes a little tiring too. 

I do still feel slightly embarrassed. I think, in truth, I had no intention of finding my past partner. You asked a while ago if it would be possible and the honest answer is that it probably isn’t. I suppose I just wanted to put the question to a total stranger and see what they thought. All the same, I think we have both arrived at the conclusion that it was lucky I sent a letter to you. I feel a little less lonely now. 

Well, there is more to astrology than just one sign, but Aquarians are thinkers and like to understand what’s going on around them. They’re the ones who stick up for the underdog but need to learn to take a stand for themselves. So, they’re humanitarians and they’re often modest about it. 

I may offer more astrology information if you answer me this: whatever would give you the impression that I couldn’t handle your boss’s rules? 

Awaiting your reply. 

Yours truly,

CB 

(I shall have to think what information I’ll trade for my name.) 

Something about this letter compels Carson to keep it in her bag for a few days while she mulls over her response. It isn’t only that CB signs it off with ‘yours truly’ which feels far more intimate than anything they have used before. Carson half-suspects that her correspondent had done this in return for the much more personal signature, and she appreciates the gesture. 

More than that though, this letter stirs up a lot of feelings in Carson. Firstly, it seems so much like corresponding with a new friend, and something about the way CB writes feels personable and open. However, it also makes Carson feel utterly inadequate. 

CB and her best friend had seen so much of the country and they’d even been to Europe before the war. The truth, Carson fears, is that if the two of them had met in person first, CB wouldn’t find her at all interesting. In fact, she likely wouldn’t have spared Carson a second glance. 

The thought makes her feel strangely sad because Carson can no longer deny that she desperately wants to be friends with CB. She just seems so interesting and exciting and bold. 

Her whole life, Carson had felt as though she was the perfect antithesis of those things. She dimly remembers a time when, as a child, she had been playful and energetic and rambunctious. She had loved to run around the schoolyard with Charlie, and to hit baseballs with the other kids in town. Back then, before her mother left, she hadn’t felt quite so different to her peers. 

But then, things had changed.

She remembers one evening, when she was about seven years old, she had crept downstairs in search of a glass of water and caught her parents arguing about her. 

“You’re not taking a firm enough hand with her,” her father had said, voice slack in a way that told Carson, even at such a young age, that he had been drinking something from the forbidden cabinet in the living room. 

“She’s a kid, ” her mother had protested. “She doesn’t need a firm hand. She needs to enjoy herself while she can, before life takes all that away.” 

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“You know what it means. She’ll grow up and there will be work and marriage and kids of her own. All those responsibilities? Just let her be.” 

Her father had scoffed. “You think those things are responsibilities? Half the men in town only got back from Europe a couple of years ago. The ones that still have all their limbs spend their days pulling down trees or going into mines. Those are what I call responsibilities, not sitting around here all day. She’ll be just fine, but not if you keep letting her run around with the boys like she’s one of them. Meg - ”

“Meg is older,” Carson’s mother had hissed. “Meg and Carson are two different people.” 

Lurking out of sight in the hallway, Carson had jumped and almost given herself away when something in the kitchen slammed, sounding a little like a glass on the wooden table. 

“Start getting her inside after school. Teach her how to cook and sew and whatever else she needs to know. She’s not to go running around like that again unless she’s done all her chores.” 

For a moment, there had been only silence until Carson’s mother had said, “well, you can explain it to her then, when she’s unhappy and lonely being cooped up in here, because I’m not going to.” 

“Fine,” her father had snapped, but then he spoke again and his voice went soft. “I’ll make sure I get home in time for dinner more often. Play ball with her in the garden. She can keep doing that here for a couple of years, but it has to stop eventually. No man is going to want to marry a woman who crouches in the dirt catching baseballs. The sooner she learns that, the better.” 

After that, Carson had spent less time outdoors and much more chained to her mother and sister’s sides, learning to bake pies and cakes, mending the rips in her clothes, and generally doing anything else that little girls were supposed to do. That was until her mother left, and then she and Meg were entirely beholden to other women from town to teach them everything their father thought they should know. Regardless of who was teaching her, Carson hated all of it. 

She still found ways to sneak off and play baseball and, after a while, her father stopped shouting at her for it. Her mother’s absence hollowed him out over time and he stopped seeing Carson entirely. However, this hadn’t stopped her from growing up, and it hadn’t stopped other people from expecting her to be a certain way. Despite her best efforts, Carson had never been able to wholly master any of the household duties expected of her. It was like she’d been made wrong, like she’d been made for something else entirely. She had no interest in styling her hair a certain way or learning how to apply makeup, and wearing dresses and stockings became a trial in itself. None of the fashionable styles fit her right, and more often than not she would buy clothes or materials without much thought. She liked the dresses she owned, but she was under no illusion that they weren’t anything special. The styles she chose felt right on her; not too showy or frilly, they were practical and easy to wear. Meg told her on many occasions that her clothes and her hair made her look too plain, and in time Carson had come to believe it about herself. 

After all, wasn’t that what she was expected to be? Wasn’t that what her father had implied all those years ago? Baseball made her feel alive and invigorated, and the things she replaced it with were designed to keep her in the house and in a corner. Playing the games of womanhood confused and frustrated her. The rules weren’t like the ones in baseball: they didn’t make any sense. She was supposed to be demure and poised, ready to keep a home for her husband and babies, but not too plain or the boys wouldn’t notice her. She was supposed to style her hair and wear makeup, but not too much or they’d call her a loose woman. She was supposed to appeal to men but not by enjoying the things that interested them too. It was all foreign to her, and eventually she just gave up on it. 

Charlie had been the only real positive constant when she was growing up. He didn’t actually care all that much about her makeup or her dresses, and he liked that she was good at baseball. He was the only boy in town who gave her a second glance anyway, so what did it matter? 

She didn’t want to become a housewife, but she had to. So obviously, she was going to do that with Charlie. No one else would want her, and she wouldn’t want any of the men her age in town either. They had all grown up to be brutish and rude; they were entitled and mean. They’d all but bullied her as a teenager so she was determined to avoid them as an adult. They were nothing like Charlie or Guy or Henry or poor, gentle Private Maxwell. 

During her last couple of Motor Corps shifts, she had been transporting supplies and paperwork on behalf of the specialist centre which had received Freddie, and the G.I. had made good on his word by often seeking her out and saying hello. Whenever they spoke, he was polite and did his level best to seem as though he was in high spirits, but he wasn’t a much better liar than Carson herself. 

She had started taking volunteer shifts that brought her to the treatment centre, just to try and give him a bit of a boost. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was working, but she enjoyed calling in to see him and check up on his progress. 

On a wonderfully bright and cheery Wednesday evening in mid-May, she reports to the Red Cross with the intention of once again paying a visit to her new acquaintance. 

She arrives at headquarters and collects her assignment from Sarge, who thus far hasn’t seemed particularly curious about Carson’s request for duties involving the soldiers’ hospital. It was a longer drive than some of the other duties, so it was probably helpful that she was willing to spend a little more on gas. 

Before she heads out, she makes a customary visit to Jess, whose latest Motor Corps mission has been to fix up a few second-hand cars donated for the cause. They’ll be offered out on a loan basis to any volunteers who don’t have their own vehicle but can drive and pay for fuel. 

She calls out to the half of Jess she can see: her legs poking out from the bottom of a tired-looking Buick sedan that had to be almost 10 years old. 

“You want a coffee?” 

“Nah,” Jess shouts back. “New batch tastes like shit too. Can you get me a glass of water if you’re going?” 

Carson fetches the water and makes herself a tea, bringing them with her and sitting down on an old dust sheet that looks moderately clean. She reads over her assignments for a moment before folding the papers up and slipping them inside the pocket of her blazer. 

“Having fun being up to your elbows in motor oil?” 

Jess laughs and extricates herself from beneath the car. Carson had meant her comment as a joke, but Jess really does emerge with her forearms smeared with dirt and muck. 

“Something like that.” 

She cleans herself off as best she can before drinking half the water in one gulp. 

“Got anything good on there today?” 

Carson shrugs. “Just the usual.” 

“Back at the centre again? Bev sure likes sending you there.” 

“Nah,” Carson says, pausing to blow on her tea. “I keep asking. I sometimes say hi to one of the G.I.s I dropped up there a few weeks ago. He’s nice and he doesn’t have anyone in the city.” 

“Huh. Look at you being a Good Samaritan.” Jess takes another sip of water. “Between this and the agony aunt stuff, you’re on your way to being canonised.” 

Carson rolls her eyes and gives Jess a playful shove. “Sure, because I’m really helping lots of people.” 

“I don’t know,” Jess counters thoughtfully, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment. “I think you probably are.” 

“I’m doing nothing at work but typing, and it’s still just the…” Carson drops her voice in case Beverly is nearby, “same old shit about makeup and sewing.” 

Jess snorts. “You could just answer the other ones, you know.” 

“I can hardly send other letters to be printed.” 

“No. But what about the ones that have return envelopes with them?” 

“Do you think I should?” Carson asks, wondering if she should tell Jess about the letters she has been writing. 

“I dunno,” Jess answers, downing the last of her water. “I’m not saying you should. I’m just saying you could, if you’re so pissed off about not doing anything constructive.” She sets her glass on a countertop and stands back up. “Speaking of ‘constructive’, I think Bev will have my guts if this one isn’t ready by the end of my shift.” 

Carson nods, blowing on her tea again, more furiously this time. 

“Yeah, I better get moving too, as soon as I’ve finished this. You mind if I stick around until then?” 

Jess grins. “Never.” 

*

As she drives around the city, picking up medical supplies, food, and an enormous package of mail for the patients, Carson mulls over how to liven up her own letters to CB. If she can’t work out how to write back to her, surely she’d be no good at writing back to the other readers of Woman & Home. 

She lets herself into the specialist centre, which had made its home in an old, slightly depressing Victorian building on the outskirts of the city. It had a nice green garden out back, but other than that it must be an oppressive, dreary place to try to recover. Most of the men here had been badly injured out on the front lines, losing limbs or - like Freddie - sustaining enough damage to them that they needed an exceptional amount of physical therapy to regain any semblance of strength. 

Stepping inside is always a little like walking into the Woman & Home headquarters. Everything is dark and extremely hushed, although Carson knows this is mostly to avoid loud, sudden noises around the patients. Most of them had some form of combat stress reaction. Men her father’s age called it shell shock. Whatever its name, it must be awful. 

On the rare occasion she crosses paths with a patient other than Freddie - who she often finds sitting alone in a large living space adjacent to the reception desk - they are scared, vacant, and locked in a thousand-yard-stare that convinces Carson they have no idea that they aren’t still in the trenches. 

It takes a couple of trips to the car and back for Carson and the nurse behind the front desk to get all the supplies inside. Once done, she gestures in the direction of the living space and asks, 

“Is Private Maxwell in there?” 

The nurse nods briskly, looking incredibly pale and tired. “I think so. He usually is.” 

Carson thanks her and creeps inside, finding the room mostly deserted. In the corner a record plays at a low volume, so quiet Carson can’t discern the song. 

Freddie is sitting in an old armchair in the far corner of the room, looking out the window that overlooks the garden. He turns when Carson approaches, face breaking into a smile when he sees her. 

“Hi,” he says, starting to rise. 

Carson waves a hand at him, just as she always does. She drags a tasselled footstool across the wooden floor as quietly as she can, bringing it closer to his chair and perching on the edge.

“No need to get up. How are you feeling?” 

“Good,” Freddie lies. “Just trying to find something to pass the time.” 

“You want me to bring you some books or anything?” Carson asks, thinking that he could balance one on the arm of the chair and turn the pages with his good hand. 

He shakes his head. “I’m sending all my money to my mom. Thanks though.” 

“I can loan you some of mine if you want?” 

Freddie smiles again. “That’s kind Carson, but I don’t want to be any trouble.” 

Carson shakes her head to herself. “Well, when you’re done being too polite to accept my offer, let me know. I’ll bring some when I do my rounds.” 

Freddie laughs. On the rare occasion that he does so, his face reveals his age, and he looks so young and fragile that Carson’s chest hurts. Poor kid. 

“How’s your mom doing?” she asks. 

“Fine, I think. She writes to me every week, but it’s mostly just the same updates and questions, since I can’t write back.” 

Carson sends him a questioning look. “I thought the nurses were helping you.” 

“They can’t. They barely have the time to do their work, let alone anything else.” 

“Alright,” Carson says, clapping her hands over her knees before realising that she shouldn’t have made such a loud noise. Recovering quickly, she makes her voice as authoritative as possible. “Go on. Go get your letters and some paper. I have a pen in one of my pockets. We can’t leave your mom waiting to hear from you.” 

Freddie starts to protest, but it is obvious his heart isn’t in it. He does as Carson instructs and dictates a note so sweet and caring that Carson’s eyes sting as she writes it out for him. She tells him she’ll take it with her and send it first thing in the morning, refusing his attempts to go and find a few coins for the stamp. 

As she gets in her car, Freddie’s updates about his health (all vague and watered-down to protect his mom) and earnest questions about his little siblings play over and over in her head. At the end, he had shyly asked Carson to write the words ‘I love you, mom’ and as Carson thinks of it while she drives home, she cannot help but cry. 

* 

Dear CB

I can’t imagine my name is particularly exciting, and I hope knowing it hasn’t made these letters less intriguing for you. If I’m being honest, I couldn’t think of how else to sign off. 

There’s no need to feel guilty - I’ll have no one to blame but myself if I get in trouble. That being said, if I do get fired, perhaps you’ll have a spare room for me when I can no longer afford my rent? 

How astute of you to guess I’m married! How on earth did you manage to work it out? My husband and I have only been married since last year, but we’ve known each other a lot longer. He’s very kind and he is also very weird, but in a good way. He’s funny and silly, and he makes me laugh. Currently, he’s fighting in the war, so we only speak via letter. (Hopefully this was just the right amount of information!) 

I was probably more excited than I should admit to realize we have so much in common, particularly that you like baseball! I’ve always loved baseball more than anything in the world, and I wish I could spend more time playing it. How often do you and your friends meet up to play? My roommate and one of our friends are also fans. Sometimes, I forget that there must be so many women who play ball. You’re right - we have to stick together! Maybe, if we speak for long enough, we’ll become friends and meet up to hit baseballs too! 

I can’t tell you how jealous I am of your travels! You must have had so many adventures. I wish I’d had even one in my life but, as I told you a while ago, I’m very boring. Unfortunately, I don’t speak French and I don’t know anyone who does. I borrowed a dictionary from the library to translate your sentence. I’m not sure it can have been particularly useful during your time away. Will you tell me something about Paris? Did you see the Eiffel Tower? What about the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées, or the Palace of Versailles? (I had to look all of those spellings up in our Encyclopaedia, by the way!) I bet you saw them all. I would really love to visit the Louvre. 

At first, I found Chicago incredibly tiring and overwhelming because I’m from such a small town, so perhaps - based on what you told me - New York isn’t for me. What do you think? 

Would it make you feel less embarrassed if I told you something embarrassing about me? I can’t think of anything right now, but ask me what you’d like to know. I can’t promise I’ll answer, but I’ll consider it! 

I’m not sure I’m particularly good at sticking up for anyone, but the part not about fighting for myself sounds about right! I suppose I do think a lot (or perhaps too much). What are Sagittarians like? Also, how can there be more to this than only one sign? I thought we only had one each. 

I don’t know what makes me think you’d dislike Woman & Home’s rules, but I already hate them and you seem much more exciting and confident than me! My colleague feels the same as I do, and I’ll bet you’re a little like her. She’s chatty and funny, and she doesn’t seem to be shy or nervous in social situations like I am. Also, you didn’t seem to mind that I’d broken the rules, so I don’t think you’d like the fact that we can’t print letters about personal problems or things which are ‘improper’. 

Well, I think that’s all for now. I’m looking forward to your next letter. 

Yours truly,

Mrs Shaw

(I have no idea what I can offer in return for your name. Perhaps you’ll have to state your price.)

P.S. I’m sorry this reply took a little longer than usual, I have been a little busy this week. I volunteer and have befriended a soldier who is currently in hospital. His arm is badly hurt and he can’t write home so tonight I helped him. It’s left me a bit out of sorts, so I hope this letter makes enough sense and didn’t bore you too much. I think it’s the longest one I’ve sent. 

P.P.S I feel a little less lonely now too. 

*

Carson puts her letter with Freddie’s and mails them the next morning, grateful for the way these little pieces of paper keep them both afloat in amongst the never ending flotsam and jetsam of their lives.

*

Dear Mrs Shaw,

And here I was starting to think that you’d grown tired of writing to me! Of course you didn’t bore me. Your letters are never boring; you should be nicer to yourself. 

I’m glad you signed off with your real name (I’m choosing to believe it is your real name, of course). It makes me feel as though I’m writing to an old friend. In fact, I was thinking about our letters recently, while I was waiting for your reply. It occurred to me that you really are an excellent writer. I don’t read a lot - I struggle to hold onto my concentration most of the time. But with your letters, I never look away until I reach the last word and often wish there were more. You’re definitely wasted at that magazine. 

You wrote exactly the right amount about Mr Shaw. I wasn’t trying to be rude by asking you not to bore me with the details (although if I was rude, so be it). It’s just that, over the years, I have found that - for the most part - the least interesting thing about other women is their husbands. After all, you said yourself that the thing you love most in the world is baseball. Isn’t that a far more interesting thing to learn about a person? I certainly think so, at least. 

I’m truly glad you’ve found some friends in the city who share your interests. Isn’t that a wonderful feeling? To find other people like you? Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross through our baseball friends and we’ll never even realize it. My friends and I usually play once a week in the summer, although it’s sometimes difficult to find a time when we are all available. 

I actually found that my token French phrase came in very useful while I was in Paris! And, although I think everyone should have adventures, I don’t think it makes you boring if you feel you haven’t had any yet. It isn’t always an option, and that’s not anyone’s fault. Besides, perhaps you just need to alter your perspective. You came all the way to Chicago on your own, found a place to live, a job, and new friends! That certainly sounds quite adventurous. 

Oh my, that was certainly a lot of questions. I’m feeling generous today so I won’t propose a trade for each one. I think you should just tell me why you want to see the Louvre so badly. Yes, we did see all of those places. I think you’d find me very uncultured - I enjoyed the sightseeing, but it wasn’t my favorite activity in Paris. 

If you ever visit New York, I’m sure you’ll get along just fine, but write to me if you’d like a companion and tour guide! 

Will you be angry at me if I tell you that I laughed aloud when I read that you don’t think you stick up for others well? I promise I wasn’t making fun of you, but I couldn’t help but find it funny. You wrote to me when you shouldn’t have - risking your job in the process - to make a sad, lonely person feel a little better. I think that you are very good at sticking up for other people. 

Oh dear, I think there might be more to explain about astrology than I can write in a letter. We will have to work out how I can deliver any further lessons. As for Sagittarians, we tend to be a little impulsive at times. We’re always on the move in one way or another, and we don’t do well when we’re bored. We like it when people are open-minded and can adapt, and we don’t like to feel like we’ve been caged in. 

I think I can be a conversationalist, but only when I’m interested in the other person, and humor is subjective, so I doubt I’m much like your colleague. She does sound very lovely though. You’re right, by the way, I would hate the rules at your job. But, then again, I think that any reasonable person would. 

(I think you’d be surprised to learn I am not as confident as I’ve made myself seem.) 

Yours truly,

CB

P.S. You’d be very welcome to move in with me. I’ll have a spare room ready as soon as I’ve kicked my best friend out. I’m sure she’ll understand. 

*

“I’m almost scared to ask, but how’s your letter-writing going?” 

Carson glances up from her work. She is currently typing up one of Henry’s stories, a tale about a young nurse falling in love with a good, upstanding soldier. 

“It’s still going, if that’s what you mean. But I haven’t written to anyone else.”

Maybelle looks puzzled. “Are you still writing to her with advice? What problem did she send in? It must be one hell of a quandary.” 

Carson pauses for a minute, wondering how much she should tell Maybelle. To buy herself time, she says, 

“I thought you didn’t want to know too much about this…” 

“I know,” Maybelle replies evenly, before a smile overtakes her face. “I’m still not out to lose my job. But I can’t help it - I’m curious.” 

Carson considers whether she should tell Maybelle about CB’s original letter. At this point, it almost feels like a betrayal. 

“It was a relationship question,” she says, deciding to keep it vague and hope Maybelle doesn’t press for more information. “But we aren’t really discussing that now. It almost feels as though we’re writing as friends. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Not entirely,” Maybelle admits, her voice gentle. “But I suppose I understand it. When I was opening the letters, it was really hard not to get attached to people. What’s she like?” 

“Well, from what I can tell from the letters, she’s really nice and very interesting. She seems to have had a lot of adventures with her friends, and she’s teaching me about what all the star signs mean because she’s interested in astrology.” 

Maybelle nods. “Well, that seems nice and all pretty harmless, at least to me. And now you’re writing at home, it doesn’t seem like Mrs W. will ever find out. I’m glad it’s all worked out.” 

“Thanks Maybelle,” Carson says, and she really is grateful that her friend understands. 

“I think it’s nice that you care. I think we’ve all needed someone like that from time to time.” 

“When did you need it?” Carson asks, without thinking. 

“Oh,” Maybelle says, visibly shutting down a little. “You know. When I was a teenager, pining after the wrong boys who didn’t love me as much as I thought.” 

Carson doesn’t really know because she never pined after the boys in Lake Valley, but she nods anyway. Something tells her that this isn’t the whole story, and she instantly feels guilty for not taking more care to think about all the times that Maybelle has alluded to a more difficult time in her life. All the same, she doesn’t ask any more questions, deciding that everyone should be allowed to keep their own secrets. 

*

Dear CB

I could never get tired of writing to you! 

I can definitely assure you that this is my real name. I think, if I was going to lie, I’d have picked something far more interesting. Now, all that’s left is for me to know yours. I bet it’s much nicer and more interesting than mine. 

Thank you for what you said about my letters. I don’t think anyone has ever said something so nice about my writing. I’m still trying to work out what I want to write. I think I want to tell stories, a little like the ones in women’s magazines, but ideally more interesting. My colleague who writes the stories in Woman & Home is very good, but he doesn’t have much to work with. I enjoy reading what he comes up with as I type, but I do think it gets tiring to read the same things about a man at war and the woman who mostly sits around waiting for him to come back. From what I can tell, wives are waiting for their husbands to come home, but most of them aren’t just sitting around while they do. I’m also very bored of stories where the women are all helpless damsels. The letters I read at work only confirm that women are trying to fix their own problems and, more often than not, when they ask for help it’s from other women. 

Surely you must like to read some things? Do you have any books that you enjoy? I reread Jane Austen’s books a lot. I like the way she writes. 

I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say anything quite like ‘the least interesting thing about a woman is her husband’! Something tells me that I’ve never met anyone like you. I think I understand what you mean though. We’re more than just our marriages, aren’t we? Do you think you’ll ever get married? It sounds like maybe you don’t want to.

While penning her letter, Carson had almost crumpled the page up when she found herself writing that last line. It felt too presumptuous, and it skirted too close to a truth about herself that she was trying to deny. But, the longer she learned about Woman & Home’s readers, and the more time she spent away from Lake Valley, the more she was considering whether she had really only wanted to delay her own wedding because of the war.

Just as she is about to tear the page up and begin again, however, she changes her mind. What could be the harm in asking a person she has never met what she thinks about it all? Trying not to predict the answer she will receive, she goes back to writing. Dutifully, she defends her marriage with as much gusto as she can muster. 

Obviously, I do love my husband as much as I love baseball, but the game really is my favorite thing in the whole world outside of that. What is it about it that you and your friends enjoy the most? I hope our paths do cross that way, or some other way, come to that. 

How on earth did you get so much use out of that phrase?! 

I think I’ve always wanted to see the Louvre because it sounds like such an exciting place. I don’t know too much about history, but I just think it’s so interesting to think about how life used to be. I like seeing old paintings because it feels like you can see the past through the eyes of the people who were there. And it’s all so mysterious, too. Take the Mona Lisa , for example. She’s one of the most famous faces in the world, but none of us really knows exactly who that woman was. I don’t mean her identity, I mean what she was like as a person. She had a whole life and was a whole person beyond the picture and I just think that’s really interesting. In return for this answer (which I’m sure doesn’t make much sense), please tell me what your favorite things about Paris were, if not all the historic sites. 

I don’t mind that you laughed - I suppose I was being a bit unaware! I’m not entirely sure that writing my letter was the same as really fighting for other people, but maybe it comes from a similar place. I’m sure you would make a very good astrology teacher, and I’m willing to hear your ideas for how I can be your student. Sagitarrians sound very interesting, by the way. It doesn’t surprise me that you are one. 

I would, in fact, be very surprised to learn that you’re not all that confident. You seem very self-assured when you write to me. I mean that in a nice way. I like the way you talk. 

I hope you’ll write again soon. 

Yours truly

Mrs Shaw

P.S. I don’t think your best friend would like me very much if you kicked her out and let me take her place. Don’t you have a couch I can sleep on? 

*

Dear Mrs Shaw

I’m very happy that you’re not tired of me yet. I’m afraid your one, innocent letter might have tied you into a very long back-and-forth, as I won’t accept it if your letters stop. If they do, I’ll simply keep writing until your whole house is full of envelopes and you’ll have no choice but to respond. Of course, if you take a spot on our couch (which you’re welcome to do) then it won’t matter too much, will it?

If it’s really true that no one has ever complimented your writing like that before, then I’m afraid I’ll have to have words with everyone you know. You should have been told long before now! I will confess that I don’t read any of the stories in magazines, and not just because I don’t have the attention span. I find them all very dull. I don’t particularly want to read about the types of stories you mentioned. They hold no interest for me at all. However, I do read some books - I’ll have you know that I’m not a complete dunce! I’ve read Pride & Prejudice and enjoyed it. Jane Austen seems like she was ahead of her time in many ways. My favorite book is A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Have you read it? If you haven’t, go out and buy it immediately or let me know if I should mail you a copy. I think you’ll like it. 

Do I think I’ll ever get married? Now that’s a personal question. I suppose my guy might be out there somewhere, but I doubt it. I can’t say I’d mind too much if I never had a husband. I don’t particularly have need of one. Shall we talk about something else now? I’m not sure most men are interesting enough to warrant any more of our time. 

I suppose the thing I like about baseball is that it’s deceptive. On the surface, before you really know the game, it looks slow and it’s as though there isn’t much going on. But, once you look a little deeper and you learn to understand the moves, you realize that there’s actually a lot happening. I think that makes it very fun. 

I think I’ll let you keep guessing about my rudimentary French. It’s much more fun that way! I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about old paintings or artefacts in that way before. I never really saw them as something interesting, but I like the way you talk about them. If things ever get better in Europe and people can visit France again, perhaps I should take you to Paris with me. My favorite thing about the city was similar to your favorite thing about the paintings. I liked the bars and the cafes. I liked meeting new people and learning about them. I like how you feel about the Mona Lisa, but I think the same can be said for people today. Just like baseball, there’s a lot going on if you know what to look for! 

Speaking of looking for things, I will look out for your next letter.

Yours truly,

CB

P.S. For what it’s worth, something tells me I haven’t met anyone like you, either. 

P.P.S. I’ve thought of a price to reveal my identity, but you may think it’s a little steep. 

*

When Carson reads about the supposedly steep price for learning about CB’s identity, she puts the letter in her handbag and doesn’t take it out again until the next day. 

For weeks, she has wanted nothing more than to know who she is writing to, who the person behind the letters is. She had found herself lying awake at night, trying to paint a picture of this bold, fascinating woman in the same way the painters displayed in the Louvre had studied their subjects. 

The problem, however, was that it had been an enthralling idea when it was merely hypothetical. If it were to become a reality, Carson is not quite sure how she would begin to view their correspondence. Right now, they are an oxymoron: they are strangers at the same time that they are becoming friends. There is magic behind that, a type of unreality that made it all feel so safe. 

But if she learns more about CB, and shares more of herself in return, there is a possibility that things might change. She has no doubt in her mind that, whoever her pen pal turns out to be, she will still be completely fascinated by her. But she is fairly certain that the same will not apply in reverse. 

For all CB has said about finding Carson’s letters interesting, there is no way she would remain interesting if more of herself became known. 

All the same, the idea of asking CB to name her price is enchanting, like a siren song. Carson has become entirely wrapped up in their back-and-forth, writing more often to this unknown woman than to Charlie. 

She soothes her guilt over this fact by telling herself that Charlie’s letters take longer to reach her, but the truth is that there is very little to say to him when they already know all there is to know about each other. There is nothing about Carson’s daily life that matches up to what Charlie is experiencing right now, and although she fills a few pages with anecdotes and questions, she feels as though she cannot be quite so candid with him. She hasn’t even told him about the magazine, not wanting to explain what it is her work really entails. She writes more to him about the Motor Corps than about her day job, and she only mentions her personal life if she and Shirley have been to the movie theatre or somewhere else she can write a few lines about. 

The types of things she discusses with CB are nothing like the conversations she has with Charlie, even before the war. They don’t really sit and talk about art galleries or books, and Carson has certainly never told Charlie how she feels about marriage or what it is like to be a woman. She isn’t, in truth, entirely sure that she understands what it is like to be a woman. At times, she doesn’t feel like she connects with many of her peers, and the only people she believes might understand her are Max, Jess, and sometimes Shirley and Clance. 

While she and Charlie had never struggled to fill the time in the past, their discussions had never felt as spirited as the anonymous letters Carson receives. 

So, although it scares her, she knows she will write back and ask what information CB wants to know. It hadn’t escaped Carson’s notice that she had never been asked to provide an embarrassing story to make her new friend feel better, so she imagines it won’t be something too uncomfortable. 

It takes her another day to pluck up the courage to reply and, when she finally does, she stands by the mailbox for a long moment, convincing herself to put the letter inside. 

*

Dear CB

Is it strange if I say that I don’t think I’ll ever want to stop writing to you? I enjoy talking to you. When I inevitably lose my job as a result of these letters, I’ll be on your doorstep in no time, asking whether the couch is ready. 

I don’t think anyone has ever read much of my writing before, so I don’t think there’s any need to confront my friends just yet (although I appreciate the offer!) I don’t find the time to write as often as I should and, sometimes, when I sit down and try, it’s like I’m frozen and the words get stuck. Anything I do manage to write down stays private, and the letters I send to others probably aren’t so reflective as these ones. 

I never thought you were a dunce! I can tell from what you say that you’re very intelligent and world-wise. I’m not sure I’m either of those things, but I’m definitely not the latter. I’ve never read A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, but I’ll see if I can find a copy and I’ll let you know what I think. If you like it that much, I’m sure I will too. 

You say that you doubt your guy is out there somewhere. Why? I think there’s someone out there already madly in love with you, and they don’t even know it yet! I think it’s far nicer when we don’t have need of someone, and when we just want to be married to them instead.

Carson winces when she writes this line. She cannot help but wonder how much she either needs or wants her marriage. She had needed and wanted Charlie before things became so complicated between them, but the marriage aspect of it all had made things so much less clear. She loves him, she really does. But she doesn’t love being a housewife. That dichotomy makes things so much harder to understand. 

I really love the way you talk about baseball. I think that’s a perfect way to describe it! I love the way it makes me feel. I’m never so excited or myself as when I’m playing. What position do you play?

Keeping me guessing about your French phrase might be fun for you, but less so for me. I’m curious! At least give me a hint! Is it something to do with The Wizard of Oz? I really love that movie.

I think I’ll always be a little bit better with paintings or books than with other people. They intimidate me less. I think I need to get better at talking. I always feel so out of place, like I’m always being misunderstood and I don’t know how to explain myself - or be myself - better. 

But, more importantly - I think it’s time you tell me how I find out who you are. 

Yours truly,

Mrs Shaw

*

Dear Mrs Shaw

Here is my proposal. 

I’m now far too curious about you to pretend I only want to keep writing these letters. 

Meet me on Saturday May 29th, at midday. Grant Park - Lakefront, near where the stadium used to be. We can take a walk or perhaps have some lunch. 

Write back to tell me if you’ll be there and, if you will, describe what you’ll be wearing so that you’ll be recognizable. I’ll know you as soon as I see you. 

Send a reply as fast as you can, I’ll be waiting for the mailman every day until you do. 

Yours truly,

CB

P.S. I will answer your other questions in person, if you agree to meet.

*

The thought terrifies her, but Carson writes her response as if she is not entirely in her body. 

It is hard to say whether she is more frightened that the idea of meeting a stranger is probably dangerous, or that she is so desperate to meet the woman she has been writing to for weeks on end. 

She imagines telling Shirley what she is planning to do - knows that she probably should make someone aware of her whereabouts when the meeting takes place - but she can already picture exactly how her roommate will react. She would chastise Carson for breaking the rules in the first place, and then she would come up with a comprehensive, convincing, and fundamentally correct list of sensible reasons why Carson shouldn’t go to Grant Park. 

But, after all these years choosing the things she should do, Carson is sick of being sensible. 

Writing to this anonymous woman makes Carson feel more alive than she felt in a long time. It punctuates her week and makes the dull, dreary reality of her day-to-day life better. There are reasons to write back and refuse the suggestion of a meeting, but there are none that Carson particularly cares about. 

So, with a shakier hand than normal - owing to her nerves - Carson pens a short reply as soon as she can. 

Dear CB

I’ll be there. I’ll wear a green sweater with white Xs on the front and buttons at the collar, and a navy-blue skirt. I hope this will be enough to find me. I don’t own anything more distinctive. 

I’ll stand by the Band Shell to make it easier. 

Yours truly,

Mrs Shaw

P.S. I’m excited to meet you. 

She almost doesn’t include the postscript, but what she writes is true. It might be the truest thing she has told anyone in years. 

*

For the week leading up to the meeting, Carson frets almost constantly. She wishes she had managed to do so in a subtle way, but everyone she knows notices and asks if she is okay. 

Shirley double-checks every time they’re together in the apartment and Max and Clance notice immediately when they all meet at Hillman’s on Wednesday night. Maybelle insists on making the tea every day of that week apart from Monday, when Carson carries the cups into the office so absentmindedly that she nearly trips over the threshold and spills boiling water everywhere. Even Jess does a double-take on the Thursday shift, pulling an expression of sheer disbelief when Carson insists, at great length, that she is absolutely fine and there is no reason at all why she wouldn’t be. 

The real kicker comes when, while visiting the specialist centre for wounded soldiers, a man she has barely known for a few weeks asks too. 

“Isn’t that the question I’m supposed to be asking you?” she asks, a nervous laugh slipping out. The weather has finally grown warm enough that she and Freddie can sit outside on the evenings she visits. They have the patio to themselves and they occupy a wooden table so that Carson can write.  

“You already did,” Freddie reminds her, watching her closely. “I know this place is probably really awful to visit…” 

His arm is still heavily bandaged and supported in a sling. He doesn’t talk about the injury, treatment, or prognosis, so Carson doesn’t ask. He will tell her if he wants to. 

“Oh! God no, it’s not that. I’m happy to help out with your letters. More than happy, in fact,” Carson tells him hurriedly. To illustrate her point, she folds up the latest reply from his mother and places it at the top of an old, tin box he uses to keep them all safe. 

With his good hand, Freddie closes the box and slides it closer to him.  

“Then what is it?” 

Carson shakes her head. “No, it’s nothing. Not compared to…” 

She trails off and glances at the building. 

“You’re allowed to be worried about something too.” 

“I know. But it doesn’t seem right, especially not when everyone has it so hard. And it isn’t even a bad thing. Far from it. I’m just a little nervous about something, that’s all.” 

Freddie smiles to himself. “You don’t have to, but you could tell me, you know. You might not guess it from the party atmosphere in this place, but I don’t really get to talk about anything that isn’t related to my treatment. It would be nice to hear about something that’s apparently so far from a bad thing.” 

Carson laughs quietly. “What?! I thought you were all drinking beers and going out dancing?” 

“Only every other day. The ones in between get really boring.” 

“Well, in that case, I suppose you need some gossip. I’m meeting someone this weekend. For the first time. We’ve only spoken by letter and I’m just…not good with this sort of stuff. I keep worrying I’m going to make a fool of myself,” Carson pauses. When she says it out loud, it sounds even more pathetic. “See? It really is nothing in comparison.” 

“I get it,” Freddie says kindly. “I wasn’t ever the most outgoing person even before…you know. You’re close with this person?” 

He glances down at her wedding ring and Carson blushes bright red.

“No. It’s nothing like that, I swear. I’m not meeting a man. It’s a friend, a female friend.” 

For some reason, Freddie smiles and looks amused. “Okay.” 

“And I’m nervous because we’ve been, uh, penpals and we get on well. I don’t feel like that happens all that often, and I don’t want to be a bore or awkward or really weird.” 

“Well, you’re never any of those things when you’re here.” 

Carson says nothing, throwing him a look intended to say ‘come on, be honest.’ 

Freddie understands and immediately laughs. “If - and I’m not saying you are, but if - you’ve ever been a little awkward, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. Awkward is just honest. Honest about how you’re feeling in the moment, honest about putting yourself out of your comfort zone because whatever it is that’s making you feel out of sorts is worth it. Just…lean into it. You’ll be fine.” 

“I guess so. I’m half-tempted not to go, though.” 

Freddie shakes his head. “Oh no. You have to go. I haven’t left this building in weeks, and if I can’t hear about wherever it is you’re going this weekend, I might lose my mind completely.” 

Carson lets out a breath. “Well, I can’t let that happen, can I?” 

*

The problem is, because she has already said what she’ll be wearing, she can’t change her mind at the last minute. She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, smoothing down a sweater that is usually one of her favourites. Today, however, it just doesn’t look right. It doesn’t fit right. It feels all wrong. 

She had thought, by choosing this outfit instead of a dress, she’d feel a little more herself. But now, as she tries to smooth her hair out, she thinks that she is going to look completely underdressed. It will seem as though she hasn’t bothered to make an effort. 

It shouldn’t matter, should it? It shouldn’t matter how she looks if she’s just going to meet a friend.

But, for some reason, she cares. She only gets to make this first impression once, and she just knows she is going to screw it up

As she locks the apartment at just before eleven-thirty - glad that Shirley is already out volunteering - she cannot help but mull over what is about to happen. Mostly, her mind is filled with worries and questions. 

Now she is about to meet CB, she can only assume the letters will stop. Either this afternoon will go so badly that the other woman will want nothing to do with Carson, or it will go well enough that they might arrange to see each other again. While she can hardly bear to dream of the latter outcome, Carson desperately wants it to happen. But, if it does, then that means they probably won’t write as much anymore, and she just isn’t sure she’s ready for the letters to stop. They have become a crucial constant in her life, a special gift and a precious secret, the first thing in her life she has ever had all to herself. 

And then, there are the more immediate concerns. She and the person on the other end of the letters bounce off each other so well, but what if that doesn’t happen in person, especially when Carson has to think of something to say on the spot? What if they don’t work in real-time? What if they don’t like each other? It almost feels impossible when Carson thinks back on the letters, but she has learned recently that a change in circumstances can rewrite an entire, lifelong relationship. If that can happen to her just by getting married, then it could happen now too. 

She thinks it would hurt more than anything, to meet a woman who has so wholly characterised her life for weeks and find that they don’t share the connection Carson has been holding onto. 

Her whole life, people have never really understood her. But it feels like this woman does. If they don’t fit, if Carson doesn’t fit with CB, then she doesn’t really know what she will do or feel. She only knows that she doesn’t want to go back to being lonely. 

She is so lost in the whirlwind of her fears that she almost ignores Guy entirely as she passes by Hillman’s on her way to the streetcar. He raps on the window so loudly that Carson starts, and she wonders how many times he’d knocked before then. She comes to a sudden halt, and Guy pokes his head out the door. 

“Hey, Carson! You okay? Max and Clance are coming by tonight. Will you and Shirls be joining us?” 

Carson nods, perhaps a little more energetically than required. Guy blinks and asks, “are you alright?” 

“Yeah. Yep. Fine. Just heading out for a bit. I’ll come by and see you all later.” 

“Okay,” Guy replies, drawing the word out in his uncertainty. “Where are you headed?” 

“Oh, you know!” Carson says, pitching her false cheeriness and nonchalance far too enthusiastically. Guy’s brow furrows. “Just…out. Meeting a friend. A friend from work. Just for a bit. Don’t know how long but we won’t be late.” 

“Sure. Well, don’t miss the streetcar on my account. I gotta get back to the kitchen before William catches me anyway. See you later?” 

“Yep!” Carson says, voice too loud, and she immediately hurries away without saying goodbye. 

She arrives at Van Buren with around ten minutes to spare, and makes her way to the Band Shell. A few people mill about in the shade of the towering arch, its white exterior almost too bright to look at in the sunshine. 

There is no concert on, however, so the benches are mostly empty and there are far more people dotted around the rest of the area, sharing picnics on the grass or walking to and fro along the paths on their way to another destination. 

Carson picks a spot by the raised stage, standing opposite the centre aisle between the benches. She is too nervous to sit down and instead shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking up at every person who passes even remotely nearby. 

The time drags out agonisingly slowly and Carson finds herself watching the second hand on her wristwatch tick around and around. Then, right as the time hits midday, as if it was planned that way, a voice behind her almost makes her start. 

“Well hi there, Mrs Shaw.” 

Carson whirls round, heart suddenly in her throat. It lodges there when she gets her first look at the woman she has been writing to for all this time. 

She’s - oh God, she’s…

Carson feels as though she is trying to look directly at the sun. 

CB is tall - so much taller than Carson had anticipated - dressed from head to toe in a vibrant red, looking undeniably as glamorous as the women Carson and Shirley watch on the silver screen. Her hair is curled perfectly, falling more or less in line with her shoulders. She had described it in her letters as a reddish brown, but that didn’t do justice to the rich, warm mahogany of it, and the way it glints in the sunlight like embers in a fireplace. Her brown eyes are delightfully warm and, yes - there it is, that bright red lipstick and nail polish Carson had pictured. 

Carson is taking too long to speak, she knows she is, but she can’t help it. 

All this time, and she’d been blissfully unaware that she was writing to the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. 

Her stomach twists, intimidated by this woman’s easy grace and poise. There is no way in the world she will want to spend any time with Carson after today. That is, if she doesn’t turn around and leave right away. Carson wouldn’t blame her if she did. She must be an immense disappointment. What’s more, she cannot seem to find her voice, no matter how hard she tries. 

“Oh dear, don’t tell me you aren’t Mrs Shaw. That would be embarrassing.” The woman doesn’t sound like she’d be embarrassed, and she definitely doesn’t think that Carson isn’t the person she is supposed to be meeting. 

“Yeah, sorry. Hi. I’m Mrs Shaw, uh, Carson. Please call me Carson.” 

“Carson,” she repeats, turning the name over in her mouth as if she is testing it out, seeing how it tastes on her tongue. “I like that. I think it suits you.” 

She holds her hand out and Carson shakes it, noting how soft and cool her palm feels. 

“I’m Greta, by the way,” she says, still smiling. “Greta Gill.” 

Greta Gill. It is a beautiful name, just as Carson had predicted. 

*

They agree to find somewhere to buy lunch and head towards the city, passing by the Art Institute on their way to Michigan Avenue. 

“I’m sorry,” Carson says as they walk. “About before. I’m a little nervous.” 

“Oh, don’t apologise,” Greta replies breezily. “I’m nervous too. It’s strange, isn’t it? Finally meeting in the flesh.” 

“Yes,” Carson agrees with a strained laugh. Greta doesn’t seem nervous at all. “It is. But…in a good way, I think.” 

“I think so too.”

They swap pleasantries as they pass tea rooms and restaurants. Given the day and time, everywhere is packed to the rafters and it proves difficult to find anywhere to sit. 

“This place looks cute,” Greta remarks, peering into the window of a little diner tucked away down a sidestreet. “And I see a free table. Want to go in?” 

Carson agrees and they seat themselves at a booth at the far end of the room. Greta orders a tea and Carson asks for the same, settling back in her seat and trying to relax. It feels as though her heart hasn’t stopped racing since she first saw Greta standing in front of her. 

There is a beat of silence, although Greta doesn’t seem to find it anywhere near as uncomfortable as Carson does. In fact, she seems perfectly at ease as she looks across the table, silently watching Carson as her red lips curve into a hint of a smile. 

Carson tries desperately to think of something to say, but it is as though her brain keeps stalling. 

“First base,” Greta says eventually, apropos of nothing. 

“What?” 

“You asked in your letter. The baseball position I play. It’s first base.” 

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“Well? Are you going to tell me what position you play?” 

Shit. Carson mentally shakes herself. She is definitely screwing this up. 

“I’m a catcher, I - ” Carson is spared the difficulty of trying to finish the sentence when the server returns with their drinks. This is a huge mercy, because she has no idea what she would have said next. 

They both order sandwiches, Carson asks for a glass of water, and then they are alone again.

“So, do you work?” Carson blurts, blushing when she realises how boring the question is. Surely she could have come up with something better than that. 

“I’m not rich enough not to,” Greta answers genially, stirring half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. 

“Well, you look as though you are,” Carson says without thinking. When she hears her own words, she blushes more deeply. “Oh! I only meant…no, I didn’t mean that to sound…” 

She cuts off abruptly and watches as a broad grin settles on Greta’s face. Carson thinks that maybe, in the face of her silence, Greta might take pity and swoop in and save her from herself. Greta says nothing, however, so Carson goes on, trying desperately to repair the interaction. 

“I just meant that you look very glamorous,” she says eventually, voice meek. 

Greta’s smile doesn’t fade and her demeanour remains more or less the opposite of Carson’s. She is calm and relaxed, seemingly unperturbed by Carson’s inability to string together a single coherent and interesting sentence. She studies Carson closely for a moment. 

“Thanks. I’ll have to tell my employer. She’ll be very pleased.” 

Carson realises that Greta is now trying to assist her with the conversation, laying out an easy, obvious follow-up question for Carson to pick up. For some reason, however, all she can muster up is, “oh?”

Greta lets out a soft, quiet laugh and finally relents. 

“I work for Vivienne Hughes,” she says and, perhaps sensing that this might mean very little to Carson, adds, “she more or less owns a make-up and cosmetics empire. Her main office is in New York, but the one here is pretty big too.” 

“I bet that’s way more interesting than Woman & Home,” Carson ventures.

“Well, I certainly think so, but I am biased.” Greta gestures vaguely at her face. “I’m interested in what the company sells.” 

Feeling self-conscious, but deciding she might as well point out the obvious, Carson waves a hand at herself in return. 

“Very evidently, I’m terrible at all that stuff.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Greta counters, eyes sweeping over Carson so brazenly that she feels herself blush again. “I’d say you’re doing just fine. You look nice.” 

Carson stutters her way through a ‘thank you’, completely taken by the way Greta had delivered the compliment. That word - nice - can be so bland; she has heard it used so many times when people didn’t have anything better to say about her. Greta doesn’t make it sound that way at all. 

“Tell me,” Greta goes on smoothly, “did you take my book recommendation?” 

“Oh,” Carson begins, apology at the ready. “Not yet. I haven’t had a chance to get to the store and find it. I’m going to though, as soon as I can.” 

“I’ll save you the job,” Greta replies, reaching into her bag. “I brought you a gift.” 

She hands over a brand new copy of A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. 

“I - you didn’t have to. Thank you so much.” Carson traces her hands over the lettering on the front cover, feeling embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think to bring anything with me.” 

“No need to apologise. It was just a token to say thank you for all your letters.” 

“You don’t have to say ‘thank you’ for them. The ones you wrote in return were more than enough thanks. They made me happy.” 

Greta lets out a soft chuckle. “Writing to you made me happy too.” 

*

It takes Carson until they are almost finished with the sandwiches to really settle into the conversation but, once she does, things fall into place. 

Greta doesn’t seem to mind at all that Carson takes a while to get out of her own head, either happily following the winding trails of Carson’s attempts to tell stories or gently nudging conversations in directions that prompt easy responses or new questions.

It is just like their letters and Carson couldn’t be happier. 

During an easy lull after they have both ordered refills for their tea, Greta reaches out and lightly pinches the sleeve of Carson’s sweater. Her voice goes soft as she says, “green. I remember you said you liked it. It’s a great colour on you - you wear it well.” 

Carson’s whole body goes warm. She doesn’t think she has ever been so glad to be complimented on her clothes. She doesn’t think she has ever really received a true compliment of that nature before now. Greta seems to have a way of making her sentiments soft and gentle. She tells Carson she looks nice and suits her outfit in a way that feels genuine and thoughtful, like she already knows Carson enough to be sure of what to say. 

Suddenly, the clothes that had felt so wrong a few hours ago feel right again, and it is as though Carson’s skin becomes her home once more, in a way it usually is only when she is in her Jensen Seed overalls and baseball mitt, catching balls while the sun burns the back of her neck. 

The skin there burns now too, in almost the exact same way. 

In response she says, “well, when you told me you like red, I imagined you with the lipstick and polish you’re wearing. It looks nice, just like I thought it would.”

Greta raises an eyebrow. “You imagined me, huh?” 

“I mean…of course I did. How could I not? We were writing back and forth, and we had no idea who the person behind the responses was. I wanted to know.”

“And?” Greta asks expectantly. “Did I live up?” 

She gives her shoulders a playful little shimmy, striking a pose as best she can from her seat in the booth. 

Carson laughs. “Yes, of course. More than.” 

“Well, so did you. Obviously.” 

Carson shakes her head, bemused. “I’m sure that I didn’t. I know I’m better on the page than I am in person.” 

“Nope,” Greta says brightly, putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. She leans in slightly, making a silly, playful show of scrutinising Carson, who does her level best not to shy away. “You’re exactly who I thought you might be, Mrs Shaw. And there’s definitely a little more below the surface. Right…” she leans a tiny bit closer, narrowing her eyes and holding Carson’s gaze, “...there.”  

Carson tries not to look like she has had all the air knocked out of her but, at that moment, she feels as though she is standing in a hurricane. No one has once tried to imply that there is more to Carson than what they can see, and Carson had started to believe it about herself. 

But right there, in that diner, with Greta Gill watching her like she sees right through her skin, Carson suddenly feels as though she is made of something more or, at least, that she could be. 

She has no idea what is written all over her face but, whatever it is, it makes Greta smile.

“You’ve got a story, I think,” she says quietly. “It’s fascinating.” 

“I’m, uh, I’m not the kind of person that has a story,” Carson murmurs, her mouth dry. 

Greta shakes her head in disagreement. 

“Yes, you are.” 

*

“You’ll meet me again, won’t you?” Greta asks, right as the streetcar appears in the distance. “I had fun today.” 

“Of course. Do you ever work on Saturdays? Perhaps we could do something again next week?” 

“Next week sounds great. Meet again here? Same time?” 

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

The streetcar slows and pulls into the stop, the doors creaking open. Passengers trickle out, but Carson makes no attempt to board. In truth, she doesn’t want the afternoon to end.  

After a moment, Greta says, “don’t you have to…?” 

“Oh, right. Yeah. Well, thanks for today. And have a good week.” 

“I will, although I’ll mostly be looking forward to next Saturday.” 

Carson smiles. “Me too.” 

“Carson, you’re going to miss your ride.” 

Shit. Carson hares away and makes it on board just as the doors close. 

When she turns to look out the window, she finds Greta still watching her. She tips a jaunty little wave in Carson’s direction when the streetcar finally pulls away. 

Then, the trolley speeds up and Greta disappears from view in a vibrant blur of bright red.

Chapter Text

The Sunday after she meets Greta, Carson spends her afternoon with Max, the two of them sequestered in a far corner of the tiny slice of outside space behind Hillman’s. It isn’t a garden, exactly, but it is close enough. 

Despite her promise to Guy the day before, she and Shirley had skipped the bar on Saturday night. Shirley had apologised for being too tired to venture out and urged Carson to go alone but, in truth, the afternoon with Greta had left Carson so full of new emotions that she was happy to spend a quiet, easy evening with Shirls. 

On Sunday, the bar is busy with a large group of recently-returned soldiers, and these ones aren’t as nice as Freddie. Carson had arrived early and, while she waited for Max, sat at a small table and tried to read. She had stayed up the night before with Greta’s gift in her hands, absorbed in the story and turning pages quickly. Sleep had gotten the better of her eventually, and she had woken up later than normal with A Tree Grows In Brooklyn on the comforter next to her.

Concentrating in Hillman’s, however, is a thankless, futile task. The soldiers are rowdy and already slightly drunk, and Carson cannot process a single word in the book. More than that, she had already realised that the men would make it impossible for her and Max to sit together in here.

Most of the time, she and Shirley would only spend time with Max and Clance if the bar was quiet enough and if William, the owner, wasn’t around to complain about Guy’s guests being out front with the customers. Often, the little group would simply assess the patrons and the atmosphere in the room each time they met in order to make a decision on the fly. Their preferred booth was in a quiet part of the room with very little foot traffic and, often, if the group chose the seating arrangement carefully, it was impossible to tell that Max and Clance were even there. 

At other times, however, when the bar was busier or when they saw something in the patrons that Carson wasn’t always capable of recognising, either Max or Clance (usually, it was Clance) would simply refuse to sit in the customer area. It made Carson impossibly angry, but not at Clance’s decision. Just that she had to make it.

Carson also feels stupid, because she never realised before she moved here that people spent each day calculating every single small decision like this, particularly the kinds of decisions Carson took for granted. It must be exhausting. She knows Max and Clance and Guy are exhausted.

So, as soon as she sits down on Sunday, she is all too aware that even Max wouldn’t join her on a day like today. Truth be told, Carson herself wasn’t entirely comfortable with the men but, from the fact that they were allowed to order food, it looked as though they were here to stay. 

After about fifteen minutes, Max’s face appears in the round porthole window in the staff door. She throws Carson a desperate but frustrated expression, eyes darting to the G.I.s and back. Carson nods with a grimace and Max holds up a finger as if to say ‘hang on’ before vanishing from sight.

She reappears a moment later gesturing vigorously at Carson to come over.

‘That’s the staff area,’ Carson mouths, aware that she is probably unintelligible.

Sure enough, Max pulls an exaggerated look of confusion and throws her hands up.

‘What?!’ she mouths back and this, at least, is very easy to understand.

Looking around carefully, Carson sidles over to the staff door. Max pulls it open.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to be out there right now,” she mutters.

“They’re,” Carson pauses as a riotous shout goes up from behind her. “A lot.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees with a sardonic smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Well, I was trying to be diplomatic. Should we relocate? I left Shirley on the phone with her mom, but she might not be that long.”

“It’s cool. Just follow me.” Max steps aside with the intention of letting Carson pass.

“I can’t come through there. It’s staff only.”

“Yeah, and? I’m not staff either, dummy. Or do you want to sit out here on your own instead?”

“No,” Carson admits with a haughty sigh.  

“Good. Then move your ass.”

Glancing nervously over her shoulder, Carson steps across the threshold and Max lets go of the door so that it swings back and forth a few times. She leads Carson through a couple of half-decorated corridors and eventually into the heat and bustle of the kitchen.

“It’s weird being back here,” Carson murmurs and Max laughs to herself.

“Didn’t you break any rules back in Lake Valley? You look like you’ve just escaped from jail.”

“Can’t all be as worldly and all-knowing as you, Max,” Carson jokes.

Max laughs and shoves at her, drawing a few surprised, trepidatious glances from the line cooks and other staff.

Either not noticing or choosing to ignore the looks, Max weaves around the counters and Carson follows, eventually spotting Guy across the room. He is standing over a grill and working on some food, but he looks up and smiles when Max and Carson approach.

“Hey Carson. Kinda crazy out there today, huh?”

“Guy said we can sit out back,” Max supplies. “And that we can borrow the spare wireless. I’m gonna go set it up.”

She disappears and Carson stays behind long enough to swap small talk with Guy.

“Good day out, yesterday?” he asks, and Carson is glad that it is hot in the kitchen so that her blush doesn’t look out of place. “We missed you both last night.”

At this point, there is no reason she couldn’t tell her friends the truth about where she went yesterday. Shirley would fret initially, but Carson now feels as though her friendship with Greta has settled into something that is no longer to do with her work. The risky first responses feel so distant now, and it is as though they have been writing to each other as Carson and Greta - not CB and Mrs Shaw - the entire time. Even if she could theoretically get in trouble at work, the friendship with Greta doesn’t feel like it is outside of the rules anymore.

All the same, something compels Carson to keep this a secret.

So, she says, “it was nice, thanks. Got lunch with a friend from work. Sorry that Shirley and I didn’t show up here afterwards - we were both exhausted.”

“Got lunch?” Guys says, his eyes narrowing slightly even as the mischievous glint in them betrays him. “How was the food?”

“I can’t always come here, you know,” Carson teases. “I have to broaden my horizons a little bit.”

“Sure you do. Well, don’t forget us when your star rises and you’re always in your new secret haunts.”

“If it helps, the food wasn’t as nice as yours,” Carson says, relenting. They might only be messing around, but the look of pride on Guy’s face at the honest compliment makes her smile.

“Well, you’re forgiven then. Speaking of, you better go find Max – she’s not as forgiving as me.” Guy winks and then tells Carson how to get outside from the kitchen. “Enjoy the game.”

“We will,” Carson says before gesturing in the direction of the bar. “Take care with that lot out there.”

Once outside, she finds that Max has the wireless and a few beers set out on a small table in the shade.

“I didn’t even know this existed.”

“Most people don’t,” Max tells her. “Reserved for only the best customers. By which I obviously mean me.”

“I’m just so lucky you let me join you,” Carson jokes, rolling her eyes.

“Lucky? You mean honoured.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“It’s okay to be wrong sometimes, Carson,” Max says gravely and Carson bursts out laughing.

They have a few minutes until the White Sox v Senators game starts, so Carson changes gears and asks,

“How’re things at the salon?”

Max groans. “ Ugh. Don’t even. She’s got me doing the bookkeeping again. Makes me want to light myself on fire.”

Carson laughs again, gentler and more sympathetic this time. “Well, don’t tell her that.”

“I already did,” Max says guiltily.

“Ah. How’d she take it?”

“She didn’t find it funny, which is objectively wrong because I’m hilarious.”

“I guessed as much,” Carson says, ignoring the attempt to deflect. She watches as Max works the caps off two of the beers and slides one across the table. They take a bottle each and clink the necks together. After Carson takes a sip, she adds, “maybe she’ll come round.”

With a scoff, Max replies, “you don’t know Toni Chapman.”  

Max’s mom owns a salon across town and the two of them have been in a long-term standoff about Max’s role in the family business. For a while, the disagreement had mostly been little more than a bit of tension and friction but now, as Max got older and continued to express her disinterest in taking over, things were starting to pull apart at the seams. At present, Max works there just sweeping the floors, getting customers ready to have their hair or nails done, and, apparently, doing the books. Max hates every part of it; like Carson, she has never been especially interested in beauty rituals and has never really stopped to think or care much about her hairstyle or her manicure beyond the bare minimum. Her mom wants her to learn the ropes and take over eventually, adamant that it was the only way for Max to make her own way in the world.

A part of Carson understands it. Even though the vast majority of Lake Valley’s residents weren’t especially well off, it was assumed that most people’s wives would keep their homes rather than go out to work, and so women weren’t given the chance to prepare for anything else. Carson was able to stay in school longer than some of her peers because, by that time, her mom had disappeared and her dad had mentally checked out. Other girls weren’t so lucky. There had been no other suggestion of how anyone in Carson’s classes would get by. They just…got married.

Max didn’t seem in a hurry to do that (much to the chagrin of Gary, one of the servers at Hillman’s) so it was good to have something to fall back on. Owning your own business wasn’t to be sniffed at.

But Carson sees Max’s side too and is loyal enough to her friend to keep her perspective to herself; she knows how it feels to be pushed into something she isn’t ready for. She also knows that, deep down, Max probably understands her mom’s motivations: wanting to set her unmarried daughter up with a good income, and doing that in the only way she, Toni, knows how. Carson understands that, in all likelihood, so much of the shared frustration for mother and daughter was that they had to batten down the hatches against the forces piled against them in the first place.

Plus, Carson is all too aware that work at the salon feels stifling for Max, who is surrounded by the same trappings of womanhood that sometimes made Carson herself nervous. ‘There’s no version of me that makes sense for the world,’ Max had said sadly one night after they’d thrown baseballs in the park and shared a few drinks. Days later, when they met up again, Carson tried to restart the conversation, but Max had acted as though nothing had been said. Carson thinks of all the ways that Max is probably tangled up inside, trying to unravel the same threads Carson herself grapples with, and many more besides. Carson feels most comfortable in her body when she is around people like Max or Jess - women who didn’t expect anything more of her than simply existing as she is. Secretly, quietly, she worries about Max and how working at the salon makes her feel. 

At any rate, it isn’t just that Max doesn’t like the work. She is hell-bent on saving up enough to go to California to try and play baseball.

Carson wishes she was that brave.

Those dreams require money, however, and so Max needs a job. Her mom doesn’t like her playing baseball, so it is, in Max’s own words, all a bit of a mess.

But, for now, Carson thinks that there must surely be a middle ground, one where Max could find a different job that her mom accepted.

“Can’t you talk to her?” Carson asks and Max shakes her head vigorously.

“No. Absolutely not. She’d lose her shit all over me. Just ask Clance.”

“But she loves you, right? There must be a way you can come to some agreement.”

At this, Max’s eyes grow a little sad. Gently, she says, “not everything is like one of those letters you can print in your agony aunt page, Carson. Some stuff doesn’t work like that. People don’t talk about it.” Implicit but unspoken in Max’s response are the words ‘you wouldn’t understand’. 

“No,” Carson replies hurriedly, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of her sails. Why, she wonders. Why don’t people talk about things?  “I get that. But – ”

She stops abruptly when the announcer on the radio says, “we’re broadcasting live from Griffith Stadium on a beautiful sunny Sunday…”

They both grow silent as Max turns up the volume. It is as fun as ever to listen to the game together, and things are absolutely normal between them except, somehow, they aren’t. Max’s jibe about the problems page sits at the table with them, not venomous but still boasting sharp teeth. 

*

For the first time in a while, a letter from Charlie lands on the doormat at the start of the following week.

The sight of military envelopes always fills Carson with a mixture of emotions, and she can never be entirely sure which one will win out on any given occasion.

Receiving a letter tells Carson that Charlie is okay; he’s alive and well enough to send her an update (or, at the very least, he was alive and well a few weeks previously, given the delivery time required). The relief is tinged with excitement, too. There is a little thrill associated with hearing from him, something which reminds her that, once upon a time, he was her whole world and things were easy between them.

Only after that does the dread set in, a sickness sloshing round her stomach like too much wine. It usually happens as she is about to tear the envelope open, a slow creep of trepidation at what might lie within. The weight of the unknown set to become knowable is a heavy one.

Charlie might be writing to say he’s gravely injured. He might be writing to say he’s been discharged.

Carson might be about to read about any number of horrible things, or she might find an obvious, unintentionally patronising fantasy on the page – something Charlie has written precisely because the horrible things are too painful to be told in a letter. Or else, she might bear witness to another statement of her husband’s wishes for their post-war future – wishes Carson cannot seem to force herself to share as time goes on.

Sometimes, it hardly matters, because if the letter falls into the hands of a particularly pernicious censor, then most of the writing gets blacked out anyway.

But, whatever the topic – and however much of the writing remains uncensored – the letter might just be a reminder of the chasm that is spreading between them with each passing day, growing from the cracks that had set in before the war. The wide-open blackness of it leers at her when she receives some of Charlie’s letters, grinning at her like a mouth that wants to swallow her whole. It makes her terrified to unfurl the pages and read.

Shirley collects the mail on Monday afternoon, bounding over to give Carson the envelope from Charlie – instantly recognisable from the V-Mail stamp on the front – with an air of excitement that Carson replicates for the benefit of her roommate

Carson opens the papers and squints at the shrunken-down writing for a moment, reading through Charlie’s updates as quickly as possible. Very little has been censored, telling her right off the bat that he hasn’t reported much of anything related to his deployment. Thankfully, he doesn’t mention injuries. Instead, he tells her that the weather isn’t all that warm but, overall, not too bad. He asks her about work and the Red Cross and her father. He tells her that he is hoping for some leave to be approved soon. Then, at the end, he writes,

The last few months have put things into perspective, as has your move to Chicago. Rather than Lake Valley, perhaps I can join you out there when this is all over? I don’t want to waste our life together, Car. I want more good times like the ones we used to have together when we were younger. We could make a life together anywhere we wanted – buy a house and start a family anywhere. What do you think?

I miss you and I’m counting the minutes until I see you again.

Love,

Charlie

Carson folds the letter back up, thinking how many women would give the world for an offer like that. There is something wrong with her; there must be, because the thought of it just makes her feel sick. 

“Is he okay?” Shirley asks, carefully watching Carson’s face for any signs of whether the letter is a bad one.

“He seems to be,” Carson replies, and Shirley visibly relaxes. 

“Good. That’s good.” 

“Yeah, it is.” 

As Carson pushes the pages back into the envelope, she feels Shirley’s gaze still on her. 

“And are you okay?’ Shirley asks pointedly. 

“Yes,” Carson says on instinct. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I don’t know,” Shirley says quietly. “I’m just overthinking things, I guess.” 

*

Dear Mrs Shaw

Let’s hope this note reaches you before next Saturday - I don’t see why it shouldn’t. 

Thank you for spending part of your weekend with me; it’s been a while since I had such a lovely time. I’m hoping you still intend to meet me again in a few days and would like to point out that you’ll break my heart if you’ve changed your mind! 

Perhaps you’d like to bring something to eat and sit in the park this time? Let’s not waste the cheerful weather. I’ll borrow a picnic blanket from my friend. I’m not sure if there is enough time to write back now, or much point in your doing so (though I confess I am already missing your letters!), so I’ll assume the plan is on unless I hear something to the contrary. 

I’ll wear red again so you can spot me, and because I have taken your nice words on Saturday to heart. 

Eagerly awaiting our next outing, 

GG

The postmark on the envelope - which arrives at the apartment a few days after Charlie’s - tells Carson that Greta must have written the letter very soon after their day together, and something about this makes her stomach knot. Perhaps because she can barely contain her excitement for the weekend, or perhaps because of the two curling capital Gs at the bottom of the page, Carson keeps the note in her bag all week. Just knowing it is there makes work more bearable and it exists as a tangible reminder that Greta Gill is not simply a figment of her imagination or someone crafted in the most wonderful of dreams. 

*

Never one to worry too much about overkill, Carson bakes a pie on Saturday morning and leaves a generous wedge of it in the kitchen for Shirley who is at the OPA again, helping them battle against an impending ration card backlog. She carefully packs up the rest with an assortment of other food, unsure how much Greta will bring for herself, or to share between them. 

She is nervous again, but it is different than a week ago, when she was so certain she would never hear from Greta again. Carson is still terrified that she will say something too strange and drive her new friend away, but Greta’s note had done wonders in dimming the fear down from a rolling thunderstorm to a quiet patter of rain. 

It is so strange how fast Greta has become, well, Greta. 

The whole time that they were writing somewhat anonymously, a thousand different images of this mysterious stranger had crystallised in Carson’s mind, only to shatter and reform themselves again every time a new letter arrived. And yet, despite all those bright kaleidoscope patterns, none were so vibrant as the real Greta Gill. 

She was just…completely unlike anyone Carson had ever known; vivid and vivacious, playful and glamorous and entirely enrapturing. It didn’t escape Carson’s notice that Greta drew the eye of almost everyone who walked past them in the diner. 

In their conversation, she had spoken so boldly, laughed so loudly, committed herself to the interaction both physically and mentally. It was like nothing Carson had ever known before. 

Conversations with Greta feel so real, so significant, even when they were only talking about their diner sandwiches or Greta’s job at the cosmetics company.  

It didn’t make sense that she enjoyed Carson’s company, but Carson already knew she wanted as much of Greta’s as the other woman would allow. 

She practically vibrates with excitement on the streetcar, her heart rattling in time with the carriage as it transports her back to Grant Park. The weather is much the same as last time, bright and sunny enough for people to mill about in summer dresses and short sleeves. A decent number of people have had the same idea to set up on the grass flanking the Band Shell, but there is more than enough open space for separate parties to hold their own conversations and not be piled on top of one another. 

Carson weaves around groups of women huddled together as they chatter and laugh, shy young couples with soft eyes, and gaggles of small children haring about and lost in worlds of magical make believe. 

Her eyes dart from place to place, desperate for a glimpse of the slightest hint of red. 

“Carson!” 

She wheels around and finally spots Greta. She had set out a chequered blanket and was sitting on one corner with her patterned red dress arranged primly over her knees. She tilts a brimmed sun hat to one side, squinting into the sunlight as she looks across the park and waves with her free hand. 

Carson feels herself break into a smile as she hurries over, setting her things down next to Greta’s bag and sitting on a free slice of the blanket. 

“Hi!” she says, surprised that she sounds a little breathless. “I’m sorry if I’m late.” 

“You’re not,” Greta says brightly, readjusting her hat. “You got my note then? Good.” 

“I got it. Sorry I didn’t write back, by the way. I mean, you said not to, but still…”

Greta smiles and pokes the very tip of her tongue between her teeth.

“You make it sound like I said you couldn’t write to me,” she teases. “Or are you forgetting the part where I wrote that I missed your letters?”

Carson knows Greta is joking, but nevertheless still feels a slight flush creep over her cheeks. She tries to recall whether she has explicitly said how much she had enjoyed the written back-and-forth. It is important to her that Greta knows just how important her letters have been. Carson thinks she must have said something to this effect but cannot tell for sure whether it was sincere enough.

That happened, sometimes. Carson felt like she wasn’t always saying things in a way people fully understood, even when her words seemed, to her, to be clear enough.

But Greta is smiling as she speaks, her face easy to read in the shade cast by the brim of her hat.

“Actually, I remember you saying that it was pointless for me to write back,” Carson replies, grinning.

“I don’t think I quite called it pointless.”

“That was more or less the gist,” Carson insists solemnly. “Which was very hurtful.”

Greta’s smile widens and she glances towards the small pile of Carson’s belongings. “Uh-huh. I can see that by the fact that you turned up here today and seem to have brought half your kitchen with you.”

“Well, I’m polite,” Carson returns, the playful back and forth coming to her more naturally and more quickly than the week before. “I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I’m sure that you could,” Greta agrees easily.

“Lesson one: how to prove your enthusiasm by not telling your new friend that her letters are pointless.”

At this, Greta laughs. “Okay, well I think we might be straying a little too far away from reality now,” she says, a challenge in her voice. She does not, however, contradict Carson’s insinuation that they have become friends. A little thrill flutters in Carson’s chest.

Carson makes a show of shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know, it seems pretty cut and dry to me.”

“Well Mrs Shaw, we probably ought to clear up some confusion.” Greta pauses and her gaze drifts over Carson’s face in a lazy, unhurried sort of way. “Because I think it’s fair to say that I’m actually very enthusiastic.” 

*

Greta teases Carson about the pie, asking if she accompanies all of her conversations with baked goods. 

“Only the ones I’m really invested in,” Carson replies, delighted when Greta doesn’t instantly have a witty riposte. 

Time flows easily through their fingers as the sun drifts further and further across the sky while they eat their lunch and talk. Things are at least as easy as last time or, if anything, even easier. It is a delightful feeling and Carson is so glad to spend her Saturday like that, basking in Greta’s company as much as in the warm weather.

After a while, Greta asks, “how are your work letters?”

Carson grimaces. “Still terrible, most of the time.”

“So, what actually is the deal with your employer? Does she just hate her job? And other people?”

Carson shakes her head to illustrate her lack of understanding. “I wish I knew. I think she’s just completely out of touch. It’s hard to keep acting like I’m okay with it.”

“So you really do hate your job, huh?” Greta observes, plucking a grape out of a brown paper bag. “It sort of came through in your letters, obviously.” She pops the grape into her mouth. 

“I mean, the work itself isn’t the worst. It’s pretty easy. Boring. It’s just typing really; it doesn’t exactly require much thought. That probably gives me extra time to mull over Mrs Wilkinson’s stupid rules.” Carson hesitates, wondering if she is likely to get caught out for revealing the inner workings of Woman & Home. In the end, she decides she doesn’t care all that much. “On my first day, I had to sign this confidentiality thing, basically saying I wouldn’t discuss the particulars of the work. I get it, because people write in with personal problems. But I also got handed this long list of topics and words we can’t print or discuss. If we see them in a letter, we’re supposed to stop reading immediately and cut it up. We throw away so many.” 

Greta raises her eyebrows a little in disdain and surprise. “Weird. So what sort of things are you forbidden from reading?” 

“Literally everything,” Carson tells her, immediately exasperated. “The list is anything from the war to the word ‘bedroom’, unless it’s about cleaning or the home in some way. Relationships have their own list and every type of relationship is banned. So, I essentially just spend my days cutting up letters and feeling absolutely horrible for it.” 

Greta laughs quietly in disbelief. “So what’s the point of the advice column?” 

“I wish I knew. Just to talk about how to clean the house, I guess.” 

“Ugh. Boring.” 

“Exactly. It makes me feel guilty that people write to us for help, and we just leave them to figure out their problems on their own. The readers should know someone cares.” 

“Do they?” Greta asks. “Because it kind of seems like your boss doesn’t.” 

“Maybe not, but I care. My colleague cares. I wish I could do more to help people,” Carson says forcefully. Realising she is probably being a little overzealous, she hurriedly takes a sip from a glass Coca-Cola bottle Greta had brought with her. In her haste, the bubbles scratch her throat on the way down and she has to keep from coughing. 

“Goodness gracious,” Greta murmurs. “Perhaps you should.” 

“Perhaps I should what?” 

“Help them.” Greta fishes another grape from the bag and holds in between her thumb and forefinger for a moment. “You already helped me. Have you written to anyone else?” 

“Just one other,” Carson confesses quietly. “I saved her letter along with yours on my first day. But I…might have saved a lot more since then. I just haven’t replied because I’m worried about getting caught out.” 

Greta weighs this up for a moment. “I get that. We all need to keep our jobs. But I guess you get to decide what you want the most, right? How did you even end up working in a place like that, anyway?” 

Carson flushes and takes another sip of her drink. Feeling bashful, she confesses the job mix-up to Greta, who laughs her way through the story, looking so beautiful with her head tipped back and her eyes squeezed shut. 

“I’m sorry,” she says between laughter when Carson finishes. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.” 

“I mean, you kind of are ,” Carson counters, grinning sheepishly. “But it’s okay. It’s a ridiculous story - you should laugh. That way, at least it’s good for something.” She pauses and then, when Greta’s laughter dies back, asks, “do you really think I should write to people?” 

Greta thinks the question over for a moment. 

“Look. I’m not here to actually tell you to do something that risks your job, especially without a safety net. I – ”

“I thought you had your couch ready for me?”

Greta remains silent and assesses Carson for a moment, expression playful and approving as she deliberately pokes at the inside of her cheek with her tongue.

Pleased with herself, Carson grins back.

“Mm. My reminder to mention it to my roommate must have gotten lost.”

“So, you forgot about me,” Carson says in mock admonition. “Just forgot about your offer.”

“I wouldn’t say I forgot.”

“Then what would you say?”

Greta blinks slowly across as Carson. A challenge. Carson finds herself falling more and more easily into this dynamic of mutual banter.

“I’d say that I was biding my time. Waiting for the perfect moment.” Greta’s voice shifts from playful exasperation into something different, something smoother and sweeter - like honey. 

Something about it makes Carson’s own voice stick in her throat. When she dislodges it, she sounds far more timid than she had a moment ago, although she doesn’t know why.

“Hasn’t it happened yet?”

“Oh no, not yet. But when it does, you’ll know.” Greta lets silence descend, evidently aware that she has won this particular round of verbal one-upmanship. Then, in a tone so casual and level that the sudden contrast gives Carson pause, she adds, “but to answer your question about your letters, I think you should do whatever the hell you want to do. You’re in charge of your own destiny, and I can’t imagine it’s too fun doing something that so clearly makes you uncomfortable. But, you probably shouldn’t start up any more long-term correspondences. To spare the feelings of anyone else you might have written to.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I think so,” Greta says seriously. “I mean, once was fine but anything else might be an unnecessary risk.” 

“Maybe. But I have just recently found myself in the market for a new penpal.”

Greta gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I might.”

“I’m so hurt.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Shaw.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told me my letters were pointless.”

Greta pushes playfully at Carson’s shoulder and they both laugh. “I did not tell you that and you know it! I thought I was special!” 

“Don’t worry,” Carson says with a smile. “You are. Your letters will always be my favourites.” 

She means this truly and wholeheartedly; there was nothing else in any mail delivery that had ever brightened her day so much as an envelope bearing Greta’s handwriting. 

With that truth established, they see out the rest of the afternoon with pleasant conversation and easy jokes. 

Carson doesn’t think it has ever been so easy for her to talk to anyone else. It might be that way now with her friends in Chicago, but it had taken time for Carson to settle into the easiness of what true friendship with other women felt like. She had never ever had that before. She had never had any kind of friendship before.

With Charlie, it wasn’t the same thing; they’d had a head start. They met when they were children, when it was easier to find common ground in the schoolyard games they played. They were obviously best friends (who else would Carson’s best friend be?) and the rapport grew as they did until, eventually, they were both adults and the growing – the literal, physiological kind – stopped.

After that it was safe - easy, sheltered – to be the version of herself Charlie knew. It was the only one anyone had ever approved of. It was easy for him too, to do the same in reverse. In that way, all the different kinds of growing stopped. Carson hadn’t seen that at first, but now - especially as she and Greta grew closer - she couldn’t see anything else.

Talking with Greta challenges her to be expansive, thoughtful, quick-witted. It is fun. God, until Chicago, until Greta and her other friends, Carson had forgotten how fun it could be to lean so wholeheartedly into the simple mission of knowing someone else. 

When it comes time to part, Greta makes no offer of another get-together and so, feeling shy, Carson asks, “same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Greta says with a smile. 

*

And so it goes for several weeks, a new routine unpunctuated by any interruptions as the light spritz of spring gradually melts into the thick slurry of a hot, unforgiving summer. The city simmers on a high heat as the war rages on elsewhere, no signs of any let-up on the horizon. 

At least once per week - usually, but not exclusively, on Saturdays - Carson meets with Greta and dives headlong into friendship with her. They visit different parts of the city, choosing parks and diners and tearooms and, on one occasion, even making a trip to the Field Museum in what was, ultimately, a futile attempt to escape the heat of the afternoon. 

She continues driving for the Motor Corps several nights per week and visits Freddie whenever she can. He takes an interest in her burgeoning new friendship and continues to let her write out his letters to his mom. 

At the magazine, Mrs Wilkinson’s standard approach persists. That is to say, she spends her time being alarmingly cross at almost anything, but especially at Woman & Home ’s readers who evidently continued to be a monumental disappointment in her eyes. Carson can only assume this is down to the shamefully small number of letters that makes it to her boss’s desk. Even if Mrs Wilkinson never actually has to see the unsuitable material, she must be making her own assumptions about what gets thrown away.

For her own part, Carson continues hoarding letters, trying her luck on occasion by slipping a few questionable ones in amongst enquiries about lower leg exercises and canker cream. They are returned every time, except on one occasion when Mrs Wilkinson responds to a nineteen-year-old who had written in about her boyfriend.

Dear Mrs Wilkinson

I am really in need of some advice. My guy always seems to be looking at other girls, even when we are together. He insists I'm imagining things, but I know that I’m not. I don’t know if I should press the matter or not because I’m worried he’ll just think I’m making a nuisance of myself. I’m always worried he’ll eventually see someone else he likes more than me, even though I am always doing my best to be a very good girlfriend. 

Yours faithfully, 

Left Out

Carson was glad she had taken a chance on that one. It had been a risky gamble, one which might have resulted in yet another outburst from Mrs Wilkinson. Instead, she had answered it in a way Carson couldn’t have anticipated. Mrs W. had (rightfully, in Carson’s opinion) called the boyfriend an unpleasant sort and suggested the young woman forget him right away. The delivery was a little threatening, but overall it was the most satisfying answer Carson had ever typed up. It gave her a glimmer of hope that, deep down, her boss might actually care about some of the readers who were in a tight spot. 

All the same, it hadn’t stopped her from holding back a set of letters from her latest mail delivery which certainly would not cut the mustard. Among them was one which had left Carson feeling strange and out of sorts. 

Dear Mrs Wilkinson

I am a twenty year old woman and my fiancé is twenty-two. I am very much in love with him and thought he felt the same, but suddenly he has become very cold and distant. Although he insists he is very fond of me, he now says he does not feel as passionately as I do. 

What should I do? Should I go ahead with the wedding? 

Yours faithfully,

Confused

Confused hadn’t sent an envelope with her letter, so was clearly hoping for a response in the magazine. 

Carson cannot understand why any of Woman & Home’s readers would ever expect a reply to a letter like this, because nothing even remotely similar had ever graced the magazine’s pages. She suspects most of the letters are a last-ditch attempt, the final option when there was no one else to turn to. 

Usually, Carson cuts up the ones without a return address. If she has not yet worked up the courage to reply in secret to the ones in her drawer, then keeping ones that would have to go to print feels even more futile. This letter, however, makes her feel doubly guilty. 

Before she can decide what to do with the letter from Confused, she hears the sounds of a quiet but harried conversation from outside. It sounds like Henry and Ana and, sure enough, they both appear in the doorway a moment later, wearing matching frowns. 

“Maybelle, Carson, we have a problem,” Henry says, somewhat unnecessarily. He glances at Ana, prompting her to explain. 

“We have to go press today,” Ana begins, “and the people at DuBarry haven’t sent in their advert.” 

Maybelle makes a sympathetic noise. Missed deadlines were more or less considered a cardinal sin and, what’s more, they made for a particularly angry and rattled Ana. At all other times, she was pleasant and easy to get along with, but the magazine had to go to print and, should the unthinkable happen, no one wanted to be the one to explain why to Mrs Wilkinson.  

“If there’s no Emblem Red advert,” Ana goes on, voice taut, “we’ll have a two-column gap on page ten. I can only imagine what Mrs Wilkinson will have to say about this.” 

At that moment, Ruth appears behind Ana and Henry. “Well, it’s my production deadline that they’ve messed up.” 

An air of quiet panic spreads around the room. 

Henry looks between Maybelle and Carson. “Do either of you have anything we can fill those two columns with?” 

Neither of them does and, at their negative responses, Ruth looks on the brink of tears. 

“What are we going to do?” she wails, voice despairing. 

“Can’t we just run something from the last issue?” Maybelle - who is the only person who seems to be remotely serene - asks casually. “The Lifebuoy advert, maybe? It was the same size, wasn’t it?” 

Ana scoffs quietly. “Well, are you going to tell Mrs Wilkinson? Because I don’t want to…”

“We don’t have to tell her,” Henry says quietly, drawing shocked looks from Ana and Ruth alike. In response, he sighs and asks, “has anyone ever actually seen our boss look at a print copy of this magazine?” 

No one says anything. Carson, who has no idea what the correct answer is, looks at Maybelle who shakes her head. 

“Well, that settles it then,” Henry says. “Lifebuoy it is. We don’t exactly need to broadcast this around the office, but if you’re worrying about it then come and see me.” 

Then, he turns on the spot and marches back to his office. 

Ana and Ruth exchange a glance and, when they hear Henry’s door click shut, Ana mutters, “of all the things to get fired over, it better not end up being goddamn bath soap .” 

From across the room, Carsons hears Maybelle mutter, “huh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Henry so confident before. I wonder what’s gotten into him.”

But Henry turns out to be right. Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t notice a thing.

*

The advert furore provides Carson with a dangerous, tantalising piece of new information. On occasion, she had previously wondered whether anyone in the office - including the boss - actually read the finished issues, but there had never been any way to know. Other than Maybelle, it didn’t feel like a good idea to ask anyone. But between Henry’s confidence and the fact that, the following week, Mrs Wilkinson didn’t mention that a large advert for lipstick had been replaced by a completely different one for bath soap, now Carson knows for sure. 

If no one is checking up on these things - and if she hadn’t been caught replying to Greta and Aspiring Nurse - then there was suddenly much less of a reason to be so worried about the unsuitable letters. 

If she was going to do anything about them, particularly ones that didn’t have a return envelope, she would have to plan her next moves out carefully but, all told, it might actually be possible to help more of the readers. 

She talks the prospect over a few days later with Freddie, who had become her slightly unexpected confidant. He seems distant enough from Carson’s day-to-day life and he is so bored at the treatment centre that he all but begs for any updates from the outside world that don’t revolve around medical diagnoses or dressing changes. 

“I just don’t know if I can afford to do this,” Carson says eventually when she concludes her latest update.

“Well…can you afford not to?” Freddie counters thoughtfully. 

Carson chews this over for a while, wondering if - even when this job eventually ends one day - she’ll always feel a little bit guilty for watching others’ suffering and doing nothing about it. 

She remembers precious little about her mom as anything but a mom, but Carson does remember that she always used to stand up for what she thought was right. She had always encouraged her daughters to do the same. 

Indeed, it was only this memory that ever really carried Carson through the pain of being abandoned. Her mom must have left for a reason. 

As an adult, Carson now understands her mother’s apparent need to escape Lake Valley. All the same, she has never understood why her mom had to leave her children behind with a father who never had that same moral compass and sense of appropriate justice. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Carson says eventually, fighting a smile. 

“It happens quite often, you know.” 

“If you say so.”

“I do.” 

Freddie grins and Carson shakes her head to herself. “Okay. No one likes a know-it-all.” 

“If you say so,” Freddie repeats, still smiling. 

Carson rolls her eyes. “You know what else I say? I say we get a letter ready for your poor mom. It’s been too long.”

Freddie’s smile flickers slightly. “Well, I’ve got nothing new or positive I can tell her.” 

“Nonsense. She’ll just be happy to hear from you. You can tell her all about your reckless new friend who’s about to lose her job.”

Freddie snorts and visibly acquiesces, so Carson reaches automatically for the blue Edgeworth tin in which he keeps his letters and supply of writing paper.

“Oh, I can get it,” Freddie blurts, reaching out with his good hand. In doing so, he manages to knock into Carson and the tin slips out of her grip, falling to the ground with an almighty clang . The lid splits open at the hinges and the contents spill onto the floor around Carson’s feet. 

Instantly, she worries for anyone who might have heard the sudden sound and been thrown into a panic. 

“Crap. I’m so sorry. I’ll get it - one second.”

Feeling flustered at the blunder, she shoots out of her chair and crouches on the ground, hastily scrabbling up piles of letters and postcards as quickly as she can, worried she might have ruined some of Freddie’s precious correspondence. 

“No, really, please don’t; I can do it.” Freddie struggles out of his seat and tries to kneel beside Carson, movements slower and less coordinated owing to the ongoing pain he never openly admits to. 

Undeterred, Carson carries on scooping up notes, familiar with his mom’s handwriting on the majority of them but not so well-versed in the script on almost all of the other pages. She tries not to look at them - having no intention of prying - but words jump out at her as she smooths papers and collects them up. Some have fallen out of order and she tries her best to match last words with first ones.  

It soon becomes clear that the unknown letters are from a secret sweetheart, and Carson, although surprised, is happy to know that Freddie has someone else to confide in. 

Off to the side, he tries to pick up the letters himself, slow with just one pain-free hand. Carson is much quicker, barely pausing at all until a name jumps out at her from the bottom of one of the love notes. 

Albert. 

Carson collects the last of the pages and there, right at the bottom of the pile is a small black and white photo. It is of a young G.I. in uniform, his dark curls slicked down neatly with brill cream. Even in the photo, his eyes shine with a mischievous, lively glint. 

Feeling slightly shocked, Carson glances at Freddie and finds him red-faced and tense. 

“I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to -”

“I told you to leave it,” Freddie says, voice harsher than Carson has ever heard it as he refuses to directly meet her eye. 

“I know. I was just trying to help. I’m - ”

“Sorry, yeah. I know,” Freddie interjects, tone still hard. “I think you’d better go.” 

Carson feels her stomach twist. “What?” 

“You heard.” 

“No, Freddie, I don’t -”

“Just go, Carson.” 

Startled and hurt, Carson shoots to her feet. Inexplicably, she feels tears spring to her eyes.

“Okay - yeah, um, sure. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see y-”

“It’s probably best if you don’t come back here.” 

“But - ”

Freddie finally glances up and meets her gaze, his expression wild and ashamed and desperate. 

“Please, Carson. Just go.” 

Carson nods, throat tight as she reaches for her jacket and hurries away. 

Feeling the whole interaction as though it is a physical blow, a few tears trickle down her cheeks as she rushes through the centre and out the front door. 

*

The drive back home feels interminable. When she finally pulls up at the apartment, Carson half-chastises herself for operating the car while in such a state. She barely remembers any of the journey, her mind completely elsewhere as it replayed the events of the evening over and over.

She tries to recall if she has ever helped herself to Freddie’s writing supplies before. Deep down, she thinks that was probably the first time. She hadn’t meant to invade his privacy; it was an automatic reflex to start writing the letter. They had written so many by now.

As she unlocks the front door and prepares to haul herself up the stairs – feeling more defeated than she thought possible – a fresh wave of tears builds as she wonders who will help Freddie write to his mom now.

She had messed this up. She was so good at messing things up. Something had happened that made her mess up her marriage because she just couldn’t be content with what she had; she had blundered her way through trying to talk to Max recently; she had messed up her career so badly she was working in a job she didn’t realise she’d applied for; and now she’d messed up everything for Freddie too. She would probably find a way to ruin things with Greta too, eventually. 

She wipes her face and tries to compose herself as she creeps into the apartment, but it is late and Shirley is already in bed. Carson heads straight for her own bedroom, her head spinning as she slowly takes her uniform off.

She hadn’t actually seen much of the contents of the letters, so it might not even mean anything. Albert could be a friend, just someone Freddie met in the army.

But people didn’t hide letters from their friends with that much fear and ferocity…

Carson sits at the end of her bed and carefully works her stockings down her legs.

Freddie had been so scared. Would he worry that Carson would tell someone?

She wouldn’t, obviously. She liked Freddie; she cared about him.

All the same, the realisation of…what he was…causes Carson’s stomach to knot uncomfortably.

She had heard of it – sort of. It wasn’t really something anyone in Lake Valley ever discussed much, but when they did it wasn’t in kind terms. Queer. That’s what they called them. They called it unnatural and claimed the Bible said it was wrong, but Carson had never really read the scripture all that closely. She supposes she’d always listened to what the people at home said about it, but she’d never really thought about it one way or another. She had never wanted to.

She’d just…never met anyone who was… like that before.

But Freddie was; he must be, judging by his reaction. And that G.I. in the photo – Albert – he was…what? Freddie’s lover? His boyfriend?

She wonders if all those letters from Albert had gone unanswered, given that Freddie couldn’t ask anyone to write those responses on his behalf. Or…did he know someone who would? Was that how it worked? Did people like him find each other? They must do, Carson supposes, because Freddie and Albert had found each other.

And, whatever they were to each other, they could be arrested for it. Carson knew that much, at least. She can’t imagine taking a risk like that. 

She changes into her pyjamas and wriggles into bed, but she already knows that sleep will be hard to find.

There is no way she will be able to untangle all of her thoughts about Freddie and what he was, but even so, knowing that he didn’t want to see her anymore – and that he was probably scared and just as unable to sleep – felt terrible.

The whole thing makes her feel sick and anxious, and she can do nothing about it but accept her fate as she tosses and turns restlessly in her bed until dawn.  

*

Of course, it instantly becomes clear at the Red Cross that something is wrong. After weeks of taking first dibs on jobs at the treatment centre, Carson suddenly starts coming up with increasingly flimsy reasons to avoid going there at all. 

If Freddie wants space, she will have to give it to him – no matter how badly she wants to drive to the centre on her own time and try to talk things through with him. But, when all is said and done, that location is hardly the right one to have a conversation about Freddie’s secrets.

Over the following few days, it doesn’t get any easier to work out how she feels.

Mostly, she just doesn’t understand it. Being queer. It is just another one of those things no one ever talks about, except to sensationalise it.

Anything she’s ever heard about it makes it sound like something shameful and debased and sinful. But the same people used to make her feel the same way about her mom leaving. And while her mom’s disappearance might hurt and stir up feelings of resentment and rejection on a fairly frequent basis, Carson had never seen the decision to run away as shameful or born out of sin.

So then, what is it? What is it to be… queer?

What was the difference between Freddie and Albert, and Guy and Clance, besides the obvious? 

Carson thinks there must be more to it than that, partly because she cannot wrap her head around the idea of there being so much fuss over, well, nothing.

At any rate, she is hardly going to find out any time soon, with her Motor Corps shifts now being characterised by ferrying supplies to anywhere but Freddie’s treatment centre.

“You had a falling out with a doctor or something?” Jess asks one evening as she passes Carson in the kitchen and catches a glimpse of her duties for the night. “You haven’t been back to your usual haunt in over a week.”

“No,” Carson says quickly, voice too high to be convincing. “You know we don’t always get a free choice on what we do.”

Jess huffs quietly to herself as she gingerly inspects the latest batch of coffee. With a shrug, she heaps some into a mug and clearly decides to hope for the best.

“Bev always lets you choose,” she counters, rather bravely checking the temperature of the kettle with the back of her hand. “Little Miss Teacher’s Pet.”

“What can I say, the bar is low here,” Carson returns quickly, but her voice is hollow and her heart evidently isn’t in it, because Jess doesn’t bother sending any playful jibes back. Instead, she just pours the water into her coffee and swivels on her feet so that she can face Carson and stir a teaspoon round the cup at the same time.

For a long moment, Jess just watches, her head cocked slightly to one side. Her blue eyes are sharp and quick, and, no matter how much Carson tries to dodge the scrutiny, she is already well aware that Jess doesn’t miss anything. Most of the time, she doesn’t really say a lot – and what she says is direct and to the point – but Jess is no one’s fool.

Carson is reminded of how Greta described baseball in one of her letters.

…it’s deceptive. On the surface, before you really know the game, it looks slow and it’s as though there isn’t much going on. But, once you look a little deeper and you learn to understand the moves, you realize that there’s actually a lot happening.

If the last few months have taught Carson anything…it is exactly that. From getting to know Greta and reading the private problems of tens – if not hundreds – of women, to over-analysing her marriage and making her recent discovery about Freddie, Carson had learned that there truly always is a lot happening beneath the surface. 

“You okay?” Jess asks, giving the spoon a quick rinse and dumping it nonchalantly in the sink in a way that would probably summon Sarge in no time.

“Yeah,” Carson lies. “It just felt best to have a change of scenery.”

Jess nods. “Makes sense.”

Carson is pretty sure nothing she says to Jess ever makes sense, but she really appreciates the lie. Jess is always such an easy-come, easy-go kind of a person. She has a temper, but that usually blows out as quickly as it blusters up. Happily, it has never been directed at Carson, although an inanimate piece of stubbornly broken machinery has fallen foul of an outburst or two.

At least as far as Carson could tell, Jess doesn’t worry about anything. She just gets up every day and does exactly what she wants. She dresses how she wants; she does the work she wants to do; she speaks (and swears and smokes) as much as she wants – she just…doesn’t care.

Jess is precisely the kind of person Carson could probably talk to about what happened, but she doesn’t want to compromise Freddie’s privacy any further.

Hell, Jess probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if she had found out about Freddie. She probably didn’t have a million unanswered questions about the real world.

But then again…Carson is fairly sure she recalls hearing that Jess grew up somewhere pretty remote. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

“Where are you from, Jess? I don’t think I’ve ever properly asked.” 

Jess, who had taken a seat across the table and was in the process of eating her way through a supply of Giants, looks up quickly, startled by the unexpected question in the middle of her snack break. Her typically thin, hollow cheeks now puff out like a chipmunk’s, and her eyebrows knot downwards in confusion.

She chews a bit - crunching loudly on the little malted milk spheres - and then, with a great deal of effort, manages to give out a muffled noise that sounds a little bit like “an-ada.” 

Carson nods. “But where in Canada?”

Jess holds up one long, dirty finger and chews exaggeratedly until she can speak again.

“No one here has heard of it,” she says eventually, a little impatient but not unkind. “Moose Jaw. Saskatchewan. It’s kind of in the middle, latitude-wise. More or less due west of Winnipeg.” 

Carson does her level best both to picture a map of Canada in her mind’s eye and remember which one is latitude. She truly, genuinely does. However, after a moment in which she must look completely vacant, Jess laughs quietly and shakes her head to herself.

“Due north from, I guess, Denver. About 120 miles from the border with Montana.”

That actually helps. Carson nods.

“And what’s Moose Jaw like?”

“I dunno,” Jess says with a shrug. “Fine. I like it. Small-ish town but has everything you need. Surprisingly great night-life.” She pauses for a moment and smiles wryly, recalling a memory or making a joke that Carson cannot hope to understand. Then, she adds, “lots of prairie-land and wheat fields. Still recovering from the Dust Bowl but we’re doing fine. We’ve got the pilot training program going on out there at the moment.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. Yeah.” Jess pauses and watches Carson carefully for a moment. “Things aren’t always that simple.”

“No, I know. I get that. That’s the same with me and Lake Valley, I guess.”

“Sure.”

“So, why Chicago?” Carson asks.

“Why not Chicago.”

“Okay, yeah. That’s true,” Carson agrees, voice tailing off as she struggles to work out why she is even trying to have this conversation.

Jess, who seems to be an unwaveringly private person, continues assessing Carson for a moment. After a pause, she slumps back in her chair, bringing one foot up to the seat and resting her elbow atop her knee.

“You can just ask whatever it is you really want to know. Odds are I’ll answer it. Unless I don’t want to.”

“Oh, um…” Carson pauses, trying to make sense of what she really wants to say. “I don’t know. I guess…was Chicago the first place you came after Moose Jaw? Did living here – or, or wherever, really – just feel overwhelming, like it suddenly made you realise there was so much about the world you’d never even really thought about before?”

The question sits between them for a second and Carson quickly feels stupid. Jess wasn’t the kind of person who got overwhelmed anywhere. She was worldly and unflappable.

Then, the line of Jess’ brow softens slightly and she offers Carson a gentle look.

“Honestly? Not really. Growing up in Moose Jaw, it wasn’t as isolated and cut off as you might imagine. I feel like…I got all my education.”

“All your education?” Carson echoes.

“Yeah,” Jess says simply. “My old man wanted all the kids to go to school. There’s a lot of us so it was easy enough to fit it in alongside pulling our weight at home. So, that kind of education. Then, there’s the farm work education. I know how to manage the harvest and obviously I learned how to fix up an engine. I know how to fish and how to get the pelt off a deer.” She pauses nonchalantly, as though this particular piece of gruesome information is the kind of thing people usually discuss at the Motor Corps. “But Moose Jaw kind of has a decent social scene, actually. A little bit out there, if you can believe it. So, I feel like I got pretty educated about that stuff too. I’m pretty happy with the balance I got. Knowledge isn’t all about a classroom.”

Carson nods, even as she realises that she wasn’t happy at all with the balance she got. She did well in school but she is increasingly realising that she was woefully unprepared for a life anywhere but Lake Valley.

“But isn’t it weird to be somewhere completely different? Surrounded by people who don’t share those kinds of education?”

“No,” Jess says, now visibly nonplussed at the ongoing interrogation. “People are people, Carson. Every one of them’s different. There’s just more types of different to meet out here.” 

“I guess so,” Carson agrees quietly. “I just never really got to do that until now. I’m not sure I really know how to do that and not make a total mess out of it. I think, maybe, I already have made a mess out of it and I don’t even know how I managed it. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Well,” Jess replies thoughtfully, fishing the last of the candy out of its paper bag. Before she tips her head back and throws the pieces in her mouth, she says, “now’s your chance, isn’t it? Get your education. Make it mean something.” 

*

Dear ‘Confused’

Thank you for writing to Woman & Home. I am disappointed to read that your fiancé has suddenly become cold and distant. 

I think it is much too soon to say whether you should go ahead with the wedding, but you should only pursue it if you are absolutely sure it is in the best interests of both you and your fiancé. You are both still rather young and must be prepared for a whole life together. You both deserve to be with someone about whom you feel equally passionate. 

You would be best placed to speak again with your fiancé and see if you can establish what has changed for him. Perhaps he doesn’t yet understand his feelings either. 

Do not rush into anything and, if you can, see what each day brings. This will be an opportunity to learn more about your fiancé and yourself. Make this time mean something. 

I hope you both come to a satisfactory resolution in your best interests. 

*

The letter isn’t nearly as warm or encouraging as Carson would want it to be, but it has to blend in with the rest of Mrs Wilkinson’s advice. 

She types it out along with the approved responses drafted by Mrs W. and, with a shaky hand, gathers them all up together, ensuring her own work is packed squarely in the middle of the pile. 

Feeling as though she isn’t really in her body, she drops them all off with Ruth ahead of the sacred production deadline. 

Ruth thanks Carson for being so prompt, and they share a little small talk back and forth about their plans for the upcoming weekend. If Carson seems nervous and out of sorts then Ruth, Helen, and Terri do not appear to notice. 

“My husband is home on leave next week,” Terri announces with a big, beaming smile that takes over her whole face. “I can’t wait! But there’s lots to do before then to make sure everything is perfect, so I think I’ll be busy. What about you, Carson?” 

“That’s great, Terri! I’m happy for you,” Carson says, wondering what it will feel like when Charlie is eventually given approval to come home for a while. “I just have plans with a friend.”

Carson still hasn’t mentioned Greta to anyone and work certainly does not seem the place to break that pattern. 

“That’s never a bad way to spend your days off,” Terri says cheerfully, tucking her short, blonde hair behind her ear. 

Carson agrees and excuses herself, still feeling shaky and sick with nerves about the letter. As she walks back to the room she shares with Maybelle, she has to fight the urge to run back to the art department and wrestle her letter out of the pile. The urge is only quelled by the fact that such a reaction would blow her cover even more quickly. 

Mrs Wilkinson doesn’t read the magazine, she reminds herself as she walks. No one here reads the magazine. It’ll be fine. 

And…it is. The newest issue of Woman & Home makes its way into stores and newsstands a week later and the world doesn’t come crashing down around Carson. Mrs W. doesn’t descend, shrieking, into the office and haul her into a meeting with The Tribune ’s board to be fired and blacklisted from all further employment. Henry doesn’t call her to one side and ask any probing questions about the letter to Confused. Hell, even Maybelle doesn’t notice. 

The only person in the office who reads the letter in print seems to be Carson herself who, for the first time ever, takes her complimentary copy of the magazine home with her and flips through the pages while laying in bed. It feels strange to see her own words on the page. It isn’t an accomplishment, exactly, because this still isn’t the work she dreamed of and the letter isn’t what she truly wanted to write. All the same, seeing the response in print gives her a little thrill. 

She had wanted so desperately to write to Confused because her situation felt so personal. Carson empathised with her but also, to an extent, with the fiancé. Sometimes, the way people feel just…changes. Often, it’s not anyone’s fault - these things just aren’t always under our own control. 

Carson couldn’t pinpoint exactly when her feelings for Charlie had changed, only that they had. She had known things weren’t quite right when she agreed to get married and wishes someone had told her not to rush. She knows it isn’t always that simple - women don’t always have the opportunity to safely say ‘no’ to a marriage - but there is still a chance she could save Confused and her fiancé from a fate similar to her own. In fact, in many ways it felt like her duty. It felt like something Carson had to do. 

These days, everything in her body was tinged with guilt: guilt directed at Charlie, guilt directed at herself for not listening to her intuition. She feels guilty about breaking the rules at work, guilty when she doesn’t break the rules and cuts up letters as though they aren’t a piece of someone’s soul. She feels guilty that she hasn’t told Shirley what she is doing (after all, if Carson loses her job, how is she going to cover her share of the rent?). She feels guilty that she is keeping her friendship with Greta a secret, as though it is something that shouldn’t be talked about (some days - most days, honestly - it is all she wants to talk about). She feels guilty about Freddie, about not writing his letters and keeping him company. She feels guilty that she made him feel scared and unsafe. She feels guilty that she still doesn’t really understand what it means that Freddie is queer. 

So…trying to help, it wasn’t just a choice anymore. It was a responsibility. She had to put more good things into her immediate surroundings. She had to take Jess’ advice to learn and grow and make this time, this grace period, count for something. 

She was still working out all the ways to do that, and she was certainly still working on not letting the whole concept of breaking rules and making bold choices terrify her into maintaining the status quo, but it was a start. 

It had started, she knows, with Greta. It had started with returning her letter and then, with writing back and forth and meeting someone so unlike any other person Carson had known. Even though she had been scared, getting on the train and going to Grant Park was something an earlier version of her - a version still stuck in Lake Valley both literally and mentally - would never have done. Something about knowing Greta (and Max and Jess and Shirley) had made her braver and she knows it would be wasteful not to do something with that. 

She is all too aware that she has a long way to go but maybe, just maybe, she has finally made it onto the right path.

Chapter Text

It has never taken Carson so long to reply to a letter from Charlie.

Every time she sits with a blank page in front of her, it is like her mind shuts down. She doesn’t know how to answer him. She doesn’t even really know what she wants.

He had offered to come to Chicago and it’s not that Carson is entirely certain she doesn’t want that. At the same time, however, the idea of it makes her want to run. It doesn’t matter where to. She has never felt that impulse before; she has never searched so desperately for some kind of excuse to move on to another destination.

For the first time in her life, she is in a position to wonder whether this is how her mom felt. Was it possible that her decision to take flight was never about Carson, never about how much her mom loved her? Is there even a slight chance that her mom felt exactly the same way about her own marriage as Carson now feels? Does Carson feel this way because of her mom?

She has a million questions but can’t seem to find a single answer.

She starts to see herself in her mind's eye as her mom. She thinks of what life might be like in a few years, perhaps when she has finally capitulated on the subject of kids. There might be two of them, just like Carson and Meg. There might be more. And in spite of their existence – in spite of their innocence and their love – Carson would probably still feel the same way she does right now; like that isn’t her world, she doesn’t belong there.

The process of trying to find the right words to send to Charlie leaves her wrung out and overwhelmed. In fact, it is infinitely easier for her to write responses to some of the letters at work than to devise a reply to her own husband out on the front lines.

The thought eats at her, causing some angry inner critic to call her selfish and evil. Charlie is fighting in a war. He is out there suffering and risking his life. He wants to come home and Carson cannot be entirely sure that she wants to be a part of that home, not even after everything he has sacrificed. She can only conclude that she must be a truly, truly terrible person.

The guilt of it, just as with everything else recently, is caustic and interminable.

But no matter how much she wills herself to find some excitement in the prospect of her old life, she cannot seem to do it. It would be so, so easy to build a lie, one that would make both Charlie and Carson herself feel better.

Dear Charlie

I’m so happy that you’d like to come to Chicago. I think you’d love it here and I can’t wait to show you all around the city…

But Carson doesn’t really feel those words and so she cannot bring herself to write them down. What’s more, writing them might make her feel better in one way, for a short time, but for the most part they will only make things worse.

After agonising over her feelings – and her response – nightly without reprieve, the realisation hits her with a pain sharper than anything she could have anticipated.

I don’t miss him.

When she thinks of her life here, when she reflects on every moment she spends at work, in Hillman’s, at home with Shirley, or exploring the city with Greta…the absence of longing is so stark and plain that she cannot quite believe she didn’t realise it sooner.

She misses parts of Charlie, parts of their friendship and all that they gave to each other as kids. But she doesn’t miss her old life as an adult, going steady with him and perpetually awash with nerves at the prospect that he’d propose one day. She had put it off for so long, so much longer than anyone else in town. Why didn’t she see that until now? 

And now…she doesn’t miss the way the spaces she and Charlie shared in Lake Valley always felt too small, like the walls were closing in and they were always bumping into each other.

She doesn’t spend her days in Chicago wishing he was by her side. Her memories here aren’t tinged with regret that things would be even better if he were here too. In fact, if he were here, it would make it harder to spend time with her friends and it would make working and volunteering close to impossible. It would remove all her newfound autonomy. It would remove all of the parts of her life here that brought her the most joy. This thought, in particular, haunts her. 

She understands, now, what a mistake they both made by rushing the wedding before Charlie’s deployment, but she doesn’t have the first clue what to do with that realisation. All she knows is that it hurts and, even with so much left to learn about herself and what she wants now, she knows that it is probably always going to hurt a little bit.

She wants to love Charlie enough to choose the kind of life he craves. She wishes she could be the one to give it to him. But, after all this time, she is starting to understand that it isn’t in her gift to do so.

Maybe I’m going to end up like my mom, she thinks one evening as she finally resolves to send Charlie a response. But maybe I can do that before anyone else gets hurt.

*

Dear Charlie

As ever, it’s a relief to hear from you and know that you’re doing as well as you can. I worry about you often.

My work is fine and I’m still spending a lot of nights with the Red Cross. I’m still enjoying it a lot and it feels like a great way to do my bit. I’m afraid I don’t have too much to bring you up to date with, only to say that it is now getting very hot in the city and I am doing my best to enjoy the warm weather as much as I can. I’m hoping I might find some people to play baseball with.

I’m glad to hear that, if nothing else, you’ve had some time to think about what you really want. I don’t feel that either of us really does enough of that. If you would like to see Chicago, then I think you’d enjoy doing so. I think you’d like it here. What feels best to me right now is for us to talk as soon as you’re back in the country, to set out all our options and decide what should come next. I hope you’d be open to a conversation like that.

Love from

Carson

It isn’t really what she wants to say, but it’s the most honest she can allow herself to be with Charlie right now.

*

The following Saturday finds Carson in a bar a few blocks from Grant Park, scanning a cocktail menu and pretending she has the first clue what any of the options might taste like. 

In the end, she orders a Ward Eight, hopeful at the menu’s promise of grenadine and fruit pieces. Greta asks for a Martini before turning her full attention to Carson. 

This week, Greta is dressed in a white dress with a floral print. Her lipstick is just as perfect - and just as red - as usual and it gleams in the low light of the bar. 

Quietly, Carson watches Greta and hopes that she never stops noticing all these little details. She hopes these moments in her week never stop feeling so invigorating. 

When they met up in the park that afternoon and Carson spotted Greta already there and waiting for her, she felt her heart race with excitement, just as it did the first time they met (just like it does every time). She isn’t entirely sure what it is about Greta that sparks this feeling in her, but she supposes this is just what it feels like to be in the presence of someone so glamorous, so beautiful, so self-assured, so utterly fun. 

“Well, did you have a good week?” Greta asks eventually, running her fingers over a spot on the table where the varnish had started to peel away. 

“It was alright,” Carson says. For the most part, this is true. It had been another week of saving letters, responding to a few, and taking on Motor Corps shifts which did nothing more than make her worry about Freddie. “Just the same as normal, really. Not my first choice out of all the ways to pass the time.” 

“No? What is your first choice?” 

“I don’t know. Pretty much anything else,” Carson replies. “Probably baseball. Or this.” 

Greta’s lips curve into an easy, pretty smile. “ This, huh? You sure are good at making a girl feel special.”

Inexplicably, Carson feels herself blush. It is a strange feeling, knowing she can make Greta smile like that. It is like a rush of blood to the head; it is a mixture of excitement and nerves. Carson always wonders if she says too much…if she tries too hard. Greta is obviously pleased with the compliment, but Carson wonders if she had perhaps been too honest in her answer, too transparent or open. 

Did Greta like that about her? She seemed to. But she also seemed much more in control of her words, much more poised and practised in her conversation. It wasn’t that she was holding her tongue, it was that she didn’t need to. She didn’t spill every word, every thought, the way Carson did. 

Perhaps Greta feels compelled to return Carson’s compliments with one of her own. That possibility seems especially likely right now, because Carson struggles to see how she might be the one who makes Greta feel special. 

Greta…Greta is the special one. She is the one that sparkles and makes every one of their rendez-vous - as she calls them - feel like magic. 

“What about you?” Carson asks quickly. “Did you have a good week?” 

Greta pulls an expression that reads to Carson as eh, so-so . 

“Not too bad,” she says eventually. “Work was fine. This is better though.” 

Carson’s blush, having barely faded to begin with, intensifies. Greta is poised and practised, yes. She knows when to hold back, but she also knows how to give. And she does give. Carson notices it more and more with every afternoon they spend together. 

Greta scatters these comments like breadcrumbs, subtler and less over-eager as Carson but no less earnest. And Carson, well…Carson feasts on them. 

God. How had she gone her whole life without this? Without people like Greta. Without people who make Carson feel like she is fine, just as she is. 

Their drinks arrive, and Greta immediately takes a sip of hers. As she swallows, she watches Carson over the rim of her glass. 

Burning up the way she always does under scrutiny, Carson hurriedly takes a sip of her own cocktail and immediately regrets it as she tries not to cough. It burns on the way down, and is somehow both far too sweet and far too strong at once. She does her best not to grimace. 

“Not good?” Greta asks, already frighteningly capable of reading Carson like a book. 

“I don’t think so…” Carson takes another sip. It is a little better on the second try, but it is still far too overpowering. 

Losing a battle against a smile, Greta averts her gaze and fishes the olive from her drink, setting it to one side. 

“What?” Carson asks, eyes narrowing. 

“No, no. Nothing.”

“Greta.” 

“Wow. I think that was a real, in-the-flesh pout there, Mrs Shaw.”

Carson huffs and squares her shoulders. “Well, did it work?” 

Another smile works its way onto Greta’s face. 

“Maybe.” She pauses, tracing the rim of her martini glass with one long finger. “That - the drink - just feels very…you.” 

“What does?” Carson asks, perplexed. 

“Walking headlong into a decision with no prior research and immediately hating the outcome.” 

To her credit, after she says this, Greta tries really, really hard not to laugh. 

Carson feigns offence and shakes her head emphatically to herself. “I’m just a joke to you. A court jester…all my embarrassing secrets - secrets I trusted you with - just good for a laugh.” 

Greta presses her lips together for a moment, trying to quell her amusement before she is able to speak. 

“I think you’ll find that I’m not actually laughing. I’m so very stoic. And I think you’ll also find that, at one point when we were writing to one another, you promised to write out an embarrassing secret of your own and you never did. So, now we’re even.” 

“Well, for what it’s worth, I didn’t laugh at your embarrassing secret.” 

“That’s because mine was heartfelt and from the soul, Carson,” Greta returns seriously. 

This time, it is Carson who must resist laughing. “Well, since it’s you, let's say it’s okay. You can laugh - again - about my job predicament. I do seem to have a track record of committing to things without fully thinking through the ramifications.” 

The words fly out of Carson’s mouth before she realises what she has done. Immediately, her blood runs cold. She hadn’t intended on talking about this with anyone, let alone Greta. It is only at that moment, however, that she realises how much she wants to talk about it with someone. 

No…not with any old someone. With Greta.

“Well now, that’s intriguing,” Greta murmurs. “What else have you been agreeing to and immediately regretting?” 

“I wouldn’t go as far as ‘regret’,” Carson contests, her voice weak. “But either way, it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it.” 

Greta looks puzzled. “You aren’t? Another work confidentiality clause?” 

“No,” Carson says, shooting a pointed look across the table. “One of your banned topics, not my boss’s.” 

“I don’t have any banned topics,” Greta teases. “Not for you, anyway.” 

“Yes, you do,” Carson bats back, matching Greta’s airy tone as best she can before risking another sip of her cocktail. She swallows and says, “I seem to remember, in one of your letters, you told me not to talk too much about my husband. And in another, you said, ‘I’m not sure most men are interesting enough to warrant any more of our time.’”

Greta’s poised exterior slips for a moment, falling into a look of genuine shock. “You regret marrying your husband?” 

“I said ‘regret’ was too strong a word.” 

“Oh, right,” Greta says, sounding sceptical. She drains half her glass. “Tell me more.” 

Carson suddenly realises how quickly her own drink has gone to her head. She would never speak this candidly, even to Greta, in any other environment. All the same, she cannot seem to stop herself from telling Greta what she has held so close to her chest for far too long. With a slight barb of guilt in her stomach - dull enough for her to ignore entirely - she finds herself recounting everything. Like an avalanche, the first snow drifts slip free and then the rest keeps on coming as Carson hurries through a quick summary of life in Lake Valley. She does her best to explain her friendship with Charlie with total honesty (it is important that Greta knows that Carson does care about Charlie), finishing up with the short engagement and the hurried marriage. 

“So,” Greta begins when Carson stops speaking. She watches Carson dive for her cocktail again, mouth arching upwards. “The war broke out and your guy got his letter, so you just…married him.” 

“Yes,” Carson replies meekly, colour rising to her cheeks again. 

“And…is that the only reason you said yes?” 

“No,” Carson retorts, suddenly indignant and a little embarrassed. Plenty of people had married more quickly than expected once the USA joined the war. “Like I explained, he’s been my best friend since we were six. I really do love him. We just…got engaged and married a little more urgently than I anticipated, that’s all. Which is totally fine, by the way. I was totally fine with it. I had no issues at all…” 

“Certainly seems like it,” Greta says, still looking amused. “Couldn’t you have waited until after?” 

“Well…there’s no guarantee, is there?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“And, I mean, he was going to war. He was going to risk his life for something. You can’t exactly…say ‘no’, can you? When someone you…well, care about is going away to do that .” 

“You can,” Greta counters plainly. “Look, I’ll even show you. You ready? Watch carefully because if you blink, you’ll miss it.” She pauses for a long moment and then, enunciating to the point of absurdity, says, “no.” 

Carson sends her a withering look. “You’re - ”

“See how easy that was?” Greta interjects with a boisterous laugh as she lazily swills the dregs of her drink round in the glass. “N and o spell ‘no’.” 

“You’re r- ” Carson tries again, still scowling as Greta cuts her off. 

“I’m right? Yes, precisely. I’m so glad you think so too.”

“Ridiculous,” Carson says loudly, so that a few people nearby glance in their direction. Dropping her voice she hisses, “ridiculous. I was going to say you’re ridiculous.” 

“Mm, perhaps,” Greta replies, voice even again. She quickly drinks the rest of her cocktail in one swallow. “But I’m starting to think that perhaps I’m not the one who needs an agony aunt now, Mrs Shaw.”

“Maybe I should write to my boss,” Carson jokes. 

Greta chuckles. “Maybe.” 

Growing suddenly serious, Carson says, “I feel really guilty about it, if that makes any difference.” 

“About what?” 

“About thinking all of this awful stuff while he’s away. It’s not like I regret him. I just regret committing to this type of life. And I feel guilty because I’m supposed to want it, but I don’t know if I do.” Carson pauses and forces down some more of her drink. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying all of this. We can change the subject.” 

Greta reaches out and gives Carson’s forearm a quick squeeze. It is over before Carson can really register it, but her skin tingles and burns even once Greta lets go. Carson wonders just how strong her drink is, if she already feels this hot. 

“It’s okay,” Greta tells her, voice gentle. “It’s not awful and you don’t have to feel guilty. You want to know what I think? Or is this more of a ‘get it off your chest and move on’ type of a thing?” 

“I want to hear what you think. Definitely.” 

Greta flags down one of the staff and orders another drink. She looks at Carson. “You want one?” 

Carson shakes her head to refuse the offer. 

Greta smiles. “Still doing battle with that one, huh? I guess it really is as bad as your face says it is.” 

“Well, I’m not a fan.” 

To her immense surprise, Greta fishes a few pieces of fruit from the glass and pops them in her mouth. Immediately, she shudders. 

“Yuck. I don’t like it.” 

“Right? It’s bad.” 

“It sure is.” Greta grimaces. “Anyway. Here’s what I think. I think that - nine times out of ten - marriage is a terrible idea.” She pauses and looks satisfied at Carson’s surprised expression. “Look, just hear me out. We’re more able to work now, right? So we can earn money. But they pay us about half what they’d pay a man to do the same job. So, from a survival perspective, it’s a good idea for women to get married, yeah? And that’s how they get you to do it. Because…what are the other benefits? For you? You spend your life tied to your house, tied to your guy’s wage, tied to his expectations. And even if he’s one of those guys who doesn’t have any expectations, other people sure do. The way the world looks at women is already pretty bleak. But the way it looks at wives? Did your vows include the words honour and obey, by any chance? Because that’s what other people will expect, even if your guy’s not that kind of a guy. Even if you love him in some way. Then, you add kids into the mix, and what’s left of life for wives? Your guy goes out and does a job and maybe he likes it. He gets to choose it, at any rate. He gets friends there and opportunities and gets to be challenged by what he does. And - don’t get me wrong, I would really love to have kids - your whole life becomes this one thing. Being a wife.”

Carson thinks this over for a moment before nodding. Being married, right from the start, has felt like wearing a second skin that doesn’t fit. 

“So what about your guy?” she asks, mostly to avoid responding directly to what Greta has said. “You wouldn’t have married him?” 

“Hm?” Greta asks, pausing as a new drink is set in front of her. “My guy?”

Greta’s confusion gives Carson pause. Perhaps she shouldn’t have brought this up. 

“The one when you were younger. You wrote to the magazine…”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Well…” Greta considers her words. “I was seventeen when we met. I looked at the world differently back then. Plus, it doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t marry him.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carson says. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.” 

“What? Oh no, you weren’t, not at all. I didn’t mean to preach.” 

“Well, I think…you’re right, at least in the sense that some of what you said applies to me. I wasn’t this confused about Charlie until we got married. I don’t think I really suit being a wife.” 

Greta starts her next drink. “Hm, maybe.” 

“Maybe? What else could it be?” 

“Well, like I told you. That’s the least interesting thing about women as far as I’m concerned. Maybe it’s not that you don’t suit being a wife. Maybe it’s that being a wife isn’t suitable for you.” 

Hearing those words makes something dislodge in Carson’s chest and she has to take a moment to fully process the way they make her feel. A wave of emotion accompanies them, unexpected and raw. 

Greta doesn’t think there is anything wrong with her. She doesn’t think Carson is lacking or defective for the way she has struggled to adapt. She hasn’t judged her incapable the way people in Lake Valley would have done. 

Her words have cracked something wide open in Carson’s chest.

She had never really tried to think of things differently. She had never really entertained the possibility that there might be something at fault with all the expectations placed upon women. She had only thought that there was something at fault with herself for wanting something different.

“Too far?” Greta asks carefully.

“What? No, no – definitely not,” Carson says quickly, shaking her head. “I just…haven’t ever heard anyone talk like that before. People at home, they definitely don’t.”

“I know,” Greta replies thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.”

Carson sighs, suddenly frustrated and emotionally drained. “Why – why – can’t people just say what they mean? Why does everyone else have to muddle around and make mistakes until – if – they’re lucky enough to find someone like you. Someone who will say these kinds of things.”

Greta smiles. “I think that was a rhetorical question but, for my two cents, I’d guess it’s because they don’t want gals like us thinking for ourselves. Makes it easier for everyone else to get away with murder.”

“Well,” Carson replies with another small sigh. “People need to talk more. Thank you for talking with me.”

“That’s always my pleasure,” Greta says sincerely.

“Mine too.”

“You know,” Greta goes on, “the not talking thing is kind of what keeps your boss in a job.”

Carson thinks for a moment, biting at the inside of her cheek as she does so. “Yeah. You’re right. The magazine readers are the most perfect example of this. That’s why I find ignoring them so hard, I think.”

“Sure. You can put yourself in their place of just wanting to ask for advice.”

Carson takes a deep breath and wonders what strange bolt of bravery had struck her while she wasn’t looking. Today is a day for spilling secrets, it would seem.

“I did it, by the way,” she confesses, dropping her voice as though any of the patrons in the bar might care about what she is saying. All the same, she feels her heart rate pick up at the thought of admitting to transgressing work’s rules.

Without hesitation, Greta leans across the table and tilts head close to Carson’s so that she can share in the furtive conversation. At this proximity, the mingled scents of her perfume and her shampoo are all-but overwhelming, all heady and floral and sweet. Carson’s head swims. She can feel Greta’s breath on her ear and is forced to suppress a shiver at the way it tickles and raises goosebumps on her skin.

Then, after a loaded pause, Greta whispers, “I don’t know what ‘it’ is, Carson.”

The spell breaks and they both laugh, heads still close.

“I wrote back to someone with advice.”

“I thought you’d already done that. I’m right here!”

“I put it in the magazine.”

Carson feels Greta’s surprise even though she cannot see her expression this close.

“In the magazine,” Greta echoes, and Carson begins to worry that she will disapprove or think poorly of her.

“Yeah. I – I mean, we pretty much know for certain that the boss doesn’t read it.”

Greta pulls back and Carson feels the absence of her proximity like a sting. 

“She doesn’t read her own magazine?” 

“Nope, not so far as any of us can tell.” 

“Well, in that case - good for you.” Greta smiles approvingly. 

“You really think so? I know I’m playing with fire but it feels like the right thing to do.” 

Greta studies her in silence for a long moment. 

Carson tries to hold Greta’s gaze, unsure why it makes her heart race again to be watched so carefully by her.

“You really do just want to help those people, don’t you?” Greta says eventually, her voice quiet and contemplative. She is stuck somewhere, Carson can see, between the present moment and a distant thought.

Carson understands that feeling well. She is always caught in that space, trapped between what is happening and an endless barrage of thinking . Always, she is thinking. Thinking about herself - her body - relative to the people and things around her, about her words and how others might interpret them, about what impression she is making.

With Greta, however, things seem to have grown a little quieter.

“Yes. I mean, they need it, Greta. Some of the stuff they write to us about…” Carson pauses. “We can’t just keep ignoring it.” 

“I think you need it too,” Greta says quietly. “It looks good on you.” 

“It does?” 

“Mmhm. You’re passionate about this. I like it.”

“Well,” Carson replies, trying not to seem flustered. “I don’t know that I’m doing a good job at it. But I’m trying, and I hope that will mean something to someone, at least.” 

Greta sends her a pointed look. “It already has, Carson.” 

They share a smile and sit in silence for a moment. 

This really is perfect, Carson thinks, this friendship with Greta. 

How special, how utterly wonderful, that their paths crossed with such serendipity. 

“Your secret - both of them, actually - is safe with me.” Greta winks and Carson finds herself shyly glancing away before she can work out why. She casts her eyes back over the cocktail menu, just to have something to look at. Like a magnetic attraction, however, she looks back up quickly and finds Greta still watching as she bites playfully at her bottom lip. 

Later, when they part at the usual streetcar stop, Greta leans a little closer again and drops her voice. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re probably doing a wonderful job writing back to all your readers. Don’t do yourself an injustice by thinking you couldn’t. You’re amazing.” 

As she waves at Greta through the streetcar window, Carson knows the words have made her glow from the inside out.

*

Carson spends the next week at work walking a treacherous tightrope between looking like she is doing a diligent job with absolutely no rule-breaking and, well, breaking the rules completely. 

At this point, she is essentially laughing in the face of something completely unrecognisable as the original conditions she agreed to when she started the job. 

It is probably too late to publicly answer the older letters she saved but, whenever Maybelle isn’t present, Carson sorts through the rest of her contraband and creates something of a long-term plan to answer as many problems as possible, in a piecemeal fashion that ideally won’t get her caught. After the initial fear over an endless list of possible ramifications, the next concern is how to continue mimicking her boss’ tone while still actually answering readers’ questions. 

This particular challenge makes her work infinitely more interesting and, for the first time, Carson starts to genuinely enjoy the job.

As she writes, she finds that the rest of her mind is occupied with thoughts of Greta, of memories of their most recent afternoon together or plans for future outings. Carson wants to come up with plans that will be interesting and fun, playing with any idea which she feels will ensure that Greta has a good time. 

Like a constant companion, this friendship lingers with her in a way no other has ever done. It isn’t that she doesn’t still love and appreciate all of her other friends, it’s just that none of her other friendships feel precisely like this one with Greta. Carson isn’t sure exactly what the difference is, only that spending time with Greta is everything and nothing like being around Max or Shirley or even Maybelle, who is arguably slightly more similar to Greta than the other people in Carson’s life. 

It is like time with Greta leaves Carson feeling more alive. It is as though her skin is always a little warmer when the two of them are close together; Carson’s heart is a little lighter, her spirit is lifted higher than she ever thought possible. The whole thing gives her butterflies. Carson hadn’t even realised friendships could be like this, but it is truly wonderful. She is always looking forward to seeing Greta again, and she misses her when they are apart. She sees a little piece of Greta in every part of her day, brightening up the most mundane moments and making her think of a joke they shared or something she knows Greta loves. 

Sometimes, she wonders if Greta thinks of her like this too. Carson thinks that she probably doesn’t - Greta is just so self-controlled and she probably has hundreds of better things to think about. But a part of Carson hopes, regardless. She hopes, even just on occasion, she is the one Greta thinks of when she travels to work or eats her lunch. She hopes that she might occupy even just a little space in Greta’s mind, her heart, her life…

It has been a while since Carson has known anything of hope, but these days it makes itself her constant bedmate and she is glad of the company. 

Between all this musing and Carson’s attempts to find inspiration for good advice that she can write down as though it came from Mrs W., some of her worries about Charlie and what to do about the marriage grow more distant. They have not disappeared entirely, but it is as though Greta always ousts them from the forefront of Carson’s mind. The disquiet is no competition for Greta, Greta, Greta…

However, no matter the source of her preoccupation, Carson remains a hopelessly open book. Just as much as her nerves about her first letters to Greta were impossible to conceal months ago, so it would seem is Carson’s current improved outlook. 

Maybelle remarks upon it one morning in late July and Carson is too satiated with her good mood to even try to downplay it. 

“I know lots of things aren’t great right now, but I just feel like I’m finally settling in and feeling like I belong here. I’m having a good time living here now. Much more so than when I was in Lake Valley, or right after I just moved here.” 

“Well hon, that makes me really happy,” Maybelle tells her with a big, genuine grin. “New places and fresh starts are hard, but you made it work. You’re not who you were back when you started working here. And that is a capital ‘B’ big deal.” 

Carson cannot keep from smiling back. “Yeah. I’m only just starting to realise that but…I kind of think it is too.” 

“Good for you! We only get this one life, so we’ve gotta grab onto it with both hands, right? No use wasting time being unhappy if we can do anything about it.” 

Carson agrees. Sometimes, she thinks, it isn’t possible to do anything about it. It certainly wasn’t possible for her to do anything about it back in Idaho - and that wasn’t her fault. It’s just how things are back at home. But being here - doing this job, finding her friends, getting to know Greta - is giving Carson an opportunity to take control of her own life for the first time ever. She doesn’t think she can relinquish that ever again. Nothing has really changed but, at the same time, everything has changed. Something within her is shifting and although she has no idea what kind of line she seems to be crossing, it feels like a one-way journey. There isn’t a return trip. 

Either she gets on with the work of fixing all the problems she can possibly fix, or…

Well, there isn’t any other option and, for the first time, she sees that and it doesn’t scare her like it used to. 

*

“You’ve been going out a lot during weekends recently,” Shirley observes quietly, tone pitched to make it sound as though they are already in the middle of a conversation.

In reality, they are sharing a quiet moment on a Sunday evening, trying to revel in a little bit of peace before work starts up again in a matter of hours. There are two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table, and Carson is curled in her armchair, working her way through A Tree Grows In Brooklyn for the second time. 

Somehow, even after just a few letters, Greta had been right. The story speaks deeply to Carson and she adores it. Marking her page, she glances across at Shirley who is still staring at her magazine (decidedly not a copy of Woman & Home) but evidently not reading. 

“Yeah,” Carson agrees carefully, the silence of the apartment starting to ring in her ears. “It’s been busy. Sorry. We can make plans - just us - for next week, if you want.” 

“My timetable is pretty full next week,” Shirley replies, but Carson knows her well enough by now to know she isn’t being cold or dismissive - just honest.

“The week after then, maybe.” 

“I think that should be fine. I’d like that. I miss spending time with you.” 

There it is again: the guilt. Even at the best of times, Carson always, always finds something to feel guilty about.

“I’m sorry. I do too. Let’s go to the movies or get a nice lunch somewhere.” 

“I’d really enjoy that. Thank you.” Shirley pauses and turns a page before staring through it for a moment. Abruptly, she asks, “where are you going? It’s not like you to be secretive.” 

“I’m not,” Carson says quickly. “Being secretive.” 

She doesn’t want to admit, even inwardly, that Shirley is right. There is no reason to keep Greta a secret now but Carson, deep down, wants to. She doesn’t understand why; she knows it wouldn’t be any less special if everyone knew. But there is something about the time she spends with Greta, something about having this all for herself. It isn’t necessarily even Greta she is guarding. It’s something about the way time with Greta makes her feel fresh and new and as though this Carson is a lighter, better version of herself. 

“Okay,” Shirley replies, sounding unconvinced. “So where are you going every Saturday? Every time I came home and you weren’t here, I’d assumed you’d been with Max, but she says you haven’t been. She’s been doing extra time at the salon.” 

“Shirley, have you been checking up on me?” 

Shirley sighs and finally sets the magazine down. 

“Yes. Because I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’ve gotten yourself into…something. Something bad.”  

“Something like what?” Carson demands, feeling irritated at the inquisition. She and Shirley might be friends and roommates, but what need - or right - does Shirley feel to check up on her? Shirls might be a worrier, but this was absurd. “What could I possibly have gotten myself into?” 

“Carson…” Shirley starts, tone contrite. “Charlie’s been away a while. And I see the way you look sometimes when you get letters from him. If…if something’s happening, well, I don’t know. I don’t condone it, obviously, but you could tell me. We could talk about it…”

For a moment, Carson’s mind goes blank. Shirley can’t possibly be implying…

“Are you saying you think I’m meeting up with a man?” 

Shirley goes red. “No! Obviously not! I mean…well, I…don’t know. I just can’t work out what else would be such a secret.”

“Well, I’m not, Shirls. I’m not meeting up with a man.” 

Carson squares her jaw and sends Shirley a stony look. She understands, innately, that Shirley is looking out for her, but the implication that there might be a man out there more bearable than Charlie, and the associated implication that Carson would simply pivot from one unhappy situation to another, is offensive. Shirley is clearly perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that something is going on in Carson’s mind regarding the marriage, but this conclusion is a ridiculous one.

Shirley’s blush deepens and she looks genuinely apologetic. “Okay. I believe you. I’m sorry. That was a really awful thing to say. Like I said, I just couldn’t think of anything else you’d need to keep a secret from your friends, and my brain just…ran away with it. I do that too much, I know. I’m really sorry, Carson.” 

Carson softens. 

“It’s okay. I wasn’t trying to be secretive,” Carson says, words awkward in her mouth as she swallows the lie. “But I guess it looked that way. I’m just meeting up with a friend, that’s all. Not a male one.”

Shirley nods. “Right, okay. A friend from work?”

Carson pauses and Shirley clearly notices that there is something more to the situation.

“Yes,” Carson agrees eventually, thinking that there is a kernel of truth buried somewhere in the answer. 

Shirley, however, evidently knows that something is amiss. She sighs again and looks surprisingly sad. 

“I know I can’t make you tell me anything, Carson, but I do wish you felt like you could talk to me.” 

In that moment, Carson realises that Shirley is too attentive not to notice the kinds of tiny details everyone else fails to see. But even Shirley cannot piece together the whole story with the degree of context she is missing. She will continue putting two and two together, only to come up with five, ad infinitum. That is just the kind of person she is. 

“Okay, look. I’ll tell you. Just…don’t freak out, okay?” 

Shirley sends her an incredulous look. “Great opening sentence Carson. Really promising start.” 

Carson takes a deep breath and tells Shirley an abridged, slightly watered down version of what has happened at work with all the letters. For Shirley’s sanity as much as her own, she doesn’t mention the letter that went to print or the ones she has prepared since then with the intention of slipping them into future issues. She boils it down to a handful of private letters, one of which led to a new friendship. She spares many details on Greta and tells herself that it is only fair to do so in order to protect Greta’s identity and keep the contents of her original letter a secret. It is not, after all, Carson’s story to tell. 

When she finishes, Shirley looks aghast.

“Carson…you can’t.” 

“I already have Shirls,” Carson tells her gently. 

“Well you mustn’t, then. Not anymore. You’re going to get caught eventually, even if you’ve been careful. It’s not safe. You’re going to lose your job and Mrs Wilkinson will make it hard for you to get a new one. And that’ll make it impossible to pay rent, and you might have to move back to Idaho. Then I’d end up with a new roommate, and it was hard enough last time until you turned up. How am I supposed to just live with another new stranger without knowing if they’re neat and tidy enough? Or if their schedule aligns with mine, or if they’re conscientious and like me as much as I like them. I was lucky once, Carson, but the odds are I won’t be so lucky next time.” 

Carson takes a moment to digest Shirley’s words, all of them spoken at a hundred miles an hour. Somewhere in amongst the speech, Shirley had buried quite a touching compliment, although the overarching emphasis was clear: Carson is being an idiot. 

Probably, Shirley is right, but Carson doesn’t really intend to stop now, and she certainly doesn’t intend to stop seeing Greta.

“I…” 

“Please, Carson,” Shirley implores. “I know you’ve been having a hard time, but this is reckless. You don’t need to do this.” 

Carson resists the urge to contradict Shirley. She is wrong. Carson does need to do this. She can’t explain why, exactly, this is so crucial, but it is. All the same, it isn’t worth arguing about it or upsetting her roommate more. 

“I don’t intend to cut off the friendship,” she says eventually, voice firm. 

“No, well…there wouldn’t be any point. What’s done is done. But new letters…” 

“I’ll be extra careful.” 

“Carson. There’s not enough room in this situation to be careful. It’s already not careful.” 

“Shirley, I’m not going to make a promise I can’t keep. That’s not fair to either of us.” 

I’ve already made a mess of things involving promises I couldn’t keep, Carson thinks to herself. 

“Fine,” Shirley says haughtily. “I can’t make you do anything. And I know you’re just trying to help. But let it be known that I hate this, Carson. I hate it and I sort of regret asking the question. And, from a statistical perspective, there is almost no way this can end well.” 

Carson is aware that there is nothing she can really say to change Shirley’s mind - largely because Shirley is right - and, with the conversation over, they both slowly return to their reading. 

Before going back to their respective pages, however, they clear the air with a few conciliatory glances and a silent understanding that, when it comes down to it, they have each other’s best interests at heart. 

*

The conversation with Shirley doesn’t stop Carson from meeting up with Greta almost a week later. 

At this point, Carson isn’t aware of anything that would stop her. 

They find each other at their usual spot in the park and go in search of something to eat. Greta recommends a little cafe nearby and they set off in hopes of finding a free table. As they walk, they update each other on the work week and anything else that might have transpired. Carson doesn’t mention her conversation with Shirley, worried that Greta might take offence at the fact that Carson hadn’t told anyone about the friendship before now. 

When they reach the cafe, it is packed to the rafters. 

“I think we might be out of luck,” Greta observes wistfully, casting about for a free table. She nudges Carson and indicates subtly at two men sitting nearby. “Look at those two. Table of four and just them.” 

Carson prepares to react with an appropriate degree of disdain before realising, with surprise, that she recognises one of the men. 

“Oh shit, it’s Henry,” she says. 

He is facing Carson and Greta, dressed impeccably and half-unrecognisable to Carson without ink stains up his arms and a harried, frenetic look on his face. Even his hair is neater than usual on account, Carson assumes, of not running his hands erratically through it while playing first mate to an imperious Mrs Wilkinson. The other man - facing away from them - is just as neatly dressed and deep in conversation while Henry listens carefully. 

“Who’s Henry?” Greta asks. 

“Oh, he works at the magazine. He’s very nice, I just wonder if it’s a good idea to be around him given how we got to know each oth- ”

Before Carson can finish, Henry glances over - seemingly by chance - and spots them. He looks just as surprised as Carson feels, as though both of them cannot comprehend existing in the same space as the other outside of the office. 

All the same, Henry gives her a small, jaunty wave before turning to his companion and, to Carson’s surprise, beckoning them over. 

“That’s Henry, huh?” Greta asks, her tone strange. “Well, he certainly seems to like you. He wants us to go over.” 

“I know…I just…what if he works out that we…” Carson tries, momentarily caught in a panic. Although Henry hardly seems to be suspicious in nature, Carson always feels so open and laid bare around Greta. It almost feels possible that Henry will take one look at her and Greta and know how they met. 

“Well, we don’t have much choice,” Greta mutters, grabbing Carson’s upper arm and steering her around the tables like the cafe is an obstacle course. 

“Carson,” Henry says when they reach him. “Nice to see you somewhere other than work.” 

“You too,” Carson replies, feeling awkward. “Oh, this is my friend Greta.” 

Henry politely shakes Greta’s hand, so calm and serene that Carson struggles to align this version of him (and the version of him who led the team through the advertising debacle) with the man whose office is in total disarray and whose manuscripts look like they’ve been trampled by a cavalcade. 

“Nice to meet you, Greta,” Henry says before gesturing at his companion. “This is my cousin, George.” 

Henry explains that he and Carson are colleagues, which only reignites her fear of her written exchange with Greta being discovered. Henry’s cousin turns out to be polite and mild-mannered, shaking hands with both Carson and Greta. There doesn’t seem to be much of a family resemblance between them, and it feels supremely odd to Carson to be standing around on a Saturday afternoon making small talk with Henry and a cousin he had never mentioned before. 

“Do you need a place to sit?” George asks eventually, gesturing at the two spare seats. Henry sends him a quick, unreadable look across the table. 

Carson feels completely mortified at the idea and exchanges an equally rapid glance with Greta, who seems largely unbothered by either outcome.  “Oh, that’s really kind of you. Of both of you. But I wouldn’t want to intrude on your afternoon. We can wait or - or we’ll find somewhere else.”

She glances at Greta again and is pleased at her easy nod. They make their excuses and leave, but it is clear there are no other tables. 

They step back into the afternoon heat and Carson exhales. 

“That was weird,” she says. 

Greta looks confused. “How so?”  

“I don’t know. I like Henry but it’s strange seeing him outside of work and so…not stressed.” 

“Huh. Well, good for him. He looks familiar, actually. I think he might live in a building near ours.” Greta pauses. “Speaking of which - I don’t actually live too far away from here and I’m not sure I feel like sitting out in the sun all afternoon. Would a trip to my apartment be out of the question? Too boring?” 

“No, of course not! Not boring at all. I’d like to see where you live.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” Greta says before setting off. Carson follows, happy to be led towards the apartment. “But I’m sure it’ll do in a pinch. I’m pretty sure our kitchen is fairly well-stocked, current restrictions considered.” 

The walk, as it turns out, is relatively short and Greta’s decision to meet at Grant Park that first time makes more sense. She leads Carson into an apartment building not all that different in appearance to Carson’s, although it is evidently slightly older and a great deal bigger. There is no elevator, so they traipse up a miserable five flights of stairs and down a long, quiet corridor to the end of the floor. 

“Et voilà!” Greta says, producing a key from her handbag. “Home sweet home. Come in.” 

Then, Carson is being welcomed into a narrow, wallpapered hallway. The air in the apartment smells of Greta’s perfume, mingled with something sweeter, almost as though someone has been baking pastries. 

Greta toes her shoes off at the door and Carson follows suit, making sure that they are tucked neatly out of the way. 

A moment later, Greta skirts past Carson, her hands ghosting lightly against Carson’s arms to keep her in place. 

For a moment, Carson’s brain stalls as she cannot quite work out what Greta is doing, until becomes apparent that she is just trying to squeeze through the meagre gap between Carson’s body and the hallway wall

Their hips brush together in the narrow space and Carson suddenly realises how hot the apartment is. Without warning, it feels close and unbearable, no different to the relentless midday heat outdoors. 

“Hello?” Greta calls out, moving down the corridor. “Anyone home?” 

“In here!” 

“Ah,” Greta turns back to Carson. “My roommate’s here.” 

“The one you were going to kick out for me?” Carson jokes, voice quiet. 

Greta laughs and then presses a finger to her lips. 

“Ssshh, she doesn’t know yet,” she quips back before sending Carson a quick, playful wink. 

Greta floats down the hallway and peers into the first doorway on the right. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asks, tone still impish and teasing. 

“Shouldn’t you be minding your own business?” comes the reply.

Greta tuts playfully three times. “So, hostile. That’s no way to welcome your beloved best friend home.” 

The next response is muffled enough that Carson misses it. She does, however, hear when the roommate asks who Greta was talking to when she walked in. 

“Oh, I’ve brought a visitor,” Greta says nonchalantly. “A friend. We’ll keep out your hair while you play hooky.”

“Ron asked for an extra shift, and I wasn’t exactly dying to work in this heat. Who’s your friend? Not anyone I know, clearly.” 

Greta’s roommate uses an odd tone when she asks this question, although Carson cannot quite understand why. It is, however, noticeable enough that Greta’s demeanour changes slightly, the playful exterior faltering almost imperceptibly. 

“I am allowed to have other friends, you know.” Greta is obviously still teasing, but there is a slight note in her voice - something that sounds almost like a warning - that her roommate seems to respond to. 

“If you say so,” the roommate returns. “Still doesn’t answer my question.” 

Carson finally catches on enough to work out that Greta hasn’t told anyone about their friendship either and, in a way, it is a relief. She doesn’t have to feel bad or strange for guarding the secret if Greta had been doing the same. It reinforces that this was something special and worth keeping between the two of them, and it reassures Carson that her feelings - whatever it actually is that she is feeling every time she is in Greta’s company - are at least somewhat applicable to Greta too. 

She hears Greta say, “...a few months ago,” and realises she had tuned out the conversation. 

A silence follows and, even to Carson, it is undeniably loaded. 

Eventually the roommate says, “you did what?”

“You heard me,” Greta replies. “It turned out rather well in the end, I’d say.” 

She turns to Carson and beckons her over. “Want to say ‘hello’? I promise that Joey is quite nice, even if she’s just had a bit of a shock.” 

Feeling unnecessarily nervous, Carson joins Greta at the threshold and peers into a sparse but nevertheless cosy-looking living room. A surprising number of armchairs flank a decently-sized couch and battered, well-loved coffee table. A set of shelves pushed up against one wall are full of books, records, and other odds and ends. 

In the corner, a turntable plays a Glenn Miller tune and, beside it in the comfiest-looking armchair sits Greta’s roommate. She has propped an open book on the arm, spine up to save the page. She is dressed comfortably in a white shirt and pants similar to the ones Jess wears and, Carson assumes, would generally have a round, pretty face if it weren’t for the look of mingled anger and incredulity she is currently sporting. 

“Hi,” Carson says, trying to read the mood of the room and coming up cold. “It’s really nice to meet you, um…”

“Jo,” Greta supplies, voice cheery in open defiance of whatever message her roommate is currently trying to send from across the room.  

“Yeah, hi,” Jo says, glancing at Carson for a moment and taking her in. “Sorry, just excuse me for a minute.” 

She uncrosses her legs and leans forward in the chair. 

“Greta, can you run literally all of that by me again. Because for a second there, I thought you said you wrote to an agony aunt column about something you literally never even talk to me about and now…” Jo pauses and gestures at Carson. “This. But you know, that would be completely insane, so I’m going to assume I misheard.” 

“That’s the gist,” Greta says, tone still intentionally bright. “Don’t act so surprised. When I was discussing the possibility of finding him, you told me, and I quote, ‘well, if you’re so adamant I’m wrong, why don’t you write to an agony aunt and see what she has to say on the matter?'"

“As a joke, Bird. A joke!” Jo exclaims, and it is difficult to tell if she is hamming up her reaction or if she is genuinely as frustrated as she seems (which is to say, very frustrated). “Because you weren’t listening to reason. You even took it as a joke at the time! I didn’t mean you should actually do it!” 

“Well,” Greta says, “at first I laughed it off, but then I thought ‘she’s got a point there.’ So, I did it.” She strides over to the armchair and wraps her long fingers around her friend’s face, squeezing Jo’s cheeks affectionately with one hand. “You give good advice, dear Joey. Don’t I always say so?” 

“You literally never say that!” Jo cries indignantly after batting Greta’s hand away. “Jesus Christ Bird, the one time you actually take my advice and it wasn’t even a real suggestion!” 

“Well, I wanted an outside perspective,” Greta replies breezily as she saunters back across the room towards Carson, apparently completely unperturbed by Jo’s reaction. Instead, she sends her a pointed look. “And now I have a new friend. All’s well that ends well, don’t you think?” 

Jo glances between Greta and Carson for a moment before shaking her head to herself and returning to her book. Under her breath she mutters, “new friend, my ass.”

Greta laughs to herself and nudges Carson’s arm. “Ignore Jo, she’s banned from three different states and is apparently looking to get banned from our apartment too. Let’s get something to drink and leave her to her bad mood.” 

“I was in a perfectly good mood until your little revelation,” Jo calls out, not looking up from her page as Greta walks away. 

Feeling somewhat puzzled by the interaction, Carson follows Greta down the L-shaped corridor and into the kitchen.

Once there, Carson drops her voice and says, “I don’t think Jo likes me very much.” 

 “Oh don’t mind her,” Greta replies breezily, rummaging around the kitchen for something to drink. “She’s just wary of new people. You’ll just have to charm her a bit.”

 “I don’t think I’m a particularly charming person.” 

“No?” Greta asks, pausing and turning to face Carson. She steps a little closer and lowers her voice, softly adding, “well, you charmed me.”

“I - no, I don’t think I’m…capable of that.” 

“Nope,” Greta retorts. “You don’t get to decide that. Only me!”  

Before Carson can respond, Greta turns back to the icebox and starts rifling through it again. 

Carson casts her eyes around the kitchen, spying empty bowls and cutlery drying by the sink and a plate on the table with a few crusts of bread sitting on it.

She smiles.

She loves Shirley and enjoys living with her, but she appreciates the spaces in other people’s homes that make rooms feel lived in. Greta and Jo’s apartment is neat and mostly tidy, but the signs of life in any place are always Carson’s favourite.  

On one of the kitchen counters, Carson notes a large plate covered with a chequered tea towel. She wonders if this is the cause of the pleasant smell of baking still lingering in the air. 

Eventually Greta emerges from the icebox and brings a couple of bottles with her. She turns to Carson and jiggles her loot slightly, a question written on her face.

“Do you ever beer? I promise it’s probably nicer than what you drank last week.”

Carson laughs. “My friend asks that question in the exact same way. Occasionally, yes. I beer.”

“And…?” Greta asks, “is this one of those occasions?” 

Carson smiles. “I think it could be, yeah.”

“Perfect. I think Jo made cookies of some kind, so we’re absolutely going to steal some.”

Greta lifts the corner of the tea towel and peeks beneath it. The smell of sugar intensifies, and Carson suddenly feels hungry.

“Well, I don’t want her to be even more angry with me…”

“Oh, she’s not angry at you. That’s all on me. She’ll get over it.” Greta snags a couple of cookies and accepts Carson’s unspoken offer to carry some of the spoils from the kitchen back into the hallway. “We’ll sit in my room,” she says, opening one of the three closed doors in the apartment. “Less scope to annoy Joey further.”

Inside Greta’s bedroom, things are much less sparse. Greta puts the beers down on an empty corner of a wooden vanity table which is otherwise covered in an array of makeup, perfume, and other cosmetics Carson barely recognises. The bottles and tubes are all neatly arranged and ordered – artfully so, in fact – but it gives the room a much less spartan atmosphere than the living room. 

There is a rug on the wooden floor and Greta’s bed has a pretty, floral comforter and two crocheted blankets which seem entirely unnecessary in the heat.

On the opposite side of the room is a large wardrobe which Carson imagines is packed neatly with all of Greta’s beautiful, eye-catching clothes. She is always so well dressed – so well put together – and, without fail, it makes Carson feel so many different things.

Mostly, there is just a healthy dose of awe, because Greta is so beautiful that no one could fail to be at least a little bit enraptured by her. 

On the other hand, though, Carson had always felt a little out of sorts next to women who dressed glamorously and put in a lot of effort with their hair or makeup. It made her feel even smaller, even plainer, even more of a failure at dressing and acting in a ladylike way. A part of her felt intimidated by women who could pull off this sort of stuff so effortlessly. Another part of her just felt defeated because, even if she could do the same, it wouldn’t look so right on her as it does on someone like Greta.

When Carson is around Greta, however, something is different. If they talk about her work at the cosmetics company, Carson finds herself wanting to listen. She isn’t particularly tempted to try out any of the beauty products for herself, but the way Greta talks about them doesn’t feel the same as the way Carson’s Lake Valley neighbours and peers had always done so.

When Meg talked to Carson about fashion and makeup, it was always to try and persuade her, either openly or in a roundabout way, to make more of her appearance. When the women at choir practice spoke about it, it sometimes felt to Carson that she was being mocked for not caring or understanding.

But when Greta talks about her work, it isn’t like she is trying to make Carson love something that isn’t right for her. It is simply that Greta is trying to share something that she loves, and she wants Carson to have a window into that world. When the two of them are out together, despite the statuesque figure Greta cuts, Carson never feels smaller or frumpier. Greta sees her for who she is and likes her for it, and that makes Carson walk with more self-assurance than she can ever remember possessing.

And now, here, as Greta offers Carson a seat in her bedroom, Carson has another window into Greta’s world. It feels like a gift, like something made of glass that Carson wants to hold carefully in her hands. She looks around at the photographs on the walls, able to pick out Greta and Jo in all of the ones big enough to see from a distance. Carson already knows from Greta’s letters that the two of them have been friends a long time, but it is obvious from everything in the apartment that they are incredibly close.

“Why is Jo so mad at you?” Carson asks quietly, accepting one of the beers from Greta.

Greta mulls over her answer for a second. “Well. We’ve been best friends since we were little kids. We both don’t have a lot of other family besides each other, and we’ve seen and done a lot together. We’re protective of each other and she’s just looking out for me.”

“Because you told that story. About your guy.”

A small, sad smile flashes across Greta’s face.

“Yes. Pretty much. She was around for all of that stuff. She knows how hard I took it and that it was years before I got over it. She knows I’d been reliving it a lot earlier in the year and that I had that ridiculous idea in my head that I needed to go out and try and set things right. Then…I just stopped talking about it again. Joey didn’t press the issue but I know she wondered why.” Greta pauses and gives Carson a significant look. “That’s when I started talking to you.”

“So, is it because you stopped talking to her about it and spoke to someone else?” Carson asks, still not entirely sure she understands the situation.

“No, not really. Joey isn’t that sort of a person. We share a lot, but she appreciates when I don’t push her to talk about things she’d rather keep to herself and she does the same for me. She isn’t put out that I spoke to someone else. She’s just trying to process the fact that I talked to anyone. It, uh, it wasn’t easy in the past. For me to relive what happened with all of that.”

Carson nods and sits with this declaration for a moment. She had known that what Greta went through had left her with a broken heart, but she had no idea of the real circumstances behind it all. She hadn’t realised that there might be so much more below the surface of that story.

“Can I ask another question? You don’t have to answer it.”

Greta looks mildly nervous at the prospect, but she nods anyway. “Mmhm.”

“Why Woman & Home? I’ve always wondered why people write to us at all, let alone with a relationship problem. The column’s relationship advice ranges from awful to non-existent.” 

Greta laughs and visibly relaxes. “Well, partly I assumed that those kinds of things got a private response. And, technically, I was right about that, at least in my case. But, I guess, in a way the bigger part of it was that, deep down - so deep down that I didn’t even realise it at the time - I wanted the letter to be ignored…”

Immediately, Carson starts to ask ‘why’ and then abruptly stops herself. She knows why. She has felt the ‘why’ of it so many times in her life.

“Because you didn’t think you could talk about it,” she murmurs. “Didn’t think your own problems matched up to whatever else was going on in the world.”

“Something like that,” Greta agrees, wearing a wry smile.

“You deserve to talk about the things that matter to you, Greta,” Carson says. “You’ve got people who care.”

“Yeah, well…maybe I know that now,” Greta replies, watching Carson carefully. “So do you, you know.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I know that now too.”  

*

They venture back into the communal space of the apartment as the sun dips lower into the sky, pouring yellow light through the windows in Greta’s bedroom. 

When they emerge, Jo is still in the living room and seems to have cooled off a little in the intervening few hours, although she does playfully scold them both for the flagrant act of cookie theft. 

She reintroduces herself properly this time, shaking hands and asking where Carson is from. When she hears the answer, she starts calling Carson ‘farm girl’ and doesn’t seem to care about the significant detail that Carson has never actually been to a farm. 

“Sorry for the surprised reaction earlier, farm girl. But the blame goes to her for being unnecessarily secretive about literally everything.” Jo jerks her head at Greta, who takes the opportunity to look as innocent as possible. 

Carson shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I get it. I was doing the same because…my work…” 

She pauses, trying to think of the quickest way to summarise the situation. Helpfully, Jo interjects and says, 

“…isn’t hugely on board with their staff entering into an apparently quite clandestine back and forth with their customers?”

“Um, yeah. I guess that’s one way of putting it.” 

“Well, at least she’s been talking about it,” Jo concedes. “You must be damn good at getting people to open up.”

Carson cannot help but feel shocked at this because, of the two of them, Greta had always seemed like the more open one during their written correspondence. 

“Carson’s first response was very encouraging,” Greta supplies, failing to mention that Carson wasn’t supposed to send it at all. “Also, not related but equally important: she plays baseball. We need a catcher for our practices, don’t we?” 

Jo gives Carson an appraising once over. “We sure do. I’m amazed they play it out there on the goat farms.”

“Again,” Carson says, “just to reiterate. I’m not from a farm.” 

Jo ignores her and speaks directly to Greta. “Innovative way to undertake a recruitment drive, Bird. Impressive.” 

Greta laughs. “Well, you know the lengths I’m willing to go to.” She casts a sideways glance at Carson as they sit side-by-side on the couch. “She already plays with her friends though. We may have to come up with a plan to steal her away and get her to join our side.” 

“Oh, great. Now you tell me,” Jo cries, feigning indignation. “Way to get my hopes up for nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know Joey,” Greta counters, smiling across at Carson again. “I can be very persuasive when all is said and done.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, Bird.”

“Please, you’re just jealous because I’m a master of the fine art.”

“Fine art?” Jo says with a snort. “You’re about as subtle as a gun.”

Carson sits back and, for the most part, lets Greta and Jo’s conversation wash over her. Noticeable immediately is not only how easy their dynamic is, but how safe it feels to be a part of it. There is such an obvious history between them, but it doesn’t exclude an onlooker from the fun of their rapport. In a way, it reminds Carson a little of Max and Clance, who have mastered the same effortless back-and-forth, filled with off the cuff barbs and playful insults that, beneath the surface, bely a lot of love and mutual trust.

A part of it makes Carson wistful and sad. Like Max and Clance, Greta and Jo had known each other since childhood. Carson would have loved to have had that steady, comforting presence without any of the muddy waters around dating or marriage. She wonders how different things might have been for her if, at some point in her life before now, she had had a friendship like this.

She is almost a little jealous of Greta and Jo, too. Jo knows Greta so well, so intimately, and Carson can only hope she will be able to say the same one day. She knows she is already well on the way, and has finally accepted that Greta really does want her around, that she does want Carson’s friendship. It’s good - everything is good.

Already, even accounting for Jo’s initial greeting, Carson feels so welcome, so at home and at ease, in the apartment just listening and laughing along with the two gregarious roommates. Again, just as she once wrote to Greta, Carson is watching from the outside, but it doesn’t feel like it used to. It feels like a choice now, like something she wants to do because it feels right. She can’t entirely put her finger on what part of the easy, comforting atmosphere feels so much like coming home, only that it absolutely does feel that way. Maybe it is strange - she barely spends a few hours there before it is time to excuse herself - but Carson doesn’t think she cares so much anymore about being strange.  

Later, when Carson makes her goodbyes, Greta walks her all the way out of the building and sends an odd, sideways glance at her as they approach the door. 

“I hope this was okay, today. And that Jo didn’t scare you off too much. She really is wonderful. Next week, we can go back to our usual plan. Head out somewhere for something to eat or drink.” 

“Actually,” Carson ventures, stopping when they reach the exit. “I really enjoyed this. Perhaps…perhaps we could do it again. I loved meeting Jo - I agree, she is wonderful - and, I mean, we don’t have to do it every week. I don’t want to impose. But I had a lot of fun.” 

“Really?” Greta asks, studying Carson carefully. 

“Yes, really. It was nice to have a quiet space and just…talk. It was fun to just spend time with you like that.” 

Greta smiles. “Okay. Well, you’re welcome here whenever you want. We host our friends quite a lot - we have the biggest living room. So, it’s kind of an open house…or open apartment, I guess. So that includes you too, if you want.” 

The thought of this makes Carson’s heart soar. Between Hillman’s and this, it finally feels like Carson has… community. It wasn’t even something she realised she was craving but, with the need satiated in two very precious ways, she sees that this is what she had wanted all along. It wasn’t something Lake Valley had ever been able to offer her. It was a community, but it wasn’t for her - not really. This though, being in Chicago with all these new people, it could be hers . She suddenly craves it now, almost as much as she wants to keep learning more about Greta and what makes her tick. 

“I definitely want that,” Carson replies eventually. 

“Well, in that case…meet as usual next week? And just see where the day takes us?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Carson agrees. “My new favourite kind of adventure.” 

Greta beams. “Mine too.”

For a moment, before Carson leaves, they just smile at each other and Carson knows it means something. She isn’t entirely sure what, only that it doesn’t really matter, just so long as she and Greta mean something to each other. 

And they do. It is unspoken, but Carson is pretty certain that they both feel it. 

Chapter Text

The start of August brings a promise of the first of the summer thunderstorms. The humidity ramps up and it makes everyone utterly miserable.  

Shirley laments it as she does battle with her hair every morning, coaxing it into her usual neat braids and trying to flatten out all the extra frizz that comes with the heat and moisture in the air. 

Maybelle huffs and groans on her way into work at the beginning of each day, stating, “I know it’s just a couple of flights of stairs, but this is unbearable .” She and Carson spend their work hours sharing plaintive, ineffectual entreaties for the impending storms to hurry up and clear the air. 

In Hillman’s, Guy wilts in the heat of the kitchen and, at the front of the house, things aren’t much better as Carson, Max, Clance, and Shirley try desperately to cool down by fanning themselves with the printed menus, but meet with very little success. Everyone is hot and wound tight, and although Carson is still happier than she has ever been, the weather is doing its level best to put the kibosh on her recent good mood. 

The only person who doesn’t seem to care about the temperature is Jess, who appears to simply accept her fate in good spirits as she continues to work her way through repairs and odd jobs for the Motor Corps with little complaint. In fact, she doesn’t seem to notice the weather at all. 

Carson’s car - already old and ailing at the best of times - doesn’t seem to appreciate the weather any more than the people in the city, and it struggles its way through every Red Cross shift until Carson finally relents and asks Jess to take a look at it one evening after she completes her rounds early. 

Jess, who is always happiest of all when tinkering, agrees instantly and slopes off to lug all her tools out to the front of the division’s home base. 

Overhead, the sky is a furious shade of pewter and, every so often, a few threatening drops of rain fall onto Carson’s shirt. 

Jess returns and dumps her stuff on the ground, lifting the hood of the car with mindless ease. She chats with Carson as she works, smearing grease all over herself every time she wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. 

Carson thinks to tell her before realising that this is Jess and she probably both knows and does not care. 

“You think this is bad,” she remarks casually when Carson complains about the hot, damp air. Jess pauses and sifts through her tools for something Carson could not hope to identify, even if her life depended on it. “Try welding in the middle of a factory floor.” 

“No thanks,” Carson replies. “I choose life. And happiness.” 

Jess snorts and returns to the car. “Good point. You’d be terrible at it.” 

“Jeez, thanks for the vote of confidence, McCready.” 

“What can I say? I see what I see. Besides, you wouldn’t catch me in an office for all the money in the world, so let’s not trade jobs any time soon. Especially with all the crap at yours.” 

“It’s better now I’m working through all the unsuitable letters.” 

“Yeah, I bet. That’s gotta feel good.” Something creaks in the engine and Jess pauses. “Shit.” 

Carson recoils slightly, moreso at Jess’ response than the noise itself. “Do I need to worry?” 

“No, no it’s fine. I got it.” 

Jess does something which might be incredibly technical or might just involve her hitting a piece of machinery with what may or may not be a wrench, and Carson decides that ignorance is bliss. 

“What do you think you’ll do when this is all over and everyone starts coming back from the war?” 

Jess lets out a nondescript noise and does the best approximation of a shrug she can manage as she hunches over the car. “Oh man, I don’t know. Who cares? I’ll figure it out when it happens.” 

“Do you think you’ll stay in Chicago?” 

For the second time recently, Carson isn’t sure why she is asking Jess these kinds of questions. 

“I don't know,” Jess repeats with a grunt of exertion as she does something else to Carson’s precious car. “I’ll probably just see what my roommate wants to do. We’ve got nothing tying us here specifically - except our friends - so we could do whatever we feel like doing. Maybe we’ll join up with them for whatever they plan to do next.” 

“Obviously, I want all the bad things to be over for everyone, but I can’t imagine going back to normal,” Carson admits. “Even with stuff like this - the Motor Corps probably won’t have as much need of us once the war’s over.” 

“Probably not,” Jess agrees. “Stupid really - we’re all doing our jobs just fine. I know whichever man they replace me with at the factory won’t do a better job than I can do. And they’ll pay him more than me.”

Carson doesn’t even entertain the idea of Jess settling down and getting married after the war; it would be stupid to ask if that’s what she wants. Appearances can be deceiving, but Jess is transparently who she is and it is crystal clear that she wouldn’t want to marry and have kids. That sort of thing - or rather, not doing that sort of thing - usually requires a plan, but Jess’ refusal to worry about the future fills Carson with hope for herself. 

She only wishes she had been possessed of that kind of clarity a few years ago. 

Carson sighs. “Well, I’ll miss it. All of this.”

“You’ll just miss having someone to fix this hunk of junk,” Jess jokes.

“What, you mean you won’t repair my car when the Motor Corps is done with us?” 

“Only if we’re both still here,” Jess points out. “Not that you’ll actually need me. Can’t your hubby fix up this stuff?” 

Carson’s stomach twists uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, I guess he can.” 

“There you go then. But I bet he can’t offer the amazing customer service I bring to the table.” 

“Constant cursing, a slight air of fear, and a side order of partially genuine insults?” 

Jess laughs loudly. “Give over, Shaw. You fucking love it.” 

And Jess is right. Carson does. 

*

Later that week, Carson sits down beside her window - thrown all the way open in a futile attempt to usher even the slightest hint of cool air into the stifling apartment - and tries to write yet another letter. 

It is intended for Charlie, although Carson isn’t entirely sure when - or, indeed, if - she intends to send it. 

She no longer feels that she can allow him to return from the war assuming everything is fine. Deep down, she wonders if even he truly believes things between them feel the way they really should. 

A part of her is still tempted to wait until he is in Chicago so that they can have a face-to-face conversation, but she has always been better at putting her thoughts down on paper. 

That is, until now. 

She tries a hundred different times to tell Charlie how she feels, and she fills up her trash can with a hundred different crumpled-up pieces of paper. 

Dear Charlie

I’m so sorry…

She is sorry. She is sorry in a hundred different ways, but it feels too convoluted and tangled up to begin to explain even the most crucial ways in which she is sorry. 

What’s more, she can’t find it within herself to be entirely sorry for everything. She is sorry for the hurt she will no doubt cause to Charlie, his family, and her own family too, but she cannot be sorry for choosing herself. Her whole life, no one has ever bet on her before but, for the first time, she is willing to bet on herself. That doesn’t feel like something she should apologise for. 

Dear Charlie

I had to leave Lake Valley to realize that I don’t want to be married. To anyone.

She almost doesn’t cross out the words or throw this one away. It is the closest thing to the truth she thinks she can muster, but it is also too raw. It makes her stop and take stock of what might have happened if she had agreed to carry on living in Idaho, staying in Meg’s spare room and playing house with her and the kids. 

She loves her niece and nephew more than she can ever say, but loving them hasn’t made her want to have kids with Charlie. 

Even taking into account the upheaval of the war and Charlie’s absence, if Carson hadn’t run - just like her mom had - then she wouldn’t have had any of the realisations she has had out here in Chicago. That thought scares her. 

It terrifies her to think just how close she could have come to maintaining the status quo. She isn’t ready to write about that part of her yet.  

Dear Charlie

I’m never coming home. 

A last ditch attempt at honesty and clarity, quite obviously she has no intentions of breaking the news to anyone in this way. All the same, it is only when she writes the words that she realises that she will probably never see Lake Valley again, or at least not for a very long time. 

There is nothing there for her now, if there ever was anything to begin with. 

Even if she isn’t quite ready to speak any of these new decisions into existence, it is freeing enough just to know that they are alive and taking form in the back of her mind. It feels as though the seeds were planted a while ago, and finally they are germinating. By the time the flowers bloom, she will be ready. Carson knows that now. 

In the end, she doesn’t write anything at all. Not anything worth keeping, at least. Eventually, when she runs out of paper, she just sets her pen down in frustration and scoots a little bit closer to the window in search of air. To her disappointment - but not to her surprise - she only finds that the breeze creeping over the sill from outside is as hot and damp as everything else the weather has thrown at them in the last few days. 

Something has to give, and soon. 

The storm is teasing them, toying with them, and Carson would bet that most everyone in the city is ready for it to unleash itself in all its fury. It is better than facing this limbo, this unceasingly hot in-between stage. Surely, it must be time for the inevitable, tempestuous conclusion.

In these conditions, sleeping has become close to impossible - a luxury rather than a guarantee.  When Carson finally lays on her bed (above the covers) a little while later, she is unsurprised to find that the night brings very little rest or reprieve. 

*

In a feat of impeccably poor timing, Carson meets Greta at Van Buren just as the heavens open. The downpour is preceded only by one long, cacophonous roll of thunder and a few streaks of blinding, angry lightning. 

Then, the deluge. 

It is as though someone uncorks a bottle and its entire contents pours forth all at once. Sheets of rain fall from the sky and, within seconds, Carson and Greta are both drenched through. 

For a single brief moment, they stand and stare at each other in stunned silence. 

Then, as one, they start to laugh and Greta grabs at Carson’s hand. 

“Come on!” she cries, voice raised to compete with the sound of the rain hammering against the ground. “Let’s get inside!” 

They run together, heedless of the way it is already much, much too late for damage control. 

There is no part of Carson which isn’t completely soaked through to the bone and Greta has fared no better. Still, they make a dash for it as Greta leads them in the direction of her apartment. The water makes the sidewalks treacherous underfoot but, although they both slide and stumble on occasions, they make it to the building without losing their balance. 

They burst through the doorway, bodies colliding together as, breathless, they laugh and try to take stock of what just happened. Although the storm had been threatening to bear down on the city for all this time, the suddenness of it had still taken Carson completely by surprise. 

As she catches her breath, water rolls down her face and arms, dripping onto the floor and pooling at their feet. She watches it fall and, in the blink of an eye, she realises just how tangled together she and Greta both are. 

She becomes aware, all at once, that they are pressed flush together, that their hands are still clasped and their fingers entwined. Her gaze flies to Greta’s face and she knows that Greta is realising it too, right at the same time. 

The laughter catches in Carson’s throat and heat streaks through her body. The storm, which rages on outside, hasn’t shifted the summer temperatures one bit. 

“Let’s go” Greta murmurs, voice soft. “Come on. We should get inside. Properly.” 

Carson nods her agreement and assumes that Greta will drop her hand, but she sets off and doesn’t let go, so Carson doesn’t either. She doesn’t want to. It feels nice, she thinks, the way we fit each other so well. 

They make slow work of the stairs, laughing and wincing at the way water sloshes around their shoes. Shamelessly, they tip out the contents before Greta opens the apartment door and leave the half-ruined shoes on the mat in the hallway before traipsing into Greta’s bedroom, both of them looking a very sorry sight. 

Greta’s hair, usually so perfectly curled, falls longer down her shoulders now that it is wet, and Carson can feel the way her own hair, much shorter and usually kept straight, is plastered to the back of her neck. 

“I don’t even know what to do with myself,” she jokes, laughing again. “ Everything is soaked.” 

“Same here,” Greta replies, squirming and pulling an expression of distaste as she plucks at the fabric of her dress where it clings to her. Carson watches for a moment, suddenly hyper-aware of the outline of Greta’s body. She is all curves…all smooth, sweeping lines at her waist and hips. 

Carson blushes and looks away. 

“I’ll find us something dry,” Greta says, voice quiet. 

Outside, another roll of thunder sounds up, only slightly more distant than last. The room is dark as very little daylight manages to fight its way from beneath the weight of the storm clouds outside. Almost immediately, a burst of white light flashes and disappears: more lightning. 

The pressure from the storm suddenly feels tangible in the air between them, a third companion in the room as they stand there and try to work out what to do next.

“Something tells me your clothes won’t work on me,” Carson jokes weakly. 

“Joey might have a few things in her room we can work with. Get those off before you catch a cold - I’ll make sure I find something.” Greta gestures at Carson’s shirt and skirt before excusing herself to go and look for a change of clothes. 

Carson waits for a moment and stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, too wet to sit on the bed or chair. 

Storms have never bothered her before - to the contrary, she loves watching as the rain beats down and lightning arcs across the sky - but today…today, something isn’t quite the same. 

It is as though every feeling, every sensation in her body, has been dialled up to twice its normal intensity. It feels odd and awkward to undress in Greta’s apartment, but she has little other choice so, slowly, she starts to pull at the buttons on her shirt, eventually working the hem out from beneath the waistband of her skirt.

After the initial buzz of the downpour, the wet clothes feel awful, too close and clammy on her skin. 

She is just wrestling the shirt off her shoulders when Greta taps on the door and comes back in with an armful of new clothes. 

“The shirt is one of Joey’s so it might not be a perfect fit, but it’ll do. And these are a friend’s but I think they’ll be okay. She won’t mind you borrowing them while everything dries.” She holds out a pair of pants for Carson to assess. 

“Uh, yeah. I think they’ll fit. Anything is fine, really. Thanks.” She takes the clothes from Greta and places them carefully within arm’s reach on the bedspread.

“Better than wet clothes at any rate,” Greta murmurs, opening her wardrobe and pulling something out at random.

“Exactly. Yeah.” 

Greta holds out her hand for Carson’s wet shirt, draping it over a spare hanger so that it doesn’t make a mess of anything else in the room. 

“You okay?” she asks. “I’ll leave if - ”

“No, it’s fine,” Carson replies quickly before wondering why she hadn’t taken Greta up on the offer. 

It is strange to be half-undressed in front of her, and stranger still when even her slip and bra are damp. Rather than say anything, or even linger on the thought, however, Carson accepts a towel from Greta and tries her best to dry off. 

Across the room, Greta absently starts to unbutton the front of her dress and, without even realising, Carson pauses. Even when her brain catches up to the fact that she is held, transfixed, at the sight of the pale triangle of Greta’s collar and chest, she cannot seem to will herself to do anything about it.

Mortified, she feels her blush return, but even then she finds herself powerless to avert her eyes. 

It is as though there is no air in the room, nothing getting into her lungs. She is staring at Greta and she doesn’t know why, or how to stop, or even how to breathe again. 

Greta glances up, catches Carson looking, and Carson prays for the ground to swallow her up there and then. 

God. 

What is she doing? Why can’t she stop doing it? Why doesn’t she want to? 

In a daze, she half-wonders what Greta must think of her. She realises she must be making Greta uncomfortable, but suddenly she doesn’t know what to do with her eyes, her body. It is like no part of her being belongs to her, like none of her actions are her own. 

Then, to Carson’s immense surprise, rather than questioning or chastising her, Greta takes a hesitant step closer. Then she takes another, and another; she moves until she is right in front of Carson, so close that Carson can feel the warmth of her body in spite of their wet clothes. 

Carson's heart races, beating so fast she is sure Greta must hear it. 

“Hey.” 

Greta’s voice is soft, but softer still is the finger she presses under Carson’s chin, tilting her head slightly. 

Frozen - in space, in time - Carson watches as Greta’s face swims slowly closer until, until, until…oh - 

Greta kisses her. 

It is a whisper, a barely-there press of Greta’s lips against Carson’s but, all the same, another burst of heat erupts beneath her skin. Her body suddenly goes molten, languid, pliable…

Then, as quickly as it happens, it is over. 

Greta pulls away, putting a miniscule distance between them as Carson feels herself draw a shaky breath inwards. That alone causes their lips to brush together again, soft as butterfly wings but, nevertheless, Carson feels the contact somewhere deep inside her body. 

For a moment, neither one of them moves, locked in place in the middle of Greta’s bedroom. The silence of the apartment echoes in Carson’s head, far louder than the rain outside. 

Whatever is happening to her right now is too much to process. Greta’s body is so close. Her lips are soft - unfathomably so - and the kiss…it felt good. It takes Carson a beat or two to realise how much she liked it. 

She liked it when Greta kissed her. 

For as long as Carson pauses and thinks, Greta doesn’t move. 

Carson can hear Greta’s quick and quiet breaths, can feel the ghost of them against her lips. 

Then, it is impossible to say who erases the distance between them, only that someone does and that they are kissing again and it feels so, so good. 

For a moment, it is chaste and simple - still gentle and feather-light. But then Greta moves her lips against Carson’s, pressing a little firmer as, without thinking, Carson meets the pressure equally. 

Every sweet sensation sinks to Carson’s stomach, hot and heady and overwhelming. She hears a sound escape her, some odd hybrid gasp-or-moan, and Greta’s hands fly to her shoulders, her grip gentle but strong enough to keep them both steady. Their bodies press together, closing a barely-there gap, and Carson feels Greta’s chest bump into hers. 

It is…different - so different to what she is used to when Charlie kisses her. 

It’s better, she thinks, so much better, although her brain is barely capable of registering much more than that. 

Greta’s kisses are soft, seeking, surprising…

Then, lost in the moment, Greta grips her shoulder a little tighter; the added force sends shockwaves through Carson and all of the thoughts she couldn’t previously process fly back to her at once. They concertina together, stacking up and up until alarm bells sound and Carson is gripped with the sudden realisation of precisely what she is doing. 

She gasps and flies backwards, mouth slack and lips tingling. 

The warmth flowing through her cools quickly to an icy chill and, as Greta registers the change, they both speak at once. 

“Carson, I - ”

“I’m sorry. I don’t - I can’t…” Carson’s mind reels and she finds herself lunging towards the bedroom door. “I have to go.” 

“Carson, please, don’t - ”

But Carson is past the point of hearing anything. She snatches her sodden shirt from the hanger and barrels through the apartment, movements frantic as she tries to pull the shirt back on.

Greta follows right behind, still speaking as Carson barely manages to shove her feet back into her shoes. 

“Carson, don’t go. Please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen. Just please stay and talk.” 

“No, I can’t - I’m not…I don’t do - ” Carson wrenches the apartment door open so hard it strikes the hallway wall with a bang. “I’m normal. I - ”

Too ashamed to look back, she feels her feet carry her out the door and down the corridor, unsteady in her half-on, half-off shoes as she continues trying to button up her shirt. 

She hears Greta call for her one more time before she reaches the stairwell, but the ringing in her ears drowns out Greta’s words. 

Without stopping, Carson pelts down the stairs and back into the rain, barely noticing as it cascades over her. She runs and pretends the exertion is the reason for the burning in her lungs, instead of the way she can still barely breathe at the lingering sensation of Greta’s lips on her own. 

She’d let her. She just let Greta kiss her. She’d kissed her back…

Carson stumbles blindly back towards the station and boards a waiting streetcar. People in the carriage stare when she passes them and although it is only because she looks a mess, Carson almost believes it must be because they can see it. She breathes in shallow, aching gasps, convinced that everyone around her can tell, just from looking, what she and Greta just did to each other. 

Carson cannot even hope to understand everything she feels as the streetcar takes off and rattles through the streets, rain caking the windows. 

She didn’t…she’d never even….she wasn’t like that. She really is normal.

She had to be. She needed to be. 

She’d married Charlie, she was still married to him. And yet, kissing him had never felt like that. 

Fuck. 

What was wrong with her? Greta was her friend. 

Greta was her friend and yet, Carson had just stared and stared and stared from the first moment they both started undressing. She’d stared as if she had never seen a woman before, as if she hadn’t been in a locker room in her life. 

And then, all that staring…that’s what made Greta kiss her. 

It was Carson’s fault - all her fault. 

She had ruined the best thing that ever happened to her. She would never be able to look Greta in the eye ever again. 

When the streetcar reaches her stop, she rushes off and past Hillman’s as fast as possible. She does not want to bump into Guy; she cannot risk him seeing her with all this guilt written over her face. 

Just like the people in the streetcar, anyone who lays eyes on her will know. 

She is marked with some sign of it - she must be. There is no way it isn’t obvious to the entire world that she has just been pulled apart, piece-by-piece. 

By the time she gets into her own apartment, she is trembling, all weak and shaken with the force of her feelings…and her fear. 

She is gripped by the sudden urge to shower, a futile desperation to scrub the afternoon off her skin. But even as she wriggles out of her clothes, she feels a certainty - a crushing weight of knowledge - that nothing will ever wash the taste of Greta out of her mouth. 

She eschews the shower and instead crawls into bed, burrowing under the covers and praying that she might disappear entirely. 

With little sense of what else to do, Carson pulls the blankets tight around her, and she cries. 

*

The tears come, off and on, for a little while after. Mostly, she manages to hide them, but she knows she wanders through her day-to-day life in a total daze. 

Shirley finds her still in bed on Saturday evening and, taking stock of the wet clothes heaped in a corner of the bedroom, accurately surmises that Carson had been caught in the storm. She hangs everything up to dry properly before forcing Carson to emerge from the covers long enough to press a hand to her forehead and check for a temperature. She decides that Carson has one, but Carson is fairly sure she is just hot from the stuffy weather and the weight of the blankets. 

As such, Carson insists that she is fine, but Shirley immediately cancels their plans to get dinner and see a movie. 

She fusses for the rest of the weekend, insistent that Carson should rest if she doesn’t want to catch a cold - or something worse. 

This, at least, makes it easy for Carson to sequester herself for the entirety of the following day, speaking only when Shirley bustles in to check on her and bring soup. 

She doesn’t bother to open the curtains or get dressed. Instead, for the first time since she was a child, she stays in bed all day and feels monumentally sorry for herself. 

She cries and cries, and between bouts of tears she tries to work out what exactly she is weeping for. 

Partly, it is the knowledge that she has destroyed her friendship with Greta. 

Mostly, however, it is the only way that all of her fear and panic can leave her body. 

Try as she might, Carson cannot entirely convince herself that her reaction to the kiss was an illusion. She had liked it. She had even preferred it to kissing her husband. There was no escaping it. 

She thinks of Freddie often in the hours and days that follow, wondering if he had ever felt this way about the soldier in the photograph. She wishes she could talk to him, then berates herself for being so selfish as to only think of her own feelings. 

When she found out about Freddie, she hadn’t even known what queer was. She still doesn’t, not really. 

So how can she be - surely she isn’t. She’s not queer. She had only kissed Greta for a short time - no matter how blissfully endless the moment had felt as it unravelled between them. 

Charlie has been away for so long; naturally, Carson hadn’t kissed anyone since he left. It didn’t make her queer to be touch-starved and confused about her marriage. And her friendship. 

For most of Sunday, she fights it. She pushes the memory of Greta’s lips away. She swallows down the feeling of their breasts pressed together, and she ignores invasive mental images of how Greta had looked with her dress plastered to her body. 

But, the longer she sits with her feelings, the more Carson realises that there must have been a reason why her friendship with Greta always felt so different, so damn intense.  And when the pieces start to fall into place, all she can feel is embarrassment. Shame. 

Was it obvious? 

Was it clear from the moment they met that Carson was trailing after Greta like an overeager lapdog, desperate for attention? 

Had Greta always known? Had she thought of kissing Carson sooner? Did Greta already know that she herself was queer?

And if she was queer, did she really want Carson like that? Or was it all just something that happened in the heat of the moment? 

None of these questions had answers and it wouldn’t have mattered if they did, because - regardless of the truth - Carson simply knew it was all bad. What they had done was bad. 

And yet…it had felt so good, so right…

She wishes, intensely, that she could talk to someone about this. But there is no one to turn to, no one who would understand. Shirley certainly wouldn’t and besides, hadn’t she already asked if Carson was cheating on her husband? She had known something was amiss before even Carson herself had realised it. 

Maybelle, perhaps...no, Maybelle was out of the question too. She seemed like an understanding, open-minded person, but Carson didn’t know enough about her to be certain of how she would react. Plus, it was a huge risk to her job even if Maybelle wasn’t the type to get anyone else in trouble. 

Jess? Carson considers it for a while. Jess wouldn’t care. Carson is almost certain of it. But hadn’t she questioned Jess enough recently? Hadn’t she forced enough on her? Wasn’t she always the one asking Jess for favours? No. She couldn’t go to Jess about this, either. 

She knows that she is alone with this. 

God. All of the time she spent recently, thinking about community and revelling in having good people all around her - but still, it all boiled down to this. She was still different. Still wrong. She still didn’t fit right. And if she didn’t fit right here, then she would never fit right anywhere. 

She imagines herself writing to an agony aunt and briefly makes herself laugh at the idea of Mrs Wilkinson receiving a letter like that. 

But quickly enough the laughter dissolves into more tears, and constructive thought turns to hopelessness. She falls asleep early on Sunday evening and, for once in the hot weather, doesn’t stir again until it is time to go to work.

What a joke, she thinks as she forces herself out of bed. That I’m trying to fix other people’s problems when I can’t even deal with my own.   

*

The letter is delivered to the apartment a few short but agonising days later. Carson recognises the handwriting immediately and almost cannot bring herself to open the envelope but, ultimately, she is completely incapable of stopping herself. Already, she misses Greta. 

She is desperate for more contact from her, desperate to forget what happened and just go back to how things were. 

The letter is short and the penmanship suggests that Greta had written it in a hurry. Most likely, she was panicking just as much as Carson. 

Carson

I can’t think of another way to reach you, short of coming to your apartment and I’d never put you in that position. 

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened on Saturday. It was my fault - all of it. 

Please can we talk? We can go somewhere public - but quiet.  

Will you meet me this coming weekend, just like we usually do? Please. We can make things normal. I can be normal for you, I promise. 

I don’t want to lose you or our friendship. I’m so very sorry. 

GG

*

Carson could go. She wants to go. But she doesn’t do it. 

For the first time since late May, she spends her Saturday alone, playing at normality by taking a trip through town and picking up groceries to share with Shirley. 

She stops at a Barnes & Noble, skimming titles and losing her breath when she spots a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. 

Hurriedly, she leaves without buying anything.

She wonders if Greta went to the park today anyway, even without receiving a written response from Carson. The thought of it makes her heart break a little. 

Even though she has precious little else to do and not much more money to spend, Carson cannot face the thought of returning to an empty apartment and sitting around while she waits for Shirley to get back from her volunteering shift. Things are too quiet at home and Carson’s thoughts are too loud. She doesn’t want to be left alone with them without a distraction.

In the end, she calls into a café and drinks some of the worst coffee she has had since the war started, bar only the offerings at the Motor Corps. She leaves and visits a bakery, making a selection from the meagre offering – the best anyone can do with all the rationing – before finding a place to sit, eat, and people-watch.

The sun is back out now that the initial storm has blown away, and an endless stream of people passes Carson by while, unseen and unnoticed, she watches from the sidelines.

In every stranger that walks by, she sees Greta. She sees her face or her hair, her dresses or her red polish. No one quite matches up to the real thing, but there is a glimmer of her everywhere now, like the sight of her has been inscribed in Carson’s gaze. Everything else just filters through the permanent image of Greta that she carries.

Although Carson still isn’t entirely sure that she is really queer, she understands what she is feeling right now as heartache, just as acute – if not more so – as the one she felt when waving Charlie off at the station in Lake Valley and wondering if she would ever see him again. 

Feeling lost and lonely, she sits around for so long that the sun dips to the horizon, drenching everything in gold.

Still, Carson cannot bring herself to go home, even as she is equally incapable of choosing an alternative that feels even remotely appealing. 

On a whim, she decides to make a detour to Toni Chapman’s salon. Had she been in a better frame of mind, she might have considered that her presence there might be odd, uncomfortable even, but the thought never occurs to her. 

All she can think of is a moment in Max’s company; she wonders if her friend’s fire might light something defiant and self-assured in her too. 

Carson wills herself to stand and make her way across town. She is much less familiar with her destination than with other parts of the city and she gets lost on multiple occasions, partly because she has never been here before and partly because she is still lost in thought. 

She doubles back a few times and receives odd, unsure looks when she asks a few passersby for directions. She is reminded of the first few times she spoke with Max, Clance, or Guy, and remembers that no one here has any assurances about her intentions.

She does her best to seem as friendly as possible, but she knows she is already behaving strangely due to her bad mood. 

Eventually, she finds the building she is looking for. The neon sign in the window is already illuminated (she remembers Max telling her all about it: “Mom’s so excited. Apparently we’re the first Black-owned business in the area to have one.”) It looks as though they are closed for the day. Carson hadn’t stopped to think about the time. 

For an utterly unfathomable reason, she tries the door anyway, and it swings open. A bell rings quietly, but there is no one around to hear it. 

“Hello?” she calls out and is met only with further silence. 

If the place isn’t locked, she decides there must be someone here. Perhaps Toni might be able to tell her where to find Max. 

“Max? Mrs Chapman?” 

Feeling aptly like an intruder, Carson creeps through the unlit salon, past the empty chairs and towards a door at the back of the room. It is ajar, just slightly, and Carson can hear the faint sound of movement from within. 

Still without thinking (God, when would she learn to just fucking think? ), she pushes the door open and her heart stops. 

Max is there. She isn’t alone. 

Carson finds her friend backed up against the wall of a dark storage room, another woman pressed flush against her with her lips at Max’s throat. 

Max’s hands are tangled in the woman’s hair, her head tipped back, her eyes shut, and a happy, loose smile on her face. 

Carson freezes, mind blank as she tries to back out of the room. Before she manages to make her escape, however, a floorboard creaks and Max’s eyes fly open. 

She spots Carson and pushes the woman, the one kissing her, backwards with a surprising amount of force.

“I’m sorry,” Carson blurts out. “Fuck. I’m sorry Max.” 

A look of fear washes over Max’s face. Her companion turns, her own expression half-furious and half-terrified. 

“Carson? What - what the fuck are you doing here?” 

But Carson doesn’t answer. For the second time in as many weeks, she turns on her heel and she runs. 

*

There is a part of Carson that can acknowledge that, if things weren’t all so terrible right now, the situation would actually almost be funny. 

How many times, in such a short period, could something like this happen?

First Freddie, then Greta, and now Max. 

Carson has to wonder at how oblivious she’d been, both about other people and about herself. 

Her whole life in Lake Valley, the messaging around queerness had been both confused and confusing. If it was ever brought up, it was made to seem like something that spread through communities like a wildfire or perhaps like a weed, taking root and sprouting in amongst the rosebeds, near-impossible to remove. It was a threat to good, upstanding citizens everywhere. That was the message.

But at the same time, when people asked questions, it was paradoxically also made to seem rare. It wasn’t something for normal people to worry about, just those who were different and a little bit susceptible to moral corruption. One bad apple spoils the bunch . And trust me, it really is only one or two bad apples, as the town pastor had put it once. 

Before now, Carson had never really stopped to wonder whether it was even possible for it to be both. 

And if it wasn’t possible, if it couldn’t be restricted to a minority of people while also threatening to spread and grow into a seedy underbelly of any community, then maybe none of what she’d been told was true. 

Certainly, it isn’t as uncommon as she was led to believe - at least, not based on recent events.

So, was she susceptible? Easy to corrupt? Perhaps. Meg had always told her she was easily led.

But Greta hadn’t corrupted her. Greta had lifted her up and made her more herself. Greta had kissed her only after she caught Carson watching her, and she’d pulled away to give Carson a chance to back off. 

The kiss. The kiss. It replays in Carson’s mind at every moment, the memory of it washing over her and making her feel…warm. Good. Happy. 

She had never once thought so much about any of her kisses with Charlie, not like this. Never with this intensity or fervour. The first few times they did it, it was strange. At the time, Carson put it down to the fact that she’d never kissed anyone before and probably wasn’t doing it right. And…well, it did get better with time and with practice. But it never stopped feeling strange. At that point, she’d put it down to the fact that she and Charlie had been best friends for so long that, for a while, it was bound to feel strange. 

And sometimes…sometimes he kissed her out of the blue and Carson didn’t know how to feel. It wasn’t bad. She knew that much. It was pretty nice sometimes. Most of the time, actually. And it wasn’t generally that she didn’t want to kiss him, except on days when she was already in a bad mood about something else, and surely she wouldn’t want to kiss anyone on days like that. 

Would she want to kiss Greta on days like that? Would kissing Greta on days like that make them better, not worse?  

How does Max feel, Carson wonders, when she kisses the woman in the salon on bad days? How did Max even come to understand that she wanted to kiss the woman in the salon?

Carson doesn’t think she would ever have worked out that she could like kissing a woman if Greta hadn’t kissed her first. 

It casts everything in Carson’s life into a new light, even her job. Were any of the women who wrote in about not liking the guy their parents favoured actually queer? Did they just not like that guy, or did they not like any guys? For that matter, would Carson only find it strange to kiss Charlie? What about another man? 

She didn’t understand any of it, not really. She feels incredibly, unimaginably out of her depth. 

The Monday after the salon incident, she finds she cannot focus on any of the letters she opens at work. 

“Maybelle,” she starts, glancing over the top of the letter she is trying her level best to read. 

“Yes, sweet?” 

“Do you think people can choose who they fall in love with? Do you think we have any control, at all?” 

Maybelle finishes typing a sentence and then leans back in her chair, looking pensive. “Wow. Big question for a Monday morning. Something in that one got you thinking?” 

Carson glances at the letter and nods quickly. “Yeah. Another one for the trash but a, um, a reader thinks she might have fallen in love with someone she isn’t supposed to. And she doesn’t know what to do, because her…uh, mom…thinks it’s wrong.” 

“Poor thing,” Maybelle coos sympathetically. “Does she say anything about why her mom doesn’t like the guy? Is he not good to her?” 

Carson suppresses a wince at the word ‘guy’. 

“No. He’s great, like really great. I mean, apparently. According to this letter.” 

Maybelle studies Carson for a long moment before she speaks again. 

“Well…no, I don’t think so. I think we get some agency in what feelings we act on. And obviously, love can blind us to what’s actually good for us. But, if we’re just talking about the feelings part? Then no, I think our hearts want what they want. And that’s okay.” 

“Even if people’s parents or friends tell them it’s wrong?” Carson asks quickly. Meekly, she adds, “like this girl. In this letter.”

Maybelle smiles gently. “Yes. I think so. If the person’s good, and they love us and treat us right, then everything else is just…background noise, right? Why shouldn’t people get to live a good life with someone they love, so long as that person loves them back? It’s not a choice to fall in love. And it’s not a crime, either.” 

But it is, Carson thinks. For some people it is a crime. But that doesn’t mean it should be . 

“At least, that’s what they say, right?” Maybelle adds. “Love is patient. Kind. All of that stuff? No one calls love - just the emotion or the act - evil. Because we all know it’s not.” 

Carson nods. “I wish - I wish we could tell people that. People like this girl, I mean.”

“Mm,” Maybelle says. “Me too. But we can tell it to each other, right? To the people in our lives.” 

“Yeah. You’re right. Thanks for sounding it out with me.” Quickly, Carson skims the letter in her hand and spots about three unacceptable words in the first paragraph. She stands and tears it up, perhaps a little too aggressively. “I think it’s my turn to make the tea.” 

“That,” Maybelle says with a quiet laugh, “is music to my ears. Thanks hon.” 

As Carson waits for the water to boil in the tiny scrap of space they deem the office kitchen, she thinks again of Max. 

Max is her friend. And nothing about Max is evil, or wrong. Even without Freddie or Greta, Carson would like to think she’d never question that fact after her discovery at the salon. She didn’t question it about Freddie, after all. And if Max isn’t evil (and if Greta and Freddie aren’t evil), then neither is Carson. 

Maybe she is queer. Maybe she isn’t. But her feelings for Greta - whatever they actually are, or mean - aren’t wrong and she cannot help the fact that she feels them. 

*

The knock at the door comes just as Carson has changed out of her office clothes on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday afternoon. Shirley isn’t home – still working overtime which, by this point, should really have become her regular contracted hours – so Carson calls out for the person to wait a minute.

She isn’t expecting any visitors but when she opens the door to find Max standing on the other side, she knows she cannot be entirely surprised.

A few days after the incident at the salon, Carson had allowed herself to be dragged to Hillman’s by a determined and imperious Shirley, who likely would not have believed any excuse Carson might be able to come up with to avoid an outing.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you Carson,” Shirley had said at the time, “but you’re spending far too much time alone in your bedroom at the moment. It’s not good for you. An evening with Max and Clance will set you right. It always does for me.”

The thought of facing Max after so badly intruding on her privacy, albeit unintentionally, fills Carson with dread. The fact that they would be incapable of even acknowledging what had happened felt like torture. Carson was terrified that she would give the game away, just by being awkward. 

But, when she and Shirley arrived, Max was nowhere to be found. More troubling was that no one seemed to have any idea where she was. Apparently, Max had given Clance a story about Toni making her work late on the bookkeeping, but Clance hadn’t found this to be a particularly believable little yarn.

“Her dad said she didn’t even go out and pitch baseballs with him the other night, and they always do that.”

“Goodness,” Shirley had murmured, sounding concerned. “I really hope she’s alright…”

For her part, Carson had sat in the corner of their booth, silent and nauseated as her stomach twisted relentlessly.

She owed it to Max to try and start a conversation, but everything she imagined saying felt too close to home right now. It felt too raw and vulnerable for Carson to face. 

But, with Max now gazing at her both nervously and expectantly from across the threshold, Carson accepts that she is going to have to face it all at some point, one way or another. She has already lost Freddie and Greta. She couldn’t bear to lose Max too.

“Max, hi. I’m sorry. I should have tried to get hold of you. Clance said she hadn’t seen much of you recently. We were all starting to worry.” 

“Yeah,” Max says quickly. “I’ve been busy. My mom…”

Carson waits for Max to launch into a customary tirade about the salon and bookkeeping but, instead, she trails off and fails to finish the sentence. Her eyes dart nervously from Carson’s face and away again, a pattern that repeats over and over, as though she is forcing herself to make eye contact but would rather look anywhere else.

“Right, yeah. Um…do you want to come in? Shirley’s at work.”

Max, however, doesn’t really seem to hear Carson. Indeed, it is as though she barely sees her, either.

“I just came round because I thought you might want to play catch. Storms are all done and finished, so…seems like a nice afternoon for it, right?”

For the first time, Carson notes the baseball mitt and ball clenched tightly in Max’s hands. Her fingers, balled tightly into fists, are shaking and Carson aches for her friend, for her fear. It is a feeling Carson has come to understand all too intimately in recent days. 

“Yeah, sure. I can have a catch. Just give me a couple of minutes to get my things.”

She retreats for a moment, half-expecting and half-hoping that Max will tease her about their perpetual disagreement over how to refer to the activity of throwing a baseball back and forth, but Max says nothing. Carson has never known her so quiet, or so defeated.

Fearful of what the next hour or so might hold, Carson changes clothes for the second time, seeking out a comfortable pair of pants and shirt that will be acceptable attire at the park near the apartment. She only ever wore pants outside if she was playing ball, but had entertained wearing them a little more after Greta offered her a pair to change into after the thunderstorm. They were just more comfortable – and more manageable – than a skirt or dress.

She finds a few balls stowed away in her closet, picks up her glove and, as an afterthought, also grabs her bat for good measure. She is under no illusions that Max isn’t really here to have a catch, but perhaps walloping the hell out of a baseball or two might do them both some good.

She finds Max exactly as she left her, waiting awkwardly in the hallway and lost in thought as she stares absently into space.

When Carson pulls on a pair of sneakers and locks the front door, Max charges off. She leads the way to the park, setting such a relentless, blistering pace that Carson almost has to jog to keep up.

After the last time Carson saw Greta, a few more storms had taken hold, but they were nothing compared to that first August downpour. Collectively, however, they had cleared out the cobwebs and the weather had returned to just swelteringly hot, rather than swelteringly hot and humid. For as long as Carson finds herself living in this city or any other, she won’t ever take that distinction for granted again.

Above them, the sky is a bright, cheerful blue, almost cloudless except for a couple of wispy white streaks out to the north.

As such, Carson is already sweating by the time Max leads them to the park and towards a completely empty spot by a handful of towering oak trees.

Carson catches her breath and holds out the bat. “You just want to throw and catch, or hit – ”

“I don’t want to do any of that,” Max says, voice quick and sharp. “I want to talk.”

“Okay,” Carson replies, nodding and dropping the bat on the ground. “Sure. We can talk. Do you want to sit?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Carson repeats. “So, yeah. Um. About the other night, I guess…? Well, firstly I’m really sorry.”

“Why were you there, Carson?” Max asks, voice suddenly uncharacteristically desperate. “Of all the people and all the places, why were you there?”

“I – ” Carson falters. She isn’t ready to talk about Greta, even with Max. After wishing so fervently for someone to talk to about the kiss, Carson now cannot bring herself to entertain the idea of talking about it at all. In fact, she is especially unwilling to mention it to Max, who has come here to try and address her own problems, not Carson’s. “It sounds so stupid now, but I’d had a really bad couple of days. I just wanted to talk to someone. To you, specifically. I don’t even know why I came in. I wasn’t thinking; my head was all over the place. I’m sorry, Max. I never meant to intrude.”

Max nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. Then, whatever meagre façade she had just about been holding in place crumbles away. 

“Carson, please. You can’t tell anyone. Please. I’m begging you. I just don’t know if Clance and Guy would understand, and Shirley wouldn’t be able to handle it. And I can’t afford to get into any more trouble right now, I just can’t. If you need me to do something to get you to agree to keep your mouth shut, then fine. Just please, please don’t tell anyone.”

Carson has never, ever seen Max like this before. She is scared and visibly trying to make herself smaller as they stand there in the shade of one of the trees.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Max. I swear.”

“If my mom found out. Oh God, if she found out what I was doing and that I’d been using the salon…she’d kill me. I mean, she’d literally kill me.”

Trying to be mindful of the fact they are in a public space, Carson does the only thing she can think of in the moment: she reaches out to grab Max’s arms. She squeezes lightly, trying to ground her friend.

“Max? Listen to me, yeah? I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise you on both of our lives. On everyone’s life, even Shirley’s. It’s okay. Just - don’t tell Shirls I said that - you know how she gets.” This last comment is a pointless request, because this conversation is evidently never going to be shared with anyone else, but Carson had hoped to try and inject a tiny bit of levity into the situation, just to make Max feel a little less scared. 

Perhaps it helps because Max, who had been cagey and restless since Carson had answered the door, finally allows herself to meet Carson’s gaze.

“You’re not? Really?”

Carson shakes her head. “No. It’s okay with me Max. All of it. It’s more than okay. But – even if it wasn’t, I’d still keep your secret. Because you’re my friend.”

To Carson’s immense surprise, Max sniffles and blinks her eyes a couple of times.

“Thank you,” she whispers and her voice shakes.

“Don’t thank me Max. I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah, you are,” Max says. “You just said it. You’re being my friend.”

Carson feels tears spring to her own eyes. Finally, she lets go of Max’s arms.

“How about now? You want to sit down? Have a catch after?”

“Yeah,” Max agrees, still shaken but already looking far more like her usual self. “Oh, and it’s play catch. Don’t think I didn’t hear you the other time as well. Weirdo.” 

*

They sit together with their backs against the rough bark of the tree, close enough that they can talk quietly and still hear each other. 

For a brief moment, when Carson gets close, Max’s whole body goes stiff and then, after a while, she relaxes again. 

“Sorry. Force of habit.” 

Carson pauses and tries to make sense of what this means. “We’ve had to squash around a table together at Hillman’s at least a million times…”

“Yeah, but now you know. You didn’t know before.” 

“Oh. Well. That doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Yeah, I hear you. Still working on believing it, though. It’s gonna take a while.” 

Carson feels as though she is trying to master a new language on the fly. She and Max have always had an easy rapport and a mutual understanding. Right now, however, it is as though Carson cannot make sense of a single word her friend is saying.

“I’m being honest, Max.”

“I know, Carson. Trust me, you’re a shitty liar. That’s why you never win at cards. But…most people do care. It’s just a baseline assumption at this point that people will think they’ll catch something off me.”

Carson takes stock for a moment, recalling how long it took Max to truly trust her when they met. Max wasn’t safe around people who look like Carson. She understands this now, even if she didn’t at the beginning. 

Just like that, her heart breaks for Max. It breaks for all the ways that Max feels like she’s taking a risk just by being herself.

And yet, she is. Out of all Carson’s friends - except perhaps for Jess - Max is the one who is the most herself at all times. She is brave in ways Carson is still learning to be, and in ways Carson will never be able, or need, to learn. 

She channels a little of that bravery now. “Can I ask you a question? About…what happened the other night?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Max is courageous even now, when she is so clearly nervous. 

“You just said ‘at this point’. ‘It’s a baseline assumption at this point.’ Does that mean you’ve…known for a really long time?” 

Max chuckles lightly to herself. 

“What?” Carson asks. 

“No, nothing. That just wasn’t the question I expected.” 

“Oh.” Carson wonders if there was a better question to ask, something she ought to have led with. “What did you expect?”

Max pauses. “You know what, Carson? From you? I have no fucking idea, actually.” 

In-keeping with the overall theme of this conversation, Carson cannot even begin to fathom what this means. Regardless, Max’s tone is kind and playful, so Carson decides the comment is probably not something to worry about. 

“I don’t really know the answer, by the way,” Max adds. “Yeah. I guess I’ve known for a long time. Now, with lots of hindsight, it was obvious even when I was really young. But at the time, I just didn’t think about it for a long time.”

“Why?” 

Max laughs again. “I didn’t want to be this way. Not at first. It’s not exactly the easy path. And that’s pretty scary at any time, but especially when you’re still growing up.” 

Carson bites back a wry smile. It sure is scary at any time. 

“And now?” 

“I don’t know. It’s still not easy, but it’s what feels right. It’s like… I could date Gary, right? He wants to. And mom wants me to at least entertain the idea. Clance is still trying to set us up which doesn’t help, but I know she means well. And yeah, I could do all that. But it wouldn’t make me happy. It would just be a lie. It wouldn’t feel right like - ”

Abruptly, Max cuts herself off, almost as though she has said too much. 

“Like it does when you’re with her,” Carson supplies quietly, feeling the truth of the statement with the force of all the recent thunderstorms combined.  

Max stares resolutely at her feet for a moment. 

“Yeah,” she says eventually, voice quiet and cracked wide open. 

“Who is she?” Carson asks. 

Max hesitates, suddenly cagey again, and Carson realises she has pushed too far. She hadn’t meant to make her feel vulnerable - she was genuinely interested in learning more about whoever had managed to win her friend’s heart. 

“Right, sorry,” Carson mumbles, embarrassed. “Not safe. I get it.” 

Silence descends around them for a moment and although neither of them has moved, it suddenly feels as though a distance has spread out between them. It reminds Carson of the way it felt when they listened to the baseball game outside Hillman’s. 

It hits her, suddenly, that everyone has got something to hide and, no matter how well you know someone, it’s impossible to tell what they might be going through. 

Then, slowly, Max inhales. “Most people just call her…S. She’s - she’s just everything, really. I don’t know how else to explain it. She’s smart, funny, beautiful. Oh, and she plays baseball. We think…maybe I might be able to try out for her team soon. But it’s not just about that. I - I really like her, Carson.” 

Carson’s heart, so recently shattered for Max, stitches parts of itself back together and swells at the magnitude of the gift she knows she has just been given. 

“And…have you known each other long? How did you meet?” 

“A while, yeah. I met her at a party and we just…took it from there. It’s been a little over a year.” 

That’s… oh. That’s more or less the entire time Carson has known Max. All that time, Max has kept this secret. All that time, Max has been falling in love and no one even realised it. Carson wonders if it hurts desperately, sitting with Clance and Guy at Hillman’s only to guard her own secret so closely. 

“How did you both…know? That it was safe to be honest with each other, the first time?” 

“You just get good at telling. It’s not fool-proof, obviously, but there’s little signs. Code words.”

Carson feels her mouth fall open. “There are code words?!” 

Maybe she is learning a new language, after all. 

Max laughs quietly at Carson’s shock. “Yeah. There has to be. Just like there’s little visual cues.” 

“Really?”

“Mmhm.” Max nods.

“Well, I’ve never seen any,” Carson replies decisively, forgetting for a moment that Max has no idea about Greta. 

“You wouldn’t, Carson. That’s kind of the point.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Obviously.” Carson pauses. “But - wait. Does everyone just know this stuff somehow? Everyone who needs to know, I mean.” 

Max smiles and shakes her head to herself. “This is one long question, Carson.” 

They both laugh. 

“Sorry,” Carson says. “I can stop. I’m not trying to put you on the spot.”

“No, it’s cool. It’s kind of nice, actually, that you want to understand. And that I can talk about S for once. She was the one who convinced me to come here, by the way. We’ve never forgotten to lock the door before. I don’t even know which of us left it open. After you left, we were both just…freaking the hell out. S thought we were done for sure. I told her that I thought we could trust you, but obviously we can’t ever be certain. It wasn’t personal, by the way.” 

“No, I know that. I’m sorry I ran away like that. And that I was the reason you were scared. But you don’t have to be now - either of you.”

“Yeah man, you were fast. I don’t think I’ve seen you bolt like that on a diamond.” 

They laugh again. 

“My head was just a complete and utter mess. It wasn’t about either of you.” 

“Oh shit, that’s right. Your bad couple of days. I’m sorry,” Max says. “You want to talk about it now?” 

“No, it’s okay. This is about you. Tell me about the baseball thing. If you get on the same team as her, you’ll get to see her more, right?” 

“Yeah. I mean - I want to play baseball. I want it so bad. But joining the same team as her, it’s a way for us to be together.” 

“I hope you do it, Max. For both reasons.” 

Max turns her head suddenly, watching Carson closely. 

“You really mean that, don’t you?” 

Carson shifts to face Max square on. “Of course I do. You’re my friend. I just want you to be happy. And I want to come watch you play.”

For a brief second, Max drops her head to Carson’s shoulder - the closest thing to a hug she will allow out here in the park. It is more than enough for Carson, who hasn’t felt close to another person - physically or otherwise - since she left Greta’s apartment. 

After thinking she might lose Max altogether, it is enough just to be here, having a conversation that means more to Carson than Max realises. 

With Max’s face so close to her ear, Carson cannot miss the way her friend’s breathing goes shaky as she battles another wave of tears. Happy to give Max the space she needs, she simply does her best to pretend not to notice. 

Eventually, Max sits up straight again and scrubs vigorously at her eyes with the heels of her hands. 

“You’re a good person, weirdo.” 

“Takes one to know one.”  

*

After they talk, Carson and Max really do have a catch for a little while, starting out with serious throws and a genuine attempt to intercept everything that comes their way. After a time, however, it gets sillier - just as it always does - as they start sending each other high, arcing lobs into the air and wide, erratic shots that they cannot hope to cut off, even with an enthusiastic dive or two for good measure.

It is a lot of fun, and it leaves both of them feeling like an enormous weight has been lifted from their shoulders. 

When they eventually part, Carson says, “I understand if you don’t want to, or if she doesn’t want to, but maybe I could meet S sometime. Plus, that way, I can apologise to her too.” 

Max smiles, very obviously turning the idea over in her head for a moment. “Yeah. Maybe. Can I think about it for a little bit?” 

Her demeanour is promising, and Carson understands that it might simply be too much to bring her worlds together like this. 

Maybe, one day, if Carson ever plucks up the courage to talk about Greta, that might make it a little easier on Max. 

“For as long as you want. I get that it might be strange.” 

“It’s you, Carson. Of course it’ll be strange.” 

Carson rolls her eyes, but cannot pretend to be annoyed about it. She is just so glad that she and Max are still friends. 

“But,” Max goes on, serious again now. “If S is okay with it, it might be nice to not feel like I have to keep you all totally separate all the time. So, I’ll ask her. Might be difficult to find a place we can go to together without pissing somebody off though.” 

“I thought you liked pissing people off.” 

“Only you, Shaw. It’s my special treat for you.” 

“Wow,” Carson replies, lacing sarcasm into her voice. “I feel so honoured.” 

“Oh, you should. You totally should.” 

“Well then, we’re on the same page.” 

Max smiles. “Yeah, we are. Thank you. Again.”

“Don’t even mention it.”

“That’s your job, not mine.” 

Carson nods. “And I am on the case. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

Max groans theatrically. “God, I damn well hope you’re a better liar about this than you are about literally everything else.” 

After she says this, Max laughs to herself and it is enough to tell Carson that she isn’t really worried. She trusts her, and Carson will never be able to fully express just how grateful she is for that. 

By the time she traipses back into the apartment, desperate for a cool shower to wash the dust from the park off her skin, Carson’s world feels a little bit more right than it did the day before. 

She understands a lot of things a little bit better and she doesn’t have to worry that Max feels scared or alone anymore. 

She notes Shirley’s surprised but happy look when she steps into the apartment in a notably better mood, and delights her roommate further by reporting that Max is okay too. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Shirley says with a slightly put-upon sigh. “Between the two of you I’ve been worrying myself into a total state.” 

It is such a very Shirley way of offering love to her friends that Carson cannot help but smile. She doesn’t want to be the source of someone else’s concern, but she would not deny that it is nice to have someone care enough to worry when you’re not okay. 

*

That night, after all that time with Max, Carson falls into a feverish half-sleep as she overheats in what has now become the customary way of things. 

In that strange place between slumber and consciousness, she dreams of the storeroom at Mrs Chapman’s salon. 

For a moment, she stumbles again upon Max and S, standing in the doorway just as she had done in reality, horrified to have intruded on her friend’s privacy like this. 

Then, in the way dreams shift and change nonsensically, Carson finds herself suddenly pressed back against the wall instead. 

Max and S are gone now, replaced by a silhouette that is barely visible in the darkness. Tall, lithe, graceful, the figure moves closer until their face comes into view. 

Greta. 

Beautiful and seductive, she smiles and leans in close. 

“Greta,” Carson says, voice taut and strained. “We can’t. We can’t do this.” 

“Why?” Greta asks, looking confused. “Don’t you want to?” 

“I do. But - I can’t. I shouldn’t. It’s not right - I’m still married.” 

Greta’s hands find Carson’s hips, tugging at them until they bump against Greta’s body. It sends shockwaves through Carson, the feeling hot and intense. 

“It’s okay to want things, Carson,” Greta says, leaning in and crushing their lips together. 

Without any resistance at all, Carson relents immediately, her every sinew singing with pleasure. There is no reason to fight it, no desire within her to do so. She shudders as her hands coast over Greta’s back, both of them moaning as one. 

She feels her lips part beneath Greta’s, ready and willing. And then -  

Carson wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Her chest heaves in time with a strange, unfamiliar throbbing down below…between her legs. 

Her mind, her heart, and even her body- they are all speaking to her at once but, even after her afternoon with Max, she doesn’t know if she is brave enough to listen. 

All she knows, as sleep evades her for the rest of the long, sweltering night, is that she needs to see Greta again. 

She can’t keep waiting and missing Greta like this. She can’t continue denying herself; can’t bear to be apart from her for any longer.

Chapter Text

Carson wonders if this is how Max felt two days ago, waiting to face her and try to talk about something which might have felt, to Max, impossible to put into words. 

She stands at Greta’s door for at least five minutes before she can even contemplate knocking. Carson doesn’t know how Greta will react when she comes to the door, or indeed if she is even at home, and the thought of all the unknown variables makes Carson feel sick. 

After her dream on Thursday night, the following day had mostly been a haze of decision-making, her mind going back and forth over and over again between accepting what she wants and trying to deny herself any opportunity to seek it out. 

And yet, here she is. Saturday afternoon, at her usual meeting time with Greta, standing outside her front door. 

When she stepped off the streetcar, Carson had found herself seeking Greta out on the platform, and then near the park, but she wasn’t there. Carson shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed, but a part of her is. It would be easier, she thinks, to bump into Greta there than to turn up at her home. 

Carson’s hands shake but, after a few deep breaths, she raises her fist and knocks. 

For a moment, there is only silence - save for the way Carson’s heart beats loud in her chest - until, eventually, she hears a lock click. 

The door swings open and then Greta is standing there in the doorway. Just seeing her is confirmation enough; Carson aches with the familiarity, the safety of the feeling that comes with just being in Greta’s presence.

Greta’s eyes go wide in surprise.  

“Carson?” she breathes, and if Carson wants to be an optimist, she might even let herself believe that Greta sounds hopeful. “What are you doing here?” 

Carson glances to either side, looking for signs of life in the corridor. Finding none, she says, 

“Can I come in? If you still want to talk?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course. I do. Absolutely.” 

Greta stands aside and Carson stops in the entryway long enough to get her shoes off. 

Greta waits, moving her hands restlessly through the folds of her dress. It is red, the same one she wore the day they shared the picnic in the park.

“Do you, um…want anything? Can I get you some water?” 

“No, it’s alright. Is Jo in?“ 

Greta shakes her head. “She almost always works on Saturdays.” 

“Right. Okay. Can we maybe - “ Carson trails off and glances past Greta, who takes the cue to move further into the apartment.

“Sure.” 

She backs down the corridor and looks for a moment as though she might turn left towards her bedroom. Then, she appears to think better of it and shows Carson into the living room instead. 

Stiffly, they both choose an armchair and silence descends as they try - and mostly fail - to get comfortable. 

“Carson,” Greta begins. “I’m so sorry. I - “

Ignoring her, Carson blurts, “I’ve never kissed a woman before. I’ve never even thought about kissing one.” 

Greta pauses, pressing her lips together for a moment. “Yeah. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought so.” 

So, that probably means that it wasn’t Greta’s first time kissing a woman, although Carson had already surmised that much. 

“I’m sorry I ran off. And that I didn’t turn up last week. It was all just…too much.” 

“I know,” Greta murmurs. “I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed. Like you said, I know that I’m…too much. Sometimes. Most of the time, probably.” 

“No,” Carson says quickly. She had spent all morning planning out a big speech, thinking of all the ways she could try to explain her recent frame of mind. She had even written some of it down. But at no point had she ever thought that Greta was the one at fault in all of this. Greta isn’t too much. Greta is perfect, just as she is. “Not you, Greta. You’re not too much. You never have been, not to me.” 

Greta smiles but she looks sad. “I don’t think that was true a couple of weeks ago.” 

“It was too much,” Carson repeats carefully. “Not you. I was feeling so much. Things I didn’t understand; things that people have always told me were wrong. I couldn’t process it all at that moment. But I still shouldn’t have just left things the way I did.” 

“Well, I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Greta replies, voice clipped and tight. “That was wrong of me.” 

Her words wash over Carson, who promptly feels her heart sink straight to her stomach. 

Greta regrets it. Regrets her. Obviously. Who wouldn’t regret kissing a person who behaved the way Carson had?

“Carson, I’m sorry but I have to ask this,” Greta goes on. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?” 

Quickly, Carson shakes her head. “No. Absolutely not.” 

Greta visibly relaxes. 

“Okay. Good, that’s good. There are rules, yeah? Things people have to follow to stay safe. And I broke some of mine the other day, and…that’s when bad things can happen, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Carson says, even though she doesn’t entirely understand. She feels like she is in way over her head.

Max had said there were codes. Now Greta is saying there are rules. It just seems like there is so much to learn and Carson simply cannot wrap her head around any of it. 

For a while, neither of them speaks and the silence threatens to grow awkward. 

“Sorry,” Carson says again. “I’ve just been trying to make sense of a lot of things recently.” 

“Yeah?” Greta asks, voice gentle and understanding. “How’s that going?” 

“Not terribly, but not great either.” 

“I get that.” 

“I still don’t really know how I feel,” Carson admits.

Greta lets out a low chuckle. “I get that, too.” 

“There’s really only a couple of things that I’m sure about right now.” 

“Do you want to tell me what those are?”

Carson feels herself grow hot with nerves, but ploughs on anyway. She came here to talk, not to hold back.

“The main one is just…not wanting to lose this. Us. I wanted to come here today because I couldn’t stand the idea that we wouldn’t see each other again. I don’t know if it’s okay with you if we try to pick things back up. I don’t even know if that’s possible. But it’s what I want to try to do.” 

“You…still want to spend time together?” Greta asks. She looks confused and Carson wonders if this wasn’t the right thing to suggest.

“I really do. It’s my favourite part of every week.”

“It’s mine too,” Greta says and, this time, when she smiles she doesn’t look quite as sad. 

Carson wants to tell her about all the ways she remembers the kiss. That it was unexpected and terrifying because it made her feel like she was flying. She wants to say that maybe, probably, she wants to kiss Greta again. But Greta had said that kissing Carson was wrong. 

Carson still scarcely understands what it means that she wants to kiss a woman, and all the words that might help to open up the conversation just stick in her throat. 

“So…we’re okay?” 

“Yes, Carson. If - if you’re still okay with…me. Then we’re okay.” 

“And you’re not mad at me for not turning up last week?” 

Greta gives her an emphatic look which very clearly says ‘no’. “Of course I’m not. I was sad, obviously. But I understood. And, if anything, I was mad at myself for doing what I did. For…getting things so wrong.”

Wrong. 

That word again. 

After days spent learning to accept that kissing Greta felt so right, it is hard for Carson to make herself believe again that it was wrong. But, if Greta says it is, then maybe Carson shouldn’t say anything more about what happened.

Slowly, she feels the last of her courage ebb away and she knows, deep down, that she isn’t going to tell Greta about all the soul-searching she has done since the last time they were together. 

“Well,” Carson starts weakly, “things are right now.”

“Yeah,” Greta agrees, her tone more bland than before. “I’m glad about that.” 

“Me too.” Carson shifts forward in the armchair. “So…our usual time next week?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course. But, you don’t have to leave now.” 

“Well, I called round unexpectedly,” Carson says quickly as she gets up, suddenly desperate to be outside so that she can collect her thoughts. She is disappointed in herself for not saying the things she wanted Greta to know. If she stays here any longer, she might crack and say them all, even when she now knows that she shouldn’t. “I’m sure you have plenty of things you were planning to do.” 

“Not really,” Greta replies as she stands too, joining Carson as she hurriedly makes her way back to the front door. “I kept my day pretty clear.” 

This gives Carson pause as she prepares to put her shoes back on.  

Had Greta…kept the day clear for her? In case they were able to see each other? She stands still for a long moment, head buzzing with unanswered questions. It feels as though her thoughts are spinning round and round in her mind and, try as she might, she cannot seem to catch a single one of them. Every time she gets close, it wriggles free and rejoins the unintelligible black mass crammed inside her brain. 

Just once, she would like for things to be simple. 

And they could be. If she just surrendered entirely to the thing she really wanted when she came here today. 

She is so utterly fed up of denying herself things just because she cannot be entirely sure what she thinks, or wants to think, or is supposed to think. 

Just being back here, in Greta’s company, it makes her whole body tingle and thrum with a kind of energy Carson has never felt before. 

If she leaves, she knows she will regret the distance immediately. 

Carson is so, so sick of holding herself back. 

She has waited there, frozen in indecision, long enough that Greta says her name and sounds concerned. 

“Carson? Are you o-” 

Without thinking, without lingering on any of the reasons she should deny herself this, Carson turns back and stumbles into Greta. Her movements are uncontrolled, wild, fearful, but her lips find Greta’s and the world just stops. 

Carson kisses Greta with every bit of feeling she has, all hungry and desperate and frantic. Greta kisses her back just the same, as though a dam has broken in both of them at once. She pulls Carson close and manoeuvres them together until Greta is backed up against the nearest wall with Carson against her, bodies just barely touching.  

It feels… oh God, it feels just as good as last time, just as right. Carson’s whole body sparks and crackles like a livewire, like fireworks on a summer’s night. How had she never realised it was supposed to be like this? How had she ever settled for so much less? 

Greta’s hands drift up to Carson’s head, gripping gently at her hair and pulling, only lightly, until Carson moans and, just as she did in her dream, parts her lips against Greta’s. Then, Greta’s tongue is in her mouth and Carson feels her whole body go slack and loose. For the first time in two weeks, Carson’s mind goes quiet as she loses herself in how good this all feels. 

Minutes, hours, years pass and then Greta pulls back. They are both breathless, panting; their cheeks are flushed and Carson can feel the blood beating in her ears. 

“Carson, wait,” Greta’s voice is rough and gravelly. The sound of it sends shockwaves through Carson. “We just talked about - is this…is it really what you want?” 

“I - ” For the millionth time, Carson fights to put it all into words. “I’m still feeling so many new things, Greta. Things I don’t understand. I don’t think I even really knew what wanting another person felt like until now. I’m still working a lot of stuff out but…yes. I want it. You. I need this, I think.”

Greta gives a small, determined nod. Quietly, she says, “I understand. You’re realising things about yourself. I understand what you need.”

“You do?” 

“Yes. I - I can show you. I can do that for you.” 

A part of Carson wants to ask Greta to tell her, more explicitly, what she thinks Carson needs. Greta seems to be saying something that Carson doesn’t entirely understand, cannot possibly understand when this is all such uncharted territory for her. 

But then Greta kisses her again, and Carson loses the ability to understand anything but pure, sweet sensation. 

Greta takes her time, easing them both into it. Her hands find Carson’s waist, her fingers splayed out and gripping just right…just the perfect amount of pressure. They sweep down to Carson’s hips and do the same, holding her close, touching so carefully that Carson shivers. 

With Charlie it was…never like that. Sometimes not enough, sometimes - usually - a little too firm, too hurried. 

But Greta…Greta was touching her, kissing her, so gently, so perfectly. Sweet and soft like warm honey. 

Carson realises, then, that she isn’t touching back. Her hands, hanging limp at her sides, ache to hold Greta too, but she isn’t sure how…what…where…

In the end, she reaches for Greta’s waist, trying to touch the same way Greta had. She doesn’t know if she’s doing the right thing, but Greta is relaxed, giving kisses easily, sucking on Carson’s lower lip in a way that reignites that same delicious throbbing Carson felt two nights ago. 

Greta slides her hands around to the small of Carson’s back, letting them sit there a moment - a firm, comforting weight - until she pushes Carson into her. Their bodies drape together and the steady throb intensifies like a drumbeat. Carson finds herself flexing her hips, suddenly desperate to be even closer. 

Greta murmurs wordlessly against her lips, sounding pleased with the contact. She breaks the kiss and catches her breath, occasionally pressing her lips to Carson’s jaw and then her cheeks. 

“We can move, if you want,” she whispers, face pressed close to Carson’s.

Carson hears each word but cannot seem to grasp them, her mind addled by the strength of the longing coursing through her. She pulls back, staring blankly at Greta, who seems to understand. She chuckles and adds, 

“So we’re not just standing right here. In the hallway.” 

Oh. 

Carson nods, dazed and incapable of forming any words of her own. 

Greta laughs again and takes the lead, moving through the apartment while Carson allows herself to be pulled in the same direction. She feels like she is floating - like she has left the planet entirely. She is hurtling through space, untethered at last. 

It is as though she is only half in her body even as, paradoxically, she feels every part of it with a new and previously undiscovered acuteness. 

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like it’s possible for her to contain this much, all at once. 

She stumbles over her own feet as Greta leads them towards her bedroom. Then, as if by magic, they are both sitting on the edge of her bed, their knees touching. 

Carson remembers how it felt the last time she was here. The unbearable force of the storm both outside the room and within it.  

“You okay?” Greta asks, watching her closely. 

Again, Carson merely nods. 

“We can stop, if you want.” 

The very notion is incomprehensible to her. 

“No. No, I don’t want to stop.” 

Carson doesn’t ever want to stop. She wants to keep doing this - to keep feeling all this - for ever and ever…

Greta’s hand finds her thigh, squeezing lightly. Dimly, Carson recognises that it is meant to ground her, the way she had grounded Max at the park. 

“If that changes - any time you want to stop - you tell me. And then we stop. Okay?” 

Charlie had never said anything like that to her. He had never forced himself on her - he never would, Carson knew that for sure - but it was never so explicit that she could be in control and have the final say. Probably, he thought it was implicit between them, but Carson hadn’t realised until now just how different it felt to hear the words spoken aloud. 

It warms her from the inside out. Affection floods through her, blending in with the magnetic pull of hot, heavy attraction sitting between her body and Greta’s. 

“Okay,” Carson agrees. “But - but not right now?” 

Greta smiles. “No, not right now.” 

She leans in again, one hand still on Carson’s thigh as the other cups gently at her cheek. Her thumb strokes back and forth slightly as she kisses Carson again, slow and drawn out. 

They stay like that for a while - Carson truly couldn’t say how long - as though Greta would be happy just letting Carson explore all these new feelings for eternity. The longer it goes on, the more Carson relaxes into it. She still feels hazy, a little like the way she feels when she drinks more than a beer or two, but it begins to occur to her that she can learn all these new sensations. She can study the way it feels to kiss a woman. 

It feels a little less daunting to tilt her head just so, to let her hands move more freely. She presses them over Greta’s hips, moves them up her back, tangles her fingers through Greta’s hair.

Soft - all of Greta is so soft. Her curls, her skin, her lips. Carson likes that. She likes it a lot. 

Greta moves too, every touch slight at first, as if to give Carson a chance to pull away. It is a chance she appreciates, but never takes. 

The hand on Carson’s thigh slides gradually upwards, inch-by-inch, while Greta’s other hand finds its way to a spot just below Carson’s sternum. 

It takes her a while to realise she wants it higher. She…wants Greta to touch her chest and starts to burn up at the thought of it. She twists her torso slightly, trying to formulate a request she isn’t brave enough to ask out loud. 

When Greta catches on, she smiles against Carson’s lips. Then, she complies. 

Her fingers trail up to Carson’s breast with a light, teasing pressure that draws an unexpected moan from the back of Carson’s throat. 

Something - the sound or the touch, maybe both - makes Greta moan too and she kisses Carson deeper, stronger. Without any conscious thought, Carson’s tongue slips over Greta’s bottom lip and then into her mouth. Greta hollows her cheeks, sucking lightly, and a shock arcs through Carson’s whole body. 

She leans into Greta’s hand, wordlessly begging for more. She feels her nipple go hard and Greta’s thumb slides, finding it beneath Carson’s shirt and brushing over it until Carson moans again. 

She has never made that sound before, never once with Charlie; she didn’t even realise a noise like that could belong to her. 

With every new step she and Greta take, Carson just wants more, more, more. Her body demands it, and Carson is powerless to do anything but heed its every whim and desire. 

She lays back on the bed, pulling Greta with her, desperate to feel the weight of her draped across her, Carson’s, frame. 

She had never really craved that with Charlie, only tolerated it. She didn’t think she liked the feeling of having her body crowded like that, closed in and pinned to the mattress beneath her. 

But then Greta does it, follows Carson’s path and arranges herself carefully so that her weight isn’t stifling Carson, and there is no question that it feels good. 

For a moment, Carson’s mind grasps onto the reality of what she and Greta are doing. It doesn’t feel entirely real that they are tangled together on Greta’s bed, kissing again, hands roaming everywhere. There is a part of Carson that still thinks she shouldn’t let this happen - that she shouldn’t let Greta make her feel all these wonderful, magical things - but it is almost as though that part doesn’t really belong to her anymore. It is one piece of an old version of her, a version that is ceasing to exist. It fades a little more every time Greta kisses her. 

Carson realises, then, that she wants even more of Greta, wants to feel her pressed up against her. Suddenly, her own clothes feel heavy, all hot and scratchy and wrong against her skin. It would be better if they weren’t there, she thinks, and her brain stalls for a moment. 

Can she…can they just do that? 

She pictures Greta’s hands exploring exposed skin and… God. Yes. 

The dull, throbbing feeling between Carson’s legs grows more urgent. 

Her hands fly to the buttons on her shirt, quickly working the first few loose. Greta pulls back; she looks surprised, but all Carson can seem to see is her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, the way her eyes are so much darker than usual. 

“Carson, what - ”

Carson freezes, embarrassed. Maybe they couldn’t do that. Maybe that wasn’t something two women did. 

“I - um. I just thought - I wanted to.” She pauses, flustered. “Should I not…?” 

Greta softens. “No, no it’s okay. It’s good. I just wasn’t expecting…” She reaches out and gently moves Carson’s hands, replacing them with her own. “Here. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

Her fingers move quickly, deftly, opening all the buttons. Carson sits up slightly so Greta can push the shirt off her shoulders and toss it gently out of the way. 

Carefully, Greta slides the straps of Carson’s slip off her shoulders and pushes the silk down to Carson’s hips. Her gaze roves, wanders, taking in Carson with a heated expression on her face. 

Then, the exploration - just as Carson had pictured it moments ago. Except, Greta doesn’t just explore with her hands. She also explores with her lips, her tongue. She kisses the freckles on Carson’s collar and she nips playfully at the skin on Carson’s throat before she licks the same spot, soothing the brief sting. 

Her hand finds Carson’s breast again, the touch clearer with only Carson’s bra between them now. Greta leans in for another kiss and begins circling her thumb around Carson’s nipple. Carson is surprised to realise that she is so sensitive there, and her whole body lights up. She begins to forget herself as she writhes under Greta’s touch. The bedcovers tangle beneath her, and she feels her skirt start to twist and ruck up higher against her thighs as she moves. A part of her is self-conscious of the state she is in, of the way she must look right now, but she can barely focus enough to do anything about it. 

Greta breaks the kiss but doesn’t move away. 

“When you say stop, we stop,” she whispers against Carson’s lips, reminding her of that promise from earlier. 

“No,” Carson gasps, desperate. “No, please…” 

“Okay. It’s okay,” Greta says again, voice soothing. “I get it. It’s okay.” 

Her hand doesn’t stop moving over Carson’s breast, until - 

“Carson. You’re not breathing.” 

Everything grows still for a moment and Carson gathers all her wits just to take a few deep, shuddering breaths in. She is on fire, only burning brighter with every laboured inhalation. 

Greta’s face is still against hers and she pulls back a hair’s breadth, just enough that she can look Carson directly in the eye. Her fingers graze the edge of Carson’s bra: a question. 

“Yes,” Carson breathes, nodding furiously. She wants Greta’s hand there; she wants to be touched skin to skin. 

With some difficulty, Greta slips her fingers underneath one of the cups, teasing a little. Carson cries out, half-embarrassed, half-shocked at the wanton, pleading sound. 

A moment later, Greta removes her bra entirely. 

She touches Carson again once she is bare, their lips still slanted together, breath mingling as they hold each other’s gaze. Carson pants, her body still moving restlessly atop the mattress. She feels wild, animalistic, feral -  like she wants to bite down on every feeling and dissolve it on her tongue.

“My goodness. You’re beautiful.” Greta says this with so much reverence that it sounds to Carson like a prayer - the only one she has ever wanted to believe in. 

There is something building within her, low in her stomach and further down still, a kind of feeling that seems as though it might crack wide open. If it does, if it splits the very fault lines of her right down the middle, Carson wonders just how far she might be willing to fall. 

She receives something of an answer a moment later, when Greta shifts on the bed - perhaps to find a more comfortable position - and one of her legs hooks over Carson, slotting snugly between her thighs like a puzzle piece. Her body nudges right at Carson’s core, just a glancing ghost of a touch that is over in seconds, but Carson feels as though she has been struck by a bolt of lightning. A sudden, sharp moment of pleasure streaks through her and she cries out, instinct taking over as she drives her hips down the bed.  

Until this point, Greta had seemed to be in charge of herself, disciplined and controlled even while she showed obvious signs of enjoying everything they were doing. When Carson chases that feeling, however, she somehow senses that a thread within Greta has reached its breaking point. 

Greta lets out a harsh, shaky gasp. “Oh, Carson.” 

Hearing Greta sigh her name against her lips has Carson grinding down again, unsure of exactly what she needs right now, but hopelessly aware that she has to do something, anything, to alleviate the pressure cresting between her legs. 

“It’s okay,” Greta tells her yet again and a distant, barely coherent part of Carson is grateful for the reassurance. “Let me…” 

Greta’s hand leaves Carson’s breast, causing her to let out an undignified, pleading whine. It bleeds smoothly into a louder, formless cry when Greta’s fingers travel over Carson’s skirt, coasting near… there. Where the sharp throb radiated from. 

“Yeah?” Greta asks, still so careful. 

Carson’s brain shuts off for a moment. 

“Uh - ” she says and, immediately, Greta’s hand is gone. The loss feels terrible, unimaginable, something that needs to be corrected…

She wants this. But it is almost terrifying how much she wants it. She feels self-conscious, all of a sudden, as a wave of vulnerability hits her.

How far is she willing to fall?

It was one thing to understand that she wants to kiss Greta, to hold her and be held back. But this…? Wanting Greta to see her like that, to touch her like that…down there…

Carson shivers. Oh, yes. 

She wonders if she can see Greta like that too. If Greta would want that. Does she trust Carson that way? Does she feel as much reckless, exhilarating trust as Carson does? 

She reaches for Greta’s dress, trying to move steadily like Greta does, so that she can say ‘stop’ too, if she wants to. 

But Greta doesn’t say anything at all. She just watches Carson and nods slightly, encouraging her to go on. 

Carson begins working at the buttons and fastenings on Greta’s dress, nerves making her movements frantic and clumsy. Here and there, Greta helps her, just enough to make things easier while letting Carson take some of the initiative.

Greta knows what she is doing and Carson doesn’t. She feels embarrassed about it, but she doesn’t want to let that stop her from learning more about herself and what she really wants.

Soon enough, they have taken Greta’s dress off. Without pausing, Greta removes her bra too, and Carson doesn’t know what to do or where to look. She wants to drink the sight of Greta in all at once, but she wonders if she will burn up entirely if she does so.   

Greta leans back in and their next kiss is a gentle, soothing thing as though Greta is trying to steal away all of Carson’s nerves. Her hands drift to the waistband of Carson’s skirt and, with a little bit of manoeuvring, they get rid of that too. It has been too hot to wear stockings, and so Carson finds herself left only in the last of her underwear, just like Greta. 

She doesn’t know what to do next, how to move onwards from here, but - as ever - Greta is right there with her, so perfectly attuned to Carson’s needs that it seems as though she can read her mind. 

Slowly, Greta takes Carson’s hand and Carson is shocked to realise that Greta’s fingers are trembling slightly. She guides Carson’s palm until it glances against Greta’s breast: permission to touch and to learn. 

Carson has always loved gathering information, and this might be her favourite lesson of all. 

Greta is smooth and soft, her skin warm and so pleasant beneath Carson’s fingers. Carson tries to touch in all the ways Greta has just touched her, taking note of the way Greta reacts and listening to the sounds she makes. Between kisses, Greta’s breathing grows shorter, quicker, and she makes a few tiny, high noises that hit Carson right in the stomach. 

“Carson …” 

She wants to hear Greta say her name like that again and again and again. She wants to do everything so right that Greta feels the same pleasure Carson does. 

Movements slightly wilder now, Greta drops kisses over Carson’s throat and collar, moving down her chest with intent. Still, it takes Carson a moment to understand…

Then, Greta licks over her nipple, taking it in her mouth with a delicious, teasing scrape of her teeth. 

A moan bursts out of Carson like a thunderclap. 

Why had she never done this before…? 

Unthinking, she strains underneath Greta, tensing her thighs. They clench together and that same new, sharp feeling rips through her again. She feels her breath leave her all at once, rattling unsteadily out of her lungs. 

Undeterred, Greta palms at Carson’s other breast and snakes her free hand down Carson’s body, stopping to press a firm touch over Carson’s stomach. Then she finds Carson’s underwear, pauses again, and Carson cannot even fathom the idea of wanting to stop her. 

Greta’s fingers slip beneath the fabric, lower and lower, until they slide through a wetness Carson hadn’t even perceived until now. 

She feels herself blush - her heart racing with equal measures of nerves and anticipation and embarrassment. 

If she and Charlie waited long enough, kissed enough, sometimes Carson was…

But she had never been wet like this. Was that okay? Was she supposed to be…? 

Greta doesn’t remark upon it, doesn’t do anything more than draw a quick breath in. Her fingers keep moving and Carson feels her hips tilt to meet them. 

Greta lifts her head from Carson’s chest and tells her, again, that it’s okay. “I’ve got you. Trust me. I’ve got you.” 

Carson doesn’t understand. 

Of course it’s okay, she thinks dimly. It’s good. It’s all so good. 

But then Greta drapes her leg between Carson’s again, nudges at the inside of Carson’s thigh with her knee, and Carson realises. She blushes even more, grows hot, and battles a new wave of shyness. 

“Hey,” Greta whispers. “Look at me…” 

It’s okay to let go, Greta’s expression seems to say. It’s okay to let go if you want to. 

And Carson does. She does, she does, she does. 

The last of her insecurity crumbles to dust, and although she still doesn’t really understand what being queer means for her, she understands, in that moment, that she is. No part of her wants to fight it, to deny it. All of her just wants Greta. She wants to give herself - all of herself - to Greta.

“Yes,” she breathes, not replying to anything in particular, and lets herself melt into the bed. 

Easy as anything, Greta slides Carson’s underwear off and Carson feels her legs part. 

Greta’s fingers are slick when they touch her again, finding the spot right between Carson’s thighs that throbs like a heartbeat. 

Fuck. 

Carson’s hips twist at the contact, a chain reaction born from the hot, almost overwhelming flash of pleasure that bursts through her body. 

For a second or two, Greta just presses lightly and then slowly, gradually, she starts to move. 

Carson moans, long and loud as Greta’s fingers draw wide, unhurried circles right there. She buries her hands in the bedspread, fisting into the material and holding on as if her life depends on it. 

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” 

Instinctively, she starts to move against Greta’s hand as pleasure builds within her, folding in on itself as it grows, filling her up until she begins to wonder how much her body can hold. 

“Greta. Greta. Please - I can’t…” 

She needs - oh God. She doesn’t know what she needs. She - 

At once, Greta kisses Carson and starts to move her hand faster, rubbing smaller circles, pressing them closer and closer to that part of Carson until -  

The pleasure erupts in one sudden burst, spilling over and coursing through her in long, rippling waves. She shudders, feels a cry stick and die in her throat, too lost to make another sound. Her skin burns and tingles, and all Carson can do is try to breathe through it all. 

It goes on for longer than Carson could possibly have imagined, her body resolutely clinging to the sensation until, eventually, it wanes. She sags against the bed, spent and boneless as the muscles in her legs twitch and flutter. 

Greta pulls her hand away and a dull, satisfying ache replaces it.  

Carson lets her eyes drift shut for a moment, her mind floating in some half-awake state as her body settles in the wake of all these new feelings and sensations. 

Greta arranges herself on the bed, laying out on her stomach beside Carson, close enough to feel the heat of each other's skin. Still with her eyes shut, Carson burrows closer and lets their bodies press together. 

For the briefest of moments, it feels as though Greta’s body grows tense. It is over so fast Carson cannot be sure she didn’t imagine it entirely and, as she forces her eyes open, Greta relaxes into her. 

Neither of them speaks and, although it is still hot in the room, as the burning beneath Carson’s skin fades out, a slow creep of embarrassment starts to replace it. Greta isn’t saying anything, isn’t doing anything except resting one palm lightly on Carson’s hip and stroking her thumb back and forth. It doesn’t feel like a request of any kind, but Carson knows that it is her turn now to send all the attention back to Greta. 

She wants to. Fuck, she wants it so badly. 

But she doesn’t know how to do it. 

What if she does something wrong? What if Greta doesn’t feel the same things when she tries? What if she doesn’t want Carson like that? 

Carson thinks that Greta must want her, at least a little bit, to have touched her like that and made her feel all those things. But hadn’t Greta said - a whole lifetime ago back when they kissed in the hallway - that she knew what Carson needed? 

Doubt seeps in a little further. Does Greta simply not feel the same way? 

“Greta…” Carson’s voice is weaker than she would have liked it to be. 

“Mm?” Greta, by contrast, sounds sleepy and distant and…content. 

“How, uh - how do I?” Carson tries. “For you now…?” 

This seems to make Greta stir a little. “Oh. That’s alright. You don’t - there’s no need to.” 

Carson’s heart sinks. No need to.

Greta doesn’t want her like that, after all. What she just did hadn’t made her feel the same way at all. 

“Okay,” Carson whispers, voice breaking a little. The crackle of emotion mortifies her, but she has felt so much today, so many new things, and the significance of it all seems to be bearing down on her at once. 

“I mean that I can just - ” Greta pauses. “Do it myself. Later. You don’t have to. I know what you n- I know it's a lot right now.” 

“But…” Carson ventures. She doesn’t want to seem as though she is pushing for something Greta doesn’t want to give, but she needs to know. “But you’d…want me to if - ”

If I could. 

Abruptly, Greta rolls onto her side and props her head up in her hand so that she can look at Carson properly. Her other hand drifts through Carson’s hair, stroking gently to the ends and then twirling a section around her finger.

It feels so tender, and that same rush of emotion from earlier rolls over Carson again. 

Greta thinks over her words for a minute and Carson feels herself holding her breath. 

“Yes,” Greta says, sounding quiet but emphatic. “But I’m not expecting you to, Carson. That wasn’t why we - why I did that. Not so you’d do it back. That’s not how it works.”

“But I want to,” Carson admits, and Greta looks at her in subtle disbelief. “I really want to. Will you - tell me? Will you show me what you like?” 

Greta bites at her bottom lip and, ever so slowly, she nods. 

Carson’s heart beats rough and heavy in her chest, and she does her best to ignore it as she steals a kiss and then another, and another. Greta meets her but doesn’t push back, doesn’t take, so Carson gives instead. She starts with the things she knows, deepening the kiss and gripping Greta’s hips, pulling her in close. 

Carson thinks back, tries to piece together memories out of the thin crystal she had shattered into when Greta pulled that white-hot feeling right out of her skin. 

Greta had kissed all over her face, her neck, her throat - so Carson does the same. Greta’s hand slides back up to Carson’s scalp and rests there, no pressure or instruction, just a comforting, easy weight. She murmurs little sounds of assent with every press of Carson’s lips but when, out of curiosity, her tongue darts out to taste the hollow at the base of Greta’s throat, the noise grows a little sharper. 

She likes that, Carson thinks, feeling pleased. So, she does it again, and Greta’s body gets a little looser. 

Okay, then. 

Carson goes lower, exploring, touching, tasting. She takes it slowly, revelling in how alive her body feels just from giving all this attention to Greta. 

It is almost the same, in a way, as feeling Greta’s touch.  

She drags her tongue over the swell of Greta’s breast before hesitating. Greta notices and presses slightly firmer against Carson’s scalp, not forcing but encouraging. The scratch of Greta’s fingernails is a pleasant feeling and, already, the pulsing between Carson’s legs has started up again. It makes her bolder, bold enough to tilt her head and suck Greta’s right nipple into her mouth. 

Greta lets out a heady moan. “Yes. More - a bit more. Just a little.” 

Carson obliges before running the tip of her tongue roughly across the peak. This time, the noise Greta makes travels right to Carson’s core. 

So this is what it really feels like to give pleasure to someone else. Already, Carson doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to get enough of it. 

She doubles down, letting herself be guided by Greta’s reactions, amending occasionally when she breathes out an instruction or a request. 

To her delight, Carson quickly finds out that Greta shivers when she grazes her nails over her rib cage, and she learns how to make Greta let out a loud cry - and quickly stifle it - when Carson gently rolls one of her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. 

Carson chases Greta’s moan with a deep kiss, relishing the greedy way that Greta’s tongue finds its way into her mouth. 

Greta still has her underwear on, so, eventually, Carson skims her fingers over it, plucking slightly at the elastic. Greta murmurs something against Carson’s lips, and the words are unintelligible but the sentiment is unmistakable. With a little bit of shifting around, Carson strips Greta until she is bare too, bare just like Carson, the two of them now skin-to-skin in every possible way. 

Carson lets her hands slide over the curve of Greta’s ass, pushing her flush against Carson’s body. They gasp together when Greta’s core brushes against one of Carson’s thighs.

Carson likes the way that feels perhaps most of all; she likes the gentle scratch of Greta’s hair and then - oh - slick, wet heat as Greta slides against her.

Experimentally, Carson pushes back a little harder, tensing the muscle in her leg. 

“Oh, fuck. Yes, don’t stop.” 

Carson does it again and Greta grinds down in response, her hips twitching. 

“Greta, can we - “ Carson pauses and instead asks the question with the press of her body. 

Greta allows herself to fall with her back wholly against the mattress, letting Carson arrange them both how she wants. She tries to make it so that she mirrors their earlier positions, only this time she is the one hovering above Greta’s body. 

“I want to touch you,” Carson whispers. “Can I?” 

Wordlessly, Greta nods and pulls her in for another searing kiss as Carson rests her hand briefly against Greta’s inner thigh. She feels a dampness there and traces her fingers through it. 

She stalls for a moment, still nervous. Then, Greta breaks the kiss and says, “Carson. It's okay.” 

Her words are reassuring, but Greta sounds desperate and Carson’s heart races. She moves her hand between Greta’s legs and they both let out matching ragged moans, sagging into each other. 

Greta is warm, soft like gossamer, and so, so wet. 

Carson trails her fingers through the wetness and eventually tries to reach for the same place Greta touched her. She still doesn’t know exactly what to do, but Greta doesn’t rush her. She gasps at each touch and, only after a while does she reach down and wrap her fingers lightly around Carson’s wrist, guiding her, teaching her, showing her what she likes. 

After a time, Carson starts to understand a little better, realising she can feel a slight difference in the place Greta wants to be touched. She tries to match the pace of her hand to the fluid movement of Greta’s hips, delighting in the way Greta’s noises - all soft and breathy and low - get louder and more frequent. Eventually, Greta starts interspersing the sounds with words and instinct tells Carson that she’s getting close to that feeling, that bright explosion of sensation. 

“Oh God, yes. Oh, Carson. Right there. That’s good - so good. Keep doing that.” 

Carson watches in awe as Greta’s head tips back against the pillows, a pink blush mottled all the way down her throat and chest. Her expression tightens and then immediately goes slack again as her body arcs off the bed and she cries out a final time. Her legs quiver and her hips slow down but keep moving, so Carson keeps moving too. 

The moment seems to stretch on forever, Greta lost in pleasure as Carson tries to make a mental note of every sight and sound and touch. Eventually, Greta’s movements change as she squirms, pulling urgently away from Carson’s hand. Then, with a final gasp, she slumps back down, motionless save for the heave of her chest as she catches her breath. 

Carson withdraws as if she has been burned, instantly fearful. 

“Did I hurt you?” 

“What?” Greta’s voice is barely a gasp in her throat. “No, no. Just sensitive now.”

Greta sprawls out on the mattress, her face a picture of bliss as she indulges in a leisurely, languorous stretch. Her eyes open and she watches Carson expectantly, her gaze hazy and tranquil. 

Carson still feels utterly bowled over by the sight of her, but she understands after a moment that Greta’s expression is an invitation. She lays out carefully beside her, both of them hot and tired and spent. 

She isn’t entirely sure what to do now. Usually, she and Charlie were intimate at the start or end of the day, so it was implicit that they would either lay together and fall asleep or slowly get up and prepare for the morning. 

Right now, it is the middle of the afternoon and, moreover, Carson has no idea what Greta might expect of her next. Should she get up? Prepare to leave? Should she put her clothes back on? She is more conscious now of being naked than when she and Greta were doing… those things to each other. 

“Um…is Jo going to be working all afternoon?” 

Greta stretches again and sits up, reaching towards the nightstand nearest to her and picking up a wristwatch. 

“Another couple of hours,” she replies eventually. “She’ll be back around six.” 

She puts the watch back and runs her fingers through her hair, working diligently at the tangle of curls. 

Carson watches the smooth line of Greta’s back. Her posture is different now - notably less loose and easy. 

“Right, okay.” Carson doesn’t know what else to say. She rolls onto her side, loosely curled into herself as she continues watching Greta work on her hair.

Greta goes over the whole thing multiple times, revisiting the same sections of hair over and over until she has combed everything through. Most of the curls have slackened significantly, but she has long since worked out all the tangles when she finally stops. 

Without turning, Greta asks, “are you okay? With…what just happened?” 

“Yes,” Carson says simply. She still has a number of questions about what it all really means, and - now the haze of desire has somewhat ebbed - she can feel a slow creep of anxiety over how easily she had succumbed to a desire she had never realised she could possess. But she was okay - much more than okay - with what she and Greta had done to each other.  

It is easy to feel shy now - bashful at being bare, and shocked at how fully she had forgotten herself and sunk deep into her pleasure. But she also knows that doing all that with Greta felt right. It felt good. It was unlike anything Carson had ever known. 

Greta says nothing more, so Carson decides she might as well ask one of the obvious questions. 

“Did I do something wrong? Before? When I was…you know…?” 

Greta turns around sharply. “No. You were perfect.” 

Carson’s pulse races at this. If that was true, why does Greta seem so far away all of sudden? 

“Do you need me to go? Before six?” 

“No,” Greta repeats. “Don’t you want to go?” 

“I want to stay until Jo gets home. If - if that’s alright.” 

Greta softens, already halfway back to Carson, back to the present moment.

“Yes,” she breathes. She almost sounds surprised. “Yes, of course.” 

*

Time with Greta had already become Carson’s favourite thing in the world. 

But this…oh, God. 

They don’t bother dressing, and Greta lays down beside Carson again once they agree that she doesn’t need to leave any time soon. Her hands find Carson’s hair again - Carson starts to think that they both equally enjoy the feel of Greta’s fingers stroking through the strands - and Carson snuggles into her body. 

Even like this, Carson feels as though attraction crackles nonstop between them, even as she revels in the softness of the moment and in every stray, aimless touch they steal.

This is how it’s supposed to feel, she realises. In all the books she has ever read, it was as though the things lovers felt were as much a work of fiction as the rest of the plot. In the past, Carson would always listen to love songs and think they were just more stories; a beautiful creation that was sweet on her ears and her soul. Until now, she just…genuinely hadn’t believed any of it was real.

But laying with Greta in the afterglow feels like the weightlessness portrayed in all the art Carson had ever loved. It felt like the only thing she was supposed to be doing in the whole world. 

Most of her is elated but, somewhere deep down, a tiny part of her is angry, too. She is angry that no one had ever actually told her this was something she could have. 

She doesn’t even know if she can have this, but now she knows it is something worth striving for. All the years she had known Charlie, she had thought that loving him was supposed to feel the way it did when they were young and just best friends. She hadn’t realised that she could love people intensely, but differently. And it wasn’t just Greta that had taught her this. Max, Clance, Shirley, Jess, Maybelle - they showed her too, even if she didn’t want to lay here like this with any of them. 

In part, that is what tells her this is real. Whatever this thing is…with Greta. She feels just as much for her as her friends, but it is different. She could not hope to list any of the ways in which the two things were different; she just…feels it. 

Her whole life, Carson had felt so much. And she’d buried it all. For that, she is angry. 

Partly, she is angry at herself, but mostly the feeling is more abstract than that. She is angry that she’d never had the opportunity to find out, before now, that she could feel this alive, this seen, this special. 

Greta makes her feel special. 

She wonders how many other people - how many other women - don’t realise they can feel like this, even the ones who aren’t queer. How many of them thought that just a tiny taste of love - however genuine - was all they’d ever have? How many of them were out there, hiding away just as Carson had? 

Carson doesn’t want to hide anymore. She understands that she has to hide what she feels for Greta - she is angry about that, too - but she doesn’t want to hide herself. She doesn’t want to dress in uncomfortable clothes that don’t feel right, or shrink into a corner and make herself smaller, quieter. 

She will never be the same kind of bold and gregarious as Greta. But maybe, just maybe, she could work out the ways in which she could always feel this alive. 

It makes her wonder, too, how many of the people in her old life could see just how stifled she was, even when she couldn’t see it for herself. Had her father recognised it, all those times she was made to stay inside, learn to cook or sew, and never play baseball? Had Meg seen her, or was Meg just as unaware of how much they were both being penned in? Did Charlie…did he know? Did he know how unhappy she was? Carson doesn’t want to believe this, but the thought disquiets her. 

No. Not right now. 

She pushes the question down, setting it aside for another time. 

“I went to the streetcar stop last week,” Greta announces to the silence, apropos of nothing. Her hand is still in Carson’s hair. Earlier, she had flexed her palm and guided Carson closer, so that her head was resting on Greta’s chest, ear pressed to the steady thud of Greta’s heartbeat. 

Carson pauses, stomach twisting with guilt and sadness. 

When did Greta work it out? When she did realise how to feel alive? 

“I’m sorry,” Carson whispers. “I’m sorry you did that when I didn’t turn up.” 

“I’m not,” Greta replies, firm and decisive. 

“No?” Carson asks. 

“No. It was hard, thinking I’d pushed you away forever. But I’m still glad I went.” 

“Can we still do all of that stuff?” Carson asks, feeling clueless and naive. “Go out together?”

“We can,” Greta tells her, again sounding slightly surprised. “If you want. And…if we’re careful about it.”

“And then…” Carson ventures shyly. “We can do this stuff?” 

Beneath her ear, the flutter of Greta’s heart grows louder, more rapid. 

“We can,” Greta says again. “I think.”  

“You think?” 

Greta pauses for a long moment. 

“Carson, earlier you told me you were still working things out and trying to understand a lot of new feelings.”

“I am,” Carson says quickly. “Like I said, I’d never even thought about kissing a woman before we did it. I think you said I was realising things about myself. And you were right; I am.” 

“And this,” Greta gives Carson’s hip a gentle squeeze to indicate their current state of intimacy. “This was you working it out, right?” 

“I guess. But I - want to keep doing it, if you do too.” 

“I - ” Greta cuts herself off and doesn’t speak again. 

“We could just work it out as we go, right?” Carson asks the question in a hurry. “Like we did when we first started meeting up.”  

“Yeah,” Greta murmurs, and it is clear that there is so much more that she is not saying, that she won’t say right now. “Yeah, I guess we could.” 

Carson feels a smile break out across her face, still pressed against Greta. 

She is willing, it turns out, to fall even further than she thought was possible.

*

“Are there codes?” Carson asks suddenly, after they have lapsed into silence again for one minute or a hundred of them. “Like, things people say to each other to let them know that they’re…safe people.” 

Greta chuckles to herself. “Yes, Carson. Lots of them.” 

“Did you ever…use any of them? With me?” 

Carson is shocked when she feels Greta’s answering nod.

“You did? When?” 

Greta tucks Carson’s hair carefully behind her ear. Then, she whispers, “mon amie s’appelle Dorothy.” 

“That?” Carson cries, incredulous. “The whole time, what was a code?”

Greta laughs loudly and wraps her arms around Carson’s waist. 

“It sure was.”

“You just ask that in French? What does it mean?” 

God. There is so much she isn’t aware of. It feels like she’ll never learn it all.

“No, I just did that because we were talking about France and it felt like an easy, safe way to work it in. It’s just a thing people say.”

“So people say their friend is called Dorothy?”

“Yeah. Or a variant of that. Usually people ask if you’re a friend of Dorothy.” 

Carson furrows her brow. “But what if you really are?”

“Really are what?”

“Friends with someone called Dorothy.” 

Again, Greta bursts out laughing and the sound of it makes Carson feel as though she is floating. 

“Then you’re in for some weird situations and a few big misunderstandings, I guess.” 

*

“Jo will be back soon,” Greta says with a sigh. “We should get up.” 

Carson groans, too comfortable to move. “Fine. I guess.” 

They dress slowly. They are a little bashful, a little shy, but their gazes are hungry too. Carson knows she wants to touch Greta again and to be touched by her. She thinks Greta wants it too. 

They have just made themselves presentable and taken a seat in the living room - this time together, on the couch - when they hear Jo’s key in the door. She seems to be talking to someone as she lets herself in and, sure enough, Carson hears more than one person enter the apartment. 

She glances at Greta, who seems to be waiting impassively for Jo to make her appearance. It doesn’t matter, then, that there she has brought company with her. 

At the last minute, Greta must feel Carson’s gaze because she turns and meets her eye, sending her a little smile. 

It feels like a special look, something just between them. It is thrilling. 

Then, Jo shouts into the apartment, and the moment fades. The ghost of it still sits, perfect and precious, between them nonetheless. 

“You at home?” 

“Living room,” Greta calls back. “How was work?” 

Jo lets out a theatrical groan. “Ugh. Alright, I s’pose. Hot as hell.” 

“Joey works in a diner,” Greta murmurs for Carson’s benefit. “Out back in the kitchen. I used to work in the same place, out with the customers, until I got my current job.” 

Oblivious to the fact that Greta is not alone, Jo keeps talking about her day. 

“There were so many people in there today. It was non-fucking-stop. Plus, Mary burned her hand on a hot pan and it. Was. Bad. Her skin was literally - ”

Jo walks into the living room, laden down with a number of paper bags, and pauses abruptly when she sees Carson. For a moment, Jo stares directly at her, obviously trying to assess her presence in the apartment.

The scrutiny is uncomfortable, but arguably better than hearing, in what Carson assumes would have been graphic detail, about poor Mary’s burn wounds. 

Jo’s eyes dart between Greta and Carson, taking in the quiet of the room and the empty coffee table. In hindsight, it is obvious they haven’t been in here all that long. Carson feels herself blush. 

Jo and Greta have been best friends all their lives. Surely, by now, Jo must know about Greta…? Does that mean she knows about Carson, too? About the kiss after the storm? 

“Carson,” Jo says eventually, her tone unreadable. “Sorry. I hadn’t realised you were coming round today.” 

“I was, uh, passing. And I thought I would just…call in…” Carson’s voice trails off to nothing, and it is crystal clear that Jo doesn’t believe her. 

“Huh. Sure. Well, I’m glad to see that Greta is as terrible a host as ever. Want anything while I’m headed to the kitchen?” 

“Oh, no it’s fine. I - I didn’t ask for anything. Greta has been a great host. Fine. A fine host.” Carson pauses, blushing harder, and Jo’s mouth twitches as though she is trying to suppress a smile. 

“I see. How accommodating of her.” 

“I don’t think the pot should be calling the kettle anything, Josephine,” Greta says, finally chiming in. 

Jo glares across the room. “Better that than you calling me Josephine.” 

Greta smirks. “Well, are you going to leave your guest standing in the hallway?” 

With a grudging look of acquiescence, Jo steps further into the room and allows another woman to pass. She seems to be carrying an equally large volume of packages. 

“This is Flo,” Greta says to Carson. “She works with Joey. Also out front.” 

Flo - a pretty woman with dark hair pinned in two neat rolls on her crown - smiles and manages to offer Carson a wave without dropping her cargo. 

Carson greets her back, and takes this as a good cue to leave. She offers to get out of everyone’s way, apologising for intruding. 

A look passes between Jo and Greta. Then, Jo shrugs and says, 

“We brought a ton of stuff back from work. You hungry?” 

Carson glances at Greta, trying to assess whether or not it would be a faux pas to accept Jo's offer.

Greta doesn’t do anything, but she doesn’t need to. The look on her face tells Carson that Greta wants her to stay. 

*

By the time they have finished eating, Carson has managed to catch up to the obvious. 

Jo is like Greta, and Flo is too. And they might be…together. In some way, at least. 

They are not especially explicit, but Carson has learned enough in recent weeks to recognise the looks that pass between them, as well as the smiles they exchange from time to time. Carson thinks the one she shared with Greta earlier might have looked similar. 

Flo is cheerful and easy to talk to, and she slots into Greta and Jo’s playful dynamic in much the way Carson has learned to do, albeit with a little more familiarity on Flo’s part. The two of them smile at Greta and Jo’s near-constant friendly insults, joining in occasionally when they think of a good joke of their own. 

Carson learns that Flo is from Illinois - a town called Rockford, apparently. She explains that she left for Chicago a few years ago and something about the way she says it makes Carson wonder if Flo had to leave, if it wasn’t entirely her choice. 

At one point as the evening unfolds, Greta and Jo leave the room together to clear away leftover food and rinse all the plates and cutlery. They are gone for long enough that Carson can assume they are having a conversation of some kind, and she suspects that it is about her. It makes her feel nervous and self-conscious, but it doesn’t automatically feel like a bad thing, per sé. Mostly, it is understandable, because even if Greta hadn’t told Jo about the kiss two weeks ago, their sudden separation must have been notable. 

When the two of them return, their demeanour towards Carson is unchanged, and the evening continues on seamlessly. 

The sky is just starting to grow dark when Carson regretfully decides that she ought to go home; Shirley will start to worry if she is out much later. There is a hall phone in the building, but Carson is aware that she is going to have to mind how often she mentions Greta to Shirley, who is still the most perceptive person Carson knows. 

Greta walks her out, pulling the living room door shut behind her once Carson has bid her goodbyes to the others. She collects her bag and puts her shoes on but, before she can leave, Greta pushes her back against the hallway wall and kisses her soundly, not pulling back until Carson sees stars and feels her knees go weak. 

She smiles devilishly at the look on Carson’s face and Carson smiles back before she whispers, “we can meet up next week, right?” 

There is no universe in which Carson could picture spending another weekend without Greta now. 

Greta nods. "I'll be there waiting for you." 

*

For a little while, nothing feels real. Although Carson and Greta had agreed to continue making an effort to explore the city, the next time they are together they only manage a short stroll around the park before - via the silent exchange of several sly looks - they acknowledge what Carson really wants to do. 

She had spent the whole week fighting mental images of being wrapped up in Greta. They would spring up at all the most inopportune moments: over breakfast with Shirley, behind the wheel of her car on a Motor Corps shift, and - most of all - at work. It was impossible to concentrate on any task because her mind could only focus on thoughts of Greta naked, Greta moaning, Greta crying out Carson’s name…

She makes more mistakes than she has ever made before, crumpling ruined pages and typing out letters multiple times. She almost sends Henry’s latest story to print with an entire section missing, and only realises as she is about to pack it up and hand it over to Ruth and Helen. She is forced to type it up at double-speed to meet the deadline, and is left wondering how many errors she might have missed when, even during her proof-reading time, Carson had done little more than daydream about Greta’s hand moving between her legs. 

Carson’s whole body feels different, now. It is as though it has finally been brought out of a lifelong hibernation. Often, she is flush with anticipation - arousal - even in the most mundane situations. It is as though she is constantly craving Greta’s touch on an internal, unconscious level, even on the rare occasions that she isn’t thinking about it. It is a strange adjustment, but a good one. She had spent her life feeling as though she didn’t belong in her body, and a large part of that seemed to be because she didn’t know how it was supposed to feel. 

Now she is on her way to understanding, and it is as though she is suddenly in the driver’s seat. 

When she and Greta meet up again, they wordlessly leave the park and hurry in the direction of the apartment. By the time the front door swings shut, they are already on each other, lips greedy and hands desperate. Half of Carson’s clothes don’t make it to the bedroom with them, and when Greta drapes herself across Carson on the bed, she presses a line of hot kisses all the way down her stomach and doesn’t stop. 

Carson doesn’t understand until her underwear is on the floor and Greta is sucking faint bruises onto the skin of her inner thighs. When she realises what Greta wants to do, she almost falls apart before Greta’s mouth even finds her core. But then Greta starts using her tongue…down there, between Carson’s legs…and Carson feels as though she leaves her body for a moment. She has never known anything like it, never imagined such a hot, intense sensation could even exist. 

Greta pulls that same burst of feeling as last time out of Carson with the rough press of her tongue, before pausing and doing something which causes it to roll right into another one, one that Carson doesn’t even see coming. She kisses Greta after and moans at the taste of her mouth. It is Carson, the taste of herself, and, soon enough, she learns the taste of Greta too, and the feel of wet and hot against her tongue. 

Later that evening, Greta takes Carson’s hand and leads her to the top of the apartment building, showing her a secret route to the roof that, apparently, most of the other residents have not bothered to take advantage of. They lie together for hours, looking up into the sky and trying to find all the constellations. After a while, they discover that neither of them knows that many, and instead start pointing out the weirdest shapes they can find. 

Greta swears blind that she can see the image of a peach up above them but, try as she might, Carson cannot seem to follow the outline Greta draws with her finger. 

Later, when Carson points out what is clearly a clam holding a machine gun, Greta laughs and resolutely feigns ignorance, but Carson is happy to insist that she is right. 

“You’re so weird,” Greta murmurs, smiling at Carson like ‘weird’ is the best thing she could possibly be. Then, she leans in right there on the roof and kisses Carson in a way that steals all the breath from her lungs. When she pulls back, she says, “so, do you have practice at inventing the strangest things I’ve ever heard, or is it just a natural talent?” 

Carson laughs and promptly swallows her fear, telling Greta - for a reason she cannot really name - about all the times she and her mom would sit in the backyard and stargaze. 

“She always said that you could tell a lot about a person from what they saw in the stars.” 

Greta smiles. “I like that. What would she say about your machine gun clam?” 

“I don’t know,” Carson admits and then she tells Greta the rest, that her mom hasn’t been around since she was a kid. She tells her all about the loneliness and the judgement from the neighbours. She tells her about all the bad things the people in town called her mom. They’re probably calling Carson those names too, now. 

“I don’t know exactly why she went,” she concludes. “But I think I understand better than ever how she felt when she chose to leave.” 

Greta nods. There is a tender look in her eyes. 

“She must have been really desperate,” she says gently. “To leave behind the people she loved.” 

Carson feels tears spring into her eyes. They are for her mom as much as they are for herself. 

“I guess,” she agrees. “I just wish I understood what she was desperate for.” 

Greta laces their fingers together and brings Carson’s hand to her mouth. Softly, she kisses each of Carson’s knuckles.

“To find herself,” she whispers, lips against the back of Carson’s hand. “To free herself.”

A few tears break free and scatter down Carson’s cheeks, so Greta wipes them away. 

“I know. But I’m selfish. I still wish she’d stayed.” 

Greta makes a sympathetic noise. “That doesn’t make you selfish, Carson. It just makes you human. But, sometimes, people can’t stay. No matter how much they love someone.” 

“But shouldn’t that be enough, though?”

“It should,” Greta agrees, sounding sad. “But the world just doesn’t work like that. Not for everyone. And not if you want to be good…for other people. If you want to be what they really need.”  

Carson doesn’t say anything to this. She just squeezes Greta’s hand and burrows into her side. 

She wonders how much Greta would have to love her to stay in this moment forever. 

*

August starts to slip away from them like water through their fingers. 

Carson tries to hold onto every moment, already dimly aware that things may never be as good as this again. 

Although a part of her wants to spend every waking moment with Greta, she reminds herself to do better by her friends, too. 

She makes good on her promise to go out with Shirley, paying for them to see multiple movies in the theatre together. She watches them all carefully, even when she doesn’t care about them, just because she knows how much Shirls likes to dissect the plotline afterwards. They eat in one of the few establishments other than Hillman’s that accommodates Shirley’s numerous dietary restrictions, and it is obvious how much Shirley appreciates the moments they spend together, just relaxing. Upon reflection, Carson realises how much time Shirley has been giving to work and to the OPA, and manages to make a small amount of headway in convincing her to slow down a little, and take a decent break as soon as she can. 

Carson spends more time with Max outside of a group setting, playing baseball or else listening to it on the wireless. She doesn’t tell her about Greta, but they speak more about S, as well as Max’s plans for their future. Carson grills Max on how she intends to make life with S a reality when the odds are so stacked against them. She tells herself there is no particular reason for her curiosity, but even she cannot be so deluded as to believe she is acting without an agenda. 

“Do you think it even is possible?” she asks one evening, after night has fallen and they have ceased hitting baseballs. They sit together on a park bench, each drinking a beer. 

“Honestly? I don’t really know,” Max answers with a heavy sigh. “But I’m just done worrying about it. It’s not worth it. I’d rather have five perfect minutes with her and with all of you, than a whole lifetime of anything less.” 

Carson starts to understand this sentiment all the better as time goes on. She is learning how to enjoy herself. She is forgetting the way it used to feel to spend time with friends and worry that she didn’t really belong. She delights in every free moment she gets to spend with her current friends, and with Greta most of all. She takes joy in all the new opportunities she finds to get to know Jo - and Flo - and she even arranges a dinner with Maybelle, and realises how fun it is to spend time with her outside of the Woman & Home offices. 

The summer storms now feel like they happened in the distant past, and even the relentless city heat becomes a little more bearable as Carson gradually begins to get used to it. 

If she really only has these five minutes to find herself, then she might as well use them.

These are the halcyon days, and Carson intends to live each one to the fullest. 

Chapter Text

Carson jerks awake with a start, disoriented initially because she hadn’t intended to fall asleep in the first place, and then because she cannot work out what woke her up so suddenly. 

She had never fallen asleep in Greta’s bed before.

Afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows, painting the room in flaxen tones, and making the air feel close and hot.

Beside her, Greta had also fallen asleep and seemingly hadn’t been disturbed by whatever it was that roused Carson. She is on her side, knees curled slightly, with her bare back facing towards the centre of the bed. A single sheet is bunched around her hips and, even though Carson cannot see her face, she seems incredibly peaceful. It makes Carson feel peaceful, too. 

For a moment, she just watches the pale expanse of Greta’s back and the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes. It is mesmerising, reminiscent of waves lapping back and forth against a shoreline. 

The sight of Greta like this floods Carson with a mixture of desire and affection, and the moment feels absurdly intimate, particularly considering how they had spent the rest of the afternoon. It is sharp and stark and wildly sensual, waking up and finding Greta naked next to her. The feeling plucks deep at Carson’s heart like strings on a violin, creating a beautiful, melodic symphony of pure joy. 

The warmth of the moment swaddles her and the thought of going back to sleep for a while is tempting. Greta had told her earlier in the afternoon that Jo isn’t working today, but Carson doesn’t think it would matter if she came home while they were still in bed. Jo likely already assumes that Greta will be with Carson, and there is no reason Carson can think of that Jo would come into Greta’s bedroom without knocking first. 

There has, thus far, been no direct acknowledgement from Jo that she is aware of the nature of Greta and Carson’s relationship, but it is clear that she knows. Carson still isn’t entirely sure about Jo’s feelings on the whole thing, but has interacted with her enough by now to know that they do not appear, at least, to be overwhelmingly negative. 

Carson feels her eyes droop as she mulls this over and decides that another cat nap is definitely a good idea. As she lays there, however, waiting to be pulled back into slumber, she realises that her throat feels dry and scratchy, and contemplates whether she is thirsty enough to warrant getting out of bed. 

When she ultimately fails to fall asleep again, she concludes that the thirst and sore throat must have been what woke her up in the first place. She slips out of bed without disturbing Greta and has a brief inner battle regarding her current state of undress. Deciding Sod’s Law would cause Jo to turn up at precisely the wrong moment, she sighs and - once she has relocated most of her belongings - she pulls on her underwear and clothes, not bothering to properly tuck her shirt into her skirt. She intends to be fast. 

Determined to let Greta sleep for as long as she needs, Carson creeps silently out of the room and through the apartment. But, as she holds a chipped cup under the faucet in the kitchen, she jumps and nearly shatters the porcelain entirely when a round of laughter starts up from the living room. 

Carson suddenly goes very, very hot. 

There are clearly more than two other people in the apartment right now. 

Dread creeps up Carson’s spine at the thought of being discovered. Greta had mentioned a group of friends before, but she and Carson had never discussed whether those friends were all queer. Carson had always presumed that they must be, but that suddenly feels like an unbearably risky assumption. After all, she and Max were friends with Clance and Shirley. 

This is the very first time since she kissed Greta that Carson has felt any concrete sort of fear about what they have been doing. Out in public, they are doing a decent job of appearing as friends, although Greta had, on occasion, been forced to tell Carson to tone down a smile or particular expression. A few other times, Greta had imparted the odd piece of wisdom from her own rulebook - sitting a certain distance apart or not visiting the same place together too frequently - but Carson had never felt truly worried before now. To her, time with Greta was so exhilarating that it drowned out any entirely theoretical concerns. 

Indeed, it is probably absurd to be this worried right now - she doesn’t seriously believe Jo would associate with anyone who would put Greta in danger, much less bring them into their home - but this is a completely new situation. Carson is facing down the unknown. She has no idea who is here, or how she might be able to leave without being noticed. Even if the people are like her, it is still incredibly embarrassing to think how obvious it might be that she and Greta had been spending their afternoon in…a particular way.

Cautiously, she peeks out of the room and down the hallway before retreating all the way back into the kitchen. The door to the living room is slightly ajar. She cannot see any of the inhabitants, but they might see her if she passed by to exit the apartment.

Earlier in the week, she had agreed to take on an additional Red Cross shift to cover someone else who needed to make an emergency visit back home. She can hide out in Greta’s room for a while, but if she doesn’t turn up later, that might lead to any number of difficult questions from Bev or even from Jess. All three of them are private people and they generally observe that right for others, but an unexplained absence would be so out of character for Carson that someone was bound to seek a lot of answers.

Her heart begins hammering in her chest. 

She is about to make a break for the bedroom when conversation from the living room filters through to her and causes her to stay rooted in place.

“No Greta again today?” someone asks. Carson doesn’t recognise the voice. 

The reply comes from Jo. “Nah, she’s got plans.” 

“Again?” the first person says. “Feels like she’s disappeared off the face of the planet.” 

“Yeah,” Jo answers, tone so matter-of-fact it seems intentional. “That’s one way of putting it.” 

Someone snorts loudly. 

“So, she’s got…a thing going on.” 

“Oh, she has definitely got a thing going on.” 

“Well, to be fair,” the first person says, “it’s been a while since she’s had one of those.” 

“Yeah,” Jo agrees, sounding pensive. “I guess. I dunno.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know,” Jo repeats. “She’s…different. I’m not entirely sure she’s realised what kind of a thing she’s actually got going on, to be honest.” 

“Huh. Go figure. So it’s a serious thing?” 

“Some might say that it looks that way.” 

“Some?” 

“Yeah, I mean…people with eyes and a better sense of self-awareness than my roommate.”

This draws a little patter of laughter from the room. 

Carson’s heart continues to pound in her chest. 

Jo is of the opinion that what is happening between Carson and Greta is serious. Different. 

Different from what, Carson wonders. 

Carson thinks she might like the idea that something significant is happening between her and Greta. They haven’t talked about it - in fact, sometimes it almost feels as though they are actively avoiding talking about it - and Carson doesn’t have even close to enough experience to be able to judge the situation by herself. 

The only familiarity she has with courting was the time before she married Charlie, and that wasn’t the same thing at all. They already spent all of their time together. When they went steady, officially, it was more just a ceremonial title than anything else. 

But…what she and Greta are doing - it feels a little like courting someone. Maybe that’s what Jo means when she says it is different. 

“Well, at least her new friend isn’t married. That’s a nice change of pace,” someone remarks. 

“Oh,” Jo says with another laugh. “This rookie’s definitely married. Although you wouldn’t know it if not for the ring.” 

“Well that’s certainly a nice change of pace, then.” 

Another voice joins the conversation, and Carson recognises it as Flo’s. 

“Plus, she’s really nice.” She pauses. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You like her and you know it. You’re just doing your usual protective big sibling act. And she’s handling it like a champ, I might add.” 

“Fine,” Jo huffs. “She has a way of…endearing herself. Very, very farm though.” 

“You know as well as I do that she’s not from a farm.” 

“Might as well be. Ass-end of Nowhere, Idaho. Or wherever it is,” Jo grumbles, but she doesn’t press the point. If Carson has learned anything in the past few weeks, it is that Jo rarely presses the point when it comes to Flo.

“Ass-end of Idaho?” someone else asks, sounding particularly curious. 

“Somewhere like that, yeah.” 

“Interesting.” 

“Hardly interesting to be stuck in the middle of a bunch of goat farms.” 

“Agree to disagree. You need to learn to appreciate the great outdoors more.”  

“You know what else is interesting?” the first speaker interjects suddenly, perhaps to break up what threatens to become a bout of good-natured but aimless bickering. “You’ve been sitting there for at least twenty minutes without delivering on your promises.”   

Someone lets out a groan. “Mighty big for your boots, today. But, point taken.” 

The living room door creaks open, and Carson - who had momentarily forgotten her fear enough that she had started enjoying the commentary - realises that she is about to be discovered. 

It is a little less nerve-wracking now that she has the assurance no-one here is a threat, but the original terror is nonetheless replaced by nerves at the prospect of bumping into another of Greta’s friends in such an unexpected way. She still isn’t all that good at meeting new people, much less ones she wants to impress. Much less again ones she’d been eavesdropping on. 

Moreover, she still doesn’t particularly relish the idea of an awkward, red-faced conversation about her presence in the apartment in the middle afternoon. 

There is little she can do about this, however, because it is obvious that the person is making for the kitchen. 

Fuck. Her clothes. Her hair. 

Carson suddenly becomes acutely aware that every part of her appearance is a rumpled, unkempt mess. She hurriedly sets her mug on the counter and begins hastily shoving her shirt under her skirt. 

The footsteps reach the doorway and Carson is met with an undignified snort. 

“Your buttons aren’t done up right.” 

Carson’s gaze darts upwards as her heart flies into her mouth. 

The person leaning against the doorframe shoots Carson a familiar, lopsided grin.

“Jess?” 

“Hi Shaw.” Jess continues grinning, her tongue visibly poking at the inside of one cheek. Lazily, she crosses her arms over her chest. “Fancy running into you here.” 

“Oh, yeah. You too. I was actually just um…headed out.” 

Jess’ expression remains resolutely unchanged, her eyes bright with obvious mirth. 

“Uh-huh. You’re obviously dressed for it. Your bonus shift doesn’t start for a couple more hours though.”  

“No, I know. I just, uh, mean that I’m leaving the kitchen. Headed out your way,” Carson says quickly, wondering how it was possible, in a city of this size, that one of the people in Greta’s apartment was Jess McCready. 

It was one thing to be slightly bashful when a random person might assume that she and Greta had been… together in the apartment. It was considerably more mortifying when it was someone Carson already knew, even if that person happened to be as unflappable as Jess. 

Oh God. Jess knows all about Charlie. She had asked bland but polite questions about him on several occasions. If she has put two and two together about Carson and Greta - which she obviously has - then she knows that Carson has been unfaithful. This is all beyond humiliating. Plus, to add insult to injury, Carson is going to have to walk back to Greta’s bedroom in full view of her Motor Corps friend. 

Rather pathetically, Carson adds, “so, yeah. Better go. I have a few things I need to do.” 

She starts towards the door, but Jess doesn’t move. She hasn’t stopped smiling the entire time.

“Well, shit. Don’t leave on my account,” Jess says eventually, her voice disarmingly neutral. “I might even take it personally.”  

“Oh no, it’s not like that. Like I said - ”

“Stuff to do. Yeah.” 

Carson gets to the doorway and still, Jess hasn’t moved. After a short and underwhelming stand-off, Jess’ smile finally flickers and she rolls her eyes. 

“You are aware I’m fucking with you, right Shaw? And - given that I reckon you could probably hear our conversation - I had a pretty good idea who Jo was talking about when she mentioned a married rookie from rural Idaho. Can’t be that many of you around here.”

‘Interesting’. One of the people in the living room had called Jo’s description of Carson ‘interesting’. Why hadn’t Carson recognised that voice? She spent several evenings a week talking to Jess. 

She says nothing. There is nothing to say, really.  

“Well,” Jess goes on with a shrug. “I’m not detaining you or anything. I’m not the cops.” She pauses and then softly, but pointedly, adds, “see you later, yeah?” 

“Um, yeah. I guess so.” Carson goes to step around her, barely resisting the urge to bolt all the way to Greta’s room without looking back. Before she can make much progress, Jess speaks again.

“Oh, and Shaw?” 

Carson turns around again. “Yeah?” 

“Glad you finally figured it out.” 

Carson freezes on the spot. 

In that moment, she suddenly sees Jess anew. She sees the overalls and pants, the lace-up boots, the lack of makeup, the dirty-blonde hair that was never styled, only braided down Jess’ back. Even now, away from the Motor Corps and munitions factory, Jess has smudges on her arms. She is in pants and a plain vest and has a flat cap jammed over her head at an angle. Why hadn’t Carson ever thought about any of that before…especially recently?

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything. But, in the context of the conversation in the living room and the fact that Jess is friends with Greta and Jo, perhaps it did. Perhaps it all meant something. 

Jess chuckles and makes a show of peering closely at Carson, their faces next to each other for a split second. 

“Ah-ha! And the penny finally drops. Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you didn’t work me out ages ago.”

I didn’t work me out until this month, Carson thinks. 

“I - ” Carson begins, but she truly doesn’t know what to say. 

Jess laughs, the sound a little louder than last time, before opening the icebox and reaching in. 

“I literally just saw you have that epiphany in real time,” she teases before she begins amassing an assortment of glass bottles. 

“You… knew,” Carson asks incredulously. “About me?” 

“Sure,” Jess says mildly, as if it is nothing. She jerks her head in the rough direction of the bedrooms. “Didn’t know you knew Gill, or anything. But I’m happy you worked it out. All in our own time, right?” 

She straightens up and adjusts all of the drinks in her arms before heading back towards the door. 

“You want to join us? Or you still got some fake errands to run? Or…a better place to be?” Jess raises her eyebrows pointedly and Carson blushes.  

“But…how? How did you know? When did you know?” 

“I’ve known since your first shift, but then you never shut the fuck up asking questions that basically screamed ‘I hate my old life’. I kinda pieced it together.”

“Jess, I didn’t know…” 

Jess pauses for a moment, studying Carson with a look of deep, gentle understanding on her face. 

“Yeah. It goes like that sometimes.” 

Carson opens her mouth, a million questions vying to tumble out first, but then a voice shouts out from the living room. 

“McCready! Are you brewing the fucking beer or what?” 

Jess’s easy, disaffected demeanour flickers back to life and something about the familiarity of it is soothing. 

“Nah, you’re not worth all that effort,” Jess calls back, earning herself several indignant cries. She passes Carson and shoulders her way through the narrow gap in the living room doorway. “Don’t mind me, just chatting with Gill’s new friend.” 

A brief but pregnant pause follows and then Carson hears Jo’s voice, but it is quiet and the words are inaudible. Whatever she says, it makes Jess laugh. 

“Fuck you, De Luca. I always play nice.” She reappears in the doorway, now free of her armful of beers and Cokes. “Anyway, me and Shaw are pals.” 

This time, Carson hears Jo without any trouble. 

“I’m sorry - you’re what?!” 

Before anything else painfully embarrassing can happen, Carson hears the door to Greta’s bedroom door open behind her. She turns around and, from a little way away, she sees Greta’s face peering through a narrow gap. From what little Carson can see of her, she had only bothered shrugging on a robe. 

“What’s going on?” she hisses at Carson, who can do little more than shrug. 

She has no idea what has just happened, and she has a million questions to ask. How did Jess know? What was it about Carson that was so - so obvious right from their first meeting?

“Jo’s back with your friends,” she replies, figuring it is as good an explanation as any. 

“Right. Okay,” Greta says and she doesn’t sound displeased, exactly, but it is clearly not how she imagined the afternoon panning out. “Give me a second and I’ll be out.” 

Before she can retreat, however, Jess calls out again. 

“Hey Gill! It’s been so long I barely recognised you. I was just catching the others up on my time with Shaw.” Jess pauses and Carson turns back around just in time for her friend to say, “Motor Corps, right Carson?” 

She has pushed the door to the living room all the way open, giving the room’s occupants an unimpeded view down the straight corridor, all the way to Greta's bedroom door. Carson can see Jo sitting in her preferred chair, while Flo perches on the arm.

Jess slumps unceremoniously onto the couch beside a curly-haired woman in dark jeans and a patterned button-up.

“Been what? A year now?” Jess asks. 

“A little more, yeah,” Carson says weakly. 

The person on the couch elbows Jess. Carson just about hears her say, “you didn’t tell me you weren’t the only one. What’s that about?” 

“Not my business,” Jess grunts, lips pursed as she lights a cigarette. “Besides, we gotta give Shaw a break. She’s new here.” 

“Oh, is that so?” the woman gives Carson a thoughtful, scrutinising once-over. “Yeah, I can see that.” 

Jess rolls her eyes and nudges her friend’s knee in obvious reproach. 

“Yet I’m the one who gets told to play nice.” To Carson specifically, she adds, “this is Lupe. We’re roommates. She might even try to watch her tongue if you want to join us while Gill…makes herself more presentable for other company.” 

“Jess, you can go and fu…” Greta calls out in mock exasperation, before promptly shutting her door with a bang, cutting off the last two words. 

“Unlike you, I guess,” Jess returns loudly, and even Carson, as embarrassed as she is, cannot help but laugh along with everyone else.

*

If Greta is self-conscious about the scrutiny of her friends, then she doesn’t show it. She simply glides into the living room an impressively short amount of time later with her hair re-styled and her makeup touched up flawlessly. She had thrown on a dark, patterned one-piece jumpsuit, one that is far more fashionable - and daringly low-cut - than the coverall utility clothes some people own for work.

Carson has never seen Greta wear it before, and she is pretty sure that, from their vantage point on the couch, both Jess’ roommate and Jess herself catch Carson staring before she has the presence of mind to avert her eyes.

Sometimes, Carson looks at Greta and wonders how it was ever possible she hadn’t realised before they kissed.

Last week, she and Shirley finally went to see Background To Danger and, from her seat in the middle of the fifth row, Carson had watched Brenda Marshall and marvelled at how oblivious she had been.

With some reflection and a little bit of grace for herself, Carson can acknowledge that a part of her had always thought that everyone felt this way. Women were so objectively beautiful, so easy to appreciate - and to treasure. They took so much care with their clothes and makeup and hair, and even the ones like Jess who were more rugged had such bright, interesting faces and such soft, fascinating bodies.

It wasn’t hard to admire women. Carson just thought that everyone knew that.

But, as she sits with five other people who so evidently and ardently admired women in just the same, specific way she now knows she does, Carson starts to see it.

She is so different from Greta and Flo with their long, flowing hair and their pretty dresses. She isn’t confident and charismatic like Jo or Jess or, indeed, Lupe, all of whom are almost…masculine, in their own ways. Carson doesn’t wear the same pants or shirts or shoes (although a part of her thinks she might like to) but…even though she doesn’t think she is entirely like any of the other women in the room, Carson sees the similarities too. It is like there are little ties that bind them all together.

Most of them, Carson realises, aren’t even really women in the way that people outside this apartment would expect them to be. Not Lupe or Jo with their fashion sense; not Jess with her farm knowledge or her handyman persona; hell, not even Greta who, even with her love of all things feminine, at one point during the conversation lights a cigarette, tells a story about an injury obtained from sliding across a baseball diamond, and promptly says ‘shut your fucking mouth, Moose Jaw,’ when Jess makes a joke at her expense. 

Being here, surrounded by these women, makes Carson feel as though she has come home. Paradoxically, almost, it makes her feel more seen as a woman than when her sister or her Lake Valley neighbours perceived her. It was like she finally understood herself here, enough to shed feelings of discomfort she hadn’t realised were present until she finally cast them off for good. 

It reminded her of how, when she was a kid, Carson’s mother would sometimes bake pecan nuts into pies. Whenever Carson ate a piece, her mouth would itch and her stomach would hurt, badly. In an attempt to appease a father who would get angry when the family didn’t finish their plates, Carson never mentioned it to anybody. For years, she just assumed it was how everyone felt. It was just how you were supposed to feel, after eating some foods. Of course, eventually, she worked out the obvious - that she had an allergy. The way she felt wasn’t the same as everyone else. Finding out that you weren’t actually supposed to go through life feeling self-conscious and different and wrong at all times - was a little like that. 

She feels so at ease amongst Greta and Jess and their friends, in fact, that Carson finds she is forced to drag herself away against her own will later that day, ruing as she does her previous commitment to doing a good deed for someone else at the Motor Corps.

At least she has company. 

“That was fun,” Jess remarks as they both descend the stairs in Greta’s building, walking fast and falling easily into step. 

For the first time, Carson had driven her car to Greta’s apartment, delighting Jess at the prospect of avoiding public transport on a Saturday afternoon.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I had a great time.”

She is sincere, but absent. Her mind replays the way Greta had followed her through the apartment with the entirely unbelievable intention of helping Carson collect her things. Their parting kiss - Greta’s real motivation, naturally - was slow and drawn out, hot as a brand on Carson’s lips. Like a balm, Greta had soothed them a moment later when she brushed away several large smears of her lipstick with the pad of her thumb.

Then, she pressed another light kiss to the corner of Carson’s mouth without leaving a mark, before drawing back with a wink.

“There. No one will ever know.”

The four smirking faces waiting for them, however, already knew too much.

In a way, Carson likes that dynamic – everyone being open enough to talk candidly about certain physical aspects of their relationships – but it was going to be a difficult adjustment. She had never heard anyone back in Lake Valley even come close to mentioning any kind of physical intimacy. While they weren’t quite as repressed as Mrs Wilkinson, her peers back at home would have felt faint at the mere thought of the easy, teasing jokes Greta’s friends had levelled at each other that afternoon.  

“That’s the other reason I knew, by the way,” Jess says suddenly as the two of them burst into the afternoon sunshine. “That big, dumb look on your face. You’ve been wandering around like you’re on the moon recently.”

Well, that certainly brings Carson back down to earth with a bump.

“Oh.”

This is all she can think to say as they both pile into her car. When Jess has installed herself comfortably in the passenger seat, she adds,

“I didn’t say it like it was a bad thing, Shaw. No need for the kicked puppy act.”

Carson starts the engine and pulls away.

“I’m not – no, no kicked puppy act. Greta’s just…told me a lot about the rules and all the stuff we have to be careful about now. I guess I’m not being mindful enough.”

Jess exhales and pulls a toothpick from the front pocket of her shirt. She holds it between her teeth and says nothing for a moment.

“Obviously, yeah. We do have to be careful. But,” Jess pauses and takes so long to speak again that Carson thinks she must have decided against it. Then, very carefully, she says, “Gill is…very, very cautious. Too much so, in my opinion.”

Unbidden, Carson hears Shirley’s voice in her head.

You can never be too safe, Carson. Never.

“That’s not actually a bad thing, surely?” 

“Hm. Maybe. Maybe not,” Jess answers, slinging one of her feet up onto the dashboard. She looks for all the world as if that would be enough of an answer for her. Carson, however, is not of the same mindset.

“What does that mean?”

“Carson, look. You’re new to all of this. So I don’t think it’s wrong to start out with a healthy sense of caution. Don’t run until you can walk, you know?”

Carson sends Jess an incredulous expression across the car. “Have you ever once in your life waited to learn to walk before just hurtling at something?”

Jess throws her head back and laughs. “Touché. Do as I say and not as I do, then.”

“But – ”

“Jesus Christ, I’ve never used so many clichés in my life. Just…trust me on this one. You do actually have to know the rules before you can work out how best to break them. But, yeah, in time…I’d encourage you to throw some of them out. More than Gill does, ideally.”

“Greta does – ” Carson begins loyally, but Jess cuts her off.

“That isn’t a dig at your girl, Shaw. She’s my friend. And she’s just doing what’s right for her. She’s not wrong just because her way isn’t right for me.”

Carson, who finds herself momentarily distracted by how she had lit up at the words ‘your girl’, takes a moment to consider this.

“What made you decide what your way should be?”

Jess snorts and gestures down her body. “You’ve seen me, right?”

They both laugh.

“Okay,” Carson concedes. “But – did you ever consider it? Just playing safe?”

“I guess. A little,” Jess says, smiling when she spots a surprised look on Carson’s face. “But, honestly? Fuck that. There’s nothing wrong with what I am. Everyone else gets to take joy in their life. Why should they get to have all the fun and not us? But, if other people are more comfortable hiding, it’s not my place to push them. I’m just choosing something else. Plus, you’ve never seen me in a dress or with my hair done. I look way more like a queer than I do right now.”

A queer. Carson had never heard anyone say those words that way before, like they weren’t something dirty but rather just something a person is . Jess is a mechanic, a Canadian…a queer. 

Now that Carson knows about Jess, she finds it hard to believe there is a way her friend could be more visible than she already is. Nonetheless, the idea fascinates her. Jess, as she is now, is at ease because she’s being herself. She’s comfortable. Carson pictures her in make-up and a skirt, all trussed up like a wild animal made to do tricks for a watching crowd.

Oddly, it kind of breaks her heart. It sort of feels, to Carson, like the idea of a wild thing tamed.  

Although Carson had never much felt like a wild spirit, she is increasingly fascinated - and tempted - by the idea of wearing fewer dresses and skirts, unless they were the ones she actually liked to wear. Would that make her more or less conspicuous? Would she feel, for perhaps the first time in her life, less like a sideshow spectacle if she started wearing the clothes that made her body seem like it belonged to her?

On second thought, Carson can see the image Jess was trying to conjure when she said she was more visible when she was trying to hide. Right now, she might be doing the ‘wrong’ things by society’s standards, but it wasn’t as obvious as looking painfully out of place when doing the ‘right’ thing.

“Do people often give you trouble for it? The way you dress?”

Jess smirks, as though she is all too aware that Carson has an agenda.

“Doesn’t fucking matter if they do. They’re not the ones who pay for my clothes. Plus, before I speak, some people don’t even realise I’m not a guy, which helps. And I’m pretty happy with that. Besides, I think a lot of people who see me or Lupe or Jo – they realise, you know? Even if they just do it kind of passively. And it’s not safe, but I think that helps, sometimes.”

“I thought you just said we had to be careful…”

“We do. And being butch…it’s a target on your head sometimes. But no one’s going to be truly shocked by finding out I’m queer. Even you weren’t. The ones like Gill or Flo, though? Sometimes, I think people have a different kind of hate for those of us who aren’t like me or Lu. Some of the prudes out there get real mad about the ones who pass off like ‘their’ women.” Jess pauses and glances quickly at Carson, perhaps to make sure they are both on the same page. 

Carson nods, so Jess goes on. 

“They don’t like to be deceived, or to be shown that they’re too stupid to actually tell who’s like them and who isn’t.”

This statement makes a brief shiver of fear run through Carson on Greta’s behalf. Is that why she’s so cautious all the time? So much more so than someone like Jess, at least? Carson pushes the questions away for the time being, deciding that this is a better conversation to have with Greta than without her knowledge. So, instead, she asks,

“What’s butch?”

Jess rolls her eyes and groans. “Oh my God. Get ready for an educational Red Cross shift, Carson. You’ve got a long way to go.”  

*

Talking with Jess all evening - it helps. Although she is the type of person who usually seems to prefer silence, she is surprisingly patient when she answers all of Carson’s questions. There isn’t any mechanic work for her today, so she and Carson take on assignments together, zipping around the city with the larger, two-person deliveries and errands, and chatting in the car between each stop. 

Although it does not particularly surprise Carson, Jess, as it turns out, had come to an understanding about herself when she was young. As a teenager she had had little flings with girls in her town, and as a young adult this had continued against the backdrop of Moose Jaw’s only somewhat underground queer scene. The education she had once spoken about, as Carson manages to surmise in the few minutes before Jess explains it, was a small prairie town that was surprisingly unperturbed by the concept that some people were queer. 

“It’s not…perfect, obviously,” Jess explains as she cranes forward in the passenger seat of the car, looking for a particular street to the right, “but it’s better than most other places.” 

“So, like…” Carson pauses, also scanning for the right turn, “does your dad know? Or does he care, I guess?” 

“I mean, you know. He has eyes and they still work pretty well,” Jess mutters. She pauses and points. “It’s the next one, right there. Yeah, turn here. So…sure, I think he knows. We’ve never spoken about it but I also don’t think he cares. I have, like, seven little brothers so it’s not like he’s worried about not having a million grandkids or anything. He cares more about the fact that we make ourselves useful on the farm than he does about who we’re gonna marry.” 

“I can’t imagine that,” Carson admits, driving down the street. “My dad and sister found out Charlie proposed and they all but shoved me into the church there and then. They couldn’t wait to see me married.” 

“Look, I’m not exactly saying I could just bring a girl home to dinner.” Jess pauses again. “But I guess I’m also not… not saying that. I don’t really know, actually. Never had an express wish to test that theory.”

“Right,” Carson murmurs, heart speeding up as she prepares her next question. All evening, she had known she wanted to broach this topic, but she hadn’t yet worked up the courage. She takes a breath. “But it’s not like we can actually do that kind of stuff anyway, right? Like, date or court or - or marry, or whatever. Right?”
Jess lets out a little laugh. “Damn Shaw, look at you with the ‘we’ already. Few weeks with Gill and you’re about to sign up for the community newsletter. You’ll be planning your débutante coming out party next.”

“No…I’m - no, obviously I’m not about to - ”

Jess cuts Carson off with a snort. “Queer Shaw is just as easy to fuck with. That’s good to know.” She flashes a sly look across the car just in time to catch Carson rolling her eyes. Then, Jess says, “but honestly? Sure we can. Not legally, or openly or anything, but what do you think De Luca and Flo are doing? I know a bunch of women who are married to other women. Again, not legally, but there’s literally nothing stopping us doing the commitment part.” 

At this, Jess pulls a slightly obscure expression.

“Not your speed?” Carson asks with a gentle laugh. 

Jess points out the next turn and Carson drives them to their destination. 

“Not really,” Jess says. “Not as of yet, I guess. Can’t all be following Gill around with the puppy dog eyes. But that’s the beauty of life, Shaw,” she goes on, hamming up a whimsical attitude for effect. “You never fucking know what’s going to happen.” 

*

Perhaps in one of those serendipitous turns Jess had unwittingly referred to, Shirley announces, a few days later, that she has taken heed of Carson’s entreaties to slow down. With some excitement, she explains her plan to make a trip home to see her family for a few days. This leaves Carson with an idea, albeit one that she struggles to make a persuasive argument for when she sees Greta the following weekend.

She had gone to the apartment feeling excited, thinking that Greta might be excited too by the prospect of an extended period of privacy, but she quickly finds herself deflated as she sits on the couch and listens to Greta shoot down the idea without even really hearing it out, no matter how hard - or how many times - Carson tries to make her case.  

“We can’t just go around taking risks like that, Carson,” Greta tells her for the umpteenth time, finally beginning to sound exasperated. 

“But we already take risks like that,” Carson points out, before realising that reminding Greta of this fact is probably not a good idea. 

Greta sighs, looking for all the world as though she is trying to teach long division to a rambunctious toddler.

“Carson, if your neighbours see me around your apartment for the entire time your roommate is away, someone is going to put two and two together.” 

“But they’re not, though. Because I have never once spoken to one of our neighbours. We’re the only apartment on the top floor, and we never even hear anyone else, let alone see them. I’ll be surprised if anyone even realises Shirley was out of town, much less if someone worked out that you were spending the nights there while she was gone. And…if anyone did ask, couldn’t we just say you’re keeping me company because I don’t feel safe alone?”

Greta rubs at her temple for a moment, as if this conversation has also started giving her a headache. 

“Perhaps…perhaps we can afford to risk an overnight stay or two here. You could stay here, maybe. I’ll think about it. But we can’t…I can’t just stay at your place because you’re home alone. That’s not how stuff like this works.” 

“But Flo stays here all the time!” Carson protests, still clinging to an illusion of a few days of uninterrupted time with Greta. It was a fantasy she had found surprisingly easy to imagine, and now she had conjured a picture of just how wonderful it could be, she is unwilling to abandon it without a fight. 

“She has a point, Bird!” Jo calls from the kitchen and Greta’s expression is one that could kill in an instant. 

“Yes, thanks Jo!” Greta yells back. “ Really appreciate your input here and don’t anticipate you having an ulterior motive at all with that little contribution.” Greta pauses and turns back to Carson, voice still terse but now at its normal volume. “We get away with it here because lots of people in this building and this neighbourhood are like us. Can you say the same for where you live?” 

Carson pauses and then scowls. They both know she can’t. 

“Exactly,” Greta says, voice softening. “I’m sorry. I really am. But we can’t just gamble with our safety like that.” 

“But…”

“Carson, we can still take advantage of your roommate being out of town, okay? We can spend an evening at your place without me staying over. That’s still something, right?” 

One. One evening. But absolutely not all of them. That part was crystal clear in Greta’s tone. 

“Yeah,” Carson agrees haughtily, aware of how sullen her demeanour is, but unmotivated to do anything about it. “Fine. Sure. I guess it’s something.” 

“Really? This is what we’re doing now?” Greta asks, and it seems as if she is trying for a playful tone, but her words still come out sounding hard and accusatory at the edges. 

“I’m not doing anything.” 

“Sure you’re not,” Greta says sharply before getting out of her armchair. “I’ll leave you to your nothing for a minute while I see if Jo needs a hand with the drinks.” 

She sweeps out of the room and pulls the door behind her. The handle is broken, however, and the door slips ajar a moment later. Carson is unsurprised when, after a loaded silence throughout the apartment, a hushed conversation starts up in the kitchen. She cannot hear what Greta and Jo are saying, but it is obvious that the exchange of words is a serious one. 

When Greta returns - with three drinks that Jo very obviously was capable of making and carrying by herself - she does a fairly credible job of acting as though nothing is wrong, but Carson cannot quite match her glossy veneer with a brave face of her own. 

She is not entirely sure whether Greta is truly only worried about the risk of using Carson’s apartment, or whether she simply does not want to spend so much time together. Carson wonders if she had pushed for something that wasn’t…an option, for people like them. But she had seen Jo and Flo together, and she had spoken with Jess… 

As time goes on, it unsettles her to have so little understanding of what she and Greta really are to each other, both from Greta’s perspective and her own. Even with all of Jess’ help, Carson still feels out of her depth and she can feel the first stirrings of self-resentment at her own lack of knowledge and experience. 

For as close as they had become, it feels as though she and Greta no longer talk quite so plainly anymore, not if it is about themselves and their connection. Carson would like to, but it feels as though they get close to the topic and Greta sweeps them away and onto another subject entirely. Her reticence unsettles Carson, who finds herself more anxious at times than she would like to admit. 

She leaves Greta and Jo’s apartment earlier than normal that evening, long before she and Greta have a chance at any privacy. When Greta walks Carson to the door, it is impossible to tell whether she is angry, sad, or both, but as Carson petulantly leaves the apartment without even their usual parting kisses to bolster her, she wonders if, once again, she has screwed up something good without even knowing how.  

*

In the days that follow, Shirley makes her preparations to leave. She buzzes around in an unnecessary frenzy, washing her clothes and packing a small suitcase well in advance of her departure date. 

Despite the fact that Carson has lived in the apartment for more than a year, Shirley still writes a number of lists with instructions for keeping the place clean and orderly, as well as taking the trash out on time.

Then, one afternoon, as Carson returns home from yet another day spent opening depressing letters and trying to secretly craft a small handful of helpful responses, Shirley corners her in the kitchen and tries to run through her step-by-step guide of tasks and routines to be completed in her absence.

Carson listens patiently for a while, before taking advantage of Shirley pausing to draw breath and scan through the fourth page of instructions for something in particular.

“Shirls, it’s fine,” Carson says gently. “I’ve lived here a while. I promise I’ll keep the place nice while you’re away. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know, I know,” Shirley replies absently, eyes still scanning over the rows and rows of her small, neat handwriting. “But I do anyway.”

“I get that, but you can trust me. Everything will stay clean and tidy, I’ll pick up the supplies we need, and I know which days the trash needs to go outside.”

“Oh, I do trust you, Carson,” Shirley says seriously. “You’re the only roommate I’ve ever trusted.”

Carson holds in a laugh and wonders how many pages of instructions Shirley would leave for a person who hadn’t won her approval. In the end, she lets Shirl finish up her list just because it will make her happy and, afterwards, they spend some time in the living room together, chatting about the weekend trip.

“I think my mom will have a lot planned,” Shirley says when Carson asks if she will be doing anything special. “As you well know, I haven’t been home since Hanukkah. I know that mom’s very excited. Plus, well, she’s a bit of a planner. She likes to cover every eventuality.”

Carson glances over at Shirley’s papers stacked neatly on the coffee table and bites back a fond smile. “Mm. I can imagine.”

“Oh, I’m not sure you can, Carson,” Shirley corrects earnestly, but obliviously. “She doesn’t leave anything to chance. She’ll make a plan and a contingency plan, and then at least one more plan just to be sure.” Shirls pauses and leans in conspiratorially, dropping her voice as if her mother is in the next room. “I’d never tell her this because I love her so much, but, actually, it can sometimes get a bit annoying. It would be nice to have more of a say in things now that I’m an adult, but it’s just not her way. I know she means well.”

Carson has no chance of suppressing the fond smile threatening her face.

“Well, sometimes we just have to take people as they are.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Shirley agrees, impervious to the irony of the conversation. “Well, since you have to manage all the chores for a while, I’ll take the trash out tonight.” 

“Thanks,” Carson murmurs, watching Shirley leave. 

When her roommate returns, she has divested herself of their trash bag but is carrying something else with her instead. 

“That’s strange. I just found this outside our apartment door. It’s for you. I thought I’d collected all our mail earlier today. One of the neighbours must have dropped it off. How kind.” 

She hands Carson an envelope, the address face down as Carson takes it. When she flips it over, her mouth goes dry. It is Greta’s handwriting. 

There is only one sheet of paper inside. 

Carson, 

I’m very sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean to shoot you down the way I did. 

We do have to be careful, but I still should have been more mindful of myself. It is so easy to forget that this is all so very new to you. I worry about you getting hurt; I couldn’t live with myself if you did. It is incredibly important that we’re sensible. 

But, I think we can be. 

I shall visit you at your apartment after work on Friday, if you will have me. 

Yours,

GG

Carson carefully puts the letter back in the envelope. There is a stamp on the front (for, Carson assumes, appearances), but no postmark. Greta hadn’t mailed it. She had come to the apartment to deliver it. Perhaps she had even come all the way to the door. 

A little flame of hope flickers in Carson’s chest. If Greta is willing to do all that, this thing between them must mean something to her. If she is willing to come back here on Friday - the first night Shirley is away - perhaps Carson can convince her to stay after all.  

*

On Friday afternoon, it is as though Shirley hasn’t actually left the apartment at all. 

She does depart, as planned, after finishing work, hugging Carson and wishing her a pleasant weekend. But, once Carson is alone, she seems to channel all of her roommate’s usual nervous energy. She flits about the apartment, tidying things that are already perfectly neat and wiping down surfaces that have already been cleaned to within an inch of their lives. 

She finds something to occupy her every moment until, a little before six o’clock, Greta makes good on her word. 

Carson opens the door with her heart in her mouth, still partially unsure of the tentative agreement between them. Then, she sees Greta on the other side of the threshold and is powerless to stop a smile from sliding across her face. 

“Hey,” she breathes. “You came.” 

“Well,” Greta replies, matching Carson’s smile with one of her own. “I was in the area and thought I might pop in for a while.” 

It is only when Greta steps inside, however, that Carson spots the large bag in her hand. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still want me to,” Greta says when she spots Carson eyeing up the luggage. “But I - ”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish. Carson launches at Greta, pulling her into a tight hug. 

“Oh,” Greta sighs, “wo- okay. Hi there.”

It takes a moment before she circles her arms around Carson too. When she does, however, she finally lets her body go loose, even as she holds on tight. 

“Hey,” Carson says again, voice muffled into Greta’s shirt. 

For some absurd reason, Carson finds that she wants to cry. 

*

“Why did you change your mind?” Carson asks over dinner, breaking an extended, comfortable silence. 

Greta pauses, startled at the suddenness of the question, with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. Quickly, she snaps her mouth shut and carefully puts the fork down on her plate. 

“Because I wanted to spend time with you,” she says plainly. “Because I like spending time with you.”

Carson believes her - surprises herself, actually, with just how easily she believes the words - but it doesn’t feel like the full story. She sends a careful look across the dinner table. In response, Greta smiles, a glimmer of bashfulness passing over her face before she neutralises her expression again. 

“And,” she goes on, “because my best friend called me an idiot, repeatedly, for a little over forty-eight hours. For the record, I got the message long before that time was up. I just hate it when she knows she’s right.” 

This surprises a laugh out of Carson. “Well, it was nice of Jo to weigh in.”

“Nice for who?” Greta returns darkly. “Jo’s tongue is far sharper than she realises.” 

“Trust me, I’m well aware by now. But, you’re here so, in this case, it was nice for me.” 

Carson reaches across the table, covering one of Greta’s hands with her own. Slowly, Greta turns her hand so that it is palm up, watching closely as Carson tangles their fingers together. 

Without looking up, she says, “after you left on Saturday, Jo pointed out that I might have come across as being against us spending time together like this. That you might have felt…cast aside. And that wasn’t my intention.”

At this, Carson is forced to clamp her back teeth around an admission that she is desperate to know what she and Greta are to each other. She lacks the requisite bravery in the moment, however, to ask the question. Instead, the only admission she can muster is, “honestly, I…wasn’t sure if that was the reason you said ‘no’.” 

With a pained expression, Greta glances away from their hands to look at the door to the apartment. Earlier, she had insisted that they slide the chain across, just in case Shirley came back unexpectedly. 

“I’m just trying to make sure we stay safe, Carson,” she says, voice so soft it is barely a whisper. “But it was never my intention to make you feel unwanted.” 

“I know,” Carson says, even though it is only a true statement as of right now.

As overjoyed as she is that Greta had changed her mind, Carson cannot help but also feel sad about Greta’s earlier conviction that - even for just a few short days - this sort of thing wasn’t possible. Something about the fact that Greta had to be persuaded here by Jo, that she came despite her fear and not without it, has caused an abstract kind of melancholy in Carson, even though she wants so desperately to only be happy that Greta is here at all. 

The shape of this sadness is unfamiliar to Carson; it looks a little like grief, even though she hasn’t been bereaved of anything. 

To hide the sudden, unexpected onslaught of a fresh wave of tears, she pulls her hand away and stands up, collecting their plates and hurrying off to the kitchen. 

Greta doesn’t follow immediately and, as Carson stands at the sink, it seems as though she does not intend to. 

But, eventually a soft, warm body presses all the way against Carson’s back. Arms snake around her waist and Greta’s chin comes to rest against her crown. Greta sways slightly, as if there is a song playing, and Carson moves with her. 

Carefully, Greta drops a kiss to Carson’s temple. With her lips against Carson’s hair she murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Carson replies, because it is. 

“You’re not unwanted. I want you, and I want you safe.” 

Tears swim in Carson’s eyes and she blinks them away. She cannot trust herself to speak, so she nods. Greta hugs her closer. 

“Do you think your fantastically fastidious roommate might feel a chill go through her from miles away if there are a few unwashed dishes left in the kitchen tonight?” Greta asks.

Although she sees the distraction tactic for what it is, Carson laughs anyway. “Probably.” 

Greta reaches out and shuts the faucet off. “I think it’s more than worth the risk if you’ll come and sit on the couch with me for a while.” 

Carson spins around and stands on her tiptoes, craning up to press a soft kiss to Greta’s lips. 

All of this is worth any risk in the world - even the ones much more threatening than an angry Shirley (which, admittedly, was still a dangerous encounter) - but she doesn’t know how to make Greta believe that this is how she truly feels. 

*

They spend the evening with Greta stretched out on the couch, her head pooled in Carson’s lap while Carson sits with her feet up on the footstool. They put the wireless on and feign an interest in the latest instalment of Mr District Attorney. Shirley listens to it whenever she has time, but Carson has never particularly gotten into it. Apparently, neither has Greta. 

All the same, she listens to it with her eyes shut, murmuring contentedly whenever Carson slides a hand through her hair. 

They swap a little commentary back and forth, and eventually switch the wireless off again before the episode concludes. 

“Read to me for a little while?” Greta asks, shifting in Carson’s lap and burrowing impossibly closer. 

It is so, so easy for Carson to comply. It is so easy for her to reach out and pick up her book from the coffee table; it is so easy to turn the pages and read until the room grows dark and Greta falls asleep with her head pillowed against Carson’s thigh.

It is so incredibly easy to be like this with her in a space that, for now at least, is all their own. More than that, Carson cannot help but think that, most of all, it is terrifyingly easy to picture doing it all forever.  

*

The only thing that isn’t quite as easy is resolving to wake Greta up when she doesn’t, to Carson’s surprise, stir naturally on her own.

She must be really tired, Carson thinks, her heart twisting with affection. Then, a moment later, she realises that Greta must also be really comfortable. And content. The affection in Carson’s chest broadens; it grows wider and fills her up until it is almost hard to breathe. 

She knows what it is. Carson knows what she is feeling.

She doesn’t want to name it, though. Not just yet.

A thing named is a thing tamed.

That was a line in one of her old fairy tale books, back at home.

It was, Carson dimly recalls, something relating to an old belief that you could conquer a creature – or a person – by naming it. People used to believe that, to hold power over something or someone, you had to know its name. As such, in some cases there might be public names – not entirely real, but safe – and there might be secret ones. These, you guarded like treasure because, in the wrong hands, they could render you powerless.

Since realising that she is queer, Carson has spent a lot of time thinking about those old stories. She has found herself caught up on the idea that everyone has a secret name, one that only they know and can choose to share. It feels as though she understands the old fairy tales a little more now than she ever used to. It is no longer hard to imagine guarding perhaps the most honest, intimate truth about oneself and keeping it from the world, so that it doesn't destroy you.

Recently, Carson has caught herself wondering, from time to time, what her own secret name would be. Who would she trust to know it and never use it against her?

She glances down at Greta, already aware that the answer is a painfully obvious one.

All the same, Carson is sure that giving voice to her feelings for Greta would never tame them. Feelings aren’t names. Feelings aren’t something that undermine you. Feelings – these feelings, at least – would be even more powerful in the light than they currently are while concealed in the dark.

Carson thinks her feelings for Greta couldn’t be tamed by anything. They are stronger than anything she has ever known, bright and self-sustaining like Prometheus’ stolen flame.

In fact, if she could, she would sit here in the stillness of the night and feel nothing else – do nothing else – ever again. She would feed off this feeling and let it nourish her for the rest of time. She would hold the parts of the world that Greta feared most of all at bay.

If she could, Carson would taste Greta’s secret name on her tongue and swallow it down. She would keep it so safe, so hidden, that Greta would never be scared of anything, ever again. She would carve both of their names in stone and bury them deep in the earth, where no one would ever find them. That way, they would live on forever like the legends and heroes of old. 

But, Carson knows, all of this is nothing more than folklore. It isn’t real.

Even so, when she does finally wake Greta, she tells herself it is because Greta’s neck will be sore if she stays like that for too much longer. It is because Carson’s leg has already gone completely dead, tingling in places with uncomfortable bouts of pins and needles.

It isn’t because there is no perfect sanctuary for them. It isn’t because so many of Carson’s newest, most precious dreams aren’t actually possible, or because there is nowhere in the world where she and Greta could be like this without always being in some degree of danger.

There are no secret names, only secret lovers, and there is nothing Carson can do to change that.  

*

It takes a long moment for Carson to rouse Greta from her sleep. She manages it, eventually, with her fingers in Greta’s hair and her other hand cupped gently over her cheek.

She has watched Greta wake up before, but never in Carson’s own living room. Never curved together on a couch. Never in the dead of night. Somehow, even this is world-altering. Carson still cannot entirely believe that it is possible to feel this much for another person, all crammed into small moments and tiny gestures.

When Greta stirs, it is obvious that she has forgotten entirely where she is. She shifts in Carson’s lap, chasing sleep by burying her face into the fabric of Carson’s shirt.

“It’s late,” Carson murmurs, breaking the midnight silence of the room. “You must be uncomfortable like that.”

“M’actually very comfortable like this,” Greta grumbles, words almost lost entirely against Carson’s body.

But, without any further protest, she moves so that she is gazing up at Carson, her smile sleepy and her eyes wide and round. She kisses Carson’s palm and stretches out as best she can on the couch, a happy little noise working its way out from the back of her throat as some of her joints let out satisfying click and pop sounds.

Greta is all sleep-rumbled round the edges, and Carson can’t take her eyes off her. For a while, Greta just watches back.

Then, eventually, she quietly asks, “which one’s your bedroom?”

Without much gusto, Carson points across the apartment, even though Greta’s low vantage point must mean she cannot really see the hallway or the door.

“And the bathroom?”

Carson points again.

“I know it’s late,” Greta goes on,  “but I think I should wash the day away before we go to bed. That okay?” 

Carson would have been happy to drag Greta into her bed for the very first time, right there and then, but instead she nods, offering Greta a loose, easy smile.

Greta returns it. “Yeah? Sound like a good idea?” 

“Yeah,” Carson agrees, voice a whisper. “Sounds okay to me.” 

“Just okay, huh?” Greta asks, her smile changing shape slightly. 

Somehow, Carson still doesn’t work it out until Greta tugs her into the washroom too.

By the time her mind catches up, Greta already has the water running and is stripping them both of shirts and skirts and underwear. They crowd into the shower together, giggling stupidly and trying not to shriek as the water takes its time to heat up properly. 

Although she angles herself away from the stream of water as best she can to keep her hair dry, Greta stands close behind Carson and lathers bath soap between her hands. She runs a washcloth over Carson’s shoulders, working her thumbs against a few knots at the top of her spine. She drops kisses at the back of Carson’s neck, lets soap suds drip down Carson’s throat and over her breasts. 

Steam fills the room as the water gets hotter and, along with the wet press of Greta’s hips against the small of her back, Carson thinks this must be what heaven feels like.

Greta’s hands follow the water as it cascades down over Carson’s body. She runs her palms over Carson’s chest and circles her fingers over Carson’s nipples until Carson is panting hard against Greta’s neck. 

Mingled in with all the usual sensations Greta drags up from beneath her skin, Carson feels an odd, strong wave of emotion wrap around her. It is something like relief; relief that Greta is here and that she wants to be with Carson like this, for the whole weekend and longer. The feeling makes her orgasm build stronger, more rapidly, and Greta hasn’t even touched her yet.

Carson leans harder against Greta’s body, losing herself in the heat and the unbridled joy of the moment. By the time Greta is dotting kisses against Carson’s headline and wrapping an arm around Carson’s torso, she is already half-out of her body. And, when Greta’s long, strong fingers find her cunt, Carson feels her legs turn to liquid within seconds. 

She comes unexpectedly, hard and sudden and embarrassingly fast. A sudden cry - half-pleasure, half-shock - dies in Carson’s throat before it can even get out. 

“Fuck, sorry,” she murmurs without really thinking, expecting that the noise of the shower will drown the words out entirely. 

Greta hears her anyway.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says, reaching out to shut the water off. She spins Carson around in her arms and leans in for a kiss. “I like it.” 

“Like what?” 

Greta nips at Carson’s bottom lip.

 “Knowing I can make you come like that.”   

*

They wrap themselves up in soft towels and trade lazy, easy kisses on the way to Carson’s bedroom.

Then, for the first time, Carson watches as Greta takes off her armour.

Sitting at Carson’s vanity and making perhaps more use of it in a few moments than Carson has in as many months, Greta carefully wipes away the remnants of her lipstick, her mascara, her powder, anything that had stubbornly survived the shower…

She pins a few sections of damp hair to preserve what is left of the looser curls, and rifles in her bag until she finds a pot of face cream. She applies a layer and massages it into her skin with the tips of her fingers. 

Carson sits on her bed, towel hanging off her torso, and watches every step of the process with her breath caught in her chest. 

Greta is so perfect. She is so, so beautiful. 

Even on the occasions they have been intimate in Greta’s apartment and perhaps dozed off for a while, Greta always had her makeup on. It usually smudged and rubbed away in places - particularly her lipstick - but Carson had never seen her like this, bare-faced and breathtaking. 

Every so often, their eyes meet in the mirror and Carson realises Greta is watching her just as intently, albeit with a little more subtlety.

In this moment, it feels like Carson is being offered something, somehow, just by sharing in the quiet, open silence of Greta’s evening routine. 

This version of Greta only exists in a few specific places. That she should exist here, in Carson’s bedroom, feels like an immense expression of…something. Trust, maybe, on Greta’s part. 

Across the room, Greta catches Carson’s eye in the mirror again and offers her a small, tight little smile. Her lips move and it takes Carson a moment to realise they are doing so because Greta is saying something. 

Carson blinks. “What?” 

Greta chuckles and speaks again. Still, Carson doesn’t really hear it. 

“Sorry, what?” She forces herself to listen. 

“I said, this is a little different to what you’re used to, right?” Greta repeats, pointing at her face. 

“Yeah,” Carson says, mind still blank. 

Greta looks away again, screwing the lid back onto her face ointment. She clears her throat quietly and Carson, finally seizing upon some of her mental faculties again, hears a tremor of self-consciousness buried deep in the sound. 

In something of a daze, Carson rises from the bed and floats towards the vanity. Once again, Greta is speaking without realising that Carson cannot focus on the words. 

Carson cups both of Greta’s cheeks and pulls her into a deep, longing kiss while she is still mid-word. 

Greta’s breath hitches against Carson’s lips and then, after a beat of hesitation she lets herself melt into the kiss, sighing when Carson sucks gently at her bottom lip. 

“Thank you,” Carson whispers when they break apart. 

“For what?” 

“For being here like this, with me.”  

*

Carson kisses away Greta’s bashfulness and, by the time she has her sprawled out on the bed, Greta’s hips are already rocking against her, seeking friction. 

Carson kisses every inch of Greta’s face - every freckle and barely-there line, even the tiny scar near her hairline. Carson had never spotted it before. 

Greta tastes different to usual as Carson’s lips graze over all the places where her face cream had been, but Carson is undeterred. 

Carson kisses as much of Greta as she can reach and, when she finally reaches between her legs, Greta is soaked, flooding against Carson’s hand as she takes two fingers - and then three - easily, the way Carson has learned she likes. 

Greta comes with Carson’s name falling from her lips, louder than normal, and she doesn’t even roll her eyes when, afterwards, Carson asks if she is glad of the extra privacy now. She just clenches her thighs, urging Carson to stay inside her moment longer, and steals a long, hot kiss.  

“You win this one, baby,” she whispers, when the kiss ends, her smile playful and genuine. 

Her words stick in Carson’s brain and she has to remind herself that Greta is sensitive sometimes, after her orgasm, and Carson can’t just make her come again, right there and then. 

But really, what is stopping her when, a few moments later, Greta’s hips start to flex again…? 

*

The next morning, as Carson stirs and keeps her eyes squeezed shut to hold onto the last moments of sleep, it is easy to believe that the night before had been nothing more than a wonderful dream. If that was so, then it would be an unimaginable loss to have to wake up and greet the day alone. 

But Greta is right there. Carson can hear her soft breathing and feel the warmth of her body. 

When she does finally open her eyes, Carson is met with the sight of Greta sleeping with her head half on Carson’s pillow as her knee presses lightly up against Carson’s thigh. 

They had fallen asleep cuddled together but there was no way, in the stuffy summer air, that they could have sustained the position. Carson doesn’t remember either of them moving at all in the night; she had slept deeply and completely uninterrupted. 

Still, it is an indescribable thrill to wake up to any kind of physical contact between her body and Greta’s. 

Tentatively, Carson pushes further against Greta’s knee, only slightly, just to feel a little bit closer. In her sleep, Greta straightens her leg and presses back. 

Carson’s heart jolts in her chest.

It is such a stupid, ridiculous thing to feel so tender about, but emotion snags in the back of Carson’s throat regardless. 

Even though everything feels so much more positive than it did twenty-four hours ago, Carson pushes the feelings down for now. She wants to be happy in only the most unwavering, uncomplicated way while Greta is here. Whatever comes next, will come next.

Without thinking, Carson reaches out and brushes a long, russet strand of hair out of Greta’s face. Her curls have mostly fallen away despite - or, more likely, because of - her half-hearted efforts the night before, and her expression is slack and content. 

Carson has never, ever wanted Greta - all of her - more than she does right now in the glow of the morning sunlight. She has never wanted anything more than the quiet emptiness of the apartment, and the soothing hitch of Greta’s breathing, and the warm heat of her bare, flushed skin. 

The intensity of Carson’s desire to be like this forever is almost overwhelming, as though it might consume and consume and consume, until there is nothing left of her but her bones.  

She thinks that, in a hundred years, archaeologists would find what remains of her and know, somehow, that she had died happy.

Beside her, Greta mumbles something unintelligible and Carson instantly withdraws her hand, feeling guilty for disturbing her. 

For just a moment, it seems as though Greta might fall asleep again, but slowly, gradually, her eyes flutter open. Just as she did on the couch in the living room last night, she visibly takes a moment to situate herself.

“Hey, you,” she whispers eventually, voice thick with sleep. 

Carson reaches back out and tucks the same strand of hair behind Greta’s ear. 

“Good morning. Did you sleep okay?” 

“I did,” Greta says. “When you eventually let me.” 

“I didn’t hear the lady protest at the time.” 

“No, you didn’t.” Greta leans forward and kisses the tip of Carson’s nose. “What time is it?” 

“No idea. But it’s Saturday, so it doesn’t matter.”

Greta hums a quiet little sound, letting Carson know that she agrees. After a sleepy, quiet pause, she wriggles even closer and drops another quick kiss onto Carson’s chest, right above her heart. Carson wonders if Greta feels the way it races.

Then, because apparently they are still not close enough, Greta manoeuvres herself into Carson’s lap, shifting around until she finally gets comfortable with her back against Carson’s chest.

Carson finds herself sitting up against the pillows, Greta’s hips cradled between her legs and her chin propped on Greta’s head.

“What do you want to do today?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Greta says immediately. The word vibrates pleasantly through Carson.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to be bored while you’re h– ”

“Nothing,” Greta repeats imperiously, but Carson can hear from her tone that she is smiling. “Ideally, we’re not leaving this bed. We have all of tomorrow to find something else to do.”

“Only if you’re completely – ”

“ No-thing,” Greta says again, enunciating each syllable. Her hands settle on Carson’s hips and pull them into her. “If you actually knew your neighbours, I’d want them to worry that we’d died in here.”  

She turns her head in an obvious attempt to steal a kiss, but Carson laughs and leans away.

“I thought you didn’t want my neighbours knowing anything?”

“Very obviously, I do not,” Greta retorts with a huff. “But - in another world - if they did, I would want our absence today to be so conspicuous that someone contemplated sending out a search party. Okay?”

“Okay,” Carson agrees, still smiling as she relents and lets Greta give her a proper good morning kiss. “I think I can manage that.”

“Well, if you can’t, I’m leaving.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yes,” Carson says, pressing a kiss to Greta’s cheek. “I think.” Another kiss. “You’re being.” And again. “The most dreadful liar.”

“Well, are you going to do anything about it?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” Carson says seriously.

“What?”

Carson pretends to think for a moment.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something. We have all weekend, after all.” 

Chapter Text

The days with Greta go by too fast, just as Carson knew they would. 

Nonetheless, they bring with them a shift she could never have dared to dream of. 

Although she and Greta studiously avoid any discussion about what they are to each other now, or what the future might hold for them, the time they spend together in their own private, blissful little bubble brings them even closer than they ever have been before. This wasn’t something Carson had previously thought possible, but she has never been so happy to be proven wrong. 

Things are just…perfect. 

It could have been strange to spend so much time together, but it isn’t.

Worse, being in each other’s hair for several days could have brought all sorts of previously unforeseen frictions and incompatibilities to the fore, but it doesn’t.

They work together more flawlessly than Carson has ever worked with anyone before.

After spending almost every Saturday afternoon with Greta for months, there are so many things Carson already knows about her. She knows that Greta hates olives, that she always has cold hands and that, despite appearances, she has a wickedly strange, goofy sense of humour. But, as the two of them take full advantage of Carson’s empty apartment, she finds out a hundred new things about Greta too.

Greta sometimes cries when she laughs and she hums quietly to herself when she is cooking. She is deathly afraid of the spider that makes a surprise appearance in the kitchen sink on Monday morning, and she seems to like wearing Carson’s sweaters when she is cold, even though they don’t fit her right.

As Greta had demanded, the two of them spend most of Saturday in bed. For a while, that morning, they just talk. When Carson’s stomach audibly rumbles, she laughs and tells Greta about the perfect eggs and toast her mom would make for breakfast every morning until she left. In return, Greta admits that her own parents both worked so much that they were rarely in the house when she woke in the morning, even when she was very young.

It is the first time she has ever mentioned her blood relatives to Carson.

“We lived in this tiny, roach-infested old apartment in Brooklyn,” she says quietly. “My dad had a little storefront all the way over on Radio Row, fixing up whatever people brought in for him. His parents came over from England when he was just a kid, and I think he was always really angry that they never really got that dream everyone was buying into.”

“Were his parents around?” Carson asks quietly, winding her arms around Greta, who is still nestled in her spot against Carson’s chest. 

“No, they were long gone by the time I was born,” Greta replies. “If anyone was around to take care of me, it was my mom’s mom. She was the best of all my family, which is really saying something since there were days when we could barely string a couple of sentences together between us.” 

“How so?” 

“She only came to America to join my mom after my grandpa died. I never met him, either. She was Cypriot, and her English was okay but she was always self-conscious about it. My mom never taught me anything, let alone stuff about where she was from. By the time my grandmother lived here I just…didn’t take any of it in.” 

“Cypriot? I never knew that about you.”

“Well, I never said.” 

Carson trails her fingers through Greta’s hair. “Mm. Tell me something else you’ve never said.” 

Greta thinks for a moment. “I used to sneak out and meet Joey in Queens so we could play baseball. I spent as much time with her grandma as my own. We used to go to Yankees games, but we were both too hard up to afford a ticket, so most of the time we used to trick our way in.”

“My dad took me to a few minor league games when I was young,” Carson says. “We couldn’t afford to travel to see any MLB teams, but we’d listen to them on the radio. We weren’t ever very close, but baseball was the thing we had in common. Which is kind of strange, really, because he tried to stop me from playing it when I was a kid.” 

“Because you were a girl?” Greta asks, sounding as though she already knows the answer. 

“Got it in one,” Carson jokes, but surprises herself when her voice comes out a little sad. 

“But you still played?” 

“Yeah. But only because, after my mom left, it was sort of like my dad didn’t want to know me and my sister anymore. Well, more me than my sister. I’m so like my mom; I keep realising it more and more all the time.” 

Greta reaches out and pulls at Carson’s arm - the one circled around Greta’s waist - so that she can bring Carson’s hand to her lips. Softly, she kisses the back of it. 

“But you loved her, right? I can tell from how you speak about her that she was a good mom.” 

“She was a great mom. Until she left.” 

“Then,” Greta pauses and kisses Carson’s hand again. “Being like her is a good thing. She’s still with you. I know it’s hard for you that she went, but I also know that - even if you didn’t realise it at the time - she taught you one of the most important things she possibly could have.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“How to put yourself first.” 

*

Saturday morning isn’t all sad and wistful. 

A little while later, it turns playful when Greta shifts in Carson’s arms and tilts her head so that she can start dropping open-mouthed kisses against Carson’s throat. 

Carson’s head drops back against the headboard and her hands start to wander over Greta’s stomach, tracing the lines of her abdomen, and dipping lower towards her pelvis. When Greta’s hips start to move in a silent demand for a different kind of contact, Carson makes a point of dragging her palms all the way back up Greta’s torso. 

By way of response, Greta nips at Carson’s throat slightly. 

“Carson. Don’t tease.” 

Carson snorts quietly. “You’re one to talk. Don’t be so impatient; I thought we were staying here all day.” 

Greta huffs quietly, sucking another kiss against Carson’s neck and drawing back just before it leaves a mark. 

“Don’t use my words against me. No one likes a smart ass.” 

Carson slides her hands a little higher, so that they graze the bottom of Greta’s breasts. 

“No?” she murmurs. “That’s a shame.” 

She reaches higher and cups at Greta’s chest, her fingers barely grazing over the soft, warm skin. 

“Tragic,” Greta agrees, voice going high and breathy when Carson flicks her thumb across Greta’s left nipple. 

It is always a little overwhelming, just being able to touch Greta like this. But there is quite literally nothing Carson would rather be doing than lavishing Greta with all of her attention. 

She pinches at Greta’s nipple and feels it grow stiff between her fingers as she runs her other palm across Greta’s right breast, brushing rough and making Greta gasp. 

For a while, she loses herself in the moment, just letting her hands explore and touch, circling and pressing and pinching. 

Greta throws her head back against Carson’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out soft little whines and words of encouragement, until - 

“Carson,” Greta rasps, “baby, please.” 

Hearing Greta call her ‘baby’ again, this time while she is touching her like this, sends a wave of desire running roughshod through Carson’s whole body. 

She knows what Greta is asking for, but she is in no rush to comply. They have so, so much time. 

“Don’t be impatient,” Carson says again, slightly taken aback at her own sudden confidence and an unexpected desire to lead them through this moment.  

Above her, Greta’s thighs go taut and her long, strong legs part. 

Carson feels, rather than sees, the moment when Greta’s hand starts to creep down towards the apex of her own thighs. 

“Wait,” Carson hears herself say, still gentle but more authoritative than she had expected or intended. 

Perhaps feeling equally surprised by Carson’s sudden command of the moment, Greta stops. Her hand stays where it is, in line with her hip, fingers clenching and unclenching every few seconds. 

“Good,” Carson whispers. “That’s so good.”

“I can’t. I can’t - I need…” 

Greta trails off and moans when Carson runs her fingernail lightly over the peak of her nipple. She is a little less controlled than Carson has ever seen her before during sex. “Need - need you to touch me. I can’t - ” 

“You can,” Carson contests, brushing her lips gently against Greta’s hairline. Soothingly, she adds, “you can wait a little longer, I know you can.” 

With a cry, Greta twists against Carson, her thighs snapping shut again and her hips arching off the bed.

Carson hooks her calf over Greta’s legs, holding them against the mattress in an attempt to keep Greta a little more still. Greta whines and, understanding the message, drops her hips back down again. 

Carson can feel the tension in Greta’s legs, her muscles pulled tight as she tries to find any bit of friction she can. 

Determined and unhurried, Carson’s hands keep moving over Greta's breasts, drawing every little bit of pleasure possible out of Greta. It seems to go on forever, the two of them melding together in Carson’s bed as Greta gasps and trembles while Carson steals every touch she can. 

Then, beneath Carson’s calf, Greta’s thighs squeeze together, hard. Carson understands what is happening about half a second before Greta screws her eyes shut and lets out a long, shaky sound. 

“Oh God, Carson, I - ”

And then she is lost, burying cry after cry into Carson’s neck until her body slackens and she is grasping urgently at Carson’s forearms, pulling her hands away. 

Carson knows she must be slack-jawed and shocked as Greta lays there, panting and making low, heady noises through what seems to be a never-ending series of aftershocks. 

Did Greta really just…? Carson hadn’t even realised that was possible. Why had no one told her so many things like this were possible?

She feels herself flood between her legs at the thought of Greta coming without either of them even touching her. A haze of self-consciousness follows at the thought that Greta is slumped back with the small of her back pressed hard enough against Carson’s core that she is bound to feel the wetness there. 

But Greta doesn’t care - obviously. When she comes back to herself, she just turns in Carson’s arms and drapes herself across Carson’s body, sucking one of her nipples into her mouth and passing her fingers over Carson’s clit until her hips buck and her thighs shudder under the weight of her own rapture. 

*

Carson almost wants to feel sorry about the fact that, throughout the rest of the weekend, they have sex in more places across the apartment than she can count.  

But, then again, she can hardly bring herself to feel too bad about backing Greta up against the kitchen counters on Saturday evening after they have eaten dinner and washed the dishes. She doesn’t feel at all guilty about the way Greta grinds down against her hand and clenches around her, coming hard with Carson’s fingers buried between her legs. 

And, later, when Greta gets on her knees for her on the living room floor, Carson braces herself on the edge of the couch and sends a silent apology to Shirley for the imminent desecration of a sacred piece of furniture. She regrets the thought immediately, desperately trying everything in her power to drive all thoughts of her friend straight back out of her head. 

Then, Greta spreads Carson with her fingers, stiffens her tongue and starts to fuck her, and Carson finds it hard to remember her own name, let alone her roommate’s. 

*

In spite of all the distinctly unwholesome fun she and Greta have, however, some of Carson’s favourite moments from the long weekend grow out of very different circumstances. 

Although Greta insists they exit the apartment separately on Monday morning when they are both forced to leave their special safe haven to go to work, she kisses Carson goodbye at the threshold and, when she returns later that day, she lets herself into the apartment with the sole spare key that Shirley normally guarded with her life. Greta was under very special instructions not to lose it, because Carson would have absolutely no way to explain its absence to her roommate, and very little time to replace it. 

Seemingly without thinking, Greta shuts the front door behind her and double locks it, slipping her shoes off by the mat and calling a greeting into the apartment.  

From the kitchen, where she is attempting to make a pie out of a few meagre rations, Carson shouts back to make her whereabouts known. 

Greta floats into the room, washes her hands at the sink, and sidles up behind Carson. She wraps her arms around Carson’s midriff the same way she did on the first night. 

“Did you have a good day?” Carson asks as Greta kisses the top of her head. 

“Mm, it was okay. I kept thinking about it ending, weirdly enough.” 

Carson feigns disapproval. “Well, my mom always told me never to wish my life away.” 

“I’m only wishing certain parts of it away at the moment.” 

“Oh. You have something to rush home for?” 

“I would have thought that was obvious.” 

Greta leans very pointedly around until Carson gives her a kiss, quick and chaste as she finds herself somewhat occupied with the rolling pin in her hands. Greta lets out a disgruntled little huff. It only makes Carson more determined to finish her baking as she bites back a smile. 

“Yeah?” Carson says, rolling out the pastry lid for the pie. “What’s that, then?” 

With a haughty sigh, Greta reaches over Carson’s shoulder and jabs a single, mercifully clean, finger into the pie’s rather lacklustre apple sauce filling. Carson hadn’t been able to find any decent cooking apples. 

Greta withdraws quickly, not even giving Carson time to swat her away, and very obviously sticks the same finger into her mouth, although Carson cannot see her. 

“Pie,” Greta answers, voice muffled. 

“Thief,” Carson begins, the chastisement dying on her lips as Greta quickly steps backwards - obvious payback for Carson’s half-deliberate distraction. 

“No less than you deserve,” Greta retorts, and Carson turns around just in time to see her bite back a smile. “I shall be in the living room, if you might feel inclined to offer me any of your time this evening.” 

With that, she sweeps out of the room, throwing a final glance at Carson - who doesn’t bother to hide her own grin - as she does. 

Carson would give anything for this easy familiarity to become her daily routine - the two of them arriving home from work and sharing the evening together. 

She finishes up the pie in double-time, boils some water on the stove, and carries two cups of tea into the living room, where she finds Greta reclined rather artfully on the couch, leafing idly through a magazine she must have bought during the day. 

“Nice of you to join me,” she murmurs absently, eyes fixed on the page. Even so, they betray her as they shine with obvious good humour. 

“Are you always this troublesome during the week? I’ve only seen you on weekends.” 

Greta finally closes the magazine and tosses it onto the coffee table. It lands perfectly beside the mugs of tea. 

“Are you thinking of relegating me back to the old arrangement?”

‘The old arrangement’ will, they both know, reinstate itself in a little over twenty-four hours, whether they like it or not. 

“No, I’ll just be sure to roll out the fanfare tomorrow. I wasn't aware until now that I was in the presence of royalty. Shame on me.” 

“If I wanted to come home and be insulted, I’d still be in the apartment with Jo.” 

Carson bends over the couch, hovering for a moment with her lips pressed barely against Greta’s. 

“Does Jo not greet you like this, then?” 

She kisses Greta soundly, cupping her cheeks in her hands. 

When Carson pulls away, Greta looks up at her carefully for a moment before her tongue darts out briefly to lick her bottom lip. Carson watches with her breath caught in her throat. 

“Mercifully, Jo does not,” Greta finally answers primly. 

“Then I don’t think you’re gonna go home early,” Carson retorts with a grin. 

Greta merely huffs again and moves around on the couch so that Carson can join her. 

*

But, be it early or on schedule, Greta does have to go home and, and such, she quietly packs up her belongings after work on Tuesday afternoon. Carson tries to help, but it is mostly unneeded. Greta is meticulous about ensuring she leaves nothing behind. There is to be no evidence whatsoever of her time here, and watching her silently erase her presence from the apartment - removing all visible physical evidence of herself from Carson’s life - is like a physical pain in Carson’s chest.

Greta neatly folds all of her clothes as she puts them into her bag, takes her toothbrush from the bathroom, and removes all of her makeup and cosmetics from Carson’s vanity. 

To avoid watching the end of this process play out, Carson packs a few items of her own into a smaller bag, something subtle she can take to work tomorrow. Shirley will almost certainly be back by the time she returns to the apartment after work, and Greta cannot take luggage as large of her own with her to the cosmetics company. It makes sense that they decamp now, but there is no sense in wasting one last night together. 

The mood between them is subdued as, together, they take a streetcar and return to Greta’s apartment. Jo is there when they arrive, standing at the cooker and gently stirring the contents of a large saucepan as she and Flo - who is sitting comfortably at the tiny two-person kitchen table - share an easy, quiet conversation. 

Carson cannot help but feel wildly jealous of the two of them. They don’t live together, per sé, but between the relative safety of this apartment building and the fact they work at the same diner, they spend a hell of a lot more time together than is possible for Carson and Greta. 

“There better be enough in there for us too,” Greta says by way of greeting, indicating at the saucepan. 

“You’ve been back less than a minute,” Jo returns, not looking up, “and I already want you to leave again.” 

“Don’t talk about Carson like that.” 

“Carson can stay. She’s less trouble than you,” Jo replies. “She can have your room. I bet she’ll be neater, too.” 

“Oh, I already offered her yours a long time ago.” 

Jo sighs loudly. “Of course you did.” 

“Well then. Get packing,” Greta says, already moving towards her bedroom. 

“Do you want your dinner or not?” 

“Finish the food,” Greta amends. “And then get packing.” 

*

“I don’t want this to be over,” Carson says quietly into the darkness, long after dinner is over and everyone has retired to their respective bedrooms. Greta’s body is so soft and strong pressed against her in the bed. 

“I know,” Greta murmurs, reaching up to gently stroke Carson’s hair. 

“I loved having you stay with me so much.”

“I know.” 

“I wish we could do it all the time.” 

“I know.” 

“Can we do it again the next time Shirley goes on a trip?” 

“Is she likely to?” 

“No, probably not.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But can I just pretend? Just imagine it?” 

“Of course,” Greta says, her voice as soft as the rest of her. 

They lapse into silence for a long moment, so long, in fact, that Carson thinks Greta might have fallen asleep. 

“Carson?” 

“Mm?”

“I’ll be imagining it too.” 

Greta does fall asleep a short time later but Carson lies awake awhile, listening to the sound of Greta’s steady breathing, just as she had on Friday night. 

A thing named is a thing tamed, she thinks. 

But it is too late. Carson has named her feelings, albeit only to herself. 

Love. 

Blissful, reckless, irrevocable love. 

She is falling in love with Greta Gill.  

*

Work on Wednesday is interminable. 

Carson cannot stop replaying the memory of kissing Greta goodbye in the apartment, the two of them quiet and sombre.

The entire time she had spent thinking about Greta staying over in Shirley’s absence, persuading Greta to do so, and then mourning the idea until Greta turned up on that first night, she had never stopped to consider how it would feel for it all to be over. 

She has never been so acutely aware that the world is stacked against them. It has never felt so impossible to love Greta in the way she wants to. 

It hurts, intensely. 

It is like having strangers tear through your most precious possessions and rip them away from you. 

It is like someone trampling wildflowers underfoot. 

It is like losing your only safe haven in the midst of a natural disaster, like fleeing your home - your friends - in the middle of the night and starting life anew. 

Carson has just experienced the best four days of her life, and she can’t even show it. She can’t talk about it. She has to walk through life pretending that nothing has changed, that she isn’t truly, wholly in love - proper, earth-shaking, life-altering love - for the very first time.

Instead, she just…has to go about her working day as if everything is normal. As if she hasn’t gone from being wildly, deliriously happy to agonisingly, overwhelmingly sad overnight. 

The problems in today’s mailbag don’t even seem to scratch the surface. She saves a handful of letters for Mrs Wilkinson, ranging from a question about removing a coffee stain from a white tablecloth (Carson wishes her biggest concern today was linen-related) to one from a woman who worries that her daughter is too smart to attract a husband. 

She simply does not seem to care that the average man is repelled by the too-smart girl who is bold in her intelligence, the mother writes. By contrast, the girl who lets him talk about himself is always popular. 

Carson knows that Mrs Wilkinson is going to have a whale of a time with that one.

In the meantime, Carson continues to work on her own responses as best she can, although today it feels like a much harder challenge than usual. Doing her best to distract herself from her own feelings, Carson turns her attention to a letter she saved a week ago. 

Dear Mrs Wilkinson

I am a sixteen year old girl who generally gets on very well with my family. However, there is one point of contention between us that we just cannot seem to solve. 

My parents - but my mom especially - hate the way I dress. 

I simply do not like to wear dresses or skirts, and garter belts always feel like far more trouble than they are worth. Despite my best efforts to keep all my clothes in a good state, I always seem to ruin my stockings. I simply cannot abide shoes which pinch my toes and have a narrow heel. 

At the moment, my parents only allow me to wear pants if I am in the house, and sometimes only if I am working on chores which require a bit of activity, such as cleaning the floors or helping with the gardening. If I could, I’d wear pants all the time, but my parents won’t let me go out if I’m not dressed to their standards. 

Moreover, I would like to keep my hair short, but my mom insists I grow it out and put rollers in every night. They are simply too unpleasant to allow for a good night’s sleep, which I feel I need as I am currently training to be a secretary. 

I think I am otherwise a very good daughter. I am not too into going on dates with boys, and my friends and I are very good about going out to respectable places and coming home by curfew. I always do my chores without being told and my parents never had to push me to get good marks in school because I already had them.

My mom says that girls who wear pants look ugly, and that I am not to go out looking like a factory worker. Personally, I think it would be great fun to do a job like that, not to mention a way to do my bit for the war effort! I don’t think it’s at all unladylike to do a bit of hard work and I think women are jolly well as capable of a bit of physical labor as the men! My parents disagree. 

I understand that my mom just wants me to look 'normal’ and dress like everyone else, but it just isn't for me! I don't think she can accept the fact that I express myself in a different way to her or my older sisters.

In order to be allowed out to join my friends, I do dress the way my mom wants me to, but I’d really much rather find a better compromise.

Other than this, I get along fine with my parents. In fact, if I were to throw away all my pants, most of my shoes, and half of my button-down shirts, we would never have a single fight. However, I just find it hard to see why this is more important than the fact that I stay out of trouble and don't go running around with boys.

So, do you think it's possible we'll ever find a compromise, or should I just accept my fate?

Yours faithfully

Well-dressed Teen (in my opinion!)

Despite the girl's tension with her family, this letter had put a smile on Carson's face when she first received it. The writer seems to be so spirited and full of vigour. Carson half-believes that Joey or Jess could have written a letter like this once upon a time, although it seems as though Jess had never needed to fight to dress how she wanted. 

Today, as she reads the words through again, Carson finds herself thinking of getting ready for bed on Sunday night and watching Greta self-consciously put rollers in her hair before tying a scarf over the top of them.

Carson had never really bothered with rollers and had always thought they seemed extremely uncomfortable. Greta, however, hadn't seemed to mind them at all, except to apologise that she was wearing them in front of Carson in the first place.

Much like seeing Greta take her makeup off, however, the vision of her in such a private, personal moment had only made Carson's heart beat harder in her chest.

All the same, she understands Well-dressed Teen's frustrations.

Probably, Carson should have passed this letter to her boss. There is nothing in it which would be deemed inappropriate.

But Carson knows what Mrs W. would say in response to a question like this. She knows what a rollicking her boss would give to the poor girl. She would tell her reader to respect and obey her parents, would no-doubt call pants an ugly, wartime fad for wayward girls and women, and would advise the kid that she was under her parents' roof and was not, in fact, being a good daughter if she complained about their rules.

It wouldn't matter to Mrs Wilkinson that those rules are transparently stupid, as far as Carson is concerned.

She thinks of her recent conversation with Jess, who had said that she didn't care what other people thought of how she dressed because those people don’t buy her clothes and thus get no say in what she wears.

It is absurd, Carson thinks, to want to control what somebody else wears on their body.

Well-dressed Teen had asked for a private response to her letter, which is fortunate because it is far too long to print.

Carson knows she cannot advise the kid to openly disobey her parents, but she had still wanted to reassure her that she wasn't alone. So, she writes.

Dear Well-dressed Teen

Thank you for writing to Woman & Home.

From your letter, you certainly sound like you are a very self-aware, put-together individual. I am sorry to read that you and your parents disagree so fervently on the topic of your fashion and clothing.

I think it is fair to say that a lot of parents sometimes feel as though their children are an extension of them. I can understand why this is, because after having spent so much time and effort raising their family, they often feel entitled to have more of a say than is perhaps entirely fair.

Often, many parents do this simply because they care. Although it seems that your mom simply does not like the way certain clothes look, she may perhaps be aware that other people might be unkind if you do not dress the way most women do.

However, I don't think peer pressure or unkind words are necessarily a reason for you to dress uncomfortably or differently from how you would prefer to express yourself (although I do understand why someone might choose to conform for these reasons).

Many successful, competent, and intelligent women share your fashion sense. As you say, you already help around the house, worked hard at school, and have a good career lined up. You mentioned, too, that you take good care of your belongings, so it certainly sounds as though you are, indeed, very well-dressed.

All of that being said, if your parents have imposed a hard rule on this topic, it might be difficult to find a way to compromise while you are living with them, particularly if you do not yet pay rent or contribute towards the bills.

It might be worth asking yourself what you stand to lose by continuing to assert yourself and break the rules. Would you continue being able to live with your parents? If not, would you have another place to go? You seem like an astute person, so I feel that it is for you to say whether it is worth risking the consequences of any rule-breaking, ranging from the extreme of finding a new place to live, to simply creating an unwanted rift in your familial relationships.

In the meantime, I want to reassure you that there is nothing ‘ugly’ about the way you wish to dress, and there is nothing wrong with being yourself. Perhaps, as you work out how best to continue expressing yourself, you could start with smaller, more subtle steps. Are there dresses with a certain print or cut that you most dislike? Could you tailor the ones you have or perhaps make new ones which fit better and are in colours or patterns that you prefer? Could you perhaps compromise on shoes that are more comfortable and practical, as that might be a subject on which your mom is more easily agreeable?

I am sorry that there might not be an easy solution to this, and that you might have to choose whether or not being yourself is worth any ongoing tension with your parents. 

I truly wish you all the very best.

On behalf of Mrs M Wilkinson

Carson reverts back to her old sign-off for this letter, because what she has written is transparently the opposite of what her boss would have said. Probably, she ought to change a few parts to seem a little sterner, but she doesn't have the heart to lie in this response, especially given that it won't be published.

She cannot help it. She has taken this letter on board very deeply and personally. 

She waits until Maybelle makes a trip to the bathroom and then packs the letter into Well-dressed Teen's self-addressed envelope.

The letter, and Carson's response, feel so well timed it almost seems intentional, like a god or the universe had purposely put this question in her path at this very moment.

*

As Carson predicted, by the time she arrives home from work, Shirley is already back in the apartment.

Carson is genuinely happy to see her, but it is still a jarring realisation that things have gone back to normal. Carson would never want to get rid of Shirley; she just wishes she didn’t have to avoid her in order to have Greta too.  

Her roommate is in her usual armchair, flipping through a newspaper that had been delivered to the apartment earlier in the week, but had been completely untouched by either Carson or Greta. 

Shirley greets Carson with a big smile, and is happy, when prompted, to give a good account of her trip home. When she finishes, she asks, 

“Did I miss much with you while I was away?” 

Carson glances guiltily at the couch. 

“No, nothing at all. Same old, same old, y’know?” 

“I do. I think maybe you should take a break too,” Shirley says sagely. “I didn’t realise I really needed one until I took a few days off, although I do dread how much work will be waiting for me tomorrow.” 

“It wasn’t all that long. Hopefully your colleagues will have kept on top of things for a few days.” 

“I certainly hope so. Thank you for being kind enough to follow through my lists here.” 

Carson pauses for a moment. She hadn’t really thought much about Shirley’s housekeeping instructions. 

“Yeah, of course. No problem.” 

Shirley indicates at the newspaper. “It seems the only things I’ve missed have been in here.” 

“Yeah? Anything big?” 

Shirley gapes at her in surprise. “Carson. Are you sure you’ve been here for the past few days? It’s quite the scandal!” 

“I’ve been, uh, pretty busy at work. I haven’t been keeping up with things like I usually do.” 

“Well, I can’t imagine your boss would want to mention any of this. The paper has printed a huge list…” Shirley pauses, looking uncomfortable. “It’s a list of names of… inverts. The police have rounded loads up, it seems. I had no idea the problem was quite this bad.” 

Carson’s mind reels for a moment and she cannot quite seem to find a response to offer back to her roommate.

She had known a little about the way the police treated queer people, but she had never really had the cause - or the desire - to think too much about it. But she imagines it now - cops breaking down doors and arresting people just quietly trying to live their lives. She cannot help it when, immediately afterwards, she recalls the afternoon she spent with Greta, Joey, Flo, Jess, and Lupe. What would happen to them if they were caught together? Would anyone really know they were all queer in a context like that? 

She thinks of Max and S, forgetting to lock the salon door. She remembers Freddie, desperately trying to hide his love letters. 

Meanwhile, Shirley entirely misreads her stunned silence. 

“I know. It worries me too. My neighbours back at home always say how badly it spreads. You catch it and then - boom - lobotomy. It’s the only cure.”

“Lobotomy?” Carson echoes quietly, feeling deeply ill.  

“Once you catch it, they can’t get rid of it any other way,” Shirley says authoritatively. 

“Catch it? What do you catch?” Carson asks, and Shirley seems to falter for a moment.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” she says quickly. “I think we both ought to consider ourselves lucky that we don’t know more than this. It’s wrong, Carson. Very wrong.” 

“Right,” Carson replies. “Yeah. We’re lucky. It’s wrong. I agree.” 

She retreats to her bedroom before Shirley can say any more on the matter.

*

When Carson gets into bed later that night, something sharp beneath the covers jabs into her arm. She fishes around until she withdraws an envelope bearing only her first name. 

Dearest Carson

This weekend has been almost as magical as you are.

Thank you for persuading me to join you. I wouldn't have missed this for the world.

Thank you for the long talks and sometimes equally long silences. Thank you for the pie and the morning cups of tea and all the laughter. Thank you for asking me to dance around the living room at midnight.

Miss you already.

Yours

GG

Carson reads the note five times over, tears building in her eyes before she even finishes the second read-through.

If someone raided the apartment right now, Carson would let them take her to jail before she let them take this letter from her.

*

The next day, when Carson leaves work, she doesn't immediately head home, but rather catches a bus across town.

She has scarcely stopped thinking about what Shirley said to her. It scares Carson to think of just how much danger Greta and their friends are in. It scares even more to think about the danger Max and S are in.

It is hard to know who to trust.

Despite the way that so many people in Carson's life had surprised her recently, she is under no illusions that there will be no queer revelations from her roommate. In fact, Carson had always known that Shirley was the least likely to understand out of all her friends.

Max seems to be worried that Clance would also struggle to get her head around the idea of her friend being romantically involved with another woman, but Carson isn't so sure. She thinks there is infinitely more chance of talking Guy and Clance round than there is of doing the same with Shirley.

All told, both the threat of discovery from Shirley and the mingled fear and anger at the thought of the police raids should be enough to keep Carson from travelling across town today, but it isn’t. 

She finds Jess and Lupe exactly where they said they would meet her, outside Bartell & Co; a men’s clothing store.

For a moment, Carson almost doesn’t recognise Lupe at all. She is wearing a long, button-up dress, one that falls straight and loose down her slim frame. It is a pale pink in colour and, even though Carson has only met Lupe once, it is absolutely the last thing she expects her to be wearing. 

Jess, for her part, is dressed completely as normal, down to the flat cap perched on her head at a jaunty angle. 

The two of them watch as Carson approaches. 

“Sorry, I hope I’m not late. I caught the first bus I could. Thanks for setting this up, Jess. And hi again Lupe. Nice to see you. You look, um - n- ”

Lupe sends Carson a stony look that stops her in her tracks. 

"Believe me, I'm not a fan either. But you don't wear the clothes to go in to the store, pendeja. Or they're never going to believe the ones you buy are for your brother or your husband. Got it?"

Carson feels absurdly nervous. She is simply trying to purchase a few articles of clothing. It shouldn't be this hard. The whole point of buying these clothes is that they should be less stressful to shop for than dresses, but it is clear that this will not be the case.

When Jess had offered her assistance - and that of her roommate - recently, Carson had all but jumped at the chance. She never actually asked Jess about any of this; she never even needed to imply that she wanted to start dressing a little differently from time to time. Jess just…offered.

(More accurately, Jess had simply told Carson a meeting time, date, and location and said, "me and Lu will be there. Meet us. We're buying you clothes. Well, we’re coming with you. You’re paying for them. I’m not made of money.")

Carson hadn't been entirely prepared for Lupe to look as though she had been dragged here under duress, however.

Still, it was the thought that counted.

Carson nods at Lupe, hoping that she looks at least slightly determined or steely.

Evidently, she fails, because Lupe glances sideways at Jess and mumbles something in Spanish.

Jess replies, her words louder and - to Carson's untrained ears, at least - much more clumsy and spaced out.

"Sí. Estoy segura.”

Lupe sighs. "Fine. So, few ground rules, okay? Don't buy them in your length unless you're gonna pretend you have a teenage brother. You can roll them up or tailor them.”

"I'm actually kind of bad at sewing - ”

"It's a figure of speech, jeez. Someone can tailor them."

Carson nods again. "Okay, sorry. Yeah, I get it. Sorry, go on."

Rather unsubtly, Jess elbows Lupe in the back.

"Get off, asshole. I'm doing you both a favour here. So, look. This is the best place to come if you don't want anyone to ask too many questions. Don't tell them stuff they don't ask for. They don't ask? They don't care.” 

“We're also, like, eighty percent sure this is a money laundering front, anyway," Jess adds.

Carson feels her mouth fall open. "You're what?"

"Yeah," Jess goes on mildly. "There's no way they make enough money to need or pay for a store this big. We're pretty sure it's a front. That's not a bad thing for us - means they're not going to really care if a bunch of queers buy themselves some men's pants or underwear."

"We," Lupe amends stonily, "are not eighty percent sure this is a front. Jess is. I think she's certifiably insane most of the time."

"So you think there’s absolutely nothing fishy going on here? Zero percent chance?" Jess asks.

“There’s never a zero percent chance of anything, anywhere.” 

"So you agree that it's entirely possible that they’re laundering money?"

"Again, it's not impossible because nothing is impossible."

"Don't you think it's odd that they just…stay in business?”

"I will admit it's a little bit strange, yes."

"Because it's a front."

"It might be."

"What percent?"

Lupe stays silent and turns her glare on Jess. It is really quite impressive - almost on a par with Sarge's hard stare.

"What percent?" Jess repeats.

"About fifty," Lupe mutters extremely quietly, voice sullen.

To her credit, Jess does not make a show of pretending not to hear. She just crosses her arms loose across her narrow chest and grins.

"This is why we don't trust paper money."

Carson does a double take. "We don't?"

“Just…leave it," Lupe advises sagely. "Come on. Let's go get your clothes from the probably criminal store.”

"Right, okay." Carson glances at Jess, who stays rooted to the spot. "Uh- "

"Oh, that one's not coming. Way too conspicuous." Lupe grins, the expression looking distinctly ominous. "Just you and me, rookie. So, vamos - let's go. Promise I don't bite. Unless - ”

"No, yeah, I'm good," Carson says quickly. "Let's just go. See you in a bit, Jess."

"Have fun, young rookie," Jess replies solemnly. "And choose wisely."

"So, we're pretty sure one of the people who works here is one of us. If he's at the counter, we can just do what we want," Lupe explains out of the corner of her mouth as they walk in and a bell tinkles above the door. "If it's the owner, we just get in, get what we need, get out."

Carson nods. "Okay."

They step further into the store and Carson is met with a low lit, sprawling room with more styles and sizes of clothes than she could have imagined when she stood outside. The room just seems to keep spreading out, further and further back.

Yeah, this is definitely a front for something. 

She only has a limited amount of money to spend, so she bypasses the button-down shirts and sweaters, instead making a beeline for the pants.

She isn't entirely unfamiliar with being in a men's store. A few times, she had gone in Meg's place to buy their father some new clothes and, once before he deployed, she went shopping on Charlie's behalf. It hadn't felt so strange then, though, because she wasn't lying about anything.

Obviously, Carson has owned pants before. She uses them to play baseball. But the two pairs she owns look exactly like they've been used to slide through the dirt to home base. She wants something nicer, something she can wear the same way Jo and Lupe wear their clothes. Carson wants to feel confident in them, to feel comfortable and less like her body is wrong when she steps out the house in anything except her favourite, loosest dress or plainest skirt.

But she doesn't know where to begin. Already, a part of her wants to leave without buying anything. Lupe and Jo and Jess are just so…cool. They can pull off the clothes they wear, but what if Carson can't? What if she looks stupid?

Lupe passes by and bumps gently into Carson's shoulder. "Owner at 12 o'clock. Let's just get what you need. You can always come back at another time, or - better yet - order from a catalogue once you’ve got a better idea of what you want."

Carson hurries over to a rack of hardy-looking blue jeans. She has always seen workers using them because they're so durable, but when Lupe had worn her own pair to Greta's apartment, Carson had known this was what she wanted.

She turns over a few price tags, baulking at the number but determined, for once, to buy something nice for herself.

After a bit of rifling, Carson pulls out a pair that feels right. The legs are a little too long, but she can deal with that in some way. Also, the waist part is perhaps an inch too big, but that feels more subtle than buying something that is more obviously for herself. She can easily belt them so they fit. She holds them up to Lupe who, if Carson is not mistaken, pulls an impressed face.

She nods. "Good call."

Carson smiles. She can work with that.

*

Not half an hour later, Carson leaves the store with a number of brown paper packages tucked under her arm. She had spent a large chunk of money she would once have saved for kitchenware or furniture or something she was supposed to want for a marital home. Or else, she would have been expected to buy the kind of housekeeping supplies she would only ruin through her lack of ability to use them. 

Other than a few notebooks and a smart but previously-owned fountain pen, Carson hadn’t bought herself anything she truly wanted in years. 

Along with the jeans, she leaves Bartell & Co with a pair of dark grey, double-pleated cotton twill slacks. The legs are cut wide and Carson wonders if perhaps she couldn’t find someone to tailor them so they are a bit narrower. Feeling somewhat emboldened, she had also chosen some green gabardine trousers that looked as though they would fit her perfectly right away. She had a suspicion they would look great with one of her shirts back at home - a chequered teal and pink short-sleeved piece.

Then, right at the last minute, she had picked up a couple of men's vests on her way to the register. They were the kind that were supposed to be worn under shirts, although she had seen Jess wearing them as an outer layer on occasion during the hot weather. They would be so much better than trying to wear a slip, especially if she has pants on.

The man who packs up all the items gives Carson and Lupe a careful once-over, but otherwise says nothing except the eye-watering total that Carson needs to pay.

She leaves feeling undeniably elated, as a slightly less haughty Lupe follows in tow.

They find Jess more or less exactly as they left her, now leaning against the side of the store. She is smoking a cigarette and staring at the patch of sidewalk into which she is scuffing the toe of her boot. She lifts her gaze when she hears Carson and Lupe approach, flicking ash towards the ground.

"Well, you look like the Cheshire Cat, so I assume you got on okay."

"Yeah," Carson replies breathlessly. "I mean, I think I did. I didn't really know what to pick and Lupe said we had to be pretty quick, so I guess I'll see when I get home. I know one pair won't fit for sure, though. Which I'm a bit worried about, because I really can't sew, and I don't kn-“

Carson breaks off with a yelp as Lupe passes by, clouting her on the arm.

"God, she doesn't shut up!" Lupe exclaims, sending Carson a sly, playful grin. Carson thinks it means Lupe isn't actually annoyed, but it’s pretty hard to tell.

Still grinning, Lupe adds, "I told her we got Bartell senior just to keep her quiet in there." 

Before Carson can protest, Jess shakes her head.

“I peeked through the window at one point - it wasn't him. She's kidding. Hasn't yet worked out that she's not funny."

Lupe proceeds to clout Jess' shoulder too for good measure, albeit much harder than she hit Carson. Jess doesn't even blink.

“I won’t take criticism from someone who once called King Kong the greatest comedy ever written," Lupe grouses.  

The comment causes a bout of good-natured tussling to break out, with a truce called only when Lupe nudges Jess and mutters something that brings them to an abrupt halt.

A man walks by, eyeing the three of them with suspicion and disdain

Lupe mutters something inaudible to herself in a low growl while Jess lights a new cigarette and offers a disaffected shrug, seemingly to both Lupe and Carson at once.

"Who cares about some guy?"

"Normally I don't," Lupe says stonily, "but we gotta watch ourselves a bit at the moment."

She glances at Carson. "You too, rookie. Tone down the puppy eyes around Gill.”

"I don't have -" Carson begins, before another thought eclipses her protest. She drops her voice. "Is this because of the names? In the paper? Because of the police?”

"Yeah, fucking pigs," Lupe replies, her tone bordering on acerbic. "They were out in force last weekend."

Still speaking quietly, Carson asks, "but how do they even manage to find so many people unless they literally go door-to-door?"

Her question is met, for a moment, with two equally blank expressions.

"I mean, it's not like they don't do that sometimes," Jess begins, blowing out smoke. "But they only manage a sting like this one when they raid our spaces."

Carson blinks. The feeling of being out of her depth has never truly left her since she first kissed Greta.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"They can do what they want," Lupe says, still sounding venomous as she ignores Carson’s question. "They're not stopping me from going to the bar this week."

Jess watches Carson carefully for a moment. "Gill's told you about the bars, right?”

Lupe snorts. "Gill? Course she hasn't told her."

Jess scratches at a spot behind her ear, looking thoughtful. For a while, no one speaks.

Carson can guess what Lupe and Jess are talking about but it doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem possible…

"You guys are saying there are bars - spaces - where we can..?"

"Places just for us, yeah," Lupe says, stealing a cigarette from the front pocket of Jess' shirt. "Talk to Gill about it.”

“Can’t you just tell me? I want to know about them. Please.”

Lupe steals a matchbook from Jess’ other pocket. "Yeah. So talk to your girlfriend about it.”

Carson feels herself grow warm. "Does - does she go? With you guys?"

"Once in a blue moon," Lupe answers, as if this isn't completely counter to her advice to simply talk to Greta about the fact that there are, apparently, whole bars just for queer people.

"And not for a while," Jess adds.

"When was the last time you both went?”

"Last week," Jess and Lupe answer together.

"I want to know about them," Carson repeats, suddenly overcome with a strange feeling of - something. Excitement, maybe. Mingled with fear. "I want to see one."

Lupe looks at Carson as though she has grown a second head. 

"You are aware that you're finding out about this information because you just learned that the cops are raiding them right?"

"But you just said you’re going this week. So - so there's one - some - they haven't raided." Carson pauses, cutting herself right off before she says 'yet'. It is obvious, though, that she was about to say it.

Lupe heaves the sigh of a martyr. "Fine. Whatever. They're just bars. Just regular bars, rookie. Assuming you've been inside one before."

“But...where are they? How do you know where to find them?"

"They're everywhere, Carson. Hidden away," Jess says in a theatrical, conspiratorial whisper. "Just like we are. Even when the cops shut one down, it'll spring up again eventually. Word spreads about new locations."

"That's why we keep going back," Lupe adds. "We've gotta show them they can't just get rid of us. We're not going anywhere."

Carson feels her heart begin to beat faster beneath her ribs. It isn't excitement she is feeling, after all.

It is euphoria, or something rather like it.

Lupe watches her carefully, looking as though she knows exactly what Carson is feeling.

“We're going on Friday, if you’re so sure you want to come. Just don’t expect to be hanging off our elbows. We got people to see and things to do while we’re there.” 

Jess snickers quietly and Carson picks up on what Lupe means easily enough. 

Hope burns across Carson's skin. She has no interest in what Lupe is talking about - dalliances, or whatever - but she still wants to see a place like that, a place where that sort of thing is allowed or, perhaps, expected. 

"Really?! Are you sure?"

Lupe laughs to herself. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tone it down, rookie. You're not a kid at Christmas."

But that is precisely how Carson feels. 

At least, it is how she feels until she catches the look on Jess' face. It isn't disapproving or even concerned. It is just...neutral - neutral in the most unsettling, un-Jess way possible.

"Gill te va a matar, hermano.” 

“¿Y a mi qué? La novata puede hacer lo que quiera.”

"Fine. I'm not gonna stop either of you. I’m just saying." Jess replies in English, perhaps because she doesn't have the requisite Spanish to make the comment.

Carson wants to punch the air.

She feels as if she just hit a home run.

*

“I gave the pants to Flo,” Jess tells her the next day at the start of their Red Cross shift. “Doubt she’ll have them sorted by tomorrow, but it won’t take her too long.” 

“Thank you. Seriously. All of you.”

“Don’t mention it. We look after our own. No second thoughts about tomorrow?”

“No, definitely not. I know the dangers, but I want to go.” 

Jess offers her a small, sceptical smile. “Sure. Well, I wrote down the address for my place. Meet us at about seven. Our apartment is small. Don’t bring anything you’re not planning to take back out with you.” 

Carson takes a small piece of paper off Jess and carefully stows it in her blazer pocket. 

“I’ll be there. Thank you for letting me join you. I promise I won’t,” she pauses, trying to remember what Lupe had said. Something about elbows. In the end, Carson settles for, “I won’t tag along or anything.” 

Jess laughs. “Carson. You’re coming with us as our friend. You’re supposed to tag along, jeez.” 

“But - ”

“If you’re gonna keep hanging out with us, you’re just gonna have to get used to Lu talking to you like that. It’s a sign she likes someone. Just don't tell her I said that.” 

Carson thinks of Jo and Greta, and of Clance and Max. She thinks of how they tease each other. She cannot help but grin. 

“Okay. I’ll do better at talking with her.” 

Jess roots through her tool kit and withdraws a spanner by its sharp, metal end. Nonchalantly, she tosses it upwards lightly so that it flips in midair before she catches it again, wooden handle now gripped in her hand. 

“I’ll hold you to it, rookie.” 

They swap small talk for a while until Sarge appears and clears her throat pointedly. 

“Mrs Shaw, a moment of your time if you please?” 

Carson bids Jess a good evening and follows Beverly into the space deemed her office only because it contains a fold-out table and a few filing cabinets, although it is otherwise sparse and dreary as the rest of the building. The ex-Marine glances at Carson and smiles.

“No need to look so nervous, Mrs Shaw. We only hand out bad news to others. I’m simply wondering if you’d be willing to offer some assistance at St. Jude’s this evening. I know that you’ve been avoiding the long trip where possible, but they’ve just taken in a lot of new patients. Based on a rather frantic telephone call I have just intercepted, they are overworked, understaffed, and running low on supplies. We have some Red Cross-issued items, but they need them immediately. I understand it is a bit of an imposition, but would you perhaps drive out there now, drop off what they need, and undertake any deliveries they might have for the rest of the evening?” 

St. Jude’s is Freddie’s treatment centre. Carson doesn’t want to intrude or disrespect his wishes but she isn’t really in a position to say ‘no’. Sarge is asking for the sake of social nicety, but it is the kind of request that only has one answer. 

Plus, Carson has wanted to talk to Freddie for a long time. She worries about him often and she misses him a lot. 

“Sure, that’s fine. I’m here to help however I can.” 

Sarge nods briskly. “Good. They’ll be very appreciative of the assistance.” 

With that decided, Carson takes her assignments and collects the supplies. There are a lot of them - a depressing and concerning amount, in fact - and Jess stops tinkering long enough to help Carson load the car. 

She is gracious enough not to question why Carson had avoided the treatment centre for so long, and simply waves her off with an assurance that they will see each other tomorrow evening. 

Carson drives across town with a knot in her stomach. She doesn’t want to bump into Freddie, but at the same time she desperately does. She wants to check in with him, she wants to offer to write letters for him again (although she hopes he is no longer so incapacitated that he cannot write them for himself), and she kind of wants to tell him about Greta.

He had known, hadn’t he? The day she told him she was meeting a new friend and he had so evidently wondered if she was about to meet a man. Totally oblivious at the time, Carson had told him that she wasn’t being unfaithful to her husband because she was meeting a female friend and…he’d smiled in a way Carson hadn’t been able to read all those months ago.

Looking back now, it was obvious what the look had said. 

That doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means. 

He had known that a woman meeting a female friend didn’t have to mean it was totally platonic. 

To hear Jess tell it, she had read Carson as queer almost instantly. By that token, Freddie probably had too. 

Fuck. Carson shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. She should have tried to make amends sooner. This evening, she has to do something about it. She has to ask if he’ll talk to her. She has to say she is sorry. 

She only hopes she hasn’t left it too late. 

*

St. Jude’s is a hive of activity when Carson arrives. She passes nurses, doctors, and porters alike hurrying to and fro. The atmosphere isn’t one of an immediate emergency, but it is as harried and overworked as Beverly had made it sound. This is clearly them in ‘ongoing crisis’ mode, and Carson feels instantly bad for them all. 

She manages to speak to a few individuals who direct her as best they can, most still walking past as they call instructions over their shoulders. There is no one to help her lug everything around, however, and by the time she finishes the work she is hot and out of breath. She takes a moment to cool down before eventually managing to convince a wizened, stern-looking matron to stop long enough to ask what else is needed of her. 

The old woman rattles off a long list of jobs, eventually concluding with a request to ferry an enormous quantity of patient letters into the city. 

“The postman won’t have enough room to collect them all, and we certainly don’t have spare space here to hold onto them.” 

The post office won’t be open now but the woman is too intimidating to refuse, so Carson glumly hauls another set of rock-heavy items back to the car, wondering as she does if the Tribune’s postboy could be charmed into dealing with them tomorrow. Sweet, young Leonard has a terrible crush on Maybelle, so that might work to Carson’s advantage. The poor kid can scarcely string a sentence together when he calls into their office once or twice a day. 

If that doesn’t work out, she supposes she will have time after work before she needs to get ready to meet Jess and Lupe.

It’s for the war, she tells herself gloomily. 

In the end, she flits around St Jude’s for almost an hour, only somewhat doing jobs that are relevant to the Motor Corps. At one point, she inexplicably finds herself helping the same matron out with a few non-medical tasks, too polite to say ‘no’. Eventually, she extricates herself from the imperious, terrifying woman’s grasp and manages to speak instead to a young, tired-looking orderly who cannot hide her frustration when Carson interrupts her duties. 

“Sorry,” Carson says preemptively. “ I swear I won’t keep you. I was just wondering whether Private Maxwell is out on the patio?” 

The orderly blinks at her. “Who?” 

Carson falters for a moment. “Uh - Private Maxwell. He was admitted a few months ago with a bad arm injury.” 

“Miss, we’ve got more bad arm injuries in here than I can keep track of.” 

“Right, okay. That’s - yeah. It’s - the war - yeah, it’s a bad one. Um, it’s just that I was hoping to pay him a visit.” Carson pauses, nerves back in all their awful glory. “If he’s feeling up to it.”

The orderly does a valiant job of hiding her sigh. She turns and calls out to a nearby nurse.

“Gladys! Do you know who Private Maxwell is? He’s got a visitor.” The orderly gives Carson a long look. “Out of hours.” 

Poor Gladys starts as she tries to roll up a length of crepe bandage. 

“Freddie?” she asks with a wan smile. “Sorry but he’s been gone for a while now.” 

Dread laces its way through Carson’s whole body as her mind jumps to the worst conclusion. But...it was just his arm that was hurt; he must have been discharged. He wasn’t ill enough to take a turn for the worst. 

Unless…

Carson prays he wasn’t discovered. 

“Why did he go?” 

“Transferred. His family’s from Vermont so they found him a bed in a place just outside of Boston. Not perfect but much closer. He was hopeful his mom would be able to visit, if it helps.” 

It does help. She is happy that Freddie might be able to see his mom and siblings again soon, but it doesn’t stop Carson’s stomach twisting with regret. She had missed her chance to make things up with him. 

She does her best to feign a dab of happiness.

“Oh! Great news! I don’t suppose you have any details for him at all?” 

Gladys glances back at the orderly. “Bellevue in Massachusetts. Can you get the address for the lady please?” 

The poor orderly looks as though she either wants to scream or cry. 

*

Dear Freddie

I found out that you left St. Jude’s today when I was delivering supplies. 

I hope your move to Boston has gone well and that you are recovering quickly there. By the time you receive this, I’d like to think you might have seen your mom and sisters, perhaps even a couple of times. I hope they’re doing well too. 

I’m so sorry I didn’t come back to St. Jude’s. I decided it would be best to give you the space you asked for, but I desperately wanted to visit and apologize. I never meant to cause you any upset, and I certainly never meant to violate your privacy or your trust. I know that I did, though, and I’m truly sorry. 

Please know that our ‘disagreement’ didn’t change anything for me and although my absence may have made this impossible, I still hoped (and still do hope) to be your friend. I would like you to know that, even though it might not have seemed so at the time, you can put your trust in me. I would never intentionally do anything to cause you any ‘distress’. You will always have my full support and I wish you nothing but happiness. 

You might be interested to know that, since the last time we spoke, I have made a new friend. Her name is Dorothy. She has been quite an unexpected addition to my life, but after getting used to her slightly 'unorthodox' personality, she has become a very welcome presence. I am truly enjoying having her around and I am so much happier for having gotten to know her. In fact, I have actually made even more new friends because of her, with one in particular being very dear to me. She is called Greta, and she is a very lovely, very kind, and very special person. I think you would like her, and I would have loved it if you both could have met. One day, perhaps.  

When I first met Greta in person, I was very nervous. Rather awkward, in fact. I’m sure you can imagine, from experience, what I was like. But your advice about awkwardness being a different form of honesty helped me more than I can say. I want to thank you for that. 

As you can see, I have written my address at the top of the page. I understand that you may not wish to write - and that your arm might not permit it - but I would so love to hear from you. 

I wish you all the best and hope dearly that our paths will cross again one day. 

Your friend (I hope)

Carson

*

Rather than slip her letter in with the external mail from St. Jude’s, Carson leaves it at the Red Cross base. A courier will likely pick it up and drop it at another depot closer to the Bellevue Centre. It has a better chance of getting to Freddie more quickly that way. 

She doesn’t have a lot of faith that Freddie will reply. She can only hope that the codes and signs Max and Greta have told her about are universal enough that he will understand what she means in her letter. Otherwise, it is going to seem a very strange, self-centred update. But, even if he gets the underlying message that Carson is queer and understands that he is completely safe with Carson, he still might not reply. 

He had been so upset with her. She had accidentally taken something private from him, and even if they both know she hadn’t meant to, Carson also knows that it isn’t easy to face down someone (even in the form of a letter) when they discover something you had wanted to guard for yourself. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t inherently bad that another person knows that secret. What matters is being seen before you are ready. 

Carson understands this now because, even though she knows that being seen by some people - Max, for example - would be a positive thing, she is also biding her time for…something. She isn’t even sure what it is. She just knows that telling someone about this, about being queer, isn’t something you can take back and once it’s out there, things change. 

Perhaps going to the bar will help. 

On Friday morning, Leonard nervously stammers his way through an offer to help with the letters after Carson finishes work, so she is able to drive them to the building and help him get them into the mailroom without having to zip round town to find a post office which will assist her. The letters already have stamps on them, so the favour will cost the Tribune nothing.

This leaves Carson plenty of time to get ready and set off for Jess and Lupe’s apartment. She leaves a note on the kitchen counter, letting Shirley know that she is going out with Maybelle tonight. It feels like the safest lie to tell and she knows Shirley will stay up all evening worrying if Carson doesn’t explain her absence ahead of time. 

It takes her a while to locate the right building but, eventually, she finds herself being welcomed inside by a buoyant-looking Jess who, Carson realises after a moment, has already consumed more beer than Carson would be able to handle all night. Still, she accepts a bottle from Jess and is welcomed into a painfully tiny living room-and-kitchen set-up, only to be met with - 

“Jo. Hi! I hadn’t realised you guys were coming tonight.” 

Jo literally pauses with a glass bottle raised to her lips. She looks undeniably incensed. 

“Yeah. Could say the same about you.” 

“Hi, Carson!” 

This comes from Flo, who offers her an enthusiastic wave. She is squashed on Jo’s lap in order to create enough space for Lupe and Jess on the couch. “Nice to see you! I’ll have your new clothes ready soon.” 

Greta isn’t here. Carson knows everyone can see her checking. 

“Oh, that’s okay. Don’t rush - I just appreciate you helping. I’m awful at sewing.” Carson pauses and glances at Jo who is staring at her as though she is a giraffe and not a person. “I’ve, uh - I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Lupe and Jess told me about it when we went - ”

“Hey! No snitching, novata!” 

“Don’t put this on Carson, García,” Jo says sharply. “She wouldn’t be here if you both hadn’t told her to be.” 

Carson feels a flash of irritation. It is followed by a helping of embarrassment at the implication that she is an unwanted interloper here tonight. 

“I don’t know what novata means,” she snaps. “And I’m sorry if I’m an unwelcome addition.” 

Across the room, Flo looks awkward while, next to her (well, next the heap of tangled limbs that is her and Jo) Jess is wearing a slightly comical expression. She looks as though she cannot decide whether to be amused or impressed so, instead, she is settling for both, as though Carson’s protest is rather like that of an endearingly bossy child. Carson’s irritation doubles. 

“Rookie,” Lu offers unhelpfully in response to the first half of Carson’s outburst. She appears to be whatever the polar opposite of contrite is.

Defiant. She is infuriatingly defiant. 

Carson feels herself blush. Yes, she is new to all this. But the only way she can stop being new is if she learns how to navigate this secret world. She wants to learn. The more she learns, the better chance she and Greta might have…for the future. 

“I’m not gonna show you guys up. I’m learning stuff, but I’m not a kid.” 

She glances down at her shirt and jeans. She had spent an hour switching between this outfit and the green pants. She feels good, if a little self-conscious. She is trying. 

“Alright. Stand down, farm girl,” Jo returns. “We know you’re not. It’s just - did these idiots warn you? About what can happen?” 

“Fuck off. I resent the hell out of that,” Lupe protests. “Of course we warned her!” 

“Well it’s hard to tell with you two sometimes. Running around town like there’s no risk at all in what we’re doing.” 

“Well,” Lupe says with a shrug. “That’s our choice. Let Carson make her own.” 

Jo gives Carson a quick once-over before she smiles. 

“Love the new clothes, farm girl. They look good on you.” 

*

The whole evening, no one mentions Greta’s absence and Carson knows it isn’t worth asking any questions. Greta could hardly be persuaded to hide out in Carson’s empty apartment. With all she knows about Greta by now, Carson cannot picture her coming to a queer bar. 

Instead of dwelling on this or feeling sad about it, Carson manages to find a place to sit and join in the conversation with the rest of the group. She drinks two beers, which is usually the sum total of her tolerance level. 

Feeling happy and a little fuzzy, she all but vibrates with anticipation as she waits to be told it is time to leave. 

It seems to take forever, but eventually Lupe is the one to rally the troops. Like a joyous little caravan, the five of them make their way across town and, eventually, surreptitiously split up before, in two groups, they creep carefully down a sidestreet towards a nondescript looking door. 

Carson follows Jo inside and is shocked to find…nothing. 

A man in a smart suit sits at a table in a tiny room lined with cabinets. He appears to be working his way through a stack of dry-looking paperwork. He glances up when the door opens, expression one of forced neutrality until he takes in the group. His gaze drifts to Carson and he smiles. 

“You’re new. You a friend of Dorothy too?” His tone is genial and Carson realises he doesn’t really need to ask the question because he already knows everyone else.

A stirring sense of something akin to joy passes through her when she answers in the affirmative. 

“Well, enjoy it.” The man turns his attention to the others. “You know where to go. Have a fun night.” 

“Thanks Ernie, we will,” Lupe replies with a pointed waggle of her eyebrows, already making her way to a door at the back of the room. 

Heart in her mouth, Carson pauses for a second and quickly feels a tap on her arm. 

She finds Jess looking at her with a big, playful grin. 

“You ready for this?” 

Carson sets her jaw and nods. Her heart feels like it might beat out of her chest with excitement. 

“So ready.” 

Jess shoves her playfully towards the door. 

“Well then, what are you waiting for?” 

Chapter Text

Carson wakes on Saturday morning and has to remind herself that the night before was not a total dream. 

The bar had been everything she could have imagined, and more. 

In a quaint little space with a wooden sign behind the counter that read The Office, there was a raised stage with a performer crooning love songs into a microphone. Tables were dotted around the open area, with enough room left for people to mingle and dance.

Everywhere she looked, there were people just like her and the rest of the group. There were parties huddled together playing cards or chattering and laughing away. Couples cuddled together in little booths or held hands while they waited for their drinks. 

Two men in soldiers’ uniforms waltzed around the room together, and two women in full suits kissed and canoodled near the stage.

It was so magical. Like a dreamland. 

Carson had thought she might be scared or nervous being there, knowing that anyone could burst in at any time, but she wasn’t.

She didn’t think about the cops once. 

Instead, she had fun. 

She had fun watching Joey and Flo slow dance, and she had fun sitting around while Jess and Lupe tried their luck - successfully in both cases - with a pair of women who had been in the bar when the group arrived. 

The only thing missing, really, was Greta.

It was strange, all things told. The building was hidden down an obscure sidestreet with someone keeping watch out front. There were multiple exits in the bar itself and, honestly, the whole thing felt completely protected and sheltered from the outside world. There was no reason to be scared here. 

Carson didn’t get it, but she tried not to dwell too much on it. Jess and Lupe had said that Greta joined them here from time to time. Maybe one of those times would come around soon. Carson hoped so. She would love to dance with Greta here. 

As she had always known she would be the case, Carson hadn’t looked around to meet anyone new. Not in that way, at least. One woman approached her on her way to the bathroom and, although Carson happily chatted a while, she had made it clear she didn’t have any intentions to pursue anything…amorous. The woman, taking the hint quickly, had been perfectly decent about it - much more decent, Carson had thought, than any man in a regular kind of bar.

It was safe here in that way, too. 

Lupe and Jess had teased her mercilessly when she got back to the table, but Carson took it on the chin.

She just…wasn’t interested in anyone who wasn’t Greta, not like that anyway.

Lupe and Jess seemed to have a lot of fun flirting their way through the bar and disappearing separately for a while, but it held no appeal at all for Carson.

She was happy as she was, and just glad she could be here to soak in the ambiance and the atmosphere.

In fact, she spent most of her night sitting at the bar itself, sharing conversation with someone who turned out to be the owner. She had introduced herself as Vi, given Carson a firm handshake, and told her all about a place in which she clearly had an immense amount of pride.

Vi had asked Carson if she’d ever been in a place like this before, and had proceeded to answer all of Carson’s questions about how it was possible that she had found a space, kept it secret from the wrong people, and spread the word to all the right ones. Apparently the bar had been forced to move a few times by now, but Vi was resolute. Nothing would stop her from bouncing back every time, just as Lupe had alluded to a few days earlier outside the clothing store. 

“We can’t give up,” Vi had explained. “If we do, they win. And I don’t like the thought of that. We need places like this. Places where we can all just be. And, well, I’d like to get something a little bigger. Something we can make a little flashier and fancier for all our friends.”

“But…it’s perfect, just as it is. It feels like a dream,” Carson had said, gazing all around them. “Like Oz.”

“I guess it is a little like that,” Vi agreed, and then - as if things couldn’t be magical enough - she introduced Carson to Edie, her wife. Naturally, this had led to questions and conversations about the wedding and marriage. Carson learned that the ceremony took place here, in the bar. By the sounds of it, there had been guests - friends and chosen family - and vows, rings and so, so much love. 

Carson couldn’t help the way her mind ran when confronted with all this information. She couldn’t help that she started to dream. That she imagined it. Her and…

Even now, waking up the next morning, she doesn’t want to entirely admit the truth of what she had pictured. It all felt so…presumptuous. And a little like tempting fate. 

Greta, she has learned in recent weeks, doesn’t like to talk about the future. She doesn’t look ahead. She doesn’t seem to think there is anything to look ahead to. 

Plus, Carson is already married. She has had a wedding. It just wasn’t what she really wanted.

And her wedding with Charlie, it had all been so…rushed. It had been quick and Carson hadn’t really cared about the particulars of it. She had arranged it, obviously, but she hadn’t worried about flowers or which of her dresses to wear. She hadn’t really thought about hymns or a service or, honestly, vows. 

Until last night, she hadn’t really realised she was supposed to have an ideal picture of it in her head. Obviously, she had known at the time that a perfect wedding day was something many people dreamed about. But, looking back now, Carson knows that all she really felt was nerves.

They are surprisingly easy to confuse with excitement, as it turns out. 

Last night, it had been crystal clear which one she was feeling. 

She gets up and prepares for her day, already excited to make her usual trip across town. 

She spends the morning with Shirley, trying not to think about the last time they spoke about queer bars, albeit with Shirley’s total ignorance as to why Carson might be so interested in the topic. 

They have reached a tentative truce over the subject of Carson’s letter-writing at work, as well as the fact that Carson is very obviously not spending all of her time with friends from work. Shirley has stopped asking questions, but it doesn’t mean that her all-too astute mind hasn’t stopped making connections.

Carson knows she has to be careful, but this morning she doesn’t particularly care. Carson has fun just hanging out with Shirley, trading jokes and idle chit-chat until Shirley has to head off to her volunteering shift. 

Carson makes her own journey with a big, silly smile on her face. The only time recently she can remember feeling so happy is when she is with Greta. 

Carson is floating on air, she is euphoric, she cannot wait to tell Greta all about last night and - 

Greta is waiting at Van Buren for her. 

Something is wrong. 

Carson can tell immediately from the line of Greta’s shoulders and the way her lips are pressed tightly together. 

They meet each other’s eye as Carson gets off the streetcar and immediately feels her joy give way to something more akin to dread. 

Could something possibly have happened after the group parted ways outside the bar? Was it Jo? Or Flo? Or Jess or Lupe? 

It had been quiet out when they left the bar and Carson struggles to imagine that there had been anyone nearby to see the group carefully slinking away. She wonders what measures the authorities would take to determine whether a person was queer. 

She had assumed it was just raids, that they just banged down doors and came in hot, but was it more sinister than even that? 

Carson scurries over, weaving between passengers and wondering what on earth could have happened to make Greta look so troubled. 

“Hey, it’s great to see you,” Carson breathes, because it is true, even when something is so clearly bothering Greta. “Is everything okay? Is everyone alright?”

“Fine,” Greta answers stiffly. “Let’s just…not talk right here, okay?”

Then, Carson realises. 

Greta isn’t worried or upset. Greta is angry. 

She glances at the people milling around, none of whom are paying them any heed. Then, she walks away in the direction of the park as Carson does a quick march to keep up with her long strides. Carson’s heart speeds up in her chest as she tries to think of anything which might have occurred in the past week that Jo or Jess would not have told Carson about before today. Anything in Greta’s day-to-day which might elicit this kind of reaction. 

Nothing comes to mind, however, so Carson follows along until Greta comes to an abrupt halt in a clear, secluded part of the park and Carson slams on the brakes so hard she almost collides with Greta’s back. 

“Aren’t we…” Carson begins, before pausing. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, if something’s happened, we could just go to your apartment to talk.”

“No,” Greta replies, her voice a harsh, low whisper. Carson feels herself flinch back slightly and Greta visibly readjusts. When she speaks again, she is still quiet but her tone is, at least, mercifully normal. “Jo is nursing a particularly sore head this morning. Here will do.”

Carson thinks back a few hours and smiles in spite of herself. Jo and Lupe had rather…indulged at Vi’s. They were by no means unable to control themselves by the end of the night, but Carson - who had had no more than a beer at The Office after her drinks at Jess and Lupe’s apartment - can imagine that Jo isn’t feeling particularly well right now. 

Then, approximately a minute too late, Carson makes the obvious connection. Greta knows all about the bar. 

“And you?” Greta asks sharply. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I didn’t really drink much. Greta, did - did you know I was going out last night?” 

“No. But Joey was not particularly in a state to be subtle when she and Flo finally rolled home.” 

“Why would Jo need to be subtle?” Carson asks, perplexed. “I know you don’t really like to go, but I wasn’t trying to hide where I was last night. Jess and Lupe invited me; I didn’t even know the others would be there.” 

Greta rubs a hand over her forehead and Carson wonders if Joey’s headache has crossed between best friends somehow. 

“I know you weren’t trying to hide where you were, Carson, but I had thought you might talk to me before making such a reckless decision.” 

“But it wasn’t reckless,” Carson protests quietly, some of the excitement from earlier wearing off now. “I was with the others the whole night and nothing happened.” 

“Well it could have,” Greta hisses. “It easily could have, Carson. The others know that. They’re well aware by now but - you can’t just go to a place like that so close to home. Especially not after…what’s been happening to bars like those recently.” 

Carson frowns across at Greta. “The others do.” 

“The others aren’t careful, Carson. That’s the difference.” 

“But it’s so perfect there. It’s worth the risk,” Carson tries. “It was so…safe. It felt safe being there. No, I know,” Carson says quickly when Greta goes to interrupt. “I know it's not necessarily safe in that way. But it just…I just felt so at home. There were couples there. Dancing. People like us. We could - ”

“Carson,” Greta scolds, jaw clenched. “Keep. Your. Voice. Down.” 

Carson takes a tiny step back. Greta has never spoken to her like that before.

It seems to shock both of them at once. 

Greta holds a hand up in acquiescence. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled - ”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” Carson protests, voice colder than before.

She doesn’t understand why Greta won’t listen to her. Why she won’t allow herself to even try this. Nothing is ever going to be safe for them, not really. The more Carson thinks about it, the more she realises how fine the line between every decision really is. 

It isn’t safe to walk into certain stores and buy the clothes she wants. It isn’t safe to sit too close to Greta when they go out together. It definitely isn’t safe to hold her hand or touch her arm. Carson has to take care not to look at Greta in ways that too obviously bely her feelings. It isn’t even entirely safe when they kiss inside Greta’s apartment, much less Carson’s. Even if most of the people in Greta’s building are friendly, it doesn’t mean someone won’t report them. Or Jo. Or Jess. Or any of them. 

If nothing is truly safe, then Carson cannot bring herself to truly differentiate between the fear. She is taking risks every day now. Some are just a little different from the others. 

Because there are some places where it is, comparatively, a little bit safer. One place in particular. And Greta won’t go there. Just like she won’t talk about things between them.  

“I didn’t say you were stupid,” Greta replies and it is obvious that she is trying to soften her demeanour, but the result is questionable. “But there are smart decisions and last night wasn’t one of them. The others shouldn’t have dragged you along like that.”

“They didn’t drag me anywhere. Greta, please. You just need to come with us. I know you’ve been before but maybe we could all show you. That way, the two of us could - ”

“No. Stop.” Greta’s eyes flash dangerously. “Just because we are,” she gestures with one finger between the two of them, “doing this, it doesn’t mean that you get to control me or judge my choices.” 

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Carson asks harshly. “Telling me where I can and can’t go just because you’ve…known…about yourself for longer than I have? But we’re not all scared of our shadows.” 

This is a step too far for Greta, and they both know it. 

“Yeah, is that how you really feel?”

“No,” Carson says quickly, scrabbling to repair the interaction. “No, it’s really not. I’m s- ”

“Well maybe I don’t consider risking my safety for a few drinks at a bar to be worth it. Maybe you just wouldn’t understand that, but it’s my choice.” 

“No, I understand that it is worth it. It’s like Lupe said to me the other day. We have to - ”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Greta cries and immediately her gaze shoots from side to side. There is no one nearby. She adds, quietly, “why are you suddenly taking life advice from García of all people? You’ve met her, what? Twice? Three times?”

Slowly, Carson crosses her arms across her chest. “Why does that matter? Isn’t she your friend?” 

“Of course she is. She’s just…reckless, that’s all. And if she’s putting ideas in your head about taking some sort of pointless stand, then - ”

“Then, what? You don’t get what it’s like to have all these - ”

“No, you don’t get what it’s like,” Greta whispers, voice suddenly full of tears, “to lay awake at night and wonder if the people you - ” Greta cuts herself off, a look of nothing less than frenzied terror on her face.

“If what?” Carson demands, arms still folded.

“If the people you care about are going to come home to you,” Greta finishes, voice rough. She shakes her head slightly to herself. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m going home. Enjoy your afternoon.” 

She leaves Carson in Grant Park and disappears into the distance. 

For a while, Carson stands frozen on the spot, Greta’s words echoing round her head.

Surely she only meant the conversation. Surely she didn’t mean all of it.

Carson’s first instinct is to follow, but it feels as though she should clear her head first. Perhaps the two of them are both too worked up to have a constructive conversation. 

Acutely missing the joyous feeling she woke up with, Carson wanders round the park for a while in something of a tantrum that she would not admit to later. Everyone seems to be treating her like she is stupid, all because she has only just realised she is queer. 

It isn’t her fault, though. She didn’t even really know what it all meant until a few months ago. She didn’t know her own feelings and, even if she had, she wouldn’t have ever considered the possibility that those feelings were something even close to normal. She wouldn’t have considered that other people felt them too, that she could have friends just like her, that she could have…Greta.

But…maybe she can’t. Maybe she can’t have Greta. Not really. Not in all the ways she wants. 

If Greta is so certain that they are all just living on borrowed time, running down the clock until the next great, inevitable, disaster, then maybe she is right and Carson is wrong. 

The thing is, Carson wants to believe in something better than that.

She has no choice but to believe in something better. 

Because if there is nothing better to believe in, then the world is even more cruel than she thought. If there is no better option than this, then people are dying on foreign soil right now for absolutely nothing. Kids like Freddie are laying down their lives without any option of truly being free. What freedom had Freddie been fighting for, really, when he got injured? Not his own, it would seem.

Carson understands that maybe this way of thinking is incredibly naive. Maybe it is a form of denial, too. But discovering all this stuff about herself has to mean something. Because, if she has to go back to the way things were before this summer in Chicago, then it was pointless knowing all these things about herself at all.

If she has to go back…it would be better that she had never found out.

And if she had never found out, then that would have meant no Greta. No Jo, no Jess, no Flo, no Lupe. In a way, it almost would have meant no Max and no Freddie too.

Carson cannot believe in a future where none of this matters, so she has to believe in a future where this life is always possible. 

If more people could only know about themselves too, if they could only discover that they are not alone in feeling like they don’t have a place in the world, then maybe they would learn that they do. They have a place, a community, friends and families and sacred spaces. 

And they wouldn’t have to be scared. Greta wouldn’t have to be scared.

Carson understands that the argument from earlier is just a sign of how fearful Greta truly is. It was, Carson insists to herself, nothing more and nothing less. Greta cares enough to be scared about Carson and the others, to worry about them. 

Guilt hits Carson like a bullet. Abruptly, she ceases stomping around the park and instead sits on a patch of grass. Without much other conscious thought, she pulls her notebook and a pencil from her bag and she starts to write. 

She doesn’t think too much about the words, they just seem to bleed out of her and onto the paper. She writes page after page, letting out every feeling and frustration and fear. 

She is, she realises with a smattering of delight, angry. She is furious. At Greta, a little bit. At herself, a little more. Mostly, at the world. In a way, it actually feels good to be angry. It feels good to finally, truly feel it. She thinks that, maybe, she has been angry for a little while - long before Chicago - without even knowing why. Maybe she has been angry without even knowing that this is how she felt.

It turns out, you can feel a lot of things without even realising it. 

*

Carson doesn’t know how long she sits there and writes. 

The days are getting shorter now as September plots its course. The summer is almost over and although it doesn’t necessarily have to mark the end of anything more than the season, it almost feels like something else is changing too.

Time feels a little bit like sand slipping through an hourglass; fleeting, finite, disappearing before Carson’s eyes.

The afternoon sun starts to fade before Carson realises she is perilously close to filling up the remainder of her notebook.

When she lifts her eyes from the pages, it is as though she is leaving a dream. The world around her seems crisp and overly sharp for a moment, bright and stark in colour after the monochrome of white paper and a graphite pencil. Carson feels as though the apocalypse could have happened around her and she wouldn’t have realised.

She feels…exhausted. As though putting that much of herself into the world wasn’t just an act of bleeding onto the pages; it was Carson bleeding dry. 

But, once she is done, she feels undeniably better. It feels good to give form to her feelings.

For it to really mean anything, however, there is still something Carson needs to do.

*

Jo answers the door, looking pale but otherwise alright. 

"Feel better?" Carson asks with a grin. Jo matches it.

“Of a fashion," she answers cryptically. At Carson's enquiring look, she adds, "head's much better but I'm surprised it's still attached to my neck. Someone had the courtesy not to bite it off entirely, but I got a good telling off."

“Me too," Carson admits, although she suspects that she might have gotten away lightly compared to Jo. "We argued a bit."

Jo grimaces. "Yeah, something gave me that impression earlier. You'll probably want to steer clear for another day. There's no reasoning with her when she's like this.”

"I feel really bad."

"Don't. She'll be alright, she just needs to cool off."

“Can I talk to her?"

Jo shrugs. "I wouldn't if I were you. She just has a lot of feelings about this whole thing, but she'll come round. Whatever she said, she probably didn't mean it."

Carson checks if anyone is around in the shared hallway. "Can I come in? Just for a second."

Jo lets her into the apartment and Carson drops her voice. 

"She told me she always stays here and worries that people won't be coming back to her.”

Jo visibly chews this over for a minute. 

"Well, yeah," she says slowly. “I guess I'd already intuited that. But she's never said it to me in so many words before. In a way, I’m glad she actually said it to someone.”

“I don't want to make her do that." Carson whispers. "I don't want her to feel that way because of me.”

Jo inhales and bites at her bottom lip. "Greta is always going to worry. That's just who she is now. But you're not the one doing that to her. It sucks that we all have to watch each other's backs like this, but the fact is that we all look out for everyone else. And we can't shut ourselves away and not live.”

“But Greta seems to think we - or, at least, she - can.”

"Look, farm girl, I don't know if I'm the best person to advise you here. But she really will get over it. I just let her have her little sulk, work it all out of her system, and then decide she's ready to come out and talk properly.”

"How can you not be the best person in this scenario? You're her best friend; you've known her since she was a kid."

"Because I suppose I can acknowledge that, in this instance, I could have handled things a bit better," Jo admits, looking as though it costs her a lot to do so. "She's not mad at you. She's mad at me. You don't know all the hang ups she has about this stuff. I do. And…she cares about you. More than I think even she realises. So if that’s what you’re worried about, then take it from me: you’re alright on that front."

Carson cannot fail to notice the way her heart flutters when she hears Jo say that Greta truly does care. Carson knows it by now, of course, but the fact that other people have borne witness to it still feels incredibly special.

"I still think it's better if I talk to her."

Jo chortles to herself. "Well, you're braver than you look, I'll give you that." She steps aside so that Carson can pass her in the hallway. "Be my guest. It's your funeral."

Although this doesn't fill Carson with much optimism, she treads carefully through the apartment as though she is approaching a wild animal, eventually knocking carefully on the door and softly calling out Greta's name.

She hears Greta shout something, but it is impossible to say whether it is an invitation or a request to be left alone.

Carson gently pushes the door open.

The room is dim, although Carson can easily make out Greta's silhouette on the bed, lying on her back and looking up at the ceiling.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah." Greta's voice is soft and a little bit watery.

"And can I join you?"

By way of an answer, Greta scoots across the bed to make space for Carson, who lays down and leaves half an inch of respectful distance between their bodies.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Then, almost as if it is her version of a ceasefire or a truce, Greta lightly taps her foot against Carson's. Carefully, Carson slides her leg closer until her ankle is against Greta's calf. Greta pushes back a little and they both relax into the mattress.

"I'm sorry," Carson murmurs eventually, eyes pointing forwards. "I shouldn't have said some of the things I said to you earlier."

"I thought you'd gone home," Greta replies eventually. "That I wouldn’t be able to see you for the rest of the day. And that maybe you’d…left me behind. In other ways. It would be no less than I'd have deserved."

"I'm never going to leave you behind.” 

"You might."

"I won't." Carson says firmly.

Slowly, as if waiting for Carson to push her away, Greta reaches out and strokes her fingers through Carson's hair. She does that so much; Carson finds it soothing.

"Everyone has to leave at some point. Whether they want to or not."

Again, Carson says, "I won't."

They both go silent for so long that Carson starts contemplating whether she should ask Greta if she wants to deem the conversation over entirely. For a while, it seems completely certain that they won't be discussing anything more about what was said earlier.

Then, Greta takes a deep breath.

"When I was seventeen," she begins slowly, "the boy whose mother rejected me…he wasn't a boy. I'm assuming you've worked that out by now."

"To be honest, I've tried not to think about it too much. It's your story, not mine. I didn't want to fill in the blanks. It felt a little bit like invading your privacy."

Greta exhales quickly in a soft, surprised little laugh. "Well, thank you. But I’m sure it was inescapably obvious that she was a girl. Dana. She was the same age as me."

Greta reaches for Carson's hand in the darkness and guides her fingers towards the thin golden band Greta wears on her pinky finger.

"This was hers." Carefully, she laces their fingers together. "At first, we were really careful. And then we fell in love and we stopped being careful. Her mom found us, and I was fine, but Dana was - " Greta lets out a choked little sob as though she is trying to stifle her tears. Carson gently strokes her thumb across the back of Greta's hand. Eventually, she finishes. "Sent away."

"Sent away? "Carson echoes. Then, the realisation hits.

She remembers Shirley telling her that a lobotomy was the only cure.

Carson suppresses a shocked gasp.

"So," Carson begins, pieces of the puzzle falling into place in quick succession. "When you said you were thinking about looking for her, you were wondering about trying to save her."

"I don't know if she'd still be around to save," Greta whispers. "But I feel like I have to make amends somehow. It's not fair that I'm okay when she's not."

Carson opens her mouth to reply before quickly cutting herself off. She isn't sure if it would be a good idea to give voice to the thought that just popped into her mind.

Greta, however, is too astute. "What were you about to say?"

"I - nothing, it's fine. Not the right time.”

"Carson…”

"It's just…is it alright if I mention Charlie?"

Greta tenses for a moment. "Yes. Of course. He's your husband. It's natural that you'd be thinking about him."

"I wasn't exactly thinking about him. Not until a moment ago," Carson says. "Because, what you said about making amends because you're still okay, it just made me think... I know it's different with Charlie, in a lot of ways. I know we just got married because we were allowed - expected, really - to do that. And that's nothing compared to having to hide the way you did with Dana or - or with me, I guess. And I know Dana being taken away isn't the same as what's happening in the war right now. But even if my feelings about my marriage are, at this point, pretty cut and dry, Charlie is still my oldest friend. And, sometimes, I think about him stuck in the trenches somewhere in Europe.”

Carson pauses and takes a breath before continuing. 

“I know that what I'm doing will hurt him, and I know it makes me a hypocrite and a terrible person to feel this way, but I just feel so terrible that I'm here having the best year of my life while he’s out there fighting a war. I don't like to think of how scared he must be. It isn't fair that he and everyone else have to go and do this, and I have to constantly remind myself that I didn’t send him there. Even though I’ll feel guilty regardless, it wasn’t my fault that he got called up. I don't have the power to do that. I know it's very different to what happened to you and Dana, but the overall point is the same, I think."

"Maybe, a little,” Greta says, sounding pensive. “But it's mostly different, I think. You loving Charlie isn't what got him sent to war."

"And you loving Dana isn't what got her taken away, either."

“Yes, it is.”

Carson shakes her head. “That’s not true. It’s still what other people did that got her taken away. Her mom didn’t have to…well, you know…”

Greta rolls abruptly onto her right side, pulling Carson's hand to her lips and grazing her knuckles with a long, soft kiss. 

"You know, sometimes, you remind me of her. It’s terrifying. Because I don't want you to end up getting hurt. I- I don't know what I'd do if something terrible happened to you. I don't think I could bear it."

"Nothing bad is going to happen," Carson says. "To me or to you. I'll keep you safe no matter what.”

"You don't know that. You can't guarantee anything like that," Greta protests softly, sounding close to tears again. "I'm sorry for how I behaved earlier. I was just so scared at the thought that you might not have turned up today. And I might have gone days or even weeks waiting for news. I don't want to lose someone else I care about. I don't want someone else to leave me."

"I'm not going to leave you," Carson says again, rolling over to face Greta. She leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose.

"Everyone leaves eventually," Greta presses. "The grown-up, married ones go back eventually, and the young, naive ones just dreaming of a happy life get sent away.”

"What about the older ones?" Carson murmurs, thinking of the bar last night.

"Sometimes I wonder if people like us are allowed to grow old, alone or together." 

I want the two of us to grow old together, Carson thinks automatically. The thought flashes like a beacon in her head, sudden and intense. The strength of her conviction takes her aback. It is strange to only realise you feel something when it is already a sure and certain thought in your own mind. 

Instead of saying that, Carson says, "I know that we are."

Greta smiles. Carson can just about see it in the dark.

"You met Vi and Edie huh?"

"Yeah, they were great."

"Did you have a good time last night?"

Carson hesitates. "It doesn't matter now. I'm sorry; it was selfish of me not to think of how my safety affects you.”

"No," Greta says, shaking her head and kissing the back of Carson's hand. "It all matters to me. You weren't selfish, Carson. I was wrong for making you feel bad about it. I wasn't always like…I used to go out more often, have fun, all of that."

"Oh, I know you did," Carson tells her with a soft chuckle. "I know how you used to meet girls in Paris.”

Greta laughs loudly, piercing the hush of the room. Then, she grows serious again.

"I really am sorry that I let everything get the better of me."

“I know. But Greta - I can’t promise that I’m not going to go back.” 

Greta nods. “I know. And I’m not trying to stop you from making that choice. I’m just worried you’re going to get hurt.” 

“I’m not going to get hurt.” 

“You don’t know that. You can’t promise that.” 

“No, I know. I know. But I can promise I’ll be more cautious. I’ll go back but I won’t go all the time. And I’ll be more careful about it.” 

“I can’t promise I’ll ever go,” Greta murmurs. 

“I know. And I’m not going to force you.”

“Thank you. I will think about it, though.” 

Carson leans in and presses a soft kiss to Greta's lips.

When they pull apart, Carson keeps her face close to Greta's. She can feel the ghost of Greta’s breath - shaky and ragged - against her face. 

"Hey, it's okay,” Carson soothes. “I understand it a bit better now. And I really am sorry that you had to find out after the night was over. I wasn't trying to keep it from you; I just didn't think to tell you beforehand. I was always planning on telling you today."

"I know you were. Sorry we didn't get to enjoy the whole day together. What were you doing the whole time?"

"Oh, nothing, really. Just jotting a few things down in a notebook."

"You were writing something?" Greta asks, sounding excited. Carson's heart twists with a sudden shot of fondness.

“Yeah, I guess so. It probably wasn't all that good, but it was just something I needed to get out."

"A diary entry about this awful, selfish woman you've been spending all your time with?" Greta asks, but her voice is lighter now and it is obvious that she is teasing.

"It's not that," Carson murmurs, tucking some of Greta's hair behind her ear. "But it's not not that, either."

“Well, that will certainly paint me in a beautiful light," Greta retorts sarcastically.

“I don't know how to paint you in any other. I think you're the one that makes the light something beautiful, not the other way around."

Carson hears Greta's breath catch in her throat. Then, she captures Carson's lips in a hot, slow, open-mouthed kiss, one that leaves them both panting slightly when they break apart.

Greta’s eyes dart across Carson’s face for a moment. "That might be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

"In that case, I'm glad it could be me that told you."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly have wanted to hear it from anyone else.”

*

It doesn’t take long before Greta is rolling into Carson, nuzzling her face into her neck, biting and kissing and sucking at the skin there. 

Soon enough after that, she is in Carson’s lap, rocking hard but slow with one knee planted either side of Carson’s hips. 

“Mm,” Greta mumbles contentedly. “Can’t believe I haven’t told you yet how good you look.” 

“Yeah?” Carson asks, voice a little breathless. Her hands brush self-consciously over her green pants for a moment. “Do you like them? I got them earlier in the week.” 

Greta nips at the base of Carson’s throat and sits up straight, her hips still moving steadily atop Carson’s. She flashes a devilish smile. 

“I love them.” 

Carson cannot help but grin. She had been feeling confident in her clothing choices all day, even in spite of the slightly rocky start to the afternoon. Hearing Greta talk favourably about it though - that is something else entirely. 

Greta reaches down to tap affectionately at Carson’s lips and, on instinct, they part. 

Greta hooks a finger above her bottom lip, just up to the first knuckle, the tip of Greta’s finger just barely dipping into Carson’s mouth. 

“Hey, I’m still really sorry about before,” Greta says abruptly, her voice plain and alarmingly sincere. 

Carson opens her mouth to speak and Greta trails her finger back down over the cushion of Carson’s lower lip. All of a sudden, a look of intense sadness washes over her face. 

“It’s okay,” Carson says urgently, lifting her palms to grip loosely at Greta’s forearms. She wants desperately for Greta not to feel the way that expression looks. “It really is okay. I’m sorry too.” 

“I’m not always very good at telling you,” Greta begins, looking beautiful and stricken for a moment, but the sentence goes nowhere. Her hands lift from where they had been braced against Carson’s stomach and then begin to creep upwards. 

“Let me show you,” Greta whispers, fingers popping open the very top button of her own blouse. “Let me make it up to you.” 

“Baby, you don’t have to make anything up to me.” 

Carson can’t seem to read the energy coming off Greta right now. 

“Let me?” Greta says, and it is unmistakably a question, although it is wrapped up in something that sounds awfully like a plea. “Let me make it better?” 

“I want this,” Carson confirms, because she has learned that Greta sometimes needs her to say it like that. “But not because I think you’ve got anything to make up to me.” 

Greta just nods and starts working the rest of the buttons open from top to bottom, revealing a soft cream bra and the curve of her full breasts. 

Carson thinks if she had only been asked why, then, if not because there is something to be made better?, then she would have said, because I’m so, so in love with you.

The sex is hot and quick and frantic, and Carson comes twice before they even manage to get her brand new green pants all the way off and past her ankles. 

*

Afterwards, Greta convinces Carson to read a few little excerpts from her notebook

"I don't know if it's all that interesting,” Carson explains by way of forewarning. “It's really just me trying to process how it feels to discover all this stuff about myself at this point in my life, only to find out that I still have to keep it all buried."

"Hm,” Greta replies, poking lightly at Carson’s cheek. “So I’d have an extremely rare and privileged glimpse inside that beautiful mind of yours? Sure. What could possibly be interesting about that?"

So, they lie naked and draped in Greta's bedsheets while Carson flips through her notebook and does her best to read by the dim glow of an old lamp stationed all the way over on the vanity. Carson must angle both her body and the book strangely just to catch the writing in a beam of yellow light. The colour reminds her of dandelions.

However, whatever strange way she contorts in order to catch the light, Greta's body always chases hers, as if they have been entirely fused together forever.

Carson reads passages here and there, skipping the parts where she writes too much about how dearly she loves Greta. She focuses instead on the musings about coming home to her own body once she understood her feelings and her desires; about the frustration of realising that, although this is a homecoming, she has arrived at a beautiful house entirely hidden amidst a secret garden.

Finally, she reads through a section of notes focussing on all the ways her life has been altered for good this summer. Next to her, she can feel Greta's breathing getting slower and heavier. She is falling asleep in the downy peace of the early evening.

Even Carson is starting to feel her eyes droop as her notebook begins to feel heavy in her hand.

As quietly as possible, Carson recites the last part of her chosen section, preparing to gently toss the book towards the wrinkled heap of clothing on the floor.

The line reads simply: "you changed my whole life."

Just as she is falling asleep curled in Greta's arms, Carson thinks she hears a whisper in the dark. 

"You opened me up again, Carson.”

*

Perhaps not daring to stoke Greta's earlier bad mood, or perhaps out of respect for their privacy, no one bothers to rouse them as the time gets later.

Instead, they sleep on undisturbed, neither of them stirring for hours. In fact, they barely even move. It is after twilight by the time they finally wake, almost as one, in more or less the same position they fell asleep in.

Carson suspects she stirs first and, as she moves in Greta's embrace, they both realise their mistake together.

Greta indulges in a really rather wonderful stretch, arching her back and pressing into Carson as she scrubs the sleep out of her eyes.

"Fuck. What time is it?" Carson asks, stifling a yawn.

Greta groans and slings her arm wildly in the direction of her nightstand, eventually scrabbling around enough to find her watch.

"Late," she grumbles before she has time to squint at the watch face.

When she does, her eyes go wide for a moment before comically drooping again.

"Fuck. It's nearly midnight. It's too late for you to go home."

"S'okay," Carson replies, a sleepy noise caught in her throat. “I can sneak in like I did last night."

She makes to sit up but Greta's arm finds its way around her waist and holds tight.

"No, no. Carson, baby, wait a second. There won't be any streetcars. It's too late for you to go walking through town. It's not safe."

It is a Saturday, so there might be an off chance that she can still eventually hail a taxi if she wanders or waits long enough. She says as much to Greta, who vehemently shakes her head.

"I don't want you walking around anywhere on your own." Greta stretches again and blinks her eyes hard a couple of times. She seems to wake up a bit more after that, because a little crease of concern settles between her eyebrows. Very evidently, she is trying to calculate how easily they can get away with this.

"Is your roommate likely to ask questions or get suspicious?"

If there is one thing Carson knows she cannot do, it is tell Greta about Shirley's commentary on last week's headlines about the police raids.

"Maybe. A little. But I think it should be easy enough to deflect them.”

"No. When we start underestimating people that's when we're in trouble.”

"Well, I'll speak to her in the morning and tell her I was with Maybelle," Carson suggests eventually. She is hit with a sudden wave of late-night inspiration. "I could call Shirley from the hall phone first thing and let her speak with you."

"Me? Am I supposed to be doing some sort of impression? How does your colleague even sound?"

Doesn't matter," Carson says. "Shirls has never interacted with Maybelle. You can just be you.” 

For a moment, Greta pauses and just thinks.   

With a little jolt of emotion, Carson realises that Greta is trying. It is costing her a lot, but she is truly, genuinely trying.

She is trying to find a middle ground between what keeps her safe and what makes her happy. 

Eventually, Greta smiles. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Carson wants to kiss her, so she does.

"Thanks," she whispers against her lips.

"Eh," Greta says with a shrug, getting comfortable against the pillows again. "It wasn't entirely altruistic. If you'd have tried to walk, I'd have insisted on walking with you, and I really didn’t want to do that."

"Okay,” Carson counters seriously, “but then you'd be the lone person walking back home, and I just couldn’t have that. I'd have had to turn around at my place and come walk back here with you."

Greta laughs. "Ah but you see, when we got back to my home then you would have been returning to your home alone." She parodies an upper-class accent. "Which will never do.” 

"Well shit, at this rate, we'll be going back-and-forth for days!" Carson cries in mock incredulity. 

"Just bouncing from one place to the other, and then back again," Greta agrees.

“Like one of those balls in a pinball machine.”

Greta makes a few ‘boing-boing’ sounds for good measure. They both laugh.

"Are you hungry?" Greta asks suddenly, right as her own stomach rumbles.

Carson looks up at Greta and smiles.

"Sure, yeah. Let's eat"

*

Through a mutual discovery that they have very few ingredients to use and a limited combined knowledge of meal preparation skills, they immediately settle for sitting in a chink of moonlight cast onto the kitchen floor, both haphazardly dressed as they lean in close and bump their knees together.

They eat a couple of underwhelming sandwiches and trade whispers, eventually getting so tired and silly that they giggle their way through a whole conversation about some of Jess and Lupe’s past escapades at the bar. 

Carson could have sworn blind that they were being stealthy and quiet, but Jo - whose bedroom is across the corridor from the kitchen - eventually lobs something at her closed door and calls out for what she terms ‘love's young dream' to hurry up and go back to bed.

They sneak back under the covers like naughty schoolchildren, and, distantly, Carson knows that, despite her relaxed exterior, Greta’s brain is probably working overtime trying to come up with a perfect excuse for Carson to offer should anyone question her about this impromptu sleepover.

“Thanks again for letting me stay.”

"Mm-hm," Greta agrees, already almost back to sleep. "Of course. Gotta keep you safe."

*

The next morning, Jo pounces on them when they first step out of Greta’s bedroom. Dressed in a men’s flannel nightgown, she is already standing at the oven and tending to a pair of pans filled with eggs and bacon.

At first, Carson thinks that they are about to be thoroughly told off for the unexpected escapades of the night before, but Jo gladly lets them hurry off to use the hall phone and pantomime their way through a conversation that involves Greta playing a decent version of Maybelle down the line to Shirley. 

Carson is almost surprised about how many details of Maybelle’s life Greta had retained. She references several of them on the phone without any prompting at all.

It is overwhelming, sometimes, realising how much Greta listens. 

Carson almost manages to do a credible job of feeling guilty about lying to her friend, but her heart isn’t really in it. She would love to be more honest with Shirley but, as she and Greta head back into the apartment, Carson tells herself there are some things it’s better to simply shield Shirley from. 

Once back inside, Carson and Greta try their level best to slink back past Jo, who promptly accosts them as soon as she hears their footsteps. 

“Jo, sorry about - ” Carson begins, but is soundly cut off in her tracks.

“Sorry? What are you apologising for?” Jo demands, pointing a wooden spoon ominously at them. “You haven’t even heard my question yet.” 

Perhaps she doesn’t actually remember the two of them waking her up last night…

Greta and Carson exchange a mischievous look while Jo glances quickly between them. 

“God, the two of you are so fucking annoying these days.” 

“I do believe you just took the lord’s name in vain,” Greta points out in an impressively serious tone. 

Gravely, Carson adds, “and on the seventh day, too.” 

“Well you know what, farm girl?” Jo retorts in mock indignation. “When you’re the only one in the house that can cook a decent meal, you don’t get any rest.” 

Greta nods solemnly. “Well, we appreciate you martyring yourself to the cause.” 

"Good God, all I wanted to do was ask whether either of you wanted to play some baseball next weekend. We've barely found a time when we're all free this summer, although some of us might be more to blame than others," Jo points out, eyeing Greta carefully.

"Well you have been working a lot, Jo," Carson says, causing Greta to snort.

Jo looks as though she might launch the wooden spoon. Carson supposes it would be a good way to assess her baseball prowess.

“Anyway, García and McCready want to get the group together before the weather turns."

Greta props her elbow on Carson's shoulder and nudges their hips together. 

"I'm in. What do you say, Carson? You want to join us?"

Carson hasn't been able to play much ball in a group setting since leaving Lake Valley. 

“Yes please. I definitely do. But actually, I was just wondering,” Carson asks, inspiration striking her all at once. “Can I maybe bring my friends?” 

“Wow. Carson has other friends,” Jo deadpans before turning back to the eggs. “Sure you can, farm girl.” 

*

Carson meets Max at a café she has never heard of before, in a part of town she has only visited in passing. The little building is situated conveniently out of sight of the main road, although the exterior still looks warm and inviting.

Feeling slightly nervous, Carson steps inside and a bell rings.

On Tuesday evening when they had a private moment at Hillman’s, Max had assured her this was a place they could meet without worrying that anyone would give them any trouble if they all sat together. She had finished up her explanation with the words, "if you don't mind, obviously."

Genuinely at a loss as to why she would mind, Carson had only insisted that it was all fine if Max said it was. 

Max just smiled, shook her head to herself, and said, “see you in a few days, Shaw.” 

Carson is the first to arrive on Friday afternoon, so she picks a table and asks for some water. 

The café is quaint and well-decorated and, as Carson glances around at the other patrons, she realises that the clientele is more openly mixed than she is often used to seeing. It is sometimes so difficult, even in the city, to openly spend time with Max. There is no telling how other people will react. 

This place, however, seems to have some sort of established status quo for this sort of thing. Not everyone is sitting in mixed groups, but it seems that the baseline assumption is that you will tolerate other people doing so. 

“Hey Shaw, like the look.” 

Max slides into a seat opposite Carson, grinning and sending her an approving look.

Like Carson, Max is dressed in her blue jeans and a shirt. 

“Thanks. I’m, uh, I’m trying something new.” 

“It looks good,” Max returns. Then, she grins again and adds, “you’ve met S, right?” 

The woman from the salon - S - drops into the seat next to Max and sends her an incredulous look. 

“She promised me she wasn’t gonna introduce me like that,” she says directly to Carson.

“Well, when it was such a successful first meeting, how can I pass up an opportunity like that?” Max laughs. 

Although Carson has pretty much had no other opportunity since the park to speak with Max about how S is doing, and how things are going for them both, she is only partially surprised that Max seems so confident about this meeting. 

While part of the swagger is undeniably a bit of bluff and bravado, Carson thinks that the fact that she hasn’t told anyone Max’s secret - as well as the way they still meet up in Hillman’s together with Shirley and Clance - is perhaps confirmation enough for Max that she doesn’t have to worry that Carson won’t approve. 

“Yes, uh, I think I should probably apologise,” Carson says quietly. “About that first meeting.” 

S gives Carson a long, careful look, evidently sizing her up for a moment. 

“It’s okay,” she says eventually, “not your fault Max left the door open.”

“Well - we don’t know it was me that didn’t lock the door,” Max points out quickly. “It really could have been either of us. Technically, it sort of was both of us, actually.” 

S holds Carson’s gaze for a moment, mischief and something like a challenge in her eyes. 

Carson smiles. “No, you’re right. You should blame Max for this. That’s what I always like to do.” 

Max groans while S laughs and holds her hand out. 

“And that is the correct answer,” she says as she gives Carson a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you properly Carson. My name’s Esther, but you’re welcome to just call me S.” 

“An honour of the highest degree,” Max quips.

“Oh, you’d better believe that it is,” S replies primly. 

Carson looks between them and smiles. They seem perfectly suited and, if she is being honest, frighteningly competitive. She supposes that is what means they are going to be amazing ball players. 

*

A few hours later, Max and Carson see S onto her bus and walk in the direction of their own stops. 

“Well?” Max asks expectantly as soon as the bus pulls away. She twists her hands together and glances nervously at Carson. 

“Well what?” 

Max shoves slightly at Carson. “Well, what did you think? Idiot.” 

“Of S?” Carson asks, startled at the idea that her opinion is either of importance or difficult to determine. 

Esther had proven to be an intense, driven person who was also charming and extremely funny. Was Carson admittedly rather intimidated by her? Yes. Did she also happen to like her a lot? Absolutely.

She had thought that was obvious. 

“Nah, of Duke Ellington,” Max grumbles. “Of course S.” 

“I mean, you’ve known her for a year,” Carson points out carefully. “Not sure we’re really at ‘what do you think’ territory here Max. But, for the record, I like her. A lot. I think she’s perfect.” 

Perfect for you, Carson doesn’t dare say. One glance from Max tells her that her friend understands all the same. 

“Well, even if it’s been a year, I still want to know.” 

“And now you do. She’s great.” 

“Yeah,” Max says, sounding perhaps a little dreamy. “She is. She’ll be glad to know you think that.” 

Carson laughs. “She will?” 

S had seemed unerringly confident and at ease.

“Yeah,” Max answers. “She wouldn’t have wanted you or me to know, but she was super nervous. She literally hasn’t met any of my good friends before now.” 

They reach Carson’s streetcar stop and linger a few feet away. 

“Well, I’m going to play baseball with some friends tomorrow afternoon.” 

Max raises her eyebrows. “Wow. You’re actually about to come clean to me, I see.” 

Carson feels her heart start to race. Does Max…know? 

It wouldn’t matter, obviously. But this just isn’t how Carson planned to do it. 

“Come clean about what?”

“I mean, it’s obvious you’ve been cheating on us with some new friends recently. I just didn’t think you’d ever tell me about it. I can’t believe you’ve replaced me as your baseball friend.” 

Carson rolls her eyes and lets out a shuddery, relieved breath. 

“You’re the number one, obviously.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s not like you’d find anyone cool enough to replace me.” 

“Well, do you want to come? Show the whole group how irreplaceable you are? I asked them if I could bring some friends along. Figured S could come too.” 

Max’s playful demeanour fades slightly. “I don’t know Carson. Are your friends, you know - ”

Max gestures vaguely at Carson and it is enough to make her meaning clear. 

“Yeah, for the most part,” Carson tells her carefully. “But I promise it would be fine.” 

“I don’t think that’s really an assurance you can give, Shaw.” 

“No, I get that, but they are really good people.” 

“Well - have you ever discussed anything that would give you that kind of assurance? Did you warn them which friends might be joining you?”

“No,” Carson admits, suddenly embarrassed. It hadn’t occurred to her to take that kind of precaution. “I mean, I did warn Lupe that you’re both pitchers.”

Carson had, admittedly, passed the message on via Jess at the Red Cross last night, but that was basically the same thing. 

Max nods right as a streetcar pulls up. “That’s you. Quickly tell me the time and place, and I’ll think about it. No promises though.” 

*

The field Greta and the rest of the group typically uses is completely deserted when they arrive.

Flo doesn’t particularly enjoy playing, although she has offered to run around and collect balls if needed, so that only leaves them with five people. 

Max and Esther aren’t there when they all arrive, but Carson had mentioned that there was a possibility that they would turn up. 

“Ha! See,” Jo jokes as she bends to re-tie her laces. “I knew you didn’t have any friends.” 

“No,” Carson counters nervously. “It’s just, they weren’t entirely sure if it’d be appropriate to join.” 

“Why’s that?” Lupe asks sharply, dumping a pile of baseballs near the mound. 

“Uh, because - ” Carson begins, not entirely sure how - or even if - she should go about explaining Max’s concerns. 

In the end, because she is totally unaware of how else to handle it, she manages to convey the general message through a series of half-finished sentences, a few odd euphemisms, and no shortage of odd hand gestures at herself. 

“Huh, so they’re your friends?” Lupe questions, looking curious and faintly surprised. 

“Well, one more so than the other,” Carson answers, wondering whether she should mention anything about the nature of Max and S’s relationship. After a split second, she decides against it. “But only because I’ve known Max longer, and only just recently met Esther through her.” 

“Right, well, if they do decide to join us, they’re welcome here,” Lupe says firmly. “Right everyone?” 

Everyone makes some general noise or indication of assent, and Carson feels herself start to relax. 

With that sorted, she drops her things near a bench and starts rooting through her bag for her bat and glove. A shadow falls across her possessions and Carson glances up to find Greta towering above her. Carson has never seen her in any kind of training gear before and as such the sight of red pants and a blue paisley shirt knotted at Greta's waist, had caused her to do a literal double take when they met up earlier. There was a rather alluring strip of Greta’s midriff that was very, very visible, and Carson could already tell it was going to make it extremely difficult to keep her mind entirely on hitting or catching. 

“Can you believe we discussed playing baseball together so early on when we were writing our letters, and now here we are?” Greta asks, as she smiles warmly down at Carson. 

Carson finds her things and rises to standing. “I know. And now look at us.” 

Greta gives her a brazen once over, and although Carson is only in a pair of overalls cinched at the waist, Greta’s grin turns impish and teasing. 

“Look at us indeed.” She bites at her bottom lip for a moment. “Come on, let’s go see what the other three want to do today.” 

They find Jess, Lupe, and Jo huddled together, debating whether it would be more fun to simply warm up with some kind of batting practice or whether they could attempt some sort of a game. Lupe immediately offers herself up as pitcher, and Jess says she would be happy to cover the field. Carson is happiest as a catcher and Jo and Greta apparently have some sort of long-time working relationship when it comes to covering first and third. They agree that it might be possible to implement some sort of rotating system so that people get a chance to hit a few baseballs and try to make something of a run for it, although it is fairly obvious that whoever is covering bases will need to switch into the in- or outfield too. 

They are just a few people short for it to be a really promising sort of game, so they agree to start up by just hitting off Lupe until her arm is warm. 

Carson isn’t really sure of what to expect until it all starts. She had known that everyone in the group loved the game and that they all took it seriously, but it isn’t until Lupe winds up on the plate for the first time - pitching for Jess - that she truly gets it. 

Everyone here is seriously good. 

Lupe pitches a curve that truly has to be seen to be believed. There is only one reason that Carson is even slightly prepared for how good Lupe is. Carson has played with Max before. 

Lupe and Max would, Carson realises as she watches Jess swing just a little too late, almost be evenly matched. 

Eventually, Jess manages to catch Lupe on a minutely slower pitch. Then, right after, Greta makes Carson’s heart speed up when she flirts and teases a little at the plate while Carson is crouched in the dust, only to take a swing at one of the pitches and send it rocketing into the outfield like it is nothing. 

Carson isn’t entirely sure if she has ever seen something so attractive. Greta must know it, too, because she makes a play of sauntering to first, even though it isn’t really the aim of the drill. She does a little hop towards the bag, catches Carson’s eye and, behind Lupe’s back, brazenly blows her a kiss. 

Carson watches her, frozen on the spot, for a moment, until Lupe calls to her and asks if she’s trying to chicken out of taking her shot. Behind her, now moving up to hover in the field, Greta giggles.

“No,” Carson retorts, rolling up her sleeves and reaching for her bat. “Just thinking about how easy this is gonna be.” 

Lupe doesn’t even bother reacting. They both know that she’s good. 

She’s so good, in fact, that Carson doesn’t even get a chance to swing on the first two pitches. They aren’t really bothering to enforce a three strikes rule, although Lupe is quick to gleefully inform someone every time they would, in fact, be out if this were a real game. 

On the next pitch, Carson swings far too late. Lupe certainly doesn’t go easy on any of them, that's for sure. 

“That’s pretty good,” someone calls out and everyone looks over to find the source of the disruption. “But if you really want to make her blink, I can teach you a trick or two.” 

“Max!” Carson exclaims as her heart soars. Suddenly, she understands how it must have felt for Max to be able to introduce one of her friends to Esther. It is kind of like that now, knowing that Max is about to meet Greta. “You made it!” 

“Sure,” Max says as she heads over and dumps her familiar kit bag next to Carson’s. Esther follows and does the same. “We can’t let ourselves get as rusty as this lot.” 

“Guys,” Carson calls out, “this is Max and Esther. I promise Max is only this much of an asshole on a diamond.” 

“Oh yeah,” Lupe asks, squaring her shoulders a little. “Let’s do it then. I’m not afraid of a bit of competition.” 

Carson’s heart continues to beat hard and strong. Almost all of her favourite people are in one place together, about to spend an afternoon doing one of the things they all love the most. 

She doesn’t know how she got this lucky. 

*

Baseball, it turns out, is one of the best ways to spend time with Greta. Carson could never have imagined it, but it is true. 

With their numbers up to seven - plus Flo when she occasionally joins in - they have a little more wriggle room to set up something of a mini game, albeit without any teams. 

They are, Jess declares at one point, playing for personal glory, which seems to be the total anthesis of a team sport. Still, a few people seem to take this to heart, including Jess herself and all three of the group’s natural pitchers, who all seem to be equally competitive and confident, although the latter trait is, admittedly, well-placed. 

S is easily as good as the other two, and it is not at all surprising that she has found herself on an All-Stars team. 

Jo seems to mostly enjoy spending her time proving how impressive her arm is (extremely impressive) while Carson and Greta mostly just…goof off. 

Carson hadn’t intended to do so, but either of them is particularly inclined to rein it in. 

Carson wonders initially if the rest of their friends perceive Max and Esther as a couple - if the signals and little codes were all really evident - but she realises quickly that the only people not entirely wrapped up in the baseball side of things are her and Greta. 

Greta continues to flirt and be a general nuisance whenever she is batting and Carson is catching, she pulls silly expressions whenever Carson steps up to bat, and those are only the things that are possible when one of them is actively batting. 

Greta mostly sticks to her position on first and seems to delight in crowding Carson every time she tries to get on bag, performing a couple of moves which would most definitely not cut it in a real game. 

“Stop obstructing me,” Carson mutters when she crashes into her for the second time. She jostles against her, pretending to shove and fight. 

“I’m not obstructing anyone,” Greta whines, shoving back just as easily and very obviously biting back a smile. “It’s not my fault you’re such a baby.” 

They keep at it so long, bickering in whispers and giggling to themselves, that they entirely miss when Jess hits the next pitch. 

“You know you’re embarrassing me in front of the real players, right?” Max jokes as Carson finally rotates to a new position in the field. Despite her tone, however, Carson doesn’t miss the odd look on her friend’s face as she says it. 

All the same, this doesn’t actually stop Carson from continuing to lark about. 

Later in the afternoon, Greta hits a huge shot which, by rights, should have been a home run. It falls just short, however, and Jess - who seems to live to pelt around the field and dive and roll and generally fall about in the dirt - launches towards the ball. She misses the catch and Greta, aided by her impossibly long, strong legs, makes quick work of the first two bases. 

“Come on Jess!” Carson calls out with the intention of goading Greta, “get it home! Don’t let her beat you.” 

Greta flashes Carson a look of mock exasperation as she rounds third, and Jess finally manages to snag the ball and take a run up. She fires it in Carson’s direction with an impressive amount of force and, as Carson prepares to intercept, she sees the moment when Greta decides to slide for home. 

In a split second, Greta flies towards the plate as the ball lands in Carson’s glove with an impressive crack that stings Carson’s palm. 

“Gotcha,” Carson says, grinning and she tags Greta’s leg right as she crosses the plate. 

“That was safe!” she calls even as her momentum drives her further into the slide. 

Carson tags her again for good measure. “Was not!”

“Was too, you little cheat,” Greta manages to wrap a hand around Carson’s forearm and drag her into the slide too.

They end up as a pile of tangled, bruised limbs as Greta breathes hard and Carson grips onto the ball. 

“Just admit I got you, Gill.” 

“I was safe,” Greta repeats. 

“It’s okay to just accept that I bested you.” 

“You did not. It's good to know that you're such a bad loser you’d actually lie to win,” Greta teases, kicking gently at Carson’s shin. 

“Oh, you don’t want to start this fight, Gill,” Carson warns.

“I think you’ll find that’s exactly what I want to do.” 

With that, Carson manages to shove Greta onto her back and pin her to the ground. What follows can only be described as a half-hearted, absurd attempt at a play fight, one that only doesn’t become more intense because they are both laughing too much to take it seriously.

It only stops when Jo comes over and mimes banging their heads together. 

“If the two of you would like to take a moment to remember that other people exist,” Jo begins with a smug grin, “the rest of us just agreed on one more innings before we decamp back to our apartment for a few drinks.”

Carson sits up straight, belatedly realising that she is pinning Greta to the ground by straddling her thighs. 

“Can I ask if Max and S want to come?” 

Jo shakes her head to herself. “Already asked them, rookie. They’ve agreed to a few beers. Jesus Christ, the two of you are so insufferable.” 

“Huh,” Greta says from beneath Carson. “Wonder what she means by that?”

Then, she takes advantage of Carson’s moment of distraction by reaching up and tickling her side - a known weakness and surefire way to get her to relent. 

Carson isn’t proud of the slightly, slightly, high pitched cry that leaves her unexpectedly, but she doesn’t miss the groan Jo lets out when Greta extricates herself from beneath Carson and starts to run.

And, well, Carson is only human.

She gives chase.

*

Carson is so, so delighted that Max seems to get on with everyone else. Esther too. 

At one point while they are all at the apartment, Carson glances across the room and catches Greta chatting with Max, both of them laughing and seemingly completely at ease. 

As she does whenever the group socialises in her apartment, Greta occasionally pulls Carson into her bedroom or, on one occasion, the bathroom, to make out. They had, until now, not bothered to be particularly discreet about it, given that there was no reason to care that Jo or Jess or the others knew about it. 

Tonight, however, it is obvious that Greta’s friends get a read on Max and Esther - and the same is true in reverse - but everyone seems to be playing it a little bit more coy than normal. 

Carson gets it, especially on Max and Esther’s parts. They were already forced to exhibit a lot of trust in Carson to even turn up today. 

In the end, the two of them leave the apartment with S as it is getting dark. Esther’s best route home is in the opposite direction to Carson and Max’s, so they part ways with her with the instruction that she take care and get home safely.   

“So uh, hey, I don’t want to pry,” Max starts suddenly as they walk. “But was today like…your way of telling me something?”

Carson’s mind suddenly goes very, very blank with panic. “Tell you something? What would I be wanting to tell you over baseball?” 

“Your friends were cool,” Max says, changing the subject. “How do you know them all?” 

“Oh, well Jess and I do Red Cross shifts together.” 

There is no intention to lie about the letters to Greta, it is just so much easier and shorter for Carson to give a Max different version of the truth. 

“That’s cool. It’s great that you get on so well.” There is a pregnant pause until Max adds, “Greta seems nice. And you two seem to be really close.” 

Carson feels herself blush. 

She stops walking and Max follows suit. 

“What would happen if it turned out that maybe, unconsciously, today was my way of telling you something?” 

“Then, I guess I would be completely shocked but totally okay about it.” 

Carson feels a grin burst onto her face.

“Then, yeah. I guess I hadn’t realised it, but today was my way of having you and Greta meet. So that I could…tell you something.” 

Max looks genuinely surprised, but there is a smile playing at her lips. 

“Jesus, Shaw. Why didn’t you tell me after the salon? Was it - a thing back then?”

“That actually doesn’t have an easy answer,” Carson admits. “There’s so much I need to explain.” 

“Well,” Max says, looking around. “It’s a pretty nice night and it’s surprisingly quiet around here. If we’re careful, we could walk a bit of the way. And you could tell me all about it…if you want.” 

And Carson does. She does want.

Meeting S the day before had been perfect, but Carson must have already subconsciously known that she wanted Max to meet Greta too. Otherwise she wouldn't have jumped at the chance as soon as Jo mentioned baseball.

Now, it really feels like they have both managed to share in each other’s lives wholly and fully. 

After Carson finishes explaining about the letters and the first meeting, the first kiss and the subsequent one, and the trip to the clothing store and the bar, Max checks if they are being watched and slings her arm over Carson’s shoulders. 

“Damn. I am so, so happy for you. I guess I’m not as good at reading the signs as I thought I was, because I was not getting anything from you at all.” 

“Well, that’s probably mostly been about my obliviousness,” Carson points out.

“True, you are kind of an idiot,” Max jokes, laughing when Carson rolls her eyes. “And uh, I’m glad you worked it out for yourself, and glad you met these people and Greta; I’m glad just like…because. Because it’s great to see you this happy. But I’m also glad because there’s something I wanted to tell you today too.” 

Max’s demeanour is impossible to get a read on and, for a moment, Carson isn’t sure if she should be worried.

“I tried out for Esther’s baseball team. They want to sign me. I’ll be leaving Chicago in a few weeks.” 

Chapter Text

Max leaves Chicago in mid-September, heading out westwards as part of Red Wright’s All-Star team. The regular season is more or less over, but Wright’s team is known for their cross-country tours, playing games in all different cities against all different teams.

Carson wishes she could go and watch her, but California - where the team will end up soon enough - suddenly feels very, very far away. 

(Maybe one day, Max tells her when she speaks this thought out loud.)

It isn’t all that easy for Max to say goodbye, and a part of Carson is surprised - albeit pleasantly - that her friend actually goes.

As it turns out, Max had secretly been doing a whole heap of overnight shifts in a munitions factory to save up the money she would need to move out of her parents’ house and sustain herself independently. She hadn’t told her mom about the work and had, somehow, been grinding herself down to the bone in two jobs for months on end, all without discovery. 

(I didn’t tell anyone because I wasn’t sure if it would actually come to anything. It felt like jinxing it, Max says when Carson asks why she kept the job a secret from her friends, too.) 

When she wasn’t working, Max was training with Esther, just waiting for an opportunity to try out and take her moment. It is a wonder that she isn’t completely burned out to nothing. 

Carson wishes Max hadn’t been forced to do all of that just to pursue a dream she was more than capable of achieving, but she has never been more proud of her friend. 

Unfortunately, it is harder for Max to share her good news with some people than with others. She is incredibly close to her parents, but her mom has always had a different view of what Max’s future should look like. As far as Carson can tell, Toni Chapman did not react particularly well to the discovery that Max has been harbouring a secret job and equally secret efforts to pursue baseball.

(I’m just glad that I did save up that money. I’m not sure she’s gonna be too quick to have me back if and when the baseball stuff does come to an end, Max admits sadly when she and Carson make their way home from Greta’s apartment.) 

Not long later - not nearly long enough later - Carson, Shirley, Clance, and Guy hold a send-off for Max at Hillman’s a few days before her departure. The whole thing is as joyous as it is emotional. Carson is, in many ways, shocked when everyone - even Guy - cries at the end of the evening, as they all seem to realise at once that their little group gatherings to talk, drink, play cards, or even just sit quietly together will never be the same again. 

And while Carson knows that the separation will be hardest on Clance, she isn’t relishing the idea of adapting to a life without Max either. Max has always been such a good friend; she has always been someone who seemed to really understand Carson on a level few others ever had. Theirs has always been the kind of friendship that defied the need for explanations or clarifications; sometimes, they understood each other with barely a few words at all. 

At the end of the evening, Shirley and Carson walk the short distance home, both of them quiet, subdued, and a little overwrought. As they walk up the stairs, Shirley dabs at her eyes with a cotton handkerchief, still sniffling as they let themselves into the dark, hushed apartment. 

“That was all very sad,” she murmurs, seemingly to herself, as she leaves her shoes by the door. 

All the same, Carson responds. “It was. But I’m happy for Max.” 

“Me too. But I’ll miss her. It feels like everything’s changing. You’re busier than ever, Max is leaving, I’ve no doubt Clance and Guy will start a family soon. I don’t like it when so many things change all at once. It’s very unsettling.” 

“I know,” Carson agrees, feeling as guilty as she always does for lying to Shirley. “But it’s inevitable sometimes, isn’t it? People leave. We can’t make them stay just because we want them to.”

“And nor should we. But I certainly hope that doesn’t mean you’re thinking of leaving me any time soon.” 

Carson laughs quietly to herself. “I’m not going anywhere if you’re not.” 

“Promise?” Shirley asks, her voice tiny and sad. 

“Promise.” 

*

“For old time’s sake?” 

Carson feigns exasperation. “You want me to go into work tomorrow with a raging headache?” 

“You being incapable of handling one one beer isn’t my problem, Shaw.” 

Max pops the top off one bottle and holds it out with an enquiring - but completely non-demanding - expression. 

“Obviously. For old time’s sake,” Carson says, accepting the beer. 

“And she still beers,” Max jokes, opening another bottle for herself. “Good to know.” 

Clance, Carson knows, will see Max off at the bus station directly, and she would never wish to intrude on that moment. She cannot deny, however, that she was over the moon when Max had asked for one last evening together in the park, just the two of them hitting baseballs and goofing around. 

It had grown dark since they arrived, and the park had more or less cleared out. The two of them collect their baseballs and bats and sit together in a secluded spot, both with their backs resting against an old chain-link fence and their knees pointing skywards. 

“You all ready for tomorrow?” Carson asks around sips, resting her elbow atop her knee. 

Max heaves a sigh. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” 

“Nervous?” 

“I guess.” Max pauses. “It’s kind of about the baseball, obviously. I’m scared I’ll completely tank it and embarrass myself and S. She really stuck her neck out with Red to get me the chance to earn my spot. But I think it's almost more about leaving this place. I’ve never been without my family or Clance before now. It’s weird.” 

“Have you spoken to your mom since the other day?” 

Max has been staying with Clance and Guy for the last week because things had become too uncomfortable at home. She and her mom are barely on speaking terms, a turn of events which Carson knows hurts Max more than she lets on. 

“Not really,” Max says, staring across the park. “I know she’s just trying to protect me, and that she’s mad because she feels like I’m turning down a lot of safety nets for something she doesn’t think is worth it. To be honest, I’m not even sure she thinks this is real. But what she thinks keeps me safe just keeps me locked up instead. I just wish we were on better terms right now. I can’t help but feel like I’ve really let her down. I don’t know what to do. I keep telling myself maybe I shouldn’t go.” 

“You know, when I left Lake Valley, I’d had my bags packed for almost two weeks before I actually got on the train. I tried twice to force myself down to the station to get a ticket before I actually managed it. I just kept thinking ‘you can’t, you’re a married woman’, and ‘your sister needs you here to help out with the kids’. It would have been so easy to stay, not least because I knew how angry it was going to make my family. I felt like I’d be letting them down, just like you feel right now.” 

Max’s eyes track slowly to the side of Carson’s face. They are wide as she listens carefully. “So, what changed?” 

“Honestly? I don’t really know. I just remember thinking that I needed to get out of town for a bit and that this might be my only opportunity. In the end, I think the panic of losing out on my shot to do something for myself was stronger than the actual desire to try something new. In a way, I wish I’d have been in a better frame of mind when I left, but I guess it doesn’t matter in the end. All roads lead to Rome, and all that.” 

“Where do you think your mind would be at now if you were still there?” 

Carson exhales in a whoosh and thinks about this for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” she starts slowly. “The obvious answer, I guess, is that everything would feel awful. Because I’m here now and I’m happier than I’ve ever been with all of you, and in my job - oddly enough. I know that, now, my life would feel really empty without the people I’ve become friends with, or the work I do, or my shifts at the Motor Corps.” Carson pauses. 

Without Greta, she thinks. 

“But,” she goes on, “I don’t actually know if that would be the case, because the version of me still stuck there would never - in a million years - have been able to imagine that I’d have all the amazing things I have now. So I think, maybe, I’d be something just as bad, but different. I think I’d still be in denial - still pretending I could make myself happy where I was.” 

Max chuckles quietly to herself. “Well, I hear you loud and clear then.” 

“You’ve gotta go, Max,” Carson says quietly. “I’ll miss you so much, but you have to do this. It’s what you were born to do. I know how much you love your parents, and I know how much they’ve given you, but being here has taught me that I wasn’t put on this earth just to make other people happy. I hope I do that. I hope I’m the kind of person who makes the people around me happy, but I don’t think we should be doing it at our own expense. Making other people shouldn’t drain us; it should fill us up too.” 

“Jesus, Shaw. When the hell did you get so wise?” 

Carson nudges Max’s shoulder with her own. “Since hanging out with all of you guys, maybe.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Max agrees with a laugh. “It’s obviously my influence. Say no more. I’ll take the credit.” 

Carson matches Max’s laughter. 

“You know what? Just because I’m going to miss you so much, I’ll give you that one without a fight tonight.” 

As one, their laughter fades. 

“I’m going to miss you too, Shaw,” Max admits quietly. “That day in the park after the salon incident? That really changed a lot for me. It really…it really gave me a lot of hope back in people. And I guess, in hindsight, I should have realised there was a reason you were so quick to just accept me being with S but, either way, it really meant a lot that you were there for me.” 

“Well, if it helps, I’d barely even admitted, you know, that to myself yet.” Reflexively, Carson cranes around to check that they are alone. As an added precaution, she drops her voice. “We’d only just kissed. I had no idea what was going on in my mind at all. And, regardless of all of that, I’d have said exactly the same to you no matter what.” 

“I know. You’re a good friend. But all your weird questions definitely make a lot more sense now,” Max says with a grin. “Plus, for what it’s worth, the two of you looked really happy together the other day. Sickeningly happy, actually.” 

“Yeah, that’s how I feel,” Carson replies, suddenly a little bashful. It is odd, having someone to talk with about this. She has Jess, but this feels different. Max doesn’t really know Greta. She is Carson’s friend first and foremost, which makes this conversation feel as though it is a different kind of sacred. 

“So you’ll be staying in town a while, I reckon. Plenty of time for me to come back and visit in the future.” 

“Yeah, you’d better. I think I’ll still be here. It depends on Greta, really.” 

Max tips her head back and takes a long sip of beer. She swallows and asks, “how come?” 

“I - ” Carson pauses and wonders if this is the right time to talk about this. It feels as though this time should be about Max.

Max shakes her head to herself. “You can talk to me, you know. In fact, this is your only opportunity for a while. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me sooner, but trust me Shaw, it’s now or never. Just because I’m leaving tomorrow doesn’t mean I’m not interested in you.” 

“I guess, sometimes I’m not really sure what Greta wants. She doesn’t like to talk about it. She’s - well, she’s been through a lot when it comes to people finding out about you-know-what. She’s fearful a lot of the time. I understand that there’s a lot of history there for her, but I just wish I knew if she was thinking about the long-term the same way that I am.”

“How long has it been now?” 

“We started writing to each other almost six months ago. It’s been a little less than two months since we first kissed.” 

When Carson says this aloud, her question suddenly feels a little bit absurd. Surely Greta wouldn’t have kept writing and then meeting up for four months, not even knowing if Carson was queer, if she hadn’t wanted Carson to be a part of her life in some way. 

Carson’s whole body goes warm. She suspects that, sometimes, Greta doesn’t realise that, just because she doesn’t often say the things she feels, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t show them in other ways.

“Man, I can’t even believe you, of all people, ended up in this situation,” Max says with a laugh. “But look, take it from an outsider who barely got a chance to know the woman. She cares about you. A whole lot. And you obviously care about her.” 

“Thanks, Max.” 

For a while, they lapse into silence and drink their beers. It is so peaceful and Carson is gripped with the sudden urge to cry. She is going to miss Max so, so much.

“Hey, can I ask you kind of a personal question?” Max ventures. 

“Sure. I think you’re owed a couple after the grilling I gave you a little while ago.” 

“What about your husband? Are you going back to him?”

The question makes panic fizz around Carson’s body for a moment. Not only is it strange to be able to talk openly about Greta with someone who isn’t Jess, it is stranger still to talk about Charlie.

“It’s complicated.” 

“I probably could have surmised that much for myself.” 

Carson nudges Max again, harder this time, in reproach. Then she says, “I don’t want to go back to Lake Valley. With or without him.” 

This isn’t precisely what Max is asking, but the topic is a hard one for Carson to talk about. It is one thing to know inwardly that your marriage is over. It is another to admit that to another person. 

“Do you think most women who love other women go back to their husbands?” Carson asks before Max has a chance to respond. 

Max thinks for a moment. “Most? I don’t know. Some? Yeah, of course. They have to. It’s hard to live like this. It’s hard to keep your real relationship a secret; it’s hard to find somewhere safe to live. It’s hard to lose your blood family, and it’s hard to make ends meet if you’re two women struggling to get by on the wages they pay us. And then, it gets harder for, you know…some of us.” 

Carson nods her understanding. “I get it. It’s been mostly positive, working out that I love Greta. But it’s been scary at times too.” 

“So, before S, I knew this woman. She’s actually married to one of our pastors. They’ve got kids now too. It was different with her than with Esther, because it wasn’t so much about our feelings as it was about our bodies. She always wanted me to be some type of way - tougher mainly. I think that made it easier for her because if she was thinking of the things I wasn’t, it meant we didn’t get too attached, you know? She and her husband would travel around quite a bit after they got married, so she’d only be back in our neighbourhood every so often. But if she was home, we’d always be sneaking around together. Fooling around. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t heading back on home to her husband afterwards, though.” 

“I’m sorry, Max. In spite of it all, that must have hurt a lot that she got married and left.” 

“It did…and it didn’t. It wasn’t ever really about me. We didn’t love each other the way S and I do. I didn’t picture running off into the sunset with her. Sometimes, people don’t have a choice but to marry someone, whether they want to or not. Sometimes, it’s a choice - but only just. Because the alternatives are untenable. There’s only so many ways we can get by without a husband, right? And sure, I guess sometimes people treat it as a little fling and don’t think that they’re hurting the feelings of the person they’re sneaking around with, but I can’t judge the majority for having to go back to their marriages.” 

“I don’t want to go back,” Carson murmurs. A nervous laugh bursts out of her, startling them both. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’ve just never said that out loud before. Charlie has told me he’d move here if I want to stay, but I can’t imagine mixing my life here with my marriage from before. And I know I won’t be happy if my life is restricted to a little house in Lake Valley. I want to keep working, and I want to keep the friendships I’ve made here, and I don’t think I want kids. So - I don’t think I can go back to my marriage once he’s home. And I know that makes me a terrible person.” 

“It doesn’t,” Max says firmly. “It also maybe doesn’t sound like it’s as complicated as you think it is. That all sounds pretty clear cut to me.”

“No, no, it is. Because I do love Charlie. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and it’s been hard trying to work out how I really feel. I started out leaving Idaho and thinking there was something wrong with me for being unhappy with someone who I loved and who loved me back. Charlie’s always been my best friend and we’ve always been close. He treats me well and he’s a pretty good husband." Carson takes a breath. "Then, I worked out that it’s more about the life married women have to take on; that being a housewife is stifling and boring and something I really, really don’t like. And then I started falling in love with Greta, and I assumed I just didn’t love Charlie and had gotten it all wrong before. Because loving Greta feels so different. And not just because it’s new, although I guess maybe that’s part of it. But now I’m thinking more and more about how I’m going to leave my marriage, the more it’s starting to hit me that maybe I do love Charlie.” 

“So…” Max starts, and it is clear from her tone that she doesn’t understand. Carson doesn’t blame her; she barely understands either. Max asks, “you just love them differently?” 

“Sort of. I just - I don't even know if this makes sense, or if it’s even possible to love two people, but to love them not just in different amounts but also in different ways. I know I want to be with Greta, and I know staying with Charlie would make me and him unhappy in the long run. But it’s more than that. It’s also about how I feel when I’m with them. I know Charlie loves me and supports me, but life with him is just…different. It’s different from the life I believe I can have with Greta. I…want to be loved by her more than I want to be loved by him. Does that make sense?” 

“Somehow, I think it does.” 

“When I’m with her I just feel…limitless,” Carson adds. “Weightless. And with Charlie…I love him, and he loves me, and it’s not his fault but I feel like I’m trapped. He’s not doing anything wrong, but I know he doesn’t see me the way Greta does.” 

“So what are you gonna do when he gets back?”

“I don’t know,” Carson admits. “An awful, selfish part of me just wants to run. But I know I can’t do that to him. He’s been my best friend for two decades. I owe him so much more than just leaving. But I have no idea how to handle this. It’s going to break him, just like my mom leaving broke my dad. Plus, I mean, theoretically, he doesn’t have to let me leave. He’s my husband, and the whole world, basically, would side with him. Getting divorced just because I want to would be close to impossible. It’s a mess.” Carson sighs. “And I have no idea how to fix any of it.” 

“Well, you’ll think of something, Shaw. I’ve never doubted you. You’ll make this happen; I know you will.” 

“I’m aware that you’re lying, but thanks.” 

“Lying?” Max repeats, sounding scandalised. “About what?”

“I’m pretty sure everyone in the world doubts me.” 

“And I’m pretty sure the only person who believes that is you. I know you didn’t always have much of a support system back at home, and I know things were tough sometimes with your dad and sister. People underestimate you. I get that, trust me. But the only person really doubting yourself half the time is you.” Max sends Carson a wry smile. “I’ll always have your back, Shaw, because you’re my friend. You can always count on me, and I’ll always care. But you’re not someone who I think of and worry, because I know you’re a person who’ll work it out. I can’t picture you ever doing anything but working things out. You’re a resourceful little weirdo.” 

“Max,” Carson breathes, feigning shock and surprise. “That…that was almost so beautiful. You really had me right up until the end there.” 

“Yeah well, I said a lot of nice things. I had to even it out. But...if you want to be with Greta, and she wants to be with you, then you’re gonna make it happen.” 

“Just like you made baseball happen.”

“Exactly.” 

“I’m just so happy for you, Max.” 

“Thanks. I’m happy for me too. And for you. We’re doing pretty alright at the moment, aren't we?” 

Carson raises her beer bottle in a mock toast. “Long may it continue. Or as long as possible, I guess.” 

“Do you remember what I said after the salon incident, about those five precious minutes?” Max asks and waits for Carson to nod. “Well, I want to believe this will last forever, for both of us. But it might not. Greta’s fears aren’t totally unfounded. I guess you probably know that by now. So, if I really am about to go play baseball and you’re gonna keep on loving your girl, then we better make these five minutes fucking epic. Just in case.” 

Carson nods and holds out her bottle again, this time for real. Max mirrors her and they clink the necks together.

“To the five,” Carson toasts. 

Max smiles. “To the five.” 

*

As September marches towards October and fall creeps up on them all, Carson continues to make trips to the bar with Jess and everyone else in their merry band of friends. 

Well, almost everyone. 

Now that Greta and Carson have reached a tentative truce about the bar, the group starts gathering at Greta and Jo’s apartment. It would seem that this was, once upon a time, their usual routine, until for absolutely no reason whatsoever, they began using Jess and Lupe’s apartment instead. 

(Carson is almost entirely certain that ‘no reason whatsoever’ meant that Jo had single-handedly redirected the activity to keep it out of Greta’s line of sight, out of respect for the fact that the whole thing worried her so much.)

All the same, Carson’s second trip to The Office begins at Greta’s apartment.

This time, they make the outing on Saturday, so Carson and Greta spend their afternoon together, cutting short a planned stroll around the park when the weather had turned damp and drizzly. They retire inside by three o’clock, and spend most of the afternoon reclining on the couch, Carson reading one of Jo’s books while Greta lays with her back against Carson’s chest. She dozes on and off with her head on Carson’s shoulder as a Cleo Brown record plays on the turntable and rain patters lightly against the windowsill. 

Jo returns from work with Flo a few hours later and everyone but Greta prepares to head out for the evening. They share dinner, and Greta helps Flo with her hair and makeup, simply for the fun of it. 

Jess and Lupe turn up before eight o’clock, bringing an ample supply of beers and their usual good cheer and easy insults. 

The group sits together in the living room which, as Greta had mentioned the first time Carson came to the apartment, is a lot more spacious than Jess and Lupe’s place. All the same, Greta delights Carson when she pulls her into her lap on one of the armchairs under the pretence of making sure everyone has a place to sit comfortably. 

Carson is more than happy to rest the side of her face against the crook of Greta’s neck and nurse a single beer while everyone chats and laughs. 

Greta drinks with everyone else, but makes no move to get up when Lupe suggests it is time to head out. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Carson whispers, pressing a tiny kiss against Greta’s throat. 

“Very,” Greta replies, her tone and body going stiff at the same time. 

“No pressure,” Carson says softly, kissing her again. “Just checking.” 

Greta relaxes back into the armchair. “Okay. Sorry. Maybe next time.” 

“It’s okay. I’ll be wishing you were there, but I understand.” 

Carson hopes she doesn’t sound too disappointed. She knows it is wrong to keep hoping Greta will come, but she can’t entirely help it. She wants so badly to hold her hand in the bar, to dance with her, to kiss her…

Public affection had never been something that mattered before. Carson would take Charlie’s arm while they walked down the street, or she would kiss his cheek, but it had been largely an unconscious action. 

With Greta, Carson wishes she could be the one offering out her arm or pulling out a chair in a diner. She wishes they could dance together, or hold hands, or kiss whenever they want. She wishes they could do exist without fear.

She isn’t entirely sure if the urge to do all of these things would be so strong if they possessed the freedom to act as they wish. Carson is pretty sure, however, that if she could hold Greta’s hand in public, she would never, ever tire of it. She would never stop wanting to just because she could. But she would also be lying if she said that a part of her desire to go to The Office with Greta didn’t involve having a place where she could love her publicly. 

It still doesn’t feel real that someone like Greta could want Carson. But she does. They want each other. And Carson is so, so proud to think of herself as Greta’s. She is proud of the idea that Greta is hers. The idea of celebrating that publicly is too tempting to resist. In fact, there are times when she is forced to reassure herself that Greta’s reticence is only a fear of repercussion should there be a raid. 

It isn’t, Carson repeats to herself often, that Greta doesn’t want to act as a couple in public.

Still, Carson cannot always quell that nagging fear and doubt…

By now, she knows that Greta has done this - the dalliances and the affairs - with married women before. Greta hasn’t spoken about it much, except to reiterate on numerous occasions, including after their recent argument about the bar, that married women always return their husbands. 

Carson is too scared to ask whether Greta thinks the same of her. She is equally scared to tell Greta that she has no intentions of going back with Charlie. She fears that, if she speaks this aloud, Greta might tell her that this is nothing more than a summer fling. 

They should talk about it. Carson knows they should talk about it. But Greta is so closed off when it comes to the future, and Carson has no blueprint for this kind of conversation. She has never had to have it before, certainly not in this way. She had known, distantly, that Charlie was going to propose one day and that she would say yes. They had never really discussed their future as a couple - short of agreeing to go steady - until they were married. 

As it was, Carson had been older than every one of her peers when she and Charlie married. She had kept finding other things to put first. She had managed to find a way to finish school, even when several of her classmates were getting married as teenagers. Then, her father’s health had declined and he needed someone to help around the house a little bit. Then, Meg had her first baby long before the little boy was due, and although Carson had been hopeless at helping with a newborn, it was easy to channel most of her time towards assisting with other household duties while her brother-in-law worked and her sister put all of her energy into caring for a tiny, sickly baby who needed all the help he could get. 

When Meg had her second child, a daughter, it was just as easy for Carson to argue that, suddenly, all of Meg’s tasks had doubled. Caring for a newborn and a toddler, one who still wasn’t up to full strength yet after his rocky start, was difficult. Meg’s husband worked long hours, often leaving at dawn and not returning until dusk. Carson’s relationship with her sister was strained, but it had been an easy decision to help her as best she could. 

Carson is so very good at putting off difficult decisions when she doesn't want to face up to them. It had been infinitely easier to decide, inwardly, that she wanted to leave her husband than it was to discuss the prospect with Greta.  

So, rather than saying anything more about the bar (after all, she had promised to respect Greta’s choice), Carson simply shrugs on her jacket and sends Greta a wistful look from across the living room. 

Greta offers back a knowing, apologetic smile before beckoning Carson back across the room with the curl of her index figure. When Carson obliges, Greta bunches her fist gently in the fabric of Carson's shirt and pulls her in close, kissing her soundly. 

“Please, please be careful,” she says against Carson’s lips when the kiss ends. “Please.” 

“I will, I swear.” 

Greta kisses her again, and doesn’t let go of her shirt until Jo calls into the room from the hallway, asking if Carson needs a rescue expedition to come and get her. 

“I’ll call the hall phone tomorrow morning at ten,” Carson says. “Promise.” 

Greta nods, biting at her bottom lip until she rises from her armchair and a playful, coquettish expression slides onto her face like a mask. It is, Carson realises, for the benefit of everyone else in the apartment. 

“Have fun, you reprobates. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

“I won’t do anything you didn’t do in Paris,” Lupe jokes and a round of laughter starts up in the hallway. 

Greta laughs along too, but Carson doesn’t fail to see how worried she looks beneath it. 

Greta catches her hand as she passes her, squeezing tight before letting go again. 

“I’ll be alright,” Carson mouths and Greta nods, but doesn’t look convinced. 

It is, as it turns out, much harder to have fun at The Office when Carson can picture all too easily the fear on Greta’s face as she shuts the apartment door behind them and prepares to spend the evening alone. 

*

Although Lupe and Jess seem to casually and happily bar hop at least once per week, Carson and Jo make an effort to take time away. It is an unspoken arrangement, but Carson can tell that neither of them wants to put Greta through the emotional ringer all the time. 

Plus, if Carson passes an evening at The Office, she knows this will be time she cannot spend with Greta.

Given that their window of time is limited mostly to Saturdays to ensure that Carson doesn’t further arouse Shirley’s suspicions as to her whereabouts during the week, Carson is loath to waste opportunities to be together. 

October brings gloomier weather and, with it, the opportunity to squeeze into quiet nooks in cosy cafes, or to keep each other warm beneath the sheets of Greta’s bed. 

Still, the next two trips Carson makes to Vi and Edie’s bar are much the same as the last time. Greta feigns good spirits while everyone spends time in the apartment. She drinks a beer or two, and she trades jokes and banter. She keeps Carson close, pressed together in an armchair, on the couch, or - on one occasion - on the floor with Greta’s back against the couch and Carson’s body sheltered in the cradle of her hips. 

She kisses Carson goodbye desperately, almost as though she is scared it might be the last time, and clams up slightly when Carson asks her along. 

“Sorry. Maybe next time.” 

But they both know that next time will bring more of the same. 

They also know that Greta is quietly frustrated when Carson asks, even as Carson must hide her disappointment at the refusal. 

It is unclear, perhaps to both of them, how long this can go on. 

*

The answer, as it turns out, is not all that long at all. 

The next time there are plans to go out to The Office, Greta surprises Carson by calling her into the bedroom while the rest of the group plays a round of Crazy Eights. 

They offer a suitably lewd selection of comments and wolf whistles as Carson retreats from the room. 

“You okay?” she asks, shutting the bedroom door behind her. 

“Yeah. Fine,” Greta answers, facing away from her. Then, she spins around and holds out two dresses by their hangers. She raises one at a time and asks, “this? Or this?” 

“Oh, I - uh,” Carson freezes. “Why?” 

Greta rolls her eyes. “So I look nice tonight. You wore me down, Shaw. I’m coming with you all.” 

“You are?” 

Greta smiles, but the expression isn’t entirely loose or easy. This is obviously a difficult, slightly unpleasant decision for her. 

“I - wow. That’s amazing, Greta. It’s so amazing. But - ”

“If you tell me I don’t have to, I’m going to hurl both of these - pointy bit first - at your head,” Greta retorts, gesturing at the wire clothes hangers. “You’ve been asking all this time, and I can’t keep sitting at home feeling bad for like a hundred different reasons.” 

“But I don’t want to make you. That’s not what this is about.” 

Greta gives Carson a sceptical look and, for a moment, Carson doubts her own words. She feels terrible about it. 

“Well, I was never going to come without a push, so consider your efforts just that," Greta says evasively. "Now, please choose. I need to impress a beautiful girl at the bar tonight.”  

Carson feels herself blush and marvels at how, even now, Greta can have that effect on her. 

“Whoever that woman is, she’s probably already impressed,” she replies with a bashful grin. “Like, really, really impressed. In fact, she’s probably going to have to compete with a hundred other, much prettier, women for your attentions tonight.” 

Greta takes a step forwards, pointedly holding the dresses closer to Carson’s face. 

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Carson admits, spoiled for choice. “You look so beautiful in both. Maybe - that one?” 

She points to a coral-coloured, short-sleeved dress with a paisley print pattern. 

Greta gently tosses the other dress on the bed and dips down to press a quick kiss to Carson’s lips. When she pulls away, she says -

“That one it is. And I’ll have you know that all those other imaginary women don’t stand a chance.” 

*

Greta and Jo’s apartment is far closer to The Office than is Jess and Lupe’s. The walk is much shorter and, as such, there isn’t really enough time for Carson to feel as nervous as she ordinarily might about how the night will pan out. 

Greta wears an unreadable expression as she walks beside her, steps falling perfectly in time with Carson’s. It is almost as though she is so nervous she has shut down entirely. 

When they arrive, however, everything at the bar is normal. 

The man at the front desk - who Carson has since learned is called Arnie - lets them in, welcoming Greta with a distant sense of recognition, as though he is not entirely sure whether he really has seen her before or not. 

They beat the crowd, arriving when everything is still relatively quiet. 

“I’m calling the couch!” Jo says quickly, hurrying over to one of the few coveted, battered but comfortable loveseats stationed near the stage. She drags Flo with her and, if Carson is not much mistaken, mutters good-naturedly, “I get enough of the two of them at home.” 

Jess and Lupe slope off to choose a table for the remainder of the group, and Carson floats her way over to the bar, all but falling over herself to introduce Greta to Vi and Edie.

Over the weeks, Carson has found that one of the greatest joys of time at The Office is speaking with the bar’s owners. They are so full of love - for each other and for their friends and patrons - and they have so many stories to share. They make Carson feel hope for the future. They believe, unerringly, that things are going to get better one day. 

Greta chats away with them, charming and sociable to a fault, but Carson can see that it is costing her. 

When they rejoin Lupe and Jess, Greta sits stiffly at the table, drinking more quickly than normal, and glancing every so often at the various exits and entries around the bar. 

It is rare that silences between them are terse or difficult, but tonight, Carson cannot seem to think of one decent thing to say. 

She feels her heart sink. She had wanted to bring Greta here so that they could be themselves in a public space. But Greta has been so hyper-vigilant lately in the face of all the police crackdowns. 

There is, Carson knows, more than one reason why most of their recent Saturdays together have been spent in the apartment. 

The longer the two of them are together, the more fearful Greta seems to grow. At any point, she might realise that Carson isn’t worth living like this. Any new moment of risk or instance of fear might drive Greta away for good. Carson doesn’t think she could handle that. 

“I’m going to get another drink,” Carson announces suddenly, rising from the table and trying to conceal how much of her beer is still in the bottle. “Anyone want anything?”

No one does, so Carson hurries to the bar and takes a seat at one of the stools, swapping chatter with Vi and Edie, and looking back over at the table every few seconds. 

“It’s not always easy,” Vi murmurs sagely when she realises where Carson is staring, “for some of us to ever let our guard down.” 

“I know,” Carson agrees, thinking back to the first few times she and Greta met in person. 

Greta had been so bold and glamorous and vivacious. And she still is all of those things; Carson knows that. She just wishes Greta felt she could show it without all of her camouflage on. 

Plus, a nagging presence in Carson’s mind still cannot help but poke and prod at the idea that there is something more at play: that Greta simply doesn’t want Carson here, that perhaps she doesn’t want to associate in a public space where they can be their real selves. 

Carson's attention drifts to her friends.

She cannot help but marvel at how easily, how confidently, Lupe and Jess pick up women on every visit. She smiles to herself as they invite two people to sit with them. One of the newcomers takes Carson’s empty seat next to Greta. Never in a million years would she be as brave or as confident as the people around that table. 

In the other direction, Jo has her arm curled around Flo, the two of them drinking in each other’s presence. Carson makes a mental note to tell Jo off later for pretending that she and Greta are the doe-eyed, moony ones. Joey’s connection with Flo seems so open, so easy. They have known each other for years. Things seem so simple between them. 

After a while, Jo glances towards the bar and catches Carson looking. She says something to Flo and, with some difficulty, extricates herself from the couch before making her way over. 

She asks Vi for a beer and then nudges at Carson’s shoulder. 

“Cheer up, farm girl. It might never happen.” 

“Maybe it already has,” Carson retorts glumly. “I don’t think Greta wants to be here with me at all.” 

“Oh woe is me,” Jo quips, looking genuinely frustrated. “Don’t start trying to make Greta’s many, many hang-ups all about you, Shaw. Not when we all know they're not. She’s just…had a hard time letting loose since Dana.” 

“You guys used to travel around the country - and the world. Greta told me about all the adventures you had. All the fun times. I feel like she doesn’t want to do all that stuff when I’m around.” 

“Yeah, well, Greta’s not exactly good at feeling like she has something to lose. She’s always been the kind of person who’d rather give up on her own terms.” 

Jo snags her beer from the bar and heads off, leaving Carson to lose herself in a conversation with Edie about the end of the baseball season, and how one of Carson’s best friends just got signed to Wright’s All-Star team. 

*

Carson doesn’t look up again until she needs to excuse herself to the restrooms. 

She walks in, only to hear raised voices out of sight around the L-bend in the short corridor. 

She realises with a jolt that Jo is speaking. 

“This is all her choice, Bird. Hers. Not yours. And I know she’s been a bit heavy-handed about inviting you along, but the only choice you can make is whether you come and enjoy yourself. Not what Carson does.”

The second voice belongs to Greta.

“Weren’t you the one telling me a few months back to watch myself? You said as much when I first told you about the letters and the meet-ups with Carson, so why can’t I say the same now? Carson is still new. Nothing bad has happened to her yet. She doesn’t understand. And being here, watching her here - I’m happy that she’s happy, but I’m terrified too. Because it’s obvious she really doesn’t get it.” 

“I said all that stuff to you long before I saw you with her. You’re…different, Bird. You’re so different now. With her.”

There is a long pause, then Greta quietly asks, “I am?”

Jo’s voice goes soft in return. 

“Yeah, Bird. You are. You’re happy with her. So what if, for once, right here and right now, we forget the rules, yeah? Have some fun. Just enjoy being here with her.”

“I can’t forget the rules, Joey. Not when it comes to Carson. I can’t see her hurt. I can’t go through it again. I’m not losing her.”

“But you will, though. Don’t you see that? By acting like this, that’s exactly what you’re gonna do. And I think you already know that. Because at least this way you get to lose her and stay in control, and you get to keep pretending that you don’t deserve to be this happy. But you do. And Carson makes you happy. Just listen to me, okay? Carson…is still a bit new, yeah. And she’s all wide-eyed and innocent little farm girl. routine She’s…naïve. Because she still wants to believe the world is good. But she’s not stupid. Naïve isn’t a bad thing to be.”

Greta’s voice shakes when she speaks again. 

“It is when her heart is as big as it is. It’s going to break as soon as she finds out that the world isn’t good. That I’m not good…”

“The world’s going to hurt her anyway, Bird. At some point, it just will. Because that’s what happens to people like us. The only thing you get to choose is what you’re going to do when it happens. You gonna be there? Or you gonna let her sit down on her own and deal with it, just like she is tonight?”

“Fuck you, Jo.” 

Carson almost jumps at the sudden sharp bite to Greta’s voice. 

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. Low blow, I get it. I know you’re scared. You think there aren’t nights when I look at Flo and get scared too? The more we all love each other, the more we’ve got to lose. I get that. But I’d rather hold on tight and fight for it than lose it by my own hand. And I think, with Carson, you feel the same way. But...look, I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you tonight, so lecture over. I’m heading back out. Sorry for the tough love, Bird. But it is because I love you.”

“Love you too, Joey,” Greta whispers, voice wet and heavy with tears. 

As Jo walks towards the door, Carson suddenly and desperately throws herself into a pantomime of having just walked into the bathroom. 

Jo looks at her, grins, and shakes her head. 

“Never go into acting, farm girl.” 

“Don’t intend to, city girl.” 

Jo lets out a huge, loud belly laugh and exits the room, leaving Carson to creep slowly around the bend into the tiny washroom. It boasts only two stalls, one sink, and a small mirror. 

Without turning to face her, Greta asks, “so…how much of that did you hear?”

“I - none. No, nothing. I was just. I needed to pee. I wasn’t lurking and eavesdropping in a bathroom. That would be so weird, wouldn’t it?” 

Greta laughs and slowly turns around. “It’s okay, Carson. We weren’t exactly talking somewhere private.” 

“Sorry. I didn’t know what to do for the best.” 

Carefully, Greta moves closer and tucks some of Carson’s hair behind her ear. 

She smiles down at her, the expression an odd, stark combination of both fond and sad. 

“I wish I was better at all of this for you.” 

“You’re perfect Greta,” Carson says quickly and Greta immediately laughs and brushes the comment away. “No. Really. You are. And it’s not like I know what I’m doing either. I just know I want to keep doing all of it with you.” 

“Well, how about we start by actually having some fun, yeah?” 

Greta still looks shaky and overwhelmed, but it is obvious that, for now at least, she is alright.

“Yeah. I’d like that. A lot,” Carson answers. 

Greta’s smile turns into something simpler, something happier. She leans in for a kiss and then, at the last minute, pulls back. 

Carson lets out an undignified whine. “Why?” 

Greta wrinkles her nose in an exaggerated expression of distaste. 

“This is a public bathroom, Carson. I’m not having our first proper public kiss in a bathroom.” 

With that firmly in mind, they return to the main area a short while later, hand-in-hand as they flash each other blissful, dreamy smiles. 

(On second thought, perhaps Carson can appreciate where Jo is coming from). 

“Would you like to dance?” Carson asks, and Greta’s responding nod means more than she will ever be able to say. 

They join the rest of the people swaying on the dance floor, their bodies close as they gently move together. 

It is pure euphoria to dance with Greta like this - publicly, in a space where anyone can dance with whoever they like. No one spares them a second glance, except on the occasions when Carson’s eyes accidentally meet with a stranger and they share a knowing smile. One of recognition. One which says, I can’t even believe we’re doing this. 

Greta kisses Carson as someone up on stage croons into a microphone, doing a rather wonderful rendition of Sunday, Monday, or Always. 

There is no way their first kiss away from Greta’s apartment building could have possibly meant more. 

*

They stay until Vi closes the bar for the evening, dancing and laughing and kissing each other whenever they want. 

It feels like a revolution sparking in Carson’s heart. 

It feels like a revolution sparking in the streets. 

It is the best night of Carson’s life. 

*

As much as Carson doesn't share Greta's trepidation (at least not to the same degree), it is hard to deny that her fears are well-placed.

Carson is standing by the front door to the apartment, checking she has transplanted everything she needs for her Motor Corps shift into a fall-appropriate jacket when Shirley silently pops up in the kitchen doorway, calling out in a loud, sibilant whisper.

"Carson! I need to show you this!"

Carson yelps and all but jumps out of her skin.

"Shirley," she chides, clutching at her chest. "You can't just creep up on people."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm just a little upset. Can you come here? You won't believe this.” 

Carson sighs and does as she is told, joining Shirley in the kitchen, only to find the day's copy of The Tribune thrust under her nose. She takes it to prevent Shirley from giving her a paper cut.

“Look," Shirley hisses, pointing erratically at one of the pages. "Another teacher saw them embracing and turned them in.”

Carson feels herself freeze as she reads the headline in front of her.

LOCAL TEACHER ARRESTED FOR QUEER ACTIVITY. 

She quickly skims the text - two women in their thirties, both teachers at the same local school. They were caught together in a romantic embrace and reported to the police. The article confirms that the police have completed their enquiries and the women have been fired from their jobs and evicted from their homes.

Carson can only imagine that they will have to flee the city entirely.

She glances at the grainy picture. Her heart aches for the women; they just wanted to be together. 

It isn't fair. None of this is fucking fair

"Why are you showing me this?" she asks, trying - and failing - to keep her voice from shaking.

"There have been so many reports recently, Carson. So many." Shirley shrinks into herself as she wrings her hands. "My cousin said it spreads like the flu. What if someone comes into the bank, or Hillman's? What if someone queer is next to me on the bus or the streetcar? What if it spreads to me? Or what if it spreads to you first and then to me? I'm scared, Carson. Really scared."

Carson watches Shirley carefully for a moment, biting down on her frustration to keep it from escaping on her tongue. Shirley genuinely does look terrified, her eyes wide and her hands moving ceaselessly, one atop the other.

It isn't her fault, Carson repeats to herself a few times. It isn't, it isn't, it isn't…

"Shirls," she starts, trying not to let her exasperation show in her voice. "Why are you scared? What do you have to be scared of?"

Shirley's eyes go, if anything, even wider. "Are you crazy, Carson? The better question is why aren't you scared? This thing spreads like the flu and there's no cure. No cure, Carson. One minute you’re going around liking men and then you catch this and boom. You're queer.”

"Being queer isn't some kind of.." Carson pauses, trying to find the right word. Sin? Plenty of interpretations of scripture state that it is. Crime? People literally get arrested for being queer. In the end, Carson says, "it isn't some kind of sickness or disease."

"No?" Shirley challenges. "Then what is it Carson? What else can it possibly be?”

Realising she is skating perilously close to being discovered, Carson tries for a nonchalant shrug. "I don't know. I've always kind of just thought it's just...a thing some people are.” 

(This isn't remotely true. she thinks this now, but Shirley is the last person who needs to know how recently this revelation came about.)

"No, we can't ignore this, Carson. What you ignore always kills you in the end. Always.” 

Carson cannot stop the incredulous laugh that flies out of her mouth. Shirley's expression flashes from shocked to hurt, and Carson rushes to apologise.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to laugh when you're scared. It's just...why would someone else being queer kill you?"

"Carson, weren't you listening the last time we spoke about this? The only cure for being queer is a lobotomy! I don't want to be sent away for a lobotomy!"

"No one's going to send you away for a lobotomy, Shirley.'

"They would. They would if they thought I was queer.”

"Who? Your family?"

Shirley nods, looking utterly stricken.

"Well, how about this, then?" Carson asks, hoping to inject some levity into the conversation. “I promise that never, ever, under any circumstances, will I let anyone send you for a lobotomy, okay?"

Shirley, however, doesn't crack a smile. If anything, she looks more worried than before.

"No, Carson. You'd have to. If I caught this - goodness…if I caught it then I could spread it. It's so selfish of people to not turn themselves in. It’s selfish when they don't seek help. I'm not saying it's their fault that they caught it. They can't help that someone else turned them. But they're endangering others by keeping it a secret. It's not fair. It's so selfish."

"Shirley, you are aware that they aren't vampires, right? No one turns them. That's not how that stuff works. They're not even contagious, for god's sake."

Carson realises a moment too late that her voice has pitched upwards in protest. She isn't shouting, but she is certainly arguing back. Mentally, she shakes herself.

You have to be less invested than this, she thinks to herself.

"Yes they are," Shirley retorts, crossing her bony arms petulantly and raising her voice to match Carson's. "Why won't you listen to me? Why won't you take this seriously?" Then, Shirley pauses and what little colour she typically possesses drains from her face entirely. "Oh - oh, no. Carson. Please don't tell me you've been…associating with someone like that. Please don't tell me you've been exposed."

Carson's feels as though her heart is about to beat through her shirt.

"No - no. Of c- of course I haven't, Shirley." Her denial stutters in time with her heartbeat. "Don't be preposterous."

Shirley shakes her head. "You're a kind person, Carson. But you're too trusting for your own good. If - if you have been spending time with an invert, I'll understand. It wasn't your fault. You wouldn't have been able to tell right away. They blend in. But if they've been telling you that it's not going to spread to you, then they've been lying. You must come clean. Please, just tell me." 

For just a moment, Carson stands in silence and looks at her friend.

It is easy to be frustrated with Shirley. It is easy to be offended by her views. It is easy to be scared of discovery and the reaction that would follow if her roommate knew the truth.

But - just like that - in one devastating, draining fell swoop, all the fight leaves Carson's body.

All desire to reason with Shirley evaporates at once.

Shirl is one of her best friends.

She is one of Carson's best friends, and she'll never understand.

Shirley had said it herself. She doesn't think it's anyone's fault that they're queer. She doesn't hold their queerness against them. She's only scared of the ramifications of catching it off someone else.

But, that's the thing.

She'll always be scared of it. She'll always be a little bit repulsed by it, just as anyone is by an illness.

Even though Shirley is standing right there in front of her, Carson feels a little as though she has just lost a best friend right after her other best friend left town.

Carson feels tears gather in her eyes. She blinks them away as quickly as possible.

"I haven't exposed you to anything," she grits out, voice so angry that Shirley recoils slightly.

"Okay. Alright. I'm sorry. I trust you. I should have know you wouldn't lie to me."

The guilt that Carson would normally feel towards Shirley doesn't feel quite so intense as it normally would at a moment like this.

"I just don't get it, Shirls," Carson says quietly, her voice now so carefully, coolly neutral that it threatens to become a monotone. "You're so smart. You must know, even just instinctively, that being queer isn't like the flu. You must know they're two completely different things. People who are different to you aren't spreading anything just by wandering around the city and going about their lives. I don't believe that you truly think that, just because they might pay some money in at the bank or need to catch the same bus as you, you're actually going to be turned queer. I think you’re smart enough to know that falling in love with someone isn’t the same as catching the flu." 

“I - ” Shirley falters as she visibly processes what Carson has said. It must make at least a bit of sense to her because, rather than offer a counter argument, she simply mumbles, "lots of people believe it spreads. We haven't proved it doesn't. People who act on being queer are still selfish.”

Carson takes a breath and tries to centre herself for a moment. She knows that the extended Cohen family have, over the years, instilled an unhealthy fear of just about everything into Shirley. She won't touch canned food - even with all the rationing going on - because she is adamant she will get botulism.

Before she moved to Chicago, she had never even been out in public without a chaperone before.

It isn't Shirley's fault for believing what the world tells her about queer people. It’s not her fault that people she trusts - her cousin, her parents, even her Rabbi - are spreading misinformation.

It is cruel, really, for her loved ones to have played into her anxieties and enabled her to live her life in such fear.

But somewhere in amongst all of this, Carson is aware that, while Shirley is a victim, she is also culpable too. She is making no effort to change her point of view about queer people, even when she is smart enough to know it is inaccurate. 

Carson makes a show of looking at her watch. Stiffly, she says, "right. Well, if you say so, I guess. I've got to go. I'm going to be late for my shift."

Feeling shaken, she walks back across the apartment and pauses once again at the front door, checking her pockets one last time.

Keys, pocketbook, coin purse, Red Cross ID.

She is all set.

She leaves without bothering to say goodbye.

*

The next day, Carson still feels less guilty than normal when she leaves the apartment for her customary afternoon with Greta. 

The weather is damp and overcast again, with on-off showers putting a real kibosh on the day. Carson grabs the same brown, lined jacket as yesterday, glad she had spent the time snagging it out of her supply of colder-weather clothes.

Jo isn’t working today, and neither is Flo, so the four of them sit around in the apartment playing cards for a while. Eventually, Jo tires of losing, so she and Flo throw in the towel, leaving Greta and Carson to their own devices in the living room. 

Together, they sip on mugs of tea and sit on the floor around the coffee table, idly taking turns at adding pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that has been languishing, unfinished, in the apartment for weeks. 

A little after dinner time, Jess and Lupe unexpectedly invite themselves round, complaining about the weather washing out plans for a concert at the Band Shell. 

“What the hell are we supposed to do all winter,” Lupe huffs, helping herself to one of Jo’s beers from the icebox. 

“Well, we could go out,” Carson ventures, surprised when a few people exchange trepidatious looks across the room.

Even Jess and Lupe look uncertain. 

“Carson…” Greta begins, a note of warning rising in her voice. 

“There’s been a lot of raids recently,” Jo points out quickly, cutting Greta off and ignoring the dangerous look she receives as a result. 

“It sort of feels like the net is closing in a bit too much at the moment,” Flo adds gently. 

Feeling unreasonably and unduly spurned by the group’s rejection of her suggestion, Carson glances at Jess who raises her eyebrows and tilts her head slightly as if to say, ‘they might have a point, actually.’

As a last ditch resort, Carson locks eyes with Lupe. She is sprawled out lengthways across an armchair, smoking a cigarette. She has back against one armrest and her knees hooked over the other. Nonchalantly, she shrugs. 

“I’ll go if anyone else wants to.” She looks at Jess. “¿Y tú?” 

Movements subtle, Jess jerks her head at the rest of the room’s occupants, seemingly to say that Lupe should ask everyone else.

“Vi is really careful about who she allows in,” Flo says thoughtfully. “I know most of the other places have been taken down because an undercover cop got in. I can’t see that happening at The Office.”  

“I think it’ll be fun,” Carson prompts tentatively. “The more we go and realise we are safe there, the better, right?” 

“We’re not safe there,” Greta contests quietly, voice close to Carson’s ear. 

“Bird’s right, we’re not.” Jo adds. “What do you think, McCready? Think we’d be better keeping clear for a week or two?” 

From her station on the floor, Jess lights a cigarette off Lupe’s. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“See, if Jess is out, I’m out,” Jo concludes. 

“I’m not saying I’m out,” Jess counters. “I’m just checking on everyone else.” 

“It’s kind of stupid,” Jo says, still looking very unsure. 

“It’s not stupid,” Carson protests, right as Lupe says,

“I’ll be sure to tell Vi you said that when I see her.” 

Jo points a threatening finger at Lupe. “Don’t you dare, García. Vi might never let me drink there again.” 

“Be a shame if you weren’t there to defend yourself.” 

“Oh, that is low, even for you…” 

While they bicker, Carson turns to Greta. 

“What do you think?” she whispers with an encouraging smile. “It was so much fun last time. We could dance again.” 

Greta worries at her bottom lip for a moment. “I don’t know Carson. I don’t have a very good feeling about it. It seems so reckless to go at the moment.” 

This is not the flat ‘no’ that Carson had expected. Against her better judgement, she decides that it might be possible to pull at some strings, just a little. 

“But Flo’s right, isn’t she?” Carson murmurs. “The Office is still standing because it’s one of the safest options.” 

“Comparatively,” Greta concedes. “I had a lot of fun last time and I know how much you want us to be able to go out together as a couple. But it’s just not that simple, Carson…”

“But what if it is?” Carson pleads quickly. “What if it really is that simple? We have a place where we can go, and we can be us.” 

“I really don’t know…”

“Please, Greta. Trust me. We’ll go again, and we’ll have an amazing time.” 

Greta opens her mouth to protest again when Jess calls her name. 

“Any decisions in that corner?” 

“I’m not sure. What do you think, Joey?” 

“I don’t think it’s the smartest idea we’ve ever had - ”

“You could say that about a lot of things,” Lupe points out with a sly grin. 

“Guys, it’ll be so much fun,” Carson pipes up. “Just like last time. Please. Let’s all go as a group again.” 

Jo sighs, looking extremely put-upon for a moment. “Fine. Yeah. I’ll come. Even though it’s obviously stupid.” 

Carson turns back to Greta and looks imploringly at her. 

Greta gives her a tight, nervous smile. “Looks like we’re all going, then.”

Carson is so happy she kisses Greta before she even realises she has leaned in.

*

The Office is particularly busy tonight. 

Carson and her friends are clearly not the only ones making a trip to Vi’s bar in open defiance of the ongoing acts of violence committed by the Chicago Police Department.  

In fact, once they are inside, it is hard to believe that there is anything to be fearful about at all.

"I need a drink," Greta says into Carson's ear, tone clipped and a little too clinical for Carson's liking.

Last time, it was easier to believe that this wasn't entirely her idea.

Tonight, however, it is clear that almost everyone in the group is here because Carson wanted to come. No one else would have ventured out tonight otherwise. 

Wordlessly, she trails along after Greta as, along with Jess, they fight their way to the bar while the rest of the group scopes out the seating area, trying to see if there is a spot that can accommodate all of them.

When she sees them, Vi gives them a wave.

"Sorry kids," she says with a playful wink. "I'll be with you as fast as I can.”

"It's crazy," Jess mutters to herself as she searches her pockets for her cigarettes. "Everywhere else is missing a trick by making it so unsafe for us. They’re going to make an absolute killing here tonight." 

In the end, it is Edie who serves them their beers and their gin and tonics, raising her voice to be heard from the other side of the polished wooden counter.

"I don't know what's gotten into everybody tonight," she calls out as she mentally tots up the combined cost of the group's drinks. "We've even had to ask Martin to help us tonight."

As he passes by with an enormous box filled to the brim with dirty glasses, Martin - a regular at The Office and long-time friend of Vi and Edie - twists to offer them an awkward wave.

"Our round," Greta says quickly, knocking Jess' hand out of the way when Edie asks for payment.

Jess stuffs a handful of crumpled dollars back into her jacket pocket.

"If you're feeling generous, I'm not going to say no." She picks up Flo's gin in one hand and snags two beer bottles in the other, gripping them by the glass necks. "Thanks for the drinks. See you on the other side.”

With that, she barges her way through the customers waiting behind them and onwards across the floor.

All Carson can do for a moment, however, is beam.

Our round.

Our round, as in - Greta's resources, pooled together with Carson's.

Our round, as in - the two of them sharing responsibilities and possessions. 

Carson doesn't snap out of it until Greta is pressing two beers into her hands.

"Can you take Joey's too? I've got all my change to put away.”

No doubt looking spacey and stupid, Carson nods silently and happily floats away after Greta.

They find the others squashed around a table that is far, far too small. It is also much too close to other, nearby tables, making it impossible for them to fit enough chairs around it.

Not, that is, that there are enough chairs to be found anyway.

As they approach, the rest of the group watches as Greta and Carson calculate how best to join them.

"I can squash a bit closer to Lu," Jess offers, already pushing her chair across the wooden floor with an awful - although barely audible - screech. At the same time, Flo says,

"Do you want me to sit with Jo? We can all take one chair between two."

"It's okay," Greta counters quickly, slipping her change into her purse. "There's not enough room. Someone come and get us once there is?"

Grabbing onto Carson's wrist and towing her along, Greta makes a quick beeline back across the room.

Above the heads of most of the patrons, she must have noticed something Carson is not tall enough to see.

Then, as they emerge from the cluster of people milling about or dancing around the room, Carson understands which prize Greta is eyeing up: one of the worn, squashy leather loveseats near the raised stage.

They claim it quickly, cutting off another hopeful-looking duo who spy the vacant spot too late.

It is warm in the bar with so many people around, so Carson wriggles out of her jacket before getting comfortable. 

When she and Greta sit, they both sink down rather suddenly, crashing into each other's side slightly.

Greta's gin and tonic sloshes over the rim of the glass slightly.

Quickly, Greta catches the trail running down the outside of the glass with her finger, lifting the digit to her mouth for a moment.

Carson watches, swallowing when the pink of Greta's tongue darts out to touch the pad of her finger.

Greta glances sideways and sends Carson a slanted, self-satisfied grin when she realises she is being scrutinised.

"Whoops! Clumsy me," she jokes in reference to spilling her drink. She accompanies this with a playful flutter of her eyelashes. "You can't take me anywhere! Guess we'll have to go home again!"

To her credit, Greta does a fantastic job as selling her comment as nothing more than playful, offhand flirtation.

Take me home where it's private, her expression seems to say.

But, Carson intuits easily enough, every other part of Greta's demeanour seems to say, take me home where nothing bad can happen.

"Sorry if I came on a little too strong earlier," Carson mutters before realising that Greta can't hear her over the music and the chatter. She repeats herself.

Greta nods, looking thoughtful and a little concerned. "It's not that I don't want to do things like this with you. But - we're breaking too many rules at the moment. I can't keep letting this happen.”

"Greta - ” Carson begins, ready to apologise. Greta misreads her intention, however, and ploughs on.

"I'm not comfortable taking so many risks. I'm sorry, I wish I could be. For you, I wish I could be. But I'm just not."

“I'm sorry,” Carson says quickly. "I'm really, really sorry. We can go. Right now if you want. Let's go."

Greta smiles. "Thank you. But listen, I paid good money for our drinks. Let's finish them and I'll see if your offer still stands." She raises her eyebrows. "Promise I'll make it worth your while.”

*

They drink far more quickly than Carson would normally choose to get through a beer, but she is inclined to agree with Greta; perhaps they ought to head home. 

Even if the bar didn’t make Greta nervous, it is too busy tonight to be entirely enjoyable. Everyone seems kind, friendly, and in good spirits. No one wants any trouble. It is just a bit overwhelming.

In a way, it’s a good thing. Carson could hardly dare to dream that there are so many people like her and Greta all in one city that they can fill a bar, albeit one the owners would like to make a little bit bigger. 

Despite the racket and large number of patrons, when Carson puts her arm around Greta’s shoulders, the other woman leans in close. They try to talk over the noise of the bar, and when that proves impossible, Greta instead changes tack and leans in for a kiss. 

It still feels completely astounding to meet Greta’s lips and know they are in a public space. They are safe here. They can be themselves here. 

Slowly, they swap kisses and finish their drinks, sharing the odd smile even when Greta’s posture gives away how desperately she wants to leave. 

Then, right as Carson is about to finish the last mouthful of her drink, a faint bang sounds up from somewhere nearby. Instinctively, Carson glances around, expecting to see someone at the bar surrounded by a mess of broken bottles or glasses. Across the way, however, everything seems to be calm. 

At least, it is calm for another minute or two. 

Then, someone starts urgently ramming on the door that connects the faux-accounting office to the rest of the bar. 

“What’s going on?” Carson asks, glancing around as countless others do the same. 

The atmosphere in the bar palpably shifts. 

Then, clear as anything, Vi’s voice rings out across the room.

“Everybody get out! Now.” 

Carson’s stomach feels as though it falls out of her body. She and Greta exchange one quick, horrified glance before they rise up off the couch in tandem. 

“Is it - ?” Carson begins, but doesn’t dare say the words. 

Around them, the noise of the bar redoubles, but this time the din is chaotic and panicked. All at once, people start running for the various exits. 

On instinct, Carson grabs Greta’s hand and heads for one of the back doors, remembering to pick her jacket up at the last second. 

“Come on. We better go.” 

“No,” Greta tries to tug Carson back in the direction of the seating area, closer to the main entrance where, it would seem, the trouble is coming from. “I have to find Joey.” 

But, as a terrified, swirling mass of bodies stampedes through the bar, even Greta’s height advantage can’t help them. There will be no locating the rest of the group until everyone is on the street. 

“She’s with the others,” Carson insists. “They’ll already be on their way outside. We won't find them now. We need to hurry.”

Someone runs past them, knocking into Carson’s shoulder. Then someone else does the same. Then, more people come - dozens of them, all running pell-mell for any door they can find.

“Hurry up!” a stranger shouts, shoving at the two of them until, without any other option, Carson and Greta are swept along on the wave of people, with no hope of running against the tide. “They’re already inside!”

On cue, someone screams. Carson holds onto Greta’s hand tighter. 

She has to get them both to safety.

Her heart racing and her mind reeling, Carson joins everyone else as they thunder through a backdoor and down a flight of stairs, eventually stumbling outside and into a dark, dingy alley. It is narrow, and there are too many people. They need to keep moving. 

Behind them, people yell and plead for everyone else to disperse. There are still so many people stuck inside. 

Like fish in a net, everyone seems to be targeting one end of the alley or the other. Unlike a unified shoal, however, everyone jostles in different directions. 

At random, Carson leads them to the right until a woman barrels into her, hard, knocking all the air out of Carson's lungs. 

“Go the other way. Quickly. They’ve got that end barricaded. They’re going to trap us in.” 

Beside Carson, Greta lets out an awful, terrified sob. 

Along with the unknown woman, Carson changes directions and pushes her way through the crowd. Outside, the noise is unimaginable, the chatter of the bar now replaced by shouts and screams that follow the kind of dull thuds that will give Carson nightmares for weeks. 

The rain from earlier has cleared, but the sidewalks are still greasy as they break into a run. All around, buildings loom above them ominously, inky black sentinels against the clear night sky.

Carson splashes through a shallow puddle and the cold water soaks through her shoe. 

When they emerge from the alley, Carson finds herself on an unfamiliar street. But it doesn’t matter right now. She just needs to get Greta safety, and then they need to find their friends. 

Now that they are on a larger, busier street, Greta quickly pulls her hand out of Carson’s grip, almost as though she cannot bear to touch her. She is breathing heavily, obviously fighting tears. 

They both start to walk at random, fighting the urge to run again lest they incriminate themselves. They don’t get too far, however, when a voice - a man’s voice - calls out for them to stop.  

A whole group of men in uniforms appears, all of them circling flashlights around with the obvious intention of dazzling passersby. 

One of the cops steps forward. He is smoking a cigarette and, along with his flashlight, holding a baton. 

“I strongly suggest everyone does exactly what we tell you,” the man grunts, eyeing them all with unadulterated disgust. “Don’t try to run. Don’t try to resist. You’ll only make it so much worse for yourselves. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

Chapter Text

Time moves slowly and, at one point, Carson is pretty sure it shuts down entirely. 

The cops pull so many people from the vicinity of the bar and, Carson assumes, from the bar itself that they are almost overrun with detainees. Together, she and Greta are herded into the back of a paddy wagon with a crowd of terrified strangers and, eventually, manhandled back out again and towards a building on 26th and Cal. 

All around, cops bark instructions and shout at people to hurry up. Their faces are pictures of disgust. One spits at the feet of a man in a soldier’s uniform, eyes dark with abject, unadulterated hatred. 

Carson thinks she might be sick. 

This can’t be real. It can’t be happening. 

She tries desperately to ensure that she is not separated from Greta. As she walks, she is jostled back and forth amongst the mass of disoriented, moving bodies, everyone stumbling over their own feet. Carson tries to keep up, but her brain feels as though it has been filled with wet cement, too heavy to process what everyone is telling her. She doesn’t know where to go or what to do. She doesn’t really know what is happening. 

A cop shoves her in an effort to make her walk faster and she falls towards the sidewalk. The side of her face strikes something - a step, perhaps, or a low wall - and pain beats through her head. Beneath her knees, the hard asphalt scratches deep into her skin and Carson realises she must have torn through her pants. The sting is sharp and only serves to intensify the broiling wave of nausea rolling around in her belly. 

Almost immediately, as her ears ring and her body throbs in pain, she is lifted to her feet and shoved again. She finds herself pushed into Greta’s back and does her best to stay close as they are hustled inside.

Being thrust into the light somehow makes everything even worse. The bright lights in here make the fear on everyone’s faces that much starker.  

Feeling as though she has left her body, Carson wipes a hand across her face and finds, when she withdraws it, that it is dark with blood. Her stomach flips over and she clamps her mouth shut, fighting an urge to be sick. 

Inside the police building, they are surrounded by a mix of terror and anger. People cry and beg and protest that they haven’t done anything wrong. Some try to argue - to fight back - and only end up being tackled by a seemingly never-ending battalion of uniformed police. 

The longer the group is bunched together - the lobby filling to the walls so that the crowd threatens to become a stampede - the more tensions grow. Scuffles with cops shift into outright violence, causing onlookers to scream in protest and beg officers to cease every new onslaught. Carson watches, horrified and unable to fully process the fervour with which these men are unleashing all of their hatred - all of their prejudice and fear - on the patrons of the bar. 

One cop raises a baton high above his head and drives it down with as much force as he can muster. Carson is too slow to look away and watches, petrified with fear, as the weapon meets with someone’s face. Another onlooker - or perhaps several other onlookers - scream. By the time Carson has averted her gaze, she has already seen the stream of red billowing from the detainee’s face and heard the loud, grinding sound of his nose breaking. 

She knows, even then and there, that she will never be able to forget it. 

Dimly, she feels a bolt of rage flash through her. She wants to fight back. She should fight back. These people - these cops who seem, to Carson, to hardly be people at all - shouldn’t be allowed to do this. No one at the bar is a threat. They weren’t harming anyone else. They were just trying to be themselves.

Carson just wants to be herself. 

She wants to fight to be herself. 

But she is still standing beside Greta and, deep down, she knows there is nothing anyone can do now that would make things better. It will only get her into more trouble. It will only put Greta at even greater risk. 

Carson’s only concern now is to get them both out of here again, to get Greta out and keep her safe until then. 

From somewhere off to the side, two cops watch on impassively, as though this carnage and cruelty is nothing at all. 

The sudden overwhelming, terrifying urge to launch at them is all-consuming. 

Carson doesn’t think she has ever truly felt the full force of hatred before now. But she hates them. She hates every single person who is complicit in the night’s events. She hates that this, right here, is the real crime, but no one will be punished for what happens to this group of the city’s queer inhabitants tonight. 

No one will be punished, Carson realises, because no one else cares. 

“How the hell are we supposed to process all of them?” one of the cops asks, voice raised above the din. “There’s gotta be almost a hundred people here.” 

“Not my problem. Just get it done. Find somewhere for the ones that have to wait.” 

“And? What are we supposed to do while they’re waiting? This is gonna take all night and half of tomorrow to deal with. Fucking queers.” 

Carson winces. She had gotten so used to hearing the word queer out of the mouths of the people who are proud to be it. She had forgotten how it felt when people said it the other way. 

“It takes as long as it takes. Entertain yourself however you want. Rough a few of ‘em up. Get them to talk. They’ll all have a long list of names. Some of them’ll tell us where their other haunts are if they’re scared enough.” 

Carson grinds her teeth together, which only serves to intensify the pain in her head. She rubs at the side of her face again and the blood is still fresh and wet. 

She hates these men. She fucking hates them. 

One of the cops grumbles in response and his companion says,

“You don’t get paid to complain. Just get them out of my fucking sight. Start with that lot there. They were picked up outside. We want the ones from inside first.” 

Carson realises too late that she is part of the group being pointed out, but by the time it really registers, she is being forced through the building, down a warren of corridors. The group thins out as people are unceremoniously thrown into holding rooms, most of them small and empty and windowless. 

The last of the group is crammed in together, but even the officers shoving them in realise that they cannot squash Carson and Greta inside too. Instead, they are pushed into a final, miniscule room. There is a tiny, weak light hanging from the ceiling and not much else besides. A long, hard bench lines a wall and Carson catches her thigh on the edge of it as she stumbles inside. 

A cop grabs at her coat and Carson is surprised to find she is still clutching it in her arms. He takes Greta’s purse, too, and then slams the door behind him, leaving Greta and Carson to sit with their fear and their panic. 

No one comes back to question them for hours and hours. 

It feels as though they sit there all night but, in that tiny room, it is impossible to tell. 

They sit for so long that every part of Carson’s body starts to go stiff and sore. 

From outside, noise rises every time a new batch of detainees is moved or locked away, and then eventually everything goes quiet. Somehow, the silence is worse. It rings in Carson’s ears and intensifies her headache. 

At first, all she can do is be grateful that she and Greta are together but, from the moment they are left alone, Greta places herself on the other side of the room as best she can given the space available, sitting stiffly on that cold, painful bench with her arms wrapped around herself as she visibly trembles. 

Carson tries to reach out to her, to comfort her as best she can, but Greta flinches away at the first contact and refuses to meet Carson’s eye. She says nothing, she does nothing; she only stares vacantly at the wall as silent tears drift down her cheeks for so long that, when they finally stop, Carson can only assume it is because Greta has none left to cry. 

Carson sits across the bench from Greta and watches her carefully. Even after hours must pass, Greta doesn’t move a muscle. 

After a while, when the silence between them and the heavy, terrible mood in the room becomes unbearable, Carson tries to talk. She does her best to coax Greta back out of her head, but it is as though the other woman can no longer hear anything. Nonetheless, Carson speaks as best she can, keeping her voice soft and quiet as it shakes and quivers with fear. 

Greta’s absent stare only makes the terror worse.  

“Greta…?”

“Greta, please look at me.”

“Greta, can you say something? Just a word or two - literally anything - just so I know you can hear me.” 

“It’s gonna be okay. It’ll all be okay.” 

“I’m gonna make sure we’re okay. We’ll get out of here and it’ll be fine.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll make this right, I promise.” 

Nothing happens and so Carson falls silent again, battling against her own tears.

It takes a long time but, eventually, Greta speaks. Her voice is quiet and scratchy, stuck in her throat and barely audible. 

“You can’t.” 

It has been so long since Carson’s last attempt to garner a response that she doesn’t understand. 

“I can’t?” 

“You can’t make this right.” 

Carson’s stomach lurches again. Greta’s tone is one of quiet fear and barely restrained rage. 

 “I - I know,” Carson says. “But…I’ll try. And we’ll be alright. I know we will. We’ll get out and we’ll be okay.” 

So suddenly it must hurt, Greta snaps her head to face Carson. Her expression is frantic and angry and terrified. 

“‘We’ll’?” she repeats incredulously, voice still a whisper so that they cannot be overheard from outside. “What ‘we’? Look around at where you are, Carson. There is no ‘we’. They cannot know we know each other. They cannot know that there was ever a ‘we’.” 

“No. No, I know. Not in here. I won’t tell them anything, obviously. But - ”

“Carson, are you actually incapable of understanding what’s happening? We’re in a fucking cell . Do you honestly not get it? Do you not get what is about to happen to us?” 

Greta’s voice remains quiet and wrung out, but her tone is harsher than Carson has ever heard from her, and…her expression - it’s - 

Carson has never seen that look on Greta’s face before. It doesn’t even look like Greta, not her Greta. 

There are dark rings of makeup around Greta’s eyes and she is glaring at Carson like they have never met before. Like they aren’t something to each other. She looks angry and wild and a little bit repulsed at the sight of Carson there across the room. 

Carson tries to speak but her words come out as a garbled little sob. She doesn’t know what to say when Greta is watching her like this, like she wishes anyone was here but Carson. It is almost as though she wishes Carson doesn’t exist at all. 

Greta lets out an angry little scoff in the face of Carson’s silence. 

“No, of course you don’t get it. Why would you? Mrs Shaw. This? What’s happening right now? This is the real world. This is what happens to people like us. They’re going to ruin our lives. You get that, right? This isn’t something you can just fix. It isn’t going to go away. This isn’t your magazine. This isn’t you printing your little answers about knitting patterns. But hey, you’ll fix this, right? Like you do with those letters? Must be nice, having all the answers. Tell me, Carson, what answers do you actually have?” 

“Greta, please. Don’t do this. I know I don’t - ”

“No, no. Go ahead. Answer this one. When they take us out of here and question us, what then? Because only one of us is married, Carson. That’s what’s going to get you out of this. Not me, though. So when they see that you’re married and you get to go home, when your husband comes back and you can both just pretend that this never happened, what do you want me to do? What do you want Joey or Flo to do? Or Jess? Lupe? Not that we even know where they are . Not that we even know whether they’re all -  ” 

Greta’s voice hitches and a little sob works its way out of her mouth. A few angry tears spill down her cheeks. For a long moment, she shuts her eyes and visibly collects herself. Then, she says, 

“When you go back to your comfortable, cosy little life, what do you want the rest of us to do? What should I aspire to when the world is going to just lock me up or cut parts of my goddamn brain away? You got any good advice? Anything to say at all? Want to write about it and run it by your boss? See if you can print it in your little woman’s magazine?” 

Abruptly, she falls silent and Carson sits there, stunned as if Greta had physically struck her. In a way, she wishes she had. It would hurt far less. 

She has never seen Greta quite like this before. After Carson went to the bar for the very first time, Greta had been…angry. She’d been scared. But it never felt like this. It never felt like vitriol and loathing and…regret. 

This feels like regret. Like Greta is regretting every choice the two of them made to be together. To love each other. Like she regrets everything that eventually led them here, to being each other’s. 

Right now, it doesn’t feel like they are each other’s at all.  

It isn’t really possible, is it? Carson thinks. It isn’t possible to be each other’s. 

All this time, she has wondered. But now, she knows. She has been lying to herself. 

Everything is falling apart and Carson doesn’t know how to hold the pieces together. She doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that Greta seems, even now, to think that this wasn’t permanent for Carson. It is as though Carson is just some tourist out there seeing the sights, ready to up and leave her vacation at any time while the others - the real, permanent residents - stay behind. 

But…that isn’t fair. It isn’t true. Carson doesn’t know how to make Greta realise that she doesn’t want to go back to her old life. That there isn’t an old life to go back to . There is nothing cosy about it. There is nothing cosy about a cage. Over the last year, she had done everything she could to fix her life, to turn it into something she wanted. The entire time, it was obvious that everyone else thought she was doing it in vain. 

Turns out they were right. 

Carson had tried to fix things at work, too, and now she sees it for what it always was. She sees it exactly how Greta apparently sees it too. Carson sees herself as she really is: a stupid, naive little housewife with absolutely no idea of what life is like, blindly telling others what to do. She never stopped being that person. She’ll never be anything but that person. 

How stupid. How utterly, detestably pathetic. 

She hasn’t fixed anything. She hasn’t achieved anything. She has done what she always does. She has ruined everything. 

This is her fault. It’s all her fault.

She is the one who wanted to keep going to the bar. She is the one that persuaded Greta and Jo to go. Flo too. Even Jess and Lupe hadn’t seemed certain tonight. Carson did this to them. She has destroyed Greta’s life. 

Carson’s head swims and, although she wants to talk, wants to tell Greta how she feels about her, she can’t. Her voice sticks and she can’t seem to do anything about it.

Greta scoffs again. “No, I didn’t think so. God, this was a fucking mistake. It wasn’t even real.”

This cuts clean through Carson’s chest like a blade.

“No, you don’t mean that,” she says quickly, her words burning in her throat. Greta doesn’t mean that. She can’t. She just can’t. 

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. 

Greta can’t mean that because, for Carson, loving her is everything. It is the most real thing in her life.

“Please. Greta. We can - ”

“No, Carson,” Greta interrupts. She still isn’t shouting, but Carson can tell that, in a different environment, she would be. Her voice is almost a snarl, and her eyes flash dangerously. “We can’t. That’s enough. I didn’t even want to go to that stupid bar tonight. None of us did - except you. No more. No more empty suggestions.” 

“They’re not…I’m just trying to – ”

“That’s the problem, Carson. You’re always trying to solve everyone’s problems. You’re always trying to fix things you don’t understand. Other people’s lives aren’t your little project. I’m not your little project - I never was. You can’t keep trying to fix me. What was it you said. Something about how I’m scared of my own shadow? I’m not something to print on a page and congratulate yourself on repairing before moving onto the next letter. I said that none of this was safe. I warned you a hundred times. But you knew better. You thought getting me to do this stuff was some easy, convenient fix for both of us. No more, okay. It’s done. Look at where it’s put us.”

Something in Carson splinters. She knows that there is some truth in what Greta is saying but…

“You’re hardly in a position to lecture me about ‘moving onto the next’ anything. Not when - apparently - you don’t ever let things get real,” Carson snaps, words out of her mouth before she can even think. 

Just like that, the faintest smudge of an angry, red blush on Greta’s cheeks disappears as the colour fades from her face. Guilt crawls, syrup-thick, through Carson’s stomach. Instantly she regrets her words. 

“I’m sorry. Greta, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” Greta laughs to herself, shakes her head, and opens her mouth to speak again when a sound from outside startles them both. 

Someone is unlocking the door. 

Panic streaks through Carson as she realises they are about to be taken from the room and, most likely, split up. 

“Greta, please. I’m sorry – ”

Greta sends her a tight, furious look, intended to say shut up, stop talking right now.

Out of the corner of her mouth, she hisses, “this conversation is over, Carson. Permanently.”

“I’m sorry,” Carson insists. “I didn’t mean what I just said.”

The lock clicks and the door handle starts to creak. 

“Yes, you did,” she repeats. “Start learning to own up to the things you do, Carson. You meant it in precisely the same way I meant what I said. Now, not another word.” 

The door swings open and a uniformed cop looms in the doorway. Quickly, Greta wipes at the smudged makeup beneath her eyes. 

The police officer looks at Carson and then at Greta, his eyes raking over her as a smile settles on his face. He points at her. 

“You. With me. Now. You're up.” 

Greta steels herself and rises stiffly, smoothing out her dress. As she sweeps past Carson, she drops her voice so low that even Carson struggles to hear it. But, the words - pushed out between them in one harsh, quick whisper, are unmistakable. 

“Don’t write to me, Mrs Shaw.” 

*

Once alone, there is no reason for Carson not to cry. So, she does. She sits and sobs into her hands until her throat is raw. 

She wants to scream. She wants to pull the walls of this room down. She wants to tear apart every piece of this world that has made it impossible for her to love Greta and be loved by her in return. 

She wants to take back every word that either of them spoke in this tiny, dim room. She wants to scrub them from the record, slice them out of the narrative like she is censoring letters from the front line. But there is no undoing any of it. 

She cannot go back in time and stop herself saying that awful thing to Greta and she cannot unhear all the awful things Greta said to her. 

She cannot go back and stop them from going to the bar tonight. 

There is nothing she can do about any of it. 

She is completely useless, completely powerless, completely incapable of fixing this. 

She is alone. 

It takes what must be another hour for someone to come for her, and she spends every second worrying about Greta, wondering what they are doing to her. There had been no missing how that cop looked at her. 

Carson’s mind drifts back to the day she found out Jess was queer. When they talked during the Motor Corps shift, Jess had said something about the different ways the world hates queer people. Carson had seen more than a little of that tonight. 

Jess had said enough to Carson that day on their shared Red Cross shift to paint a picture of the kind of danger Greta is in right now.  

‘The ones like Gill or Flo - I think people have a different kind of hate for those of us who aren’t like me. Some of the prudes out there get real mad about the ones who pass off like ‘their’ women They don’t like to be deceived, or to be shown that they’re too stupid to actually tell who’s like them and who isn’t.’ 

The cops had manhandled everyone, but it had been different with the women. It had been intentional, targetted, pointed. It had said everything they thought about women who loved other women. It had shown Carson precisely what those cops would do, given half a chance. 

And, well, what they would do to the men was clear, too. It was different, a different kind of violence, but it was no less subtle. They had done it to several of them already, beating many of them in the street and several more here, at the station. 

Carson had seen the way the cops had attacked them. The way they’d tried to kick the queerness out of them.

Carson cannot unsee it.  

It had been an assault. All of it. One that the police would never be punished for because the world thought that they were right to do it. The world thought queer people deserved it. 

Carson thinks again of how that cop had looked at Greta and her blood runs cold. 

She wants to break down the door and find Greta. She desperately wants to keep her safe. No matter how angry Greta is - no matter how much she hates Carson right now - Carson still wants to keep her safe. 

And God, what about the others? 

Where is Jess now? Where is Lupe? Did they get out? Did Jo escape? Did Flo? 

Carson prays to a deity she isn’t sure she believes in that they are all safe. She prays that Greta is safe. 

She doesn’t really care what happens to herself. Whatever it is, it will be no less than she deserves. 

And, whatever it is, she will have to face it as best she can. 

The same cop comes back to the room eventually and summons her in the same sharp, ominous way he had summoned Greta earlier, except with a little less leering. They traipse down a corridor and Carson is hustled into another room, just as small and dimly lit as the first. This one, however, has a plain, wooden table in the middle. 

Carson is pushed towards a chair and the cop stalks around the room to sit on the opposite side of the table. He gives her a long, stony look. Then, he sits back in his chair and lights a cigarette. 

“Quite the night, huh?” 

Carson says nothing. She watches the cop and realises, too late, that she is probably glaring at him. 

She hates him. She hates him like she had hated the others. 

All the same, out of self-preservation she tries to school her features into something more neutral. 

The cop smirks as the silence rings around the room. 

“We met earlier,” the cop goes on conversationally, as if they had bumped into each other at a demure little cocktail party. “When you were out with your friend.” 

Carson seethes at the mention of Greta. She bites the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from saying anything. She keeps biting until she tastes blood. 

“Funny place to find a married woman such as yourself, walking around outside a den full of degenerates. Thought it was best to give you a ride somewhere else.” 

So, this guy was one of the cops who had pulled her and Greta into the van. 

Carson wants to punch him. 

“What were you doing at that bar?” 

Still, Carson says nothing. Deep down, she is terrified of this unknown, uncharted territory. She has no idea where this is heading. She has no idea what to expect. 

The cop pauses for a while. 

“You gotta talk eventually but hey, we’ve got all day. So take your time.” 

He is right, of course. They won’t let her go until she has given them something, but she intends to give them as little as possible. She is going to get out of this. She is going to make it out of this situation and she is going to find Greta. They’ll work it all out. They’ll be okay. 

“I wasn’t,” Carson grits out eventually. 

As much as this man wants her to give him information, he and his buddies have given Carson just about enough information too.

She has an idea. It terrifies her, but she mustn’t let him know she is scared. She has to pretend her heart isn’t about to beat out of her chest. 

“You weren’t what?” 

“At a bar.” 

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t at that bar.” 

“I wasn’t at the bar,” Carson repeats, fighting to keep her voice level. “I was walking down a street. I didn’t even know there was a bar there.”

“Funny coincidence, that. What were you doing walking down that street at that time, then?” 

Carson takes a second to reconsider whether contrition would be a better tactic. But, if this guy picked her up then left her and Greta to stew for that long, her plan seems like it is worth a shot. Something tells her that if she had been in the bar when the cops caught her, she wouldn’t be sitting in this room right now. She would have been dealt with already. 

“Is that what I’m here for? Walking down a street?” 

“You’re here because you just happened to be in the vicinity of an establishment known to be patronised by sexual deviants and criminals.” 

“But I wasn’t in any bar. I was walking past one without even realising it was there.” 

The cop sighs. “Listen, sweetheart. We’ve had a long night so I’m going to speed this up for the both of us, okay? We spoke to your friend.” He pauses and sends Carson a slimy, lascivious grin. “And my oh my, she’s a pretty one, isn’t she?” 

He waits for a reaction and Carson fights not to give him one. 

Whether it is a good idea or not, it works because the cop’s smile fades and a brief look of anger passes over his face.

“Well, your pretty little friend told us everything. She gave us a really nice little picture of what you two have been up to together. Tell us what we need to know and we’ll go easier on the both of you.” 

What a desperate lie. Carson almost wants to smile. 

Everything else aside, Greta would never admit to being queer unless there was no other choice. And right here, their backs are against a wall but there are other choices. Carson knows that she isn’t the only one who is painfully aware that their one lifeline is that they weren’t in the bar when they were found. Dimly, a part of her knows that this alone won’t have stopped the police from making up their minds that she and Greta are queer, but it is enough for them both to perhaps wriggle out of this situation. This, plus the fact that Greta hides herself better than anyone Carson has met, gives her hope. 

Besides, even if Greta had confessed, it certainly would have taken longer than this to get it out of her. Carson had known her for months before anything happened between them. More than that, Carson knows what happened in Greta’s past. Greta would tell any lie before she admitted to being queer and risked being sent away for it. 

“Then my friend is closer with you than she is with me. I’m happily married. My husband is fighting for our country, right now. I don’t think he would be too pleased to find out that his wife and friend were arrested for walking down the street.”  

The cop’s expression flickers again. “Walking to where? That’s a pretty shady spot for an upstanding, married woman and her doll of a friend.” 

“We were taking a shortcut.” Carson pauses. “An ill-advised one, I admit.” 

“From where?” 

“The movie theatre. We were on our way to hail a taxi.” 

“What film?”

Carson silently thanks her lucky stars that she had been paying attention to her surroundings whenever she went to the bar. 

“The Wizard Of Oz. They’re playing it again at the moment. It’s one of my favourites.” 

Silence falls for a moment until, slowly, the cop smiles at her as if he is baring his teeth. 

Ominously, he says, “no place like home, huh?” 

“So they say.” 

Abruptly, the man rises out of his chair.

“You can wait here,” he says, evidently angry. “I have some paperwork to fill out.” 

*

Somehow, they let Carson go. It takes at least another couple of hours, but they let her go. 

By the time she stumbles, dazed and exhausted, from the back area of the building and into a public waiting room, she knows she has been at the station for a long time, but it is still jarring to see daylight streaming through the windows. 

Carson is too drained to know exactly what time it is, but it is evidently bright outside, almost as though it is the middle of the day. Shirley must be beside herself by now upon waking up and finding that Carson is nowhere to be found. 

When they release her, a new cop rather brusquely tells Carson that, if they need her to answer any further questions, they will find her. 

Carson is all too aware that they know. Everyone here knows what she is and they know she was at the bar. They just can’t prove it. For now, that is enough. It has to be enough. 

Someone roughly hands her jacket back over and then Carson is left alone in the waiting room, dozens of eyes on her as she stands and blinks stupidly in the light for a moment. 

It is absurd to expect anyone she knows to still be here, but Carson cannot help but look for Greta. 

She doesn’t dare ask for her here, but she knows she needs to find her immediately. She needs to go to the apartment. She needs to make things right between them and find out where the others are. 

She stumbles out the front door, so tired and panicked that she cannot think clearly beyond this one, all-encompassing goal. She roots around in the pocket of her coat for some money before realising that there is none. They have taken everything.

Fury bubbles in her chest. They have no right…they cannot just be allowed to do this. 

The cash doesn’t matter. It isn’t about the cash. But they cannot just keep taking and taking from people, just because those people are different. 

As quickly as it comes, the anger drains out of her again. She is so tired. It doesn’t matter what has happened in the all-too immediate past. She just needs to find Greta. She just needs to work out how to pay for a bus or a streetcar. She just - 

A tap on Carson’s shoulder has her whirling around and lashing out, half expecting to find a police officer grabbing at her again. 

“Woah! Careful! Remember that time I told you I’m not the cops?” 

Like a miracle wrapped in woollen pants and a striped shirt, Jess is standing right in front of her, hands held up in defence. 

Jess is here. 

Oh God, Jess is here. She’s okay. 

Without even thinking, Carson lurches forwards and buries her face into Jess’ shoulder, tears bursting out of her the second she smells the familiar tang of motor oil and rust. Unthinking, Carson grips onto her friend and tries not to sob. 

Jess stalls for a moment until she gives Carson a long, tight squeeze and rubs her hand firmly up and down between Carson’s shoulder blades. 

“Okay, Shaw. Okay. It’s all okay now. We got you. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” 

“We?”

Jess lets out a low, sad-sounding chuckle. “Yeah, ‘we’. You didn’t think I’d leave my getaway driver at home, did you?” 

Carson peels herself off Jess in time to see a car pulling up at the sidewalk, Lupe behind the wheel. At the sight of her, Carson loses her battle against her tears entirely. Incapable of doing anything else but weep, she lets Jess steer her towards the car and onto the backseat. Jess slides in behind her and shuts the door. 

“Thanks Lu. Let’s go.” 

Feeling pathetic, Carson cries to herself as Lupe pulls onto the road, very obviously watching Carson and Jess through the driver’s mirror. 

“Carson? You okay?” 

“Just…give her a minute,” Jess murmurs quietly, putting her hand over Carson’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “She just needs a minute.” 

“I’m - I’m so sorry,” Carson manages to get out. “I’m s - I’m so - so glad you’re both okay.” 

At this admission of relief, she dissolves back into ugly, heaving sobs again. 

Tentatively, Jess hands her a cotton handkerchief that looks to be mostly clean. Carson takes it, her hands weak and shaking, and wipes ineffectually at her eyes. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Shaw,” Jess says quietly. “But yeah, we’re okay. We managed to get away.” 

“Sorry we couldn’t grab you all on the way out,” Lupe mutters from the front of the car. Her voice is completely hollow. 

“It - it’s okay,” Carson grits out. “Just g- glad you were safe.” 

“You are too,” Jess reminds her gently. “We got you now.” 

“Thank you. For coming to get me.”

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of letting you leave alone,” Lupe tells her thickly as she pulls up at a red light. 

They should have, Carson knows. Coming here was a monumental risk. She isn’t sure she is worth it. 

Lupe pulls away again when the lights change and everyone lapses into silence. Carson stares out the window without truly seeing anything that passes by. She can feel Jess’ eyes on her, but she doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t anything worth saying anymore. 

“¿Te ha dicho algo?”

Carson glances to the front of the car, momentarily unable to process why she cannot understand what Lupe is saying. 

Jess answers and Carson realises that she isn’t supposed to understand. They are talking about her. 

“No, nada. Tiene miedo; dale tiempo."  

“Necesitamos saber qué les ha dicho.” 

“What are you guys saying?” 

Lupe glances guilty at Carson via the mirror. 

“We just want to know what happened, Carson,” Jess says quietly. “You’re hurt. Did they do something to you?” 

Carson almost starts. She had completely forgotten about her head. She had forgotten there was a reason that some parts of her hurt so much more than others. “I fell. On my way in.”

“Okay. We’ll get it checked out once we’ve got you home.” 

“No. I want to find Greta. And the others. Are they okay?” 

“We’ve seen them,” Lupe answers cryptically. “They’re holding up.” 

“Can you take me to their apartment?” 

“Let’s just…get you home for now,” Lupe insists carefully. “We’ll get you some fresh clothes and give you a chance to clean those cuts up. They look pretty nasty; the last thing we want is you getting an infection. Then we’ll go from there.” 

Carson wants to protest but she doesn’t have any fight left in her. 

“Okay.” 

“Sorry to ask,” Lupe adds softly, “but did they question you? Charge you with anything?” 

“They questioned me and Greta separately. I didn’t tell the cops anything though, I swear. They only got Greta and I once we were outside, and they couldn’t prove I’d been in the bar so I just pretended I was passing by.” 

“Good. Well done,” Lupe says, sounding quietly impressed. “Did they ask about Gill? Anyone else?”

“I didn’t mention anyone at all. They tried to convince me that Greta had owned up to everything. I guessed she wouldn’t do that, so I just stuck to my lie. Then they let me go. I don’t know if I did the right thing but I didn’t know what else to say.”

“You absolutely did the right thing,” Jess tells her firmly. “You did well to stay calm and lie through it. Did you give them a fake name and address, too?” 

Carson’s mind goes blank for a moment. “I didn’t give them any name or address. They didn’t ask.” 

The mood in the car tangibly shifts. 

“No. No, they always ask,” Lupe says, sounding urgent now. “Always. They need to process your details for their records.” 

“Well, they didn’t ask me.”  

“Carson,” Jess begins slowly, “you didn’t have anything on you last night with your name on it, did you?” 

Carson feels her stomach drop out. “Yes. My Motor Corps card. It was still in my jacket from the other day.”

“Did you give it to them?” 

“No,” Carson says and everyone visibly relaxes. 

Then, she remembers - 

“I didn’t have my jacket on me. They took it.” 

Jess looks at her with wide eyes. The expression is unsettling to witness. Jess is never worried. Never. 

“How long were you waiting after they questioned you?” 

“A while. An hour or two, maybe.” 

Carson looks between Jess and Lupe several times, desperately seeking a reassurance she knows won’t come. 

She had been so stupid. So utterly fucking stupid.  

Deep down, she had known it all felt too easy, too simple, but all she had cared about was getting out and finding Greta and their friends. 

The cops didn’t ask her name because they didn’t need to. They didn’t try to press a confession out of her because it didn’t matter. They already had what they needed. They already knew who she was, which means they can tell the Red Cross and Mrs Wilkinson. 

They can put her name in the papers. 

They know where she lives. 

It’s over. Everything - her whole life - is over.  

They know where she lives. 

Oh God. 

Shirley. 

***

The apartment is in ruins by the time Carson gets home. It has probably been that way for a while. 

Ignoring the pain in her knees, she bolts into the building, calling over her shoulder to Lupe and Jess that they should go. She doesn’t know how long she will be but she will find her way to them later. They look hesitant, but they agree. They must already know that the less attention they all draw to themselves as a group right now, the better. 

Carson takes the stairs two at a time as her whole body screams in protest and, when she reaches the top floor, she finds the front door already hanging open. She pushes it and steps quietly inside. 

There, sitting in the centre of the living room and hunched over a pile of what is now the near-unrecognisable remnants of their belongings, is Shirley. The afternoon light streaming through the windows casts her in silhouette and she looks so small, so slight, so defeated…

A creaking floorboard betrays Carson’s presence but Shirley doesn’t look up. She doesn’t even move. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of her chest, she could easily be a statue. 

Carson creeps closer, at a loss as to what to do. 

All around her, everything has been torn apart as if a hurricane had blown through the apartment. 

A potted plant lies, broken, on the floor, having been knocked off the windowsill. Peat is scattered all around it in a circle and some of the dirt has been trodden into the rug. The small pile of records they share hangs off one of the shelves on a far wall, one of the paper covers ripped and torn. The couch has been knocked at an angle, the cushions all out of place as if they have been lifted up. 

Beyond the living room, Carson can see into the kitchen. A couple of mugs have been smashed on the floor and all the cupboards and drawers are hanging open. 

Carson resists the urge to bolt to her bedroom. She tries to remember if there is anything in there that will incriminate her. 

“Why did you do it, Carson?” 

Shirley’s voice is tiny. It is so weak and ragged at the edges that Carson’s heart breaks.  

“Are you okay?” 

“What do you think?”

“Did they hurt you, Shirls?” Carson demands, voice quiet but urgent. 

“No, not really.” 

Thank goodness for small mercies. 

Shirley takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Not as much as you, anyway,” she adds. 

The pain in Carson’s head flares suddenly. 

“I’m sorry, Shirls. I’m so, so - ”

“I thought I could trust you. I thought you were my friend.” 

“I am your friend, Shirley. I’m still your friend.” 

Shirley shakes her head. “No. You’re not. Friends don’t do stuff like this to each other.” 

Carson doesn’t think it is possible to cry any more than she already has in the last few hours, but the tears come to her nonetheless. She wonders if she has ever cried this much in her life. 

“I - I know this is my fault, but I swear Shirley, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I don’t know why they came here.”

“Well, they certainly did. They seemed to know exactly what they were looking for, too. They told me you were suspected of being in the company of queers.” Shirley pauses and curls her lip in distaste. “Inverts.”  

The last gasp of hope Carson had held onto disappears. Of course the cops had told Shirley. 

“Did you tell them anything? Did they take anything?”

Finally, Shirley looks up. She has been crying too. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.

“No,” she spits. “Because I didn’t know there was anything to tell them. But that didn’t matter. They still tore this place apart anyway.” 

“I - ”

“Look at the state of this apartment,” Shirley exclaims wildly, rising unsteadily to standing. She takes an erratic, sudden step forward. “My things, Carson. My life, my privacy, my home . It’s gone now. It’s all gone.”

“Your home isn’t gone, I promise,” Carson says quickly. She will do everything she needs to do to take this scandal as far from Shirley as possible. She doesn’t want to lose her friend, but maybe she can repair things from a distance. “I’ll clean everything up and then I’ll get out. I’ll pay the rent until you can find someone el- ”

Shirley lets out a wild, acerbic laugh. It almost sounds like a shriek. 

“What do you think happens when people get accused of this stuff, Carson? What do you think they do to people after they find out? They call their landlords. We have to be out by tomorrow morning, by the way. So you’d better get packing. If you can find anything still worth taking with you, that is.”

“We…what?”

Carson goes numb. She feels as though she is watching this scene play out from outside her body. This must be happening to someone else. It cannot be happening to her. It cannot be happening to Shirley.

“Yeah. Exactly. And once they’re done calling people’s landlords that’s when they call their families and their jobs. Which…I’m pretty sure I’ll lose mine on Monday, so thanks for that.”

The words make Carson’s body turn to ice. “Your j- no, Shirley, they can’t do that. You weren’t there. You’re not…”

“Do you think they care , Carson? Do you think it matters to them if they ruin things for the ones who aren’t? Because they don’t; in case you hadn’t noticed. So long as they get the ones who are queer it doesn’t matter to them that there’s collateral damage. And I don’t think it matters to you, either.”

“Of course it matters to me. I’m so, so sorr- ”

“Don’t you ever get tired of apologising to people?” Shirley demands, voice hard and cold. “Don’t you ever get to a point where you think you maybe ought to stop and reflect before you make stupid, selfish decisions that impact the people around you? Hanging out with…with people like that . You should have known this would happen. You should have known it wasn’t just your reputation on the line. We only just talked about this. I gave you the chance to own up. But you lied to my face. If the cops call my folks, Carson, then my life is over. It is literally over. All because of who you decided to spend your time with. Why would you want to associate with people like that?”

“I’m, uh…” Carson pauses as fresh tears trickle down her cheeks. Shirley doesn’t want to hear her apologies. Carson gets that. But her friend deserves the truth. “I am one. Of them.”

Shirley goes white as a sheet and her mouth drops open in her shock. She takes an immediate, instinctive step backwards.

“Don’t be so stupid Carson. Is that what they’re trying to get you to believe? You’re married. You – Charlie…you and him…”

Shirley trails off as she takes Carson in. Whatever she sees on Carson’s face, it must be enough for her to connect the dots. She always did have such a talent for solving equations.

“I made a mistake,” Carson replies. “I married him when I wasn’t sure and wasn’t ready and now I…it’s complicated, Shirls. And I feel awful about it. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone – him, you, anyone – but now I know. I know I’m…like that…and I can’t go back to my old status quo. I don’t know what it’ll mean for my life, but I have to live it properly. You can hate me if you w-”

“I do,” Shirley says abruptly, her eyes shining with tears. “I do hate you, Carson. I’ve lost my home, my best friend, maybe my job and family, and you’ve exposed me to – to – to - it. Whatever you have. To catching it from you and being forced to have a lobotomy. That’s what you’ve put me at risk of. So, thanks for the permission, but I didn’t need it. I do hate you.”

“Shirley…” Carson whispers, stricken. “Please…I’m still your friend. Still the same person…”

“No. You’re not. You’re not the same person I met last year. First you start breaking all those rules at your job, then you sneak around behind everyone’s backs. And now…this. This awful… thing. I guess this is what you were doing every time you told me you were out with friends from work. I don’t even want to think of the sorts of things you’ve been up to. You lied to me. You didn’t think about anyone but yourself when you made this choice. You are like them because you’re selfish, Carson. And I don’t want to be friends with someone like that.” 

“I should have told you,” Carson says. “I know that. I’m sorry I lied. But I knew you wouldn’t understand. I didn’t want to make you carry a secret like this for me.” 

“Of course I don’t understand. This is wrong. You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” Carson contradicts quietly. “I’m not. I know you won’t agree with me on this, but me being different doesn’t make you right and me wrong. Shirley, I know you can’t really believe all this stuff about queer people all catching it off each other. I know you’ve been told that your entire life, but hasn’t us living here together proven that you can’t just turn queer by being around queer people? Hasn’t the fact that nothing changed until now proven that I’m still your friend?” 

“The only thing it proves is that you’re a liar. You pulled the wool over my eyes. You made a fool out of me.” 

“You’re nobody’s fool, Shirl. I know that just as well as anyone who’s ever met you. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. You literally see everything, about everyone. You look out for people in ways that never occur to others because you see so much more than they do.” Carson pauses, anger flaring under her skin despite her words. 

She isn’t mad at Shirley, not really. She knows that she has been told such terrible things about the world around her. Shirley has heard them over and over again; she has had them drummed into her so much she believes it all without question. 

“Well I can’t be that smart after all, can I? And I obviously don’t see everything. Because I missed this. I missed you flaunting it right in front of my face this whole time.” 

“You don’t deserve to live your life like this,” Carson tells her softly.

“Like what?” 

“Scared. Terrified of everything.”

“I am not terrified of everything.” 

“You are. And if you don’t stop running away from everything you’re scared of, whether it’s canned food or - ”

“Botulism is a very real threat, Carson. It paralyses people and - ”

“What, more than you already are by everything else in your life? You don’t need to be scared of the people you’re around. If you carry on this way, you’ll never find out who they really are. Or who you really are. And that’s a shame because that person - that Shirley? Well, I know I’ve seen her. I think I’ve probably seen the real you more than even you have. And that Shirley, well, she’s my friend. She’s wonderful. And I’m scared for her, because if she keeps running away from people then I’m worried one day there won’t be anyone left for her.” 

Shirley suddenly looks as emotional as Carson. It is as though they can feel their friendship slipping away, as if they can see it fading before their eyes. 

“I don’t believe anything that you say anymore.”

“Well, how about this then? I’ve finally started living my life, Shirls. Finally. And I hope that you’ll start living yours, too. Because you deserve to. It’s up to you. But, whatever you choose. I’ll always be your friend. If you ever need me, I’ll be here.” 

“It’s not like you needed me when you were with…whoever you were with. Putting yourself and me in danger.” 

“Of course I need you, Shirls. I know I was irresponsible. I know I can’t take back what I’ve done, but - ”

“No, you can’t. And I don’t want you as my friend. I’ve already told you that.” 

Shirley sets her jaw and Carson’s heart sinks in resignation.

There is no way of getting through to her. 

“I’m going to step outside for a bit,” Shirley says quietly as her bottom lip quivers. “I don’t think you should be here when I come back.” 

***

Carson’s bedroom is no better than the rest of the apartment. 

The covers have been ripped off her bed and all of her closets and drawers have been torn through. There are clothes everywhere. Her baseball gear is heaped in one corner and the vanity stool has been thrown to one side. Her books are scattered throughout, some steepled spine-up on the floor with pages bent. A box filled with her notecards has been tossed to one side, spilling its contents in a long stream across the floorboards. 

Without any real thought, Carson dives to the nearest pile of things and starts scooping through it, hands shaking as she tries ineffectually to root through the rubble of the life she has built here. 

It doesn’t really matter what she does; everything is broken now. 

She crouches on the floor and feels herself sway as her vision starts to blur and darken at the edges. She sucks in a lungful of air and then another, gasping as she tries to breathe. Her body lurches forward and, blindly, she reaches out and braces herself against the floor. 

She can’t…oh God, she can’t breathe. 

A high pitched sound rings in her ears and her vision swims. 

Dimly, she thinks of how hard she hit her head earlier and wonders if she is, perhaps, dying. 

It feels like she is dying.

What if she can’t catch her breath? What if she is dying here, amongst the remnants of her life?

What if she doesn’t particularly care? 

Fuck. She can’t breathe. 

Carson hunches there for a long time, wheezing loudly, trying to force air into her body. 

After a time, the gasping, heaving breaths calm down and her vision stutters back into focus. When it does, Carson finds herself looking in the direction of an odd, pale heap of paper bunched in the middle of the floor. 

It takes her a long, painful moment to work out what it is. When she does, the arm braced against the floor buckles. 

Greta’s letters. 

The ruined heap in the middle of the room is what is left of Greta’s letters. 

Carson launches herself at them and frantically sifts through the pages, hardly able to bear looking at the state of them. They are crumpled and trampled, and the back of one even sports a dirty boot print. The papers are mixed up and torn, ink smudged so badly that some of the words are now unrecognisable. 

They have been sullied so badly that Carson cannot help but believe it was intentional. Nothing in them is damning evidence that she is queer, but it feels obvious that whoever was in here knew what they were destroying when they did it. 

Tears leak out of Carson’s eyes as she smoothes one of the pages out as best she can, desperately trying to salvage the unsalvageable. 

The paper flattens out slightly, but it is still crumpled and creased. 

Whatever Carson does now, it will look that way forever. 

*

Hours later, the streetcar stops at Van Buren and Carson hurries onto the platform.

Everyone had stared at her, even though she had cleaned up as best she could before leaving. She is back in an old dress and has stockings covering the worst of the scrapes on her knees. But no amount of patching up can hide the cut and bruise on her face, much less the very obvious, egg-shaped lump that is growing larger by the second. 

Carson lugs her duffle bag and two large suitcases onto the platform, knowing it is painfully obvious to everyone who sees her that she is running from something. A spectre of shame follows her like a shadow; the whole world can see it now. 

Tentatively balancing what is left of her worldly belongings, she limps her way to Greta’s apartment. She isn’t truly expecting Greta to see her, much less to let her stay, but she hopes that - under the circumstances - Greta or Jo will give her even just an hour or two to regroup and plan. 

Plus, the thought of seeing Jo and confirming, with her own eyes, that she is okay is an urge Carson cannot resist. 

It takes an age for her to climb up the stairs but, when she finally knocks on Greta’s door, there is no answer. She waits awhile and knocks again, this time a little harder. The handle clicks and the door swings inwards. 

Fear grips Carson, cold like ice. Why isn’t the apartment locked? 

She steps inside, calling out a nervous greeting. No one answers. 

For a moment, the sight that meets Carson makes her think that the police have been here too. The living room is messy and haggard around the edges, with things shoved out of place. The air inside feels still and cold; it is abundantly clear that something isn’t right. 

Confused, Carson checks the kitchen. It looks more or less untouched. 

Then, she opens the door to Greta’s bedroom and a wave of emotion hits her like a sledgehammer. 

The apartment hasn’t been raided. It has been emptied. 

Greta’s vanity table is more or less entirely clear. A few half-empty bottles remain, along with a stray, lost curler and an old atomiser. The bed has been stripped of almost all its blankets and, upon investigation, every article of clothing Greta owns is gone. 

Every single item Greta owns is gone. 

No…not everything. 

Something glints gold on the floor, almost entirely tucked beneath Greta’s bed. Carson stoops over and, when she sees what it is, her heart lurches in her chest. 

It is a tiny photo frame, containing an image no bigger than three inches long. It is grainy and slightly faded from the sun, but the picture is unmistakable nonetheless. It is an image of Greta and Jo, both of them looking much the same as they do now. It can only have been taken in the last couple of years. They are happy, smiling, holding tight onto each other. 

Carson holds the frame in her palm and swipes a finger over the glass above Greta’s face. She picks up the last remaining blanket and fists her fingers in it. It smells of Greta, of her perfume and her soap. Carson buries her face in it for a moment, feeling the wool scratch against the sore spots on her face. 

Greta is gone. 

She is gone without a trace and Carson has no idea where she is. 

She didn’t wait for Carson to come with her. 

Carson should have known. 

Don’t write to me, Mrs Shaw.

These, Carson realises, are the last words Greta will ever say to her. 

***

Carson cannot bear to stay in the apartment for too long.

Everything is so filled with memories of Greta that it hurts to see the rooms half-bare and devoid of any life. Greta and Jo hadn’t even taken everything with them, but it is as though the very soul of this place has been carved out already.

Carson had passed so many happy hours here with a group of people that once felt like a family. 

It is beyond comprehension that it is all over now. It is too sudden for her to truly process the magnitude of what she has lost today but the short version, she knows, is that - in one fell swoop - she has lost everything.

She sits on Greta’s bed for a short while and thinks of the first time they kissed. She thinks of returning two weeks later and falling into a kind of bliss she had never experienced before. She thinks of how it felt when Greta touched her for the first time, of the way it was like being pulled to pieces and put back together again in a better arrangement than before. 

Although it is not particularly large, the apartment looks too big for itself now. 

Carson thinks of conch shells, thinks of how they were once a home for something alive and gently animated until, empty and bereft, they wash up to shore as a pretty little monument of what once was. 

But the apartment doesn’t look pretty. It no longer breathes and, as the life slowly chokes out of this place, Carson suffocates along with it. Seeing it like this hammers home that the last few months are over, that nothing like the love and laughter of the past will happen here again. 

Carson has to leave. She can’t be in here while the rooms are so hollow. 

She packs the photo frame and blanket, and she hurries away, leaving the front door to slam behind her.

*** 

It occurs to her after a while that she has nowhere to go. She doesn’t have enough money left for a hotel room, and, even if she did, she isn’t sure that anyone would rent one out to her in her current state. 

When she steps outside again, it is raining. A light drizzle cascades down from the sky, coating Carson’s clothes and bags in seconds. 

For the briefest of moments, Carson contemplates finding her way to Jess and Lupe’s apartment, although there is no guarantee that they have stuck around too. 

Carson wonders if they might have left with Jo, Greta, and - most likely - Flo, and the thought makes her feel rejected beyond words.

But, at the same time, she would understand it. 

It was her fault that all this had happened. It would make sense that they wouldn’t want her around anymore. She is a liability.

If Carson could, she would get as far away from herself as possible too. But she is stuck here for life. She has no choice but to live with herself. 

On second thoughts, she can’t go to Jess and Lupe tonight. They had helped her earlier but, now that Greta and the others are gone, they must hate Carson almost as much as she is beginning to hate herself.

This family was theirs before it was ever something Carson could call upon. 

She had torn apart Jess and Lupe’s family. She cannot go running to them and ask to be saved from the mess she made. 

There is, quite literally, no place left for her now. 

***

For a while, Carson just drifts and wanders aimlessly, exhausted beyond words but driven into a sort of frantic, harried state of wakefulness by the sights and sounds of the city around her. 

Her whole body is on high alert, and she finds herself flinching every time a person walks by too close or a car drives past too quickly. Every sound is too loud, every sight is so bright it feels like it sears her eyes.

Her head pounds and, she realises after a while, her whole body aches with thirst. It has been almost a day since she ate or drank anything.

As light gradually fades from the sky, a sense of urgency builds, high and stark, in Carson.

A part of her doesn't particularly care what happens next; she could simply keep walking forever for all it matters now. Wouldn't that be a sight? A strange, lost woman walking from place to place with an odd hodgepodge of broken belongings tucked under her arms.

Perhaps I’ll even make the papers, she thinks.

Then, she remembers that she almost certainly already has.

She supposes she could just… stop. 

She could just find a place to sit, perhaps beneath the branches of a tree. She could sit and watch as its leaves turned from green to the red and orange wildfire of the autumnal shift. Then, she could count each one as they fell to the ground entirely.

Carson could lean with her back against the tree trunk, still enough that maybe she would sink back into the bark, be enveloped by it, gone without a trace.

But, even in a state she realises is probably something akin to a delirium brought on by the combination of immense stress, the bump to her head, and dehydration, she knows that she has to find somewhere to go.

She cannot be out here when it gets completely dark. It is too dangerous.

Indeed, it is barely safe now, so conspicuous is she with her ever more pronounced limp and her soggy, sorry-looking pile of luggage.

There is, then, still some small spark of survival instinct left in her.

The miserable sheet of drizzle never lets up, and Carson feels her clothes get heavy with the accumulated moisture.

She tries not to think of hands clasped, of running from a storm. She tries not to remember a sodden dress plastered over broad, lovely hips and strong, willowy legs. She pretends she has never known the taste of rainwater when it is kissed off full, red lips.

Carson shivers at the memory, at the imprint of it on her skin. It was so hot that day, even in the rain.

Now, however, the weather is so much cooler, so chilly in anticipation of the changing seasons.

She is, she realises, shivering for a corporeal reason too. It is another reason for Carson to get inside as quickly as possible.

At one point, she contemplates whether she has enough money for a ticket back to Idaho. For the briefest of moments, it feels like the best option. She could go home. She could sink back into the soft cocoon of pure denial.

She thinks that, after a while spent living in Lake Valley again, she could even learn to numb herself to the drudgery of a life wasted playing house in the way her neighbours would expect of her.

She cannot imagine ever having an interest in loving anyone who isn't Greta, not even someone new. So what does it matter, really, who she passes the time with? 

It would feel like a betrayal to Charlie, to go back to life with him when Carson has had a taste of real passion and real love. But, Carson reasons, it cannot be a bigger betrayal than the one she has already committed.

Except...it would be.

It would be a betrayal to herself.

Carson wonders about the possibility of a middle ground, of an option between emotional subsistence in Lake Valley and the dream of a life spent with Greta. 

It sounded like a hollow sort of purgatory, but it had to be better than nothing.

Carson would find a new place to live. She could go anywhere she wanted.

She would find new friends, eventually, even if they wouldn't be half so wonderful as all the ones she had made and lost here.

She could take a new job in Chicago, perhaps. She would simply have to spend a little time getting by and building up new earnings again before she leaves. She would work and -

Work.

Causing a poor elderly woman to startle as she hurries by and clutches tightly onto an umbrella, Carson throws one of her suitcases onto the ground, narrowly missing a large, deep puddle and instead splashing a few drops of surface water onto her shoes.

Heedless of the rain she wrestles the case open and roots about in amongst her wrinkled, balled up clothes until -

Yes!

Her spare key to the office is still in the bottom of the smart satchel she takes to work with her.

If she is careful, it might be possible to sneak inside so that she can get out of the rain and off the sidewalk for the night. She can conceal her suitcases beneath her desk and use the mirror in the bathroom to try to salvage her hair and work out how to cover the damage to her face.

Then, in the morning, she can simply sit at her desk as though she has made an early start.

It...it might work.

Even if it isn't a permanent fix, it will do for one night.

***

The Woman & Home offices have never seemed more terrifying than they do in the pitch dark.

Carson lets herself in at the small staff side door and creeps her way up to the fifth floor via the stairwell, too paranoid to take the elevator.

It is a Sunday night, so it seems like a fair bet that there will be nobody here cleaning the premises, but Carson cannot entirely rule out the possibility that a plucky, motivated Tribune journalist has decided to clock in for a few extra hours.

It is only when she reaches the magazine's domain that she feels a little safer.

No one from Woman & Home will be here out of hours. Most of them didn't particularly want to be there during work hours.

All the same, Carson wishes she had a flashlight with her. She is worried that, if she turns on any of the lights, she might be spotted from the outside and thought to be an intruder.

The last thing she needs is to be arrested again, more or less twenty-four hours after the first time.

The only part of the Woman & Home offices that do not have a window to the street are the bathrooms.

As soon as the light clicks on in the cold, tiled room, Carson is gripped by the sudden need to be sick. She feels her stomach tighten and, were it not for the fact that she hadn't eaten anything, she thinks she might actually have vomited.

It is strange, the way bile had risen in her throat the moment the door clatters shut.

Carson feels her pulse pound in her ears.

The room is narrow and the light bouncing off the tiles makes Carson's head swim. One of the walls is lined with two porcelain sinks, each with a mirror above it. A handful of stalls occupy the end of the room.

There is nothing else here.

Nothing.

An empty, tiny room.

No air. No windows. No room to breathe.

Greta sitting in the far corner, hugging herself while she shakes.

No room to move here. No windows.

“It wasn't even real.”

Carson can't get out. The room is so tiny and her feet are rooted into the ground. One of the taps drips and the sound is so loud it feels like an explosion

No windows. A cell.

“Don't write to me, Mrs Shaw.”

The words echo in Carson's mind.

She hadn’t felt a strange sort of muddy haze descend over her; she notices it only when it clears and she finds herself on her knees beside one of the sinks. 

Briefly, she thinks that she is fortunate not to have hit her head again. She is shaking, coughing as her throat constricts and she chokes on air.

There is an odd, ugly pulsing sensation in her temple, like someone has moved the source of her heartbeat. Her skin is hot and something slithers down her cheek. 

At first, Carson thinks she is crying but then she smears blood, warm and sticky, across her face when she tries to wipe her tears away.

She had hit her head, she realises with a jolt.

Clinging to the edge of the sink, she hauls herself unsteadily to standing, only to find that the cut on the side of her head split open again and oozing blood. Carson sways on the spot for a second and then, as she catches sight of that tiny, awful room in the mirror she finds that she doesn't care about the bleeding. She wipes clumsily at it again, so hard that the broken skin screams in protest, and staggers away, out into the corridor and away from the windowless shell of a room.

She just needs to get out. She just needs to breathe for a moment.

Carson bursts into the office she shares with Maybelle and savagely kicks at her luggage until it slides under her desk.

Feeling defeated, she folds herself into the chair behind her desk and looks forlornly out of the window.

The world out there hasn't disappeared. She can get back out there if she needs to.

She had thought, when she got here, that she would change out of her wet clothes and sneak into the kitchen to brew herself some tea.

But...she doesn't have it in her.

This has been the longest day of her life and the only thing she wants more than for it to be over is for her to have a second chance at living the day before it all over again.

She is cold, she is in pain. She is wet and tired and hungry.

She is so, so scared.

She doesn't think she'll ever be able to sleep properly again.

That is probably for the best, she decides, because she will need to find a way to clean herself up eventually. 

She wonders how she is supposed to do her work tomorrow, but the problem feels distant. In a way, it is almost amusing in its triviality.

There is no way she can pretend to care about someone's ration woes or another person’s inconsequential squabble with a neighbour.

Why should it be someone else's responsibility to solve other people's problems anyway?

And yet, there will be a stack of envelopes in front of her in a few hours.

Don't all these people know that the world has already ended?

Abruptly, Carson feels a hot, burning resentment to the magazine and the people who write to it. She wishes, quite frankly, that they would all simply go to hell. 

The night grows quieter, lonelier, and Carson opens her desk drawer and takes out every secret letter she had planned to answer.

Using only the light from the moon outside, she slowly and methodically cuts every last one into pieces.

Chapter Text

The next thing Carson knows, someone is screaming.

At first, she thinks she is back at the police station, listening to the sounds of bar patrons being beaten by the cops.

Then, with a start, her eyes wrench open, the haze of sleep clears, and she remembers with relief that she isn't being detained anymore.

Outside her window, the sky is light and a dull, washed-out blue in colour.

It is morning. 

Carson isn’t even sure what day it is. 

Her head feels thick and heavy, as though it has been stuffed with cotton wool. She is still sore and stiff all over, and she cannot remember falling asleep. She has never known a fatigue like this one, as though every part of her is stuck in quicksand. She cannot bear to move an inch and her eyes are so heavy that they threaten to slide shut again. Surely, she must have time for a little more rest before -

Fuck.

She had fallen asleep. At work.

Carson realises that she is hunched over her desk with her head resting on her forearms.

All around her are the remnants of all the secret letters from Woman & Home's readers. The memory of cutting them up the night before comes back to her and - in the cold light of day - guilt gnaws at her immediately. She had destroyed these people’s innermost thoughts as if they were nothing. 

Carson imagines, just for a moment, that the screaming that woke her had been part of some kind of terrible nightmare that she has already banished to the far recesses of her memory.

Then, it happens again.

Carson starts so badly that she nearly tips back in the chair and, both horrified and mortified in equal measure, she turns her gaze towards the door to find Maybelle staring across the room like she has seen a ghost.

She screams a third time for good measure. 

"Carson? Oh my God, Carson sweetie. What's happened to you?”

"Nothing," Carson mumbles, voice glued to the inside of her mouth. She is so exhausted she sounds like she is slurring. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

“Honey, you look like you were attacked," Maybelle cries, hurrying closer as tears build in her eyes. "Oh goodness, sweetheart. I thought - for just a minute there, I -“ her voice quavers and dies away to nothing.

Carson rubs her palm over the side of her face, and Maybelle lets out a shocked little squeak as dried blood flakes away from Carson's skin.

Then, before either of them can say anything else, the sound of footsteps running at full pelt echoes down the corridor outside and, rather dramatically, someone skids to an abrupt halt in the doorway with a comical-sounding screech.

Maybelle, who is still rooted to the spot and starting in silent, abject horror, obstructs Carson's view of whoever is at the door, and vice versa.

"Sorry - I was - bathroom -" someone pants and Carson realises it is Henry. "Maybelle, what on earth is going on? Christ above, I hope that blasted mouse isn't back. It chewed through all my ink blotters and had a right go at a perfectly good pair of un- ”

Henry sidesteps around Maybelle and his voice catches.

"Carson. Good heavens."

Privately, Carson thinks that this is a bit of a rich reaction given that, in his shock, Henry had run to investigate the source of the commotion with his shirt half-untucked and his glasses askew.

For a moment, no one seems to know what to do. They all stare at each other in a ridiculous stand-off until Carson just about manages to find her voice.

She cannot afford to lose her job, but she isn't sure she has the energy to sustain a lie about her injuries. At any rate, an unhappy accident or a sudden attack in the street wouldn't explain her luggage.

"Maybelle, Henry, please..." Carson whispers. "I’ll clean everything up but please...I’m begging you. Don't tell Mrs Wilkinson that I was here like this."

Maybelle opens her mouth, looking as though she might question Carson again, but Henry is faster.

“Miss Fox," he says firmly, taking both Carson and Maybelle by surprise with the formal address. "Please will you go to the ladies' bathroom and find something with which we can clean Mrs Shaw's face? Then, when you get back, I would like you to assist Mrs Shaw back to her home."

Carson's heart sinks. She doesn't have one of those anymore.

"I can work," Carson protests, right as Maybelle also tries to speak.

"But, I - ”

“I will cover for you both if anyone asks after your whereabouts," Henry insists, his voice chillingly calm. "Please. It's important you do as I say, and quickly. It won't be long before everyone else arrives." 

Maybelle casts one last, long look at Carson before nodding and hurrying away.

Henry tracks Maybelle's journey out the room and even goes so far as to watch her all the way down the corridor.

“Henry," Carson tries, before amending. "Mr L-"

Abruptly, Henry steps back across the threshold and closes the door.

"We won't have long until Maybelle's back," he says in a loud whisper. "Tell me, did this happen to you on Saturday night?"

Carson hesitates. "No. no. It was last night. I, I um - "

Henry offers her a sad smile. "Carson, I am well aware that The Office is not just this fantastically boring place where we're all forced to spend our time to earn a living."

Hearing the name of the bar makes Carson physically recoil.

"No. I - this is the only office that I- "

Ever so slowly, Henry walks towards her, crouching next to Carson’s chair so that they are closer to eye level.

Ashamed, Carson curls further into herself and refuses to meet his eye.

"It's okay, Carson," Henry insists. "Don't you remember? You met George earlier this year? At the café on a Saturday afternoon?"

Carson wracks her brain for the memory and finds it eventually. A visit to a cafe with Greta, no space to sit, and - yes, that's it - Henry and the man he introduced as George.

"Your cousin?" Carson asks dumbly.

Henry lets out a chuckle, although he doesn’t sound even close to amused.

"Not exactly, no. But that isn't important right now." Henry pats gently at Carson's hand for a moment in a gesture which she thinks he means to be comforting. It is a little strange, however, for this to be the first circumstance since Carson's job interview in which there has been any cause for physical contact with her work superior. 

"I'm sorry," Carson whispers, although she has no idea what she is apologising for. Bringing this problem to work - right to Henry's front door - perhaps. "I was so stupid."

"Not stupid, Carson. A little reckless, perhaps, in the current climate. But nothing we haven't all done at your age. But, look, much as I wish I could offer you more comfort than this, I know the look of a person caught in a bar raid when I see one. There is every possibility that our editor will too, albeit for an entirely different reason. You need to go somewhere and let that rather painful-looking injury heal. You need rest. You look like you've been in the wars.”

"No, I'm fine. I have makeup with me - ”

"Carson. Listen to me. Is there somewhere safe you can go?”

"Yes," Carson lies because she is too ashamed to admit the truth to Henry.

"Then I am going to give Maybelle the money to hail a taxi, and she is going to chaperone you there without delay. It will take as long as it takes, and I will cover for the both of you. You can’t work in this state.”

“I can. See? I’m completely fine,” Carson insists, sitting up straight in her chair and promptly fighting the urge to pass out when her head swims. 

“Well then, I’d hate to see you when you’re not,” Henry retorts with a grim smile. “You need to rest and recover. Properly. Trust me when I say that I…well, I know how you’re feeling right now. In here.” Henry taps at his shirt right above his heart. “I will invent a perfectly respectable crisis or illness to placate Mrs Wilkinson, I will deflect any of Maybelle's questions when she gets back, and we will all man the fort until you are better. I won't, however, take no for an answer.”

Carson doesn't want Henry to have to lie for her, but she knows that he is right. She will not be able to cover up her injury and she will be no use to anyone at work today.

She feels her bottom lip start to tremble and thinks that she is liable to cry at any minute. She isn't sure how she will get through even one hour at work without breaking down, especially now that Maybelle will want answers.

She could take a sick day just this once…

"Okay," she murmurs, still incapable of meeting Henry's gaze. "Thank you."

"It's alright, Carson. Remember, you've nothing to be ashamed of, okay?" Henry says gently. "Now, let Maybelle help you here for a moment and then take you home. I'm not sure whether she will put two and two together, but I get the impression that she isn't one to meddle. I think you'll be just fine with her. In the meantime, I'm going to go downstairs and endeavour to stop this from getting back to Mrs Wilkinson. I'm now rather glad I decided on an early start this morning."

He rises to standing and pats Carson awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Why are you going downstairs?"

"Carson, as of right now you work for a subsidiary of The Chicago Tribune," Henry says carefully. "The very newspaper that is about to run a report on the events of Saturday night. I am going to go downstairs and see what I can do to ensure that you are not...part of that report."

Carson feels her blood run cold. 

She has put too many people in the line of fire recently.

She cannot do it yet again to Henry.

"No. It's not worth the risk."

“Carson, I'm afraid as someone who is, for all intents and purposes, your boss, I wasn't intending for this to be a negotiation. There is no telling what will happen if this is connected back to the magazine."

Carson imagines for a moment how it would seem if a typist at a woman's magazine was listed in the Tribune as a…the word one of the cops used was… deviant. It would perhaps bring scrutiny to everything she had ever written. If the company found out she had been answering letters against her boss' orders, people might assume that some of her secret advice was influenced by her queerness. 

Even though she had never written anything of the sort to Woman & Home’s readers, no one would care. A scandal like this could cause the magazine to be shut down entirely.

Everyone would lose their job.

"But -"

Abruptly, Henry pulls his glasses off and wipes them on his sleeve. This means that Carson has an unobscured view of the beady glare he gives her.

"More than this, however, as someone who is, I hope, your friend, I am doing this because I want to.”

"But there were so many people there. It doesn't feel right."

Why should Carson be spared the pain of a public humiliation when tens of others will not?

"I wish I could help everyone," Henry replies. "I do. I wish I could make a show of going downstairs, banging my fist against a desk and getting the whole story pulled. But I can't do that. I can't help everyone. I can, however, help you. So I intend to.”

"But, I don't deserve to be the only one - even just out of my group of friends - who gets away with this.”

They’re not your friends anymore, an ugly little voice reminds her. She blinks away a fresh flood of tears. 

Henry pauses and sighs. "How many of you were there?"

"Six of us at the bar, four taken by the police if you include me."

"Tell me their names. I'll see what I can do."

If this is all Carson can do to make it up to her friends, then she knows she has to take this opportunity. She reaches for one of the cut-up pieces of paper.

"No," Henry tells her quickly. "Best not to risk it. Tell me verbally.”

"Well, I'm not even sure if they'll all be on there. I don't know if any of them had a fake ID. And it's just - there are six of them, so -“

“Would it help if I quickly recited all 50 state capitals? Every state bird? Or perhaps all thirty-two of our presidents? I can go forwards or backwards, whichever you’d prefer."

This shocks a laugh out of Carson, although it leaves behind no trace of genuine mirth or happiness.

Henry smiles. "I might be older than you, Carson, but my memory is still working just fine."

"Well, there was me. Obviously. Greta Gill. Je De Luca, Flo McIntyre, Jess McCready, and Lupe García. The latter two managed to escape before the cops got to them."

Henry repeats the names back to her and then says, "I remember meeting Greta. I'm sorry you were both caught up in this together. Is she alright?"

“I - "Carson tries before emotion constricts her voice and it goes high and scratchy. "Yes. She was released a little before I was."

"Good, that's good. Well, I'm going to head down now. Don't wait for me to come back. I'll find a way to let you know how I get on."

"Henry?"

"Yes?"

"If they make it difficult for you or...I don't know...if there isn't time to get rid of all the names, will you get rid of Greta's? Instead of mine?"

Henry looks at her carefully for a moment. "I fear that people have gotten a little too good at making unfair compromises recently, Carson. Perhaps that ought to change. Get some rest as soon as you can."

With that, he turns on his heel and marches away.

*

"You don't, uh, you don't actually have to take me home," Carson mumbles, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk as Maybelle tries to hail them a cab.

There is an undeniable early-November chill in the air this morning, and Carson's clothes hadn't properly dried out from the night before. She feels a shiver run through her.

“Like hell I don't," Maybelle retorts with an incredulous little huff.

Carson feels panic rise in her chest and, just like last night, the edges of her vision start to go a little black.

“Really," Carson tries again. "I don't want you getting behind with your work."

"Now why on earth would something like that matter at a time like this?"

After Henry left, Maybelle had returned with a towel - procured from goodness only knew where - and refused to let Carson take it from her.

The first time Maybelle had tried to clean Carson's cuts, Carson had flinched away. 

Shirley's voice filled her head, all that talk of contagion and lobotomies, and -

Maybelle shouldn't touch her. She shouldn't. Just in case.

The immediacy of the thought had shocked Carson. She doesn’t believe that about herself, or about other queer people. It had never even occurred to her to believe it. It doesn’t make sense that it would enter her head now.

Unaware of the nature of Carson’s inner turmoil, Maybelle had done nothing more than watch her carefully, probably under the assumption that Carson was worried about the pain of cleaning the wound. But May was persistent, even-tempered, and more resolute than Carson has ever seen her.

She simply waited until Carson finally let her hold the towel - damp with pleasantly cold water - against the injured parts of her face while May’s free hand cupped at Carson's chin to keep her head steady.

Something about the touch had been so firm and yet so tender, so comforting and yet so calm and steady, that Carson had struggled not to cry.

Silently, carefully, Maybelle had cleaned away the blood as best she could.

“There. You'll do for now," she said softly. "It'll need to be cleaned properly as soon as possible, but let's just get you out of here, honey."

A moment later when Carson - filled with shame and unable to meet her friend’s eye - had started pulling her luggage out from beneath the desk, Maybelle hadn't asked a single question. She just held out her hand in a wordless offer to carry some of the load.

Once outside, the two of them had walked a short distance away from work to avoid being spotted.

Now, after what feels like an eternity, Maybelle continues to try to hail a ride while Carson does nothing more than silently will her back inside the office.

It is plainly obvious, however, that the other woman isn't going anywhere.

"Maybelle.”

"No. You're not getting rid of me, so stop trying."

"Maybelle, please." Carson's voice is barely a whisper.

Please just go, she thinks.

Blood starts beating around Carson's head. Where before she had been cold, all of a sudden she is unbearably, feverishly hot.

Please don't make me admit it.

A little further down the street, someone gets into a cab and Maybelle curses under her breath, muttering something about how the two of them have been waiting much longer. 

The passenger slams the taxi door, and the sound makes Carson jump out of her skin.

Police batons, crunching against bone and sinew. 

Cold sweat drips down the back of her neck. Suddenly, every passerby seems to be staring. For a moment, she spots curly hair and dark braids among the crowd of morning commuters. 

Shirley. 

No, wait, it's not her.

"I do hate you, Carson."

A cab finally pulls up, the timing particularly unfortunate as Carson feels her knees buckle. With what little presence of mind she has, she wills herself to crumple straight downwards like a tower so that she is sitting on the sidewalk.

She thinks she manages it, thinks she is still mostly upright, but she can’t tell. The world doesn’t feel real. It is as though she is viewing it from the other side of a dark tunnel. 

No; it is more like seeing the world through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. 

Maybelle is by her side in a moment, rubbing soothing circles on Carson's back and trying to say something.

Carson feels as though her head is being held underwater. Noises are muffled, everyone's words are half-unintelligible, and…she can’t breathe. 

Yet again, she can’t breathe…

As if she is bobbing along on a current beneath the waves, Carson feels herself being led to the taxi until she is miraculously sitting on the backseat, squashed right next to Maybelle. She breathes in, realises her lungs are burning, and tries not to flinch when Maybelle reaches her for her hand. 

Her friend squeezes hard and something about the sensation helps Carson force some air into her body. 

The water above her head seems to get shallower.

Then, Maybelle is giving the driver an address and Carson hears her friend say, no, she isn't intoxicated and does it matter why we have so much luggage? and if you must know, she fell getting off the train earlier and don't be ridiculous, of course she isn't about to have a medical emergency in the back of your car, what a silly place to do something like that and well, if she were, you have left us there on the street, would you? aren’t you just a fine gentleman? 

Carson slumps forward in the seat and barely hears another word.

Eventually, they pull up in front of a row of tiny brownstone houses and, wearing a forced grin and looking as though it costs her more than simply Henry's fare money, Maybelle pays the driver. As she does, she grumbles about unhelpfulness and chivalry perhaps being dead, after all. 

Then, before Carson can really register what is happening, she is being ushered through one of the front doors and into a narrow hallway. Maybelle keeps shepherding her until they are both standing in a modest bedroom, looking at a neatly made bed with a pink and white quilt. It looks like the most comfortable thing Carson has ever seen in her life.

"Where are we?" she asks, so tired that it feels as though her voice comes out minutes after she moves her lips. 

Maybelle laughs quietly to herself, already bustling over to the bed and pulling back the covers.

"I'll give you three guesses."

"But - “

"Do you have any pyjamas?"

"Yes, but - “

Maybelle marches over to the window and whips the curtains shut with a snap.

"You need to get some sleep."

“Maybelle, you can’t - ”

"No,” Maybelle says firmly, holding a hand up for silence. "No arguments. Just put some pyjamas on and get in the bed.”

Carson regards the clean white sheets for a moment. 

“Is this your…”

"Oh for goodness sake you are so stubborn," Maybelle cries playfully. "Yes, this is my bed in my bedroom in my house. It could be the Sistine Chapel for all I care. Just lie down. I'm going to go get some supplies and I'd better find you in bed when I get back." Maybelle puts her hands on her hips and gives Carson a stony look.

She looks so comical like this, so matronly and unlike herself, that it almost makes Carson smile.

She glances at the bed again. It does look enticing.

Carson has never been so tired in her entire life.

Maybelle realises she has won and offers Carson a gentle smile.

"Go on, get into some comfortable clothes. You're okay now, sweet."

With that, she scurries out of the room, not returning until Carson is wearing her softest, cosiest blue flannel pyjamas and sitting cross-legged on the bed, still feeling too awkward and intruder-like to actually lie beneath the comforter. 

She allows Maybelle to have another go at dealing with the cut on her face, washing dirt and dust and grit out a little more diligently before dabbing carefully at it with TCP. It stings and Carson's hisses.

"I know, I know," Maybelle soothes. "But we don't want you getting an infection. Here, I brought this."

Carson gratefully accepts the cup of water her friend offers, tipping her head back and drinking so quickly that she has to catch her breath a little once the water is all gone.

"Well shoot," Maybelle says, looking as though she has just seen someone do a circus trick. "When was the last time you had enough of that?"

"Saturday afternoon," Carson rasps, so grateful for the water that she doesn't think to keep that information to herself.

Maybelle's eyes go wide. "Holy jeez. Wait here.”

She quickly fetches as many cups as she can carry, filling each of them and setting them in formation on the nightstand. It looks like a strange game of chess.

Carson reaches for another cup, downing it in one.

"Thank you. And sorry. You shouldn't have to deal with this."

Maybelle sits on the bed, her legs dangling off one side. 

"I don't have to do anything. I'm choosing to." 

Carefully, she reaches for Carson's hand.

"Was it your guy?"

Carson feels herself jolt in shock. "What? You mean...Charlie?”

"Mmhm.”

"No," Carson says quickly, vehemently. "No, he's - he's still away. He's not like that.”

Carson glances down at her hands and, with a shock, realises her wedding ring isn’t there. It is just…gone, somehow, leaving a pale pink strip in its wake. It must have been lost in the raid. She can’t even remember the last time she had it on. 

She starts to panic, before the feeling gives away to a strange, numb disconnect. This should be worrying and devastating in equal measure, but Carson’s mind feels too heavy to truly process it. 

The loss - like all her other recent losses - will, she knows, hit her in full force when she is a little more lucid. 

Maybelle nods and squeezes her hand. “Okay. Well, that’s something. Look, I’m not going to force anything out of you, okay? But I just need you to answer one question for me.” 

“Okay,” Carson whispers, terrified. She owes Maybelle every answer just for the act of kindness in bringing her here, but it doesn’t mean she wants to talk about anything that has happened over the last couple of days. 

“Is there anything that’s gonna follow you to this door? Any trouble that’ll put my family in danger?” 

“I - ” Carson begins before wondering if the cops would come looking for her again. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so, but…” she trails off. She has no idea what to say.

“You been stepping out with some other guy? One who’s gonna get mad about anything?”

“No.”

“You owe any shady characters any money?” 

“No, definitely not.” 

“Done any spying for the other side?”

“Me?” 

Maybelle laughs gently. “Rob any banks at gunpoint recently?” 

A smile tries valiantly to dance across Carson’s face. “Not recently, no.” 

“Good, because I’d be asking you to share your loot.” 

“I would.” 

“I know you would, hon,” Maybelle says, her tone affectionate. “Well, it looks like we’re good here. Or as good as some of us can be right now. You get some sleep now, yeah? Stay until I get back. I’d rather not leave you but I think it’ll look too strange if we’re both AWOL from work. I hope Henry’s excuses are as good as he implied.” 

Carson lets out a weak, unconvincing laugh. “I think they will be. Thank you, Maybelle. You really don’t have to do this.” 

“You’re my friend, Carson,” Maybelle says, rising to her feet. “I’m here for you.” 

May steps away from the bed and smooths down her skirt, but makes no further move to leave. Carson watches her friend for a moment until Maybelle shakes her head to herself in bemusement. 

“You’re just like one of my - ” she pauses. “I’m not going until you lie down properly.” 

Feeling rather like a child, Carson obediently gets into the bed and pulls the covers up to her chin.