Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Greta walks through the door, kicking off her shoes unceremoniously with a stack of mail in one hand and her coat hanging off her other arm. 

It’s been a long day, and between the countless calls she took and the marketing meetings for their newest line, she’s ready to pour herself something strong and crash on the couch. It’s rather unladylike, but lately, Greta has learned how to be herself in the privacy of her own home. 

Unfortunately, when she makes her way towards her tiny apartment’s living room, not finding any need to look where she’s going considering that it is, in fact, her place, she almost runs head first into the woman she left behind in her bed this morning along with a note that she had to head off to work, so anything in the pantry is fair game. They’ve seen each other a couple times at the bar, even danced and spoken and sent each other drinks across the room, but this is the first time Greta ever invited her back, after they both made sure the other was safe – it’s sad but familiar, the way they both have rules. She can’t help but think about breaking every one of her rules, how there’s only one person she’s ever done that for. And she’s not here. 

Instead, there’s a woman from a bar that Greta makes a mental note not to return to if she can help it standing before her, all dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and a flowery orange dress, and all Greta can think is why, why, why. 

“Oh. You’re still here,” she manages finally after an awkward few seconds of staring. She tucks the mail under her arm and hangs her coat on the rack beside the radio. She doesn’t mean to sound rude. That doesn’t mean she succeeds. 

“I made dinner,” the woman offers, able to sense the off-ness in Greta’s voice, knowing maybe she stepped too far. But Greta is a beautiful woman, and people often take a step too far with beautiful women, especially when they’re as wholly and desperately lonely as people like them. 

Which is why Greta hums, feeling a little bit bad but mostly confused, doing her best to plaster on a smile. 

“You went to the market?” she asks, surprised. 

“I figured you could use a home cooked meal, sweetheart.” 

Frantically, Greta tries to remember her name so she can at least say thanks, but it’s difficult. 

God, this is terrible. Greta can’t help but think that she’s terrible. Terrible because all she knows for sure is that this woman is another one of her hopeless efforts to forget Rockford, an earth-shattering kiss on the porch, and how to be a bird. She’s trying to stay put for a little while, to wait it out for next season without getting impatient – just like she and Carson talked about. But if anything, this entire interaction is just making her want to take flight. 

Still, Greta forces herself to stand her ground, thinking idly that her unexpected lingering guest kind of reminds her of Maybelle: full of responsibility and seemingly looking for a moment away from it, unafraid, searching for a place to belong. It’s enough to give her the tiniest rush of affection. But Maybelle makes her think of Jo, and Jo makes her think of Ana, and Ana makes her think of Terri, and Terri makes her think of the church, and the convent, and Carson–

God.

Everything comes back to Carson. 

At this point, Greta knows she shouldn’t think of her, but it’s hard. And part of her knows that if she could just stop, she could become a version of the person she once was: no hang ups, no heartbreak, but Carson opened her heart again which is the whole point of this entire thing, the entire point of coming here and trying to find a woman to warm the empty spot in her bed, the entire point of trying to be better–

That’s it. 

“Thank you, Betty. That’s very sweet,” Greta tells her, and she means it. It is. It’s nice. Betty is nice. 

“I could make you a plate while you read your mail,” she offers with a smile. 

She’s so fucking nice. Greta feels awful that it’s obvious her fingers are itching towards her papers, but she spotted an unfamiliar address peeking out as a return address in the pile, and she thinks it might be from Jo. 

“That’d be really generous,” Greta tells her gratefully, taking a step forward to press a quick kiss to Betty’s cheek before she takes a seat on the couch, flipping through the envelopes while she listens to Betty busy herself in her small kitchen. 

It’s comforting, almost, in the way that Greta isn’t alone, in the way where she hasn’t lived by herself in years, and if she doesn’t focus too hard on the sound of soft steps, she can convince herself it’s her best friend behind her. 

She flips through the mail slowly, just to maintain the silence. Betty talks a lot. She talks a lot in a way that grates on the end of Greta’s last nerve, an impressive feat considering she’s spent most of her life crafting nerves of steel. She just talks and talks and talks, but the killer part of it is that, to Greta, it doesn’t feel like she actually has much to say. It feels like a way to fill the silence, a way to stake her claim on the very air she breathes. 

Control. 

It unsettles Greta. The way Betty already seems to be taking up space. The way she speaks like she may never run out of words, nothing like– 

P.O. Box 109 
Boise, Idaho 83701 

Idaho. 

Greta’s breath catches until she almost chokes when she finally gets a good look at the return address on a worn envelope, one that looks like it’s traveled many miles to get here. 

Carson. 

She freezes, feeling the weight of it between her fingers. It’s a thick bit of paper for a single, tiny envelope, but Greta knows why Carson did it this way. It had to be this way: discrete, carefully addressed, no indication of anything out of the ordinary. It hurts a little, honestly – knowing that the woman she met, so free and new to their world, might have her own set of rules now, that she’s picked up the ones that Greta taught her, too. 

With shaky hands, she grabs her letter opener and slices the top off carefully, pulling out the pages. There’s three slips, each double sided to make six, and it’s so obviously Carson’s handwriting. Greta could never forget it, and even if she did, they know each other by sense alone. Even if it was signed with anonymity, the sender wouldn’t even be a question in Greta’s mind. 

And then suddenly, all at once, she’s hit with a wave of eagerness over all of the anxiety that’s collected in her throat. Suddenly, her eyes are scanning the contents of the letter, savoring every last one of Carson’s words, running her fingers over the script carefully, like she might be able to hear it all read in Carson’s voice if she does – and she can. 

Greta can imagine Carson throwing out scraps and starting over, trying to find the right thing to say in the dead of night. She’s got ink on the back of her hand, and she’s lit by a single lamp, and she’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful. 

She can imagine the pages hidden between A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Carson rereading her favorite passages that she’s dog-eared for inspiration, her palm against the spine so she doesn’t bend it. Carson always treats her books so well. 

Recalling an old favorite line of her own, Greta’s vision blurs with salt. She never really understood it before. She does now. 

When you write of actual things, it takes longer, because you have to live them first.

She and Carson did so much living, experienced so much of the actual stuff of life. She’s spent most of her life doing her best to forget the women she’s been with, to forget their bodies and the sounds of their heartbeats and the way they held her, but she can’t forget Carson. More importantly, she doesn’t want to. 

Greta imagines Carson’s every thought, every wish from their summer love becoming this letter, this monumental update, this… confession. It’s the only way that Greta can read it. As a confession. As perfect truth. 

Carson discusses their time together, in broad and vague terms to an outsider but in all of its specificity and adoration to Greta. It sounds like a song in her head: Carson talks about downtown bars and dreams and destiny. She talks about baseball fields and best months of her life and being happy. She talks about coming to terms with what’s right, and creating a her that can meet people where they’re at, and currently making her way to New York–

Currently making my way to New York. 

Greta’s eyes skip back to the line, heart loud in her ears along with certain phrases that seem to float off the paper:

If you’ll have me, I’ll be there by November. (I know you will if you can. But I don’t know who’s reading this.)

I couldn’t wait for next season. (I need to kiss you again.)

I have a car. (And it’ll be ours; we can take it somewhere no one knows us. We won’t have to hide in the shed anymore.)

I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve spoken. (You haven’t moved on, have you?)

Greta can hear every line between. She can hear the way Carson would ramble on if they were together, linking their pinkies together. She can see Carson with a few notecards in her hands just for safety, all of the things she wanted to say laid out in soft, incomprehensible code that only she understands. She thinks about Carson taking up space, the millions of words she’s probably held close, in a clenched fist, waiting for the right listener. 

Greta can’t help but smile. 

“Here’s your dinner, honey,” Betty says gently, putting her plate on the coffee table. “What’s got you so happy?” 

The question strikes through Greta like lightning. She almost feels sick. “Oh, nothing,” she says, winking in that way she does that will make anyone swoon. “I just haven’t played baseball in awhile, and somebody I know is coming into town, so I thought I could see her and we could have a catch.” 

Never in her life will Greta admit to Carson that she picked up have a catch.

“Ooh, how fun!” Betty says. “You know, I don’t know anything about baseball? I always thought it was a tad too confusing.” 

Greta tries her best not to grimace at that. Pretty women don’t grimace. 

“But I hope you have fun!” the woman says cheerfully. “How do you know this lady?”  

Shrugging, Greta picks up her plate and tucks the letter carefully back into the envelope, placing it into her bag for safe-keeping. “She’s just a friend.” 

She doesn’t know why she lies. 

***

It’s October, and the leaves can’t stop falling. It’s October, and Greta hasn’t played baseball in a month. 

But because Carson is coming, she feels like she has to practice. Greta heads to the field just before it starts to get dark, though it never really actually gets dark in the city, bat tucked into her bag and mitt under her arm. She pulls her cap down tighter over her head as she walks up, smiling a little when she sees a familiar face at home plate.

“Hey, Red!” comes the call with an audible grin. 

Jess. 

Greta smiles. She missed her roommate from Rockford. And she knows Jess missed her too. She also knows neither of them will ever admit it to the other’s face. 

Still, Jess has been inviting her to play ball for the last three weeks, and each time, Greta has brushed her off, reasoned that she’s too busy or that she needs to keep up appearances, but none of that matters anymore. What matters is that she’s honestly missed this: crisp night air, the shuffle and crunch of the dirt beneath her shoes. She hasn’t had this since she left Rockford– since she left Carson. 

An unwanted shiver rushes up her spine at the thought. She does her best to ignore it. 

“Where’s Lupe and the kid?” she asks once she’s closer.

“Why do you have a sudden interest in baseball again?” Jess shoots back. 

For a moment, they only stare at each other before they laugh, Jess reaching forward to embrace Greta as she does the same. 

“We put Esti in a couple of classes,” Jess explains, squeezing her tight, all of her swagger melting. She knows Greta is safe. “Lupe is picking her up now. We don’t want her walking home alone.” 

“That’s good of you,” Greta says, meaning it. She takes a step back. God, it’s so nice to be among friends again. She’s been avoiding it, despite knowing that she isn’t the only Peach in the city; lately, everything reminds her of Carson – even the things that shouldn’t. Even the things she wishes wouldn’t. “And, I–” she searches for the right thing to say, but it doesn’t come. 

Jess looks at her, head tilting to the side, curious. Greta can feel her face getting hot. Her face rarely gets hot. 

“Carson is coming,” she blurts out. “And I– fuck–” she laughs– “I don’t want to suck when she gets here.” 

“Will she still be your girl when she gets here?” Jess asks, playing with the toothpick at the corner of her mouth. 

Greta’s lips turn up the tiniest bit. “I think so, yeah.” 

Jess smiles, softer than she usually allows herself to be, raising her eyebrows playfully. “Well then we better fucking play before it gets too dark then, huh?” 

Greta laughs, a little nervous. “Yeah. We better.” 

***

Greta and Jess meet at the field three times a week. Sometimes, Lupe and Esti come along, and sometimes they don’t, but all that matters is that Greta doesn’t feel so alone anymore. 

She sees Betty on her off days. The woman is persistent, and Greta likes being liked, especially by somebody as good and kind and sweet as Elizabeth Brown. After so long, she’s been in search of good and kind and sweet. The thought of giving it up seems idiotic. 

Greta likes her well enough, too. She likes having somebody to see and have dinner with. She likes having somebody to bid farewell at the end of the night. She likes that Betty is just as hyper-aware as her, puts on a second face made of concealer and lipstick to fit in. She likes that Betty is safe. 

Greta still dodges her kiss every time, turns her cheek so that soft pink lipstick only smears just beside the corner of her mouth. It’s the same way she turns her head away, quiet, when Betty asks her questions about baseball, when Betty tells her to go on, never understanding the way Greta flinches just the tiniest bit when she says wow, you know a lot, honey, don’tcha? but doesn’t add much else to the conversation.

Because Greta knows she’s always been a lot, always been told to be a little bit less, and it pierces at something she thought she buried, sitting and taking up all the air. 

She smells fire in the early days of October – that burning passion when she gets back on the field and ash in the air the moment she sleeps beside somebody who isn’t Carson, somebody who isn’t even Jo. 

October smells like burning wood, and Greta feels like if she stops running for a moment, she just might burst into flame.
***

Sometimes, Greta wishes people knew that in certain circles, she’s kind of a big deal. 

Sometimes, she wishes she was back in Rockford, could still taste fame on her tongue. Its sweetness meant safety. Anonymity scares her a little bit. It means she can be touched. It means nothing is really certain. 

At the ballpark, she can’t even get too close to Lupe or Jess or even Esti. She’s conscious of the tremor in her breath when her coworkers discuss published names in the paper, hushed over drinks once they’ve clocked out. She always checks the hall before she opens the door to her place, worried that somebody might smell the secrecy that lives within her walls if she doesn’t turn the lock slowly. 

Fame kept her safe, kept her sane. And now, she isn’t even famous in anyone’s head – not the way she was with Carson. Nobody knows her so deeply, cares for her in that way or even cares to know if she needs to be cared for. 

Betty still comes by from time to time, but she always scolds Greta for checking her watch, has no understanding of the way Greta used to pack her things and she always made sure to have her time keeper. It tells her when their stint in whatever city was up, the moment she should click her suitcase shut, grab Jo’s arm, and get going. 

It hurts, somewhere deep and heavy – to remember that Betty doesn’t even know who Jo is. Doesn’t even know her as De Luca the Bazooka. Betty doesn’t like baseball. 

Betty doesn’t like baseball, and that’s how she becomes Elizabeth to Greta. 

It reinforces formality, but Greta knows that Elizabeth only finds it endearing. She doesn’t correct her. She’s good and she’s kind and she’s sweet. Greta would be an idiot to correct her. 

At times, her own idiocy scares her. 

“Why do you even keep her around?” Lupe asks once, throwing a pitch down the middle to help her practice.

“Why does Jess carry her guitar around everywhere she goes?” Greta answers, hitting a would-be double off of it. 

“That’s not the same thing and you know it,” her friend answers, winding up again with the last new ball from the bag; Esti is in the outfield collecting the rest. “Betty’s a person.” 

“I know that.” Greta checks her swing this time. Strike. Fuck. “I don’t think we mean the same thing. I just mean… I don’t want to hurt her. I’d rather just let it be for now.”

“You’re also practicing a month of baseball for a married woman.” 

Lupe stretches out her shoulder, murmuring a thank you to Esti when she runs the balls in, a little proud smile flickering in and out when the girl responds you’re welcome perfectly. She pats Esti on the back, flipping the brim of her cap down playfully over her eyes. Greta smiles too, watching how pleased Esti looks as she heads back to Jess to work on a few shortstop techniques. 

“Does she know?” 

“What?” Greta asks, stepping out of the box and leaning on her bat. 

“Does Betty know? About Carson?” She cracks her knuckles, judgment written across her face – the kind of judgment only a friend can pass. 

“You know what–” Greta sighs, tightening her grip around her bat and getting into her swinging stance– “Fuck you, Lupe.” But she doesn’t mean it. She never means it. Lupe is right. 

She knows she is, too. Which is why she only winks and clicks her teeth. “You wish, Gill.” 

***

Greta has never considered herself lucky. 

Every time she crosses her fingers before a game, she loses. Every time she’s ever asked for Lady Luck to come to her aid, she’s heard absolutely nothing. It’s not as if she prayed to her, but sometimes, Greta does wish that more things turned out in her favor. 

Greta has never been very religious either. She hasn’t thought about God in years, even in her worst moments. Even at moments where things that she wished happened to nobody but forced herself to believe only happened to other people – not her, not Jo – did, in fact, happen. No matter how Greta wished to never find the cyanide in the stone, she always did. 

Even in her best moments, when she found the destiny in all of the destruction, the love between all of the loneliness, Greta kept to herself. Never said thanks for any of it. She’s got a raw deal, and she’s gonna show off her scars.

It’s the second to last day of October when Greta rethinks her methods for the very first time. 

She’s only half-ready when there’s a knock at the door, and she quickly throws on a wrap-dress just so that she can peek through the keyhole. She swears she almost falls through it when she catches a glimpse of who’s on the other side. 

Forgetting to even check how she looks, Greta wrenches open the door, breathless, and comes face to face with– “Carson,” she says. It feels so good to say her name. It feels so good to see her – so good that she can’t really say how much. 

“Hi,” Carson replies, standing a little taller. Her hair is short like that first night that Greta cut it. God, she’s beautiful. 

“Hey,” Greta manages, shifting from foot to foot, in utter, perfect shock. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” 

“Hi–”

“It’s not November yet,” Greta finally blurts out, checking the calendar by the door just to be sure. Honestly, all the days without Carson have just blended together at this point. 

“I drive fast. You know, places to be, people to see, things to–” Carson laughs as Greta pulls her in by the side handle on her suitcase because she can’t pull her in by the hand. 

Greta missed her laugh.

Chapter Text

Carson kisses Greta the second the door closes, dropping her suitcases simultaneously and grasping Greta’s hips gently, pinning her to the wall. It’s breathless, needy, and a bit easier than usual with Carson in heels and Greta barefoot. It’s the little details like this that make Greta’s heart pound: the way Carson tastes more confident, more curious than even before; her knees shake a little bit. 

“God, I missed you,” Carson whispers against her lips, and Greta smiles, taking it all in, letting Carson kiss her again. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says back, arms thrown tight around Carson’s shoulders to keep her close, a little gasp catching in the back of her throat when Carson nips at her bottom lip, greedy. “When did you get in?” she manages, fingers tangling in soft brown hair. “Was the drive okay?” 

“Greta,” Carson murmurs, and Greta closes her eyes, sinking into the sweet way Carson says her name before her jaw goes a little slack. “Can we talk a little bit less right now?” 

And Greta wants to quip something about how she never thought she’d hear those words from Carson, but the joke never makes its way out. Instead, she only melts when Carson kisses her again.

It’s slow and dirty, Carson’s hands moving up her back, Greta moaning quietly, which turns into a laugh when she’s pulled off the wall and Carson starts to walk her backwards in the direction of where she presumes is the bedroom.

She starts by blindly opening the first door she comes across, lips still on Greta’s. She fumbles with the handle, trying to figure out if it’s push or pull, and it’s all so goddamn charming, so goddamn wonderful to be needed this way, so much that Carson doesn’t want to stop kissing her for a moment. The way she keeps breathing her in like she’s the only air left on Earth. 

“That’s the guest room,” Greta whispers, pulling Carson along. “You know, for appearances.” 

Carson hums, grinning. “So that’s my room, then?” 

“In theory, yes.” Greta smiles, a little noise flying from the back of her throat when Carson pins her to another wall, right hand pressed against her collarbone and shoulder, mouth now against her neck as she opens the door with her left hand. “That’s a closet, baby,” Greta manages, eyelids fluttering shut at the move.

Carson peers inside, finally taking a breath, mischief bright in her eyes as she surveys the space. “We could make it work.” 

“Carson, no.” Greta huffs out a laugh, grabbing her hand and finally, finally leading her towards her bedroom. 

She smiles all the way, refusing to look back because she knows they may not even make it there if she does, and at the same time, she’s glad that Carson got to make her way through most of the apartment. It feels like letting Carson see all of her. It feels like confirmation, especially because Carson only took a few moments to peek around, like the first time where she looked at Greta with a kind of adoration that she had never experienced before. 

All of this feels a lot like the first time: the giddiness, the breathless laughter, the wandering hands; it simultaneously feels so new and familiar that Greta doesn’t know what to do with all of it – all of the warmth between her ribs. Carson is so easy to be around, feels a bit more like home than any place ever has. 

Greta remembers this perfect heaviness in her chest – the way she felt halfway to the moon with Carson’s mouth against her ear, how nervous she was, how she was determined not to show it, two fingers trailing down Carson’s stomach, beneath the blanket– 

She remembers a pure kind of joy, the sort she’d never been afforded before. She remembers finding out in the morning that nuns like waffles, too. Carson hid her face in the morning paper, shy, foot pressed against Greta’s under the table, a soft sign that the night before really did happen. 

To Greta, she had never looked more beautiful. But she was wrong. She was so wrong. Because now, as she pushes Carson – who somehow lost her skirt somewhere between the front door and her room – back against the bed until she’s sitting up against the pillows, satisfaction thrumming through her veins at the little gasp she lets out, Carson is otherworldly. A woman who knows what she wants, who she wants, who’s got this determination about her – a determination to show Greta that she is beautiful, too. 

And Greta feels it. She can feel it in the heaviness of Carson’s gaze, how soft brown eyes stay on hers as she undoes the tie on the dress. 

“It’s okay to look at me,” Greta says shyly, more shy than she’s ever been, but this is Carson, and it’s always been different with Carson. 

For her part, Carson does nod, but she can’t take her eyes off of Greta’s face, has this little expression like she’s discovering something new – like Greta’s not just being looked at but she’s also being seen. 

Down to only her slip, Greta straddles Carson’s thigh, a knee falling between her two, smiling when she sees her swallow hard. She reaches to cup Carson’s face with both hands for a moment. “I want you to look,” she whispers, before pulling the satin material over her head. 

“God.” Carson goes breathless, a blush running up from under the collar of shirt. 

“Touch me,” Greta begs. “Please.” 

And finally, Carson reaches forward, first to tuck some of Greta’s hair behind her ear. It’s a gentle beginning, and Greta’s heart pounds roughly in her chest as she leans into the touch for a moment. Carson is so sweet on her that Greta sometimes isn’t sure if she deserves it, but she accepts each gesture, slips it into her pocket for a rainy day – though she knows that Carson would insist that even during those storms, she wouldn’t mind holding the umbrella for them both. 

“Please,” Greta murmurs again, and Carson nods, so in awe of Greta’s beauty that it’s written across her face as she kisses her once more. 

Quickly, that old fire from the front hall kicks up again until Carson’s hands start to move, more certain than they ever were back in Rockford. Her fingers trace the slope of her back, move along the muscles in her stomach, cup her chest and squeeze until Greta whimpers into her mouth. 

Carson smiles as Greta’s hips begin to move against hers, a slow, stuttering rhythm that betrays how ready she is. Greta’s lips are parted slightly, her eyes hooded and she lets out a soft little whine when Carson’s hands guide her until she’s grinding against her thigh.

“Oh fuck,” Greta mumbles, shifting so her forehead can rest against Carson’s shoulder. 

She’s so turned on she almost wants to cry. She bucks her hips forward in search of more, clutching tight to Carson, one hand in her hair and the other leaving soft half-moons against her lover’s back. She knows Carson enjoys it, enjoys looking in the mirror and seeing remnants of their time together, so she stays that way, until Carson slides her thumb against her clit and Greta sees stars. 

“Carson,” she begs softly, trembling, overwhelmed by the moment, suddenly. 

“I’m here,” Carson assures, moving her hand slowly, just barely, kissing her neck. Fuck. She’s here. She’s really here, and she’s not going anywhere.

God, it’s just like the first time: how they’re pressed together until it’s hard to tell where one of them ends the other begins, the heat between them as Carson’s fingers delicately curl inside of her; bodies and hearts and whispered attraction – everything being just the right amount of too much, always too much, but in the best way. How there’s never enough time. 

But now, it only feels like they’re running out of it when they actually have forever. At least that’s what Greta can’t help but think in her addled mind as she chases her release, gasping every time Carson fucks into her, whining every time her thumb rubs tight circles against her. She’s burning up from the inside, a slow fire building under her skin, and fuck, she’s so wet. She’s wet down her thighs, against Carson’s palm, making a mess, and it’s all so good, feels–

“You’re so pretty like this,” Carson tells her, voice low and rough, and she’s looking at Greta now, really looking just the way she wanted, hungry, her eyes fixing on Greta’s face, the way her lips are parted, before she follows a bead of sweat that slips down her chest, the trembling muscles in her stomach. 

“Close,” Greta mumbles, breath catching in the back of her throat, thinking about that night in Wisconsin again, thinking about every night after that, thinking about their last night together. It all coalesces into singular and infinite memory, into all of the promises they made – to be each other’s, to be discerning when it came to what’s between them, to know each other and care for each other: in spite of and because of that knowledge. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Carson praises. “Are you gonna come for me?” 

Greta nods, head tipping back. She can barely keep her eyes open. “Kiss me,” she breathes, and Carson does immediately, a shiver rushing up her spine at the desperation in Greta’s reciprocation, at the way she trembles, these soft little noises flying from her throat until she’s coming with Carson still inside her, shaking, fucking herself harder onto Carson’s hand when she nips at her bottom lip softly. 

They’re more just breathing each other in as Greta rides her, whimpering, her eyes finally fluttering open as her body grows heavy, Carson’s thumb still moving against her until she groans and shifts away with a laugh. 

“No more,” she mumbles, and she has just enough strength to roll off of Carson and into the empty side of the bed, flopping down. “Just give me… five minutes,” she decides aloud. “And then I’ll–”

“Take all the time you need,” Carson laughs, a little smug but mostly soft as she takes off her shirt with little preamble, tossing it on the floor and settling beside Greta, turning on her side so that she can look at her. She presses a kiss to her shoulder. “I’m good like this. I like to watch you.” 

“You stole my line,” Greta complains, and she slides her eyes shut briefly at the sound of Carson’s laugh. She has the best laugh. “Five minutes. I promise.”

“Whatever you say.” Carson kisses her cheek. 

Greta hums, the corners of her lips turning up. 

***

Hours after the five minutes, after Carson, spent, pulls the sheet up and kisses Greta goodnight – she always falls asleep first; it’s one of Greta’s favorite things, the way Carson feels safe enough to drift off in her arms before Greta’s even tired – there’s finally quiet. 

Soft, perfect quiet.

Moonlight glimmers just barely through the blinds, and Greta watches her sleep from her recliner beside the window. There’s something pure about just being in the same room with Carson at dusk. It’s gentle, like the way the body always feels warm on your own front porch, like the end of a truly great film. It’s certain, holds no space for doubt to get under the covers with them. It’s real, the exact kind of real both of them have always craved. 

Greta’s heart feels weak as she settles deeper into her armchair, listening to the slow rhythm of Carson’s breath in the dark. She feels supremely fortunate in this moment, more fortunate than she has in a very long time – maybe ever. Just these seconds with the woman she adores more than anything are enough to pull her free from her armor. She didn’t even realize how heavy it was. 

There’s so much she wants to say to Carson now that she’s asleep – it always goes like this, Greta finding her words in the few minutes where the world has stopped turning. She wants to tell Carson about the last month. She wants to tell her, again, that she’s missed her. She wants to tell her to stay, to throw caution to the wind. She wants to tell her that if what they have is sin, she’ll gladly take a spoonful each day for the rest of her life and call it sacred. 

She’d call it salvation. 

Greta feels saved. Carson saved her, and she knows that. But there’s nobody to tell because it’s dark out. There’s nobody to tell because it’s only she and Carson – how beautiful a thought. 

Instead, Greta finally accepts the way her side of the bed is calling her, but before she can, she spots a familiar book cover peeking out of Carson’s things.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. 

Of course she brought it. Greta feels a deep rush of affection all the way through her. This book has traveled thousands of miles with Carson by now, on trains and in pickup trucks, always tucked between her things like a precious artifact. It’s no more beat up than when Greta gave it to her, but it certainly seems more loved, little slips of colored paper marking different pages, some folded over so they mark two different spots. 

Sliding under the covers, Greta flips open to the first page of note, and she finds herself with a soft, overcome smile spreading across her mouth, with something deep welling up inside of her next to her heart when she sees her name, written carefully in the margin beside a single paragraph: 

I need someone. I need to hold somebody close. And I need more than this holding. I need someone to understand how I feel at a time like now. And the understanding must be part of the holding.

There’s salt in the back of her throat and tears collecting at the corners of her eyes, but Greta forces herself to ignore the feeling. Instead, she settles into this idea of being known and cared for, of being thought of even when she isn’t around. Instead, she simply puts the book down after that, turns on her side, and she holds Carson the rest of the night, nose pressed into her shoulder, arm thrown over her middle with her fingers splayed across her ribs, just so that she can feel Carson’s breath. 

Understanding. 

***

Greta wakes to warmth at her back. Sometime in the middle of the night, they must have shifted, because Carson’s now holding her with a hand under Greta’s shirt and her cheek pressed in between her shoulder blades. She smiles, leaning back into the soft embrace, enjoying this moment of waking up beside Carson, of knowing that Carson stayed. 

She had faith it would be the case, but it’s still comforting. It’s comforting to remember that Carson is the kind of woman who sticks around, who holds her so tight and soft that Greta wakes past seven for the first time in a whole month.

She always sleeps better next to Carson, and each morning since she left Rockford, she’s risen before the sun, made herself coffee all alone and sat in the dark for at least a half hour before she even needed to think about getting ready. 

But it’s Saturday, and she doesn’t have to worry. It’s Saturday, and the sun is inching its way into the room, casting Carson in a pleasant little glow when Greta dares to look over her shoulder – part of her doesn’t even want to. Part of her is afraid this is all a dream. 

It isn’t, though. It isn’t, so Greta only smiles and turns back forward, her eyes brimming softly with tears. She lets them fall since Carson isn’t awake to see her cry, burying her face in her pillow that smells like Carson too. The whole bed smells like Carson – like comfort – and Greta sinks into it, closing her eyes once more. 

***

Greta wakes again, and the bed is less warm. With a little groan, she opens her eyes, and she immediately sees Carson in her view. Greta can’t help but think it’s purposeful, like Carson thought to stay this way as a reassurance that she’s still here even though she’s not in bed anymore.

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes to see her better, Greta suddenly finds herself very awake when she actually takes Carson in. She’s wearing pants. 

Carson is wearing pants, Katherine-Hepburn, makes-you-lose-your-cool kind of pants. And Greta can feel it happening to her – she just woke up and she’s losing every ounce of cool she’s ever bragged about having. They’re grey, wider from the thigh down but tight around her hips and fitted around her ass in a way that makes Greta sit up, makes her forget that she’s only in her slip, the one that fits loosely around her chest and leaves almost nothing to the imagination.

“Morning,” Carson greets with a smile, raising her eyebrows playfully. 

“Morning.” Greta hums, eyes wandering slowly up her frame. 

“What do you think?” she asks, doing a little spin that Greta has no doubt was learned from Lupe.

Greta takes in the rest of Carson’s outfit: the careful roll of the sleeves on her soft, white button-up that’s tucked into her trousers and her regular navy baseball hat tucked down tight over her hair. God, Greta loves that stupid hat. 

“You look beautiful,” Greta says before she can stop herself, before she can think of something more eloquent or meaningful to say. 

But then, she sees the way Carson’s eyes light up, and Greta knows it was the right thing, the only thing to say. 

“Jess got them for me,” Carson tells her shyly, kicking one leg up as a gesture, enjoying the little swoosh that follows the motion. “She sent them in the mail. They arrived just before I left Idaho, thank God.” 

“They’re perfect on you,” Greta breathes, and she means it. She tacks a reminder in the back of her head to thank Jess with some cigarettes. 

And then, before she can stop herself, she stands, taking a few paces towards Carson – Carson who is valiantly trying to be as gentle as last night, doing her best to keep her eyes on Greta’s face, but she’s moving with purpose, all her soft curves and hard lines making Carson feel like her entire brain is suddenly wired on the caffeine she hasn’t yet had. 

Under the guise of straightening Carson’s belt, Greta takes a final step, pulling on the loops of her pants until she’s forced to step to her as well. 

“I don’t want to ruin this, but I wanted a closer look,” Greta whispers, talking about the outfit and making her point by trailing her finger down from the point of Carson’s collar, along the buttons one by one until she hits the buckle of her belt. “We can save that part for later.” She winks, ducking beneath the brim of Carson’s cap to leave a quick but lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth. “I’m gonna go get dressed.” 

Proud of herself, Greta brushes her shoulders with Carson’s for a moment and begins to walk in the direction of her closet, waiting, one, two, three seconds before–

Carson grabs her wrist, pulling her in for a proper kiss and turning her hat around just in time so that Greta’s forehead won’t crash into it. Laughing, Greta kisses her back, holding Carson’s face in her hands and – still ever-so-considerate of Carson’s carefully pressed shirt – simply laying her hand against her chest for a moment. She thinks she must be imagining it, but beneath her fingertips, she notes the thump, thump, thump of Carson’s heart, smiles as it speeds. 

“Later,” Greta finally promises against Carson’s mouth, pecking her on the lips one last time. “Later, I’m taking you out of these clothes.” 

“Deal,” Carson kisses her one last time too before letting her go. “Though I really like this look on you.” She gestures to the slip playfully. 

Greta swats her, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” Carson raises her hands in surrender. Greta rolls her eyes affectionately. “After you get dressed do you wanna get breakfast? I saw a place on the corner driving in.” 

“I’d like that.” She nods, reaching to turn Carson’s hat back around, smoothing out her hair. “Give me thirty?” 

“I’ll read the paper or something while I wait,” Carson agrees. 

“Since when do you read the paper?” Greta asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Grinning, Carson looks up at her. “Don’t you know? That’s the only entertainment we have on the farm.” 

Greta laughs before she can stop herself. 

***

The first few moments of breakfast are quiet. It’s past the early morning rush so they almost have the entire place to themselves, aside from a few elderly couples who linger in corner booths, holding hands over the table and slowly working through their coffee refills. 

Greta orders two eggs, toast, and coffee, and Carson decides on hotcakes, ham, and coffee. The diner is shockingly affordable – though they both know it’s due to a civilian-side war effort to somewhat maintain certain aspects of normal life. At this moment, neither of them feel the need to complain. 

They make idle chit chat, posing as two friends who need a catch up. And they do. But they’re anything but friends. In a way, it’s like sitting for a meal with your greatest downfall and your greatest desire – a temptation either way, just out of reach. 

Both of them seem to be taking their time eating, which makes Greta think they might not play ball today. She was expecting them to. Honestly, though, she can feel a game between them reaching resumption whether she likes it or not. They have to have it out, have to finish holding the tie-breaker of a long series they thought got left behind in Rockford but didn’t. 

“So,” Greta finally begins, taking a sip of her coffee and letting it burn her throat a little for courage. She feels weary even after the single word, knows there’s no turning back from the almost inevitable tragedy of Carson’s response. “Where does your Freddie think you are right now?” 

She doesn’t ask it, but they both know she’s wondering when Carson will have to leave again. 

It’s the bottom of the ninth and top of the batting order. This pitcher’s got a mean screwball, but this lead-off hitter never swings on the first pitch and everybody knows it. Game’s almost at regulation and we’re still scoreless. 

Ball. 

Carson stares back at her, and the only way to describe the look on her face is that she’s utterly appalled. “What?” 

“Does Charlie know you’re here?” Greta asks, heart in her throat suddenly. She doesn’t understand how it could be the kind of question that shocks Carson. Maybe she overestimated her. 

Strike. 

“Charlie and I– we’re not–” Carson stutters out, putting her fork down. “How could you think–” 

Strike two. 

“How could I think–?” Greta asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’m not an idiot, Carson.” The affection that sat down at their table with them evaporates.

Ball two. 

“It’s not like that. That’s not what I meant,” Carson sighs, bringing her left hand up to rub her face. “I just didn’t think I would have to explain.” 

She pinches the bridge of her nose, and it finally dawns on Greta as she watches Carson’s hand flex. Notices that there’s only a tan line of a ring left on Carson’s finger, and it’s become fuzzy at the edges. Fuck. 

3-2. Full count. 

“You left him,” Greta breathes, coolness seeping up her back, her ears ringing a little. “You really left him.” 

“How could I not?” 

She squares her feet in the box, the third base coach just barely in the corner of her vision. The tip-off. The brush over the shoulder. The nose. The brim. The pocket. The patch. 

“Was it for me?” Greta almost doesn’t dare to ask, but she has to know. She can’t go on not knowing. 

Swing. For the fences. 

Breathe in deep. Dig your feet in. Hips. Grip. A pitch down the middle. Now or never.

Swing. 

Swing. 

“Of course.” Carson says, adjusting her hat a little despite the fact that it’s perfectly straight on her head. Nervous. 

The barrel of the bat cracks against the ball, a resounding wave of understanding pushing through the stadium, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath. The ball flies towards center field, a dazzling hit. It’s going, it’s going–

“You ran away?” Greta finds herself light-headed, suddenly. 

“No.” Carson shakes her head, carefully sliding her foot across the space under the table until their knees can just barely touch and the inside of her right foot is pressed to the outside of Greta’s left. “I ran home.” 

It’s gone. Home run. Game. 

God, Greta just wants to kiss her.

Chapter Text

“Charlie won’t tell anybody,” Carson says, her knee still against Greta’s under the table. It’s the nearest they can get to embracing. 

“You’re sure?” 

They’re on their own refill of coffee now, a bit older and a bit wiser than before. 

“He won’t,” she promises, shifting her mug into her right hand so that she can place it down on the table just close enough to Greta’s that there’s a little clink. She uses the closeness to brush her pinky over the back of her hand. “Technically, he filed for divorce from me. We can trust him.” 

Greta nods, pressing back into the touch for a moment before she pulls away gently. 

“I’ve always trusted him,” Carson continues on. “I just– didn’t love him. Not like that.” 

Greta nods again, just barely, unwavering but also uncertain “And I trust you,” she says simply. 

Carson only smiles at her across the table, eyes a little too bright with emotion to be a trick of the light. Greta’s gaze traces the laugh lines of her face, the crinkled joy beside her eyes, and then, without even checking to see who’s watching, she reaches out a hand.

“Dimple,” she sings, lips twitching. Carson bites her lip around a laugh. And suddenly, again, because they never really stopped believing it, they settle into their affection for each other once more. Because what they have is enough. It’s always been enough. 

***

After breakfast, they wander. 

Arms brushing at stolen moments crossing the street or turning corners, Carson sticks as close to Greta as is proper. They wander in and out of stores, smiling at the shopkeepers that Greta now knows, introducing Carson as a friend from out of town. A few recognize her from the papers, at least the women who kept track of those baseball players banking on a dream, but honestly, both Greta and Carson are glad that for the most part that she’ll remain largely anonymous. 

Carson buys some souvenirs from one of the stores, smiling one of her most charming smiles with her back turned to the register so her expression is out of sight. 

“These are for Maybelle’s kids,” she explains in a hushed voice, holding up a snowglobe with the Statue of Liberty inside and a little bear dressed in a newsboy costume in one hand. Greta swears she falls for Carson harder in this singular moment. “And this is for Esti.” She places a small Broadway street sign copy meant to be hung on a door into Greta’s arms. “Did you notice how empty her side of the room was?” 

Shaking her head, Greta hates to admit that she really didn’t. She needs to do better with the kid. 

“I want her to have at least some things,” Carson explains. “Plus, you know it would piss Lupe off to have this above their names on their door in the spring.” 

Greta laughs openly at that, her nose scrunching a little. “You amaze me sometimes.” 

“Only sometimes?” Carson teases, fixing her with a playful, challenging stare. 

Biting her lip around a smile, Greta nods. “The rest of the time, I know it’s just who you are.” 

That makes Carson blush. Greta’s heart flips in her chest. Butterflies. 

***

They end up in a used bookstore three blocks from Greta’s apartment, though she’s never actually been inside before. She’s walked by it almost every day since she arrived, running errands for Vivienne or in search of something new to occupy herself, lingered in front of it on several occasions, trying to decide whether she should explore, but in the end, she simply convinced herself that she didn’t have the time. 

Or maybe it was just that everything made her think of Carson, made her think of leaving and everything she lost and was destined to keep looking for until next season came. Truthfully, it was more about courage. She’s never had the courage to go in before. It felt wrong, somehow, to roam the shelves without Carson. To read books that belonged to somebody else if they didn’t travel the country in a beautiful girl’s suitcase before she held them by the spine just like Carson taught her.

But now Carson is here, and it doesn’t feel so scary to trip the bell as she opens the door. It feels even less scary when she sees they’re displaying Pride & Prejudice at the desk, sees Carson’s eyes light up because of it. 

Without even touching her, and it hurts that they aren’t allowed to touch, Carson leads Greta through the shelves once they wave their hellos to the shopkeepers: a kind, older-looking man, a woman of similar age with glasses too big for her face, and another handsome, grey man clearly charged with reshelving the Recipes section.  

“Here, Fiction,” Carson says loudly, and she’s practiced this, or at least thought about it – Greta knows. Carson has rules now. And then, she gets quiet, her hand waving over the shelf in front of them like a magician. “Pick one for me?” 

Suddenly, the titles spring to life – yeah, magic, Greta thinks – and she considers the possibilities. Used books that all have stories within their stories are suddenly vying for her attention: colorful and creased around the corners, like somebody loved them well once, a long time ago. Like they’re looking to be loved again. Greta knows the feeling. 

One in particular sticks out to her. It’s bound in blue fabric, the title loopy, marked out in gold foil where it’s been pressed into the spine: Sense and Sensibility. 

Greta remembers reading it a lifetime ago in Houston, tucked into bed beside Jo one night, unable to sleep. She remembers grasping at sense and rejecting sensibility; it had been years since Dana, but it hadn’t been years since she’d gotten her heart broken – Greta’s heart mends and splinters perpetually nearly every day of her life – and she understood something in Elinor Dashwood, in choosing rationality over rage. She still does, though perhaps to a lesser degree, finding some of that old sensibility from she was seventeen and stupid for the first girl that ever kissed her back. 

“It’s one of my favorites,” Greta finally says. And yes, she knows, this is her sensibility rising to the surface. She finds she doesn’t mind it so much, doesn’t mind because it’s Carson. Carson reaches for the book, but Greta snatches before her. “Let me get it for you.” 

Carson hesitates. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Let me,” Greta insists. “Please?” She doesn’t say please. Carson knows it. 

Softening, Carson smiles. “Okay. Can I get you one too?” She says please too much, so she doesn’t. 

There’s a point of recognition in Greta’s eyes as she nods, looking over her shoulder before taking a careful step closer so their shoulders are almost brushing.“I’d like that.” 

Carson does the same, pretending to scan the top shelf and carefully reaching her hand across the space between and linking their pinkies together for a moment, squeezing. Greta squeezes back, leaning against her for barely a second.

***

Carson ends up picking out To the Lighthouse after asking Greta if she’s read it and only receiving a shake of her head in return. 

Adorably affronted, Carson had picked out the finest copy: this one hardbound with a little silver lighthouse embossed into the cover, insisting that it enhances the reading experience. She’s too cute about it for Greta to even try and correct her. 

When Greta and Carson arrive at the register, the man and woman are chattering away. They seem twenty years or so older than them. They seem happy. Greta can never truly resist happy people; there’s something magnetic about them. 

“Separately or together?” the man asks, finger waving between her and Carson. 

“Separate,” they say simultaneously, smiling at each other slowly as Carson steps forward first. 

“Can I just say,” Carson begins as she slides Greta’s book across the counter and pulls out her wallet, “that you two make a lovely couple?” 

The woman, who was wrapping up To the Lighthouse, snorts, putting it down. “Oh, honey.” 

“Don’t be rude, Maggie.” 

“I can’t help it, James. Look at them!” Maggie giggles, a woman who knows too many secrets. 

James hushes her again, gently pushing her out of the way and leaning on the counter, the picture of charm. His floppy, greying hair falls into his eyes. It’s easy to tell that he was once the talk of the town – kind and handsome to boot. “Then may we say,” he whispers. “That you two–” he gestures between Carson and Greta, whose eyes widen– “make a lovely couple as well.” 

A shock rushes up Greta’s neck. Carson chokes on air, her whole spine seizing, that fear from too many hidden nights plain across her body language even though her back is still to Greta. 

“I don’t–” Carson tries to say. “I mean–” 

“That’s my husband,” James says, softening, clearly realizing he’s frightened them. “Bobby!” he calls. 

From the Recipes section, the sweet-looking man from before steps down from his ladder and comes to lean against the counter, his hand absently drifting across the space until it’s laying against James’. 

“Hi, I’m Bobby,” he introduces simply, waving a little. 

Bravely, Greta waves back, taking a step forward and sliding her pinky across the back of Carson’s hand for barely a moment. It’s a tiny act, but she feels braver than she ever has before. “I’m Greta.”

“Carson,” Carson follows, swallowing hard. She shifts the tiniest bit closer to Greta.

And there they stand, across from Bobby and James, and something comes clear to Greta in this moment, something she always faintly believed may be out of reach: a future. A future where they could be happy, where they could live quietly, unknown. Where their storefront does well, and they are well because of it. 

“We hope it’s better for you,” Maggie chimes in with a sad, knowing smile; she so obviously deserved better, too. “I hope you live a long and happy life together.” She says it, and Greta knows that voice – it’s the voice of somebody who loved a girl once. Who still loves a girl who’s too far away to ever see again. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Carson says, taking off her hat in respect. 

Maggie gives her a wink. 

“How’d you know?” Greta manages to ask, looking between the three shopkeepers. Her eyes are wet, but she refuses to cry. 

Bobby smiles at them; he has dimples. “We always recognize our own,” he tells them simply. “Also, we’ve seen you outside, and we always wondered why you never came in.” He lifts his chin gently towards Greta. “It makes sense now. You were just waiting for someone.” 

Greta blushes a little, looking down at her and Carson’s brushing hands. “Yeah,” she laughs, sweet and breathless. “I guess I was.” 

***

“What just happened?” Carson rubs at her forehead the second they’re out of the store and earshot. 

“No idea,” Greta admits, taking a few steps carefully, regretfully away. 

To the Lighthouse is now tucked under her arm, the home phone number of James and Bobby serving as a bookmark. She already started the first few pages because Carson got caught up in conversation with Maggie, who insisted she write down a few names of clothing stores owned and operated by their people where she could buy her caps and trousers without any trouble. 

“They were really nice,” Carson says quietly. 

“They were,” Greta agrees, looking over at Carson, tracing the slope of her nose, the smooth flex of her jaw. She isn’t even really looking where she’s going, knows Carson will stop her if they reach the end of the block, or–

“Greta?!” 

Greta’s eyes snap forward quickly, and they fall on– “Elizabeth, hi…” she says, dragging out her greeting, more awkward than she’s felt in a long time. 

“Hello, darling, how have you been?” 

Greta stands straighter at the term of endearment, so terribly uncharmed. Again, she can’t help but think this is terrible. She’s terrible. Elizabeth’s also a bit terrible in the light, and she feels even worse thinking that, but where Carson is strong lines and soft eyes, Elizabeth is the opposite. 

Okay, maybe it isn’t that Elizabeth is terrible. Maybe it’s just that she isn’t Carson. 

“Oh, Greta, you didn’t tell me that you made any friends in the city,” Carson teases, and Greta squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, a little blush that she knows is only visible to her lover creeping up her neck. 

She knows that tone. She accidentally taught it to Carson at that dinner with Vernon, taught her how to hold venom in the back of her throat without ever spitting it out, without ever making her seem vicious at all, in fact. But there’s something else in her voice, something genuinely sweet and amused. 

Carson isn’t mad. In fact, it’s blatantly clear from the look in her eyes that she thinks this is hilarious. 

“Elizabeth and I are barely friends. We just know each other,” Greta says quickly, so gently that while Carson knows she means it in a deeper sense, her so-called friend likely doesn’t, likely thinks that this is one of Greta’s rules. And it used to be. 

“That’s right! We’ve just met around town,” Elizabeth agrees with a little smile. “Alright, I better be going. I have a few errands to run.”

“Me too,” Carson agrees, and Greta knows it’s all part of her fun, so she lets it slide. 

“I’m actually waiting for a client,” Greta plays along, ever-pleasant. “I’m going to go take a seat.” She points to the coffeeshop behind her. “I’ll catch up with you both later?”

“Of course!” Elizabeth says, and Carson just rolls her eyes, out of her line of sight. 

“I’ll be by later,” Carson fits in, and Greta has the bite the inside of her cheek so she doesn’t smile. Maybe this is a little funny – seeing Carson get jealous for absolutely no reason, despite knowing there’s absolutely nothing to be jealous over.

“Sounds like a plan,” she replies cheerfully. 

***

It takes less than five minutes for Carson to drive back around the corner in her pickup truck. 

Carson had told her she’d parked close, but Greta didn’t realize how close. She must have found the lot behind the park. 

“Ride for Miss Gill?” Carson calls, the passenger window already rolled down. 

With a laugh, Greta approaches, pulling open the door and sliding into the seat, surveying the car. It’s nicer than she thought with soft, reupholstered leather seats, and a clean interior cabin. The outside is clearly freshly painted: green with a white stripe from the front headlight to the bed of the truck. It isn’t flashy, but it’s certainly nice. 

“Damn, I’m impressed,” Greta admits as Carson signals to change lanes. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other casually against the gearshift, and Greta finds it all so attractive immediately: the way Carson’s forearm flexes, the casual strength of the muscles in her left hand.

“Thank you,” Carson replies, knowing it, grinning a little.

Greta almost wants to hate how smug she sounds, but she can’t really find it in herself to complain. Carson’s confidence is attractive, though the mischief in her eyes as she places her hand on the back of Greta’s seat, using another lane change as an excuse, lets her know that she’s utterly, royally fucked–

***

–In the absolute best way. 

Carson drives them to an empty dirt road outside of the city where the trees are tall and the little creek at the dead end becomes a louder river. She passed it on her drive in, scouted it out and found no houses for more than a few miles. Perfect.

They talk on the way, their conversation idle and wandering with the radio on low, about everything except what’s on their mind until Carson finally broaches the topic. 

“Greta,” she begins slowly. “Did you and her–” 

“For a little while,” she admits, sighing. She’s not stupid enough to say that she and Elizabeth were nothing. It just meant nothing to Greta in the end. It meant nothing because it wasn’t Carson. 

“Okay.” 

“I’m sorry,” Greta says quickly, and she means it, means it more than she means most things. “Carson–”

“I slept with Charlie,” Carson confesses in a rush, eyes determinedly on the road. “It’s about what we’d had together. It was the only way to say goodbye.” Her voice trembles a little, like she’s worried Greta will be upset, but she isn’t. 

She understands. She understands Carson in a way that almost terrifies her. 

For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the truck, the crunch of gravel under the wheels, the whisper of their breath. 

“We’re even,” Greta finally quips into the silence, and the tension dissipates with Carson’s laughter. “Also, if it helps, it wasn’t even that good.” 

“Same.” Carson snorts, and they’re both thinking the same thing: that nothing is quite as good as it is with them, big or small. They don’t exchange any more words, but it’s clear what she’s thinking simply by the little raise of her eyebrows and that stupid, playful little grin. 

Which is how Greta ends up spread across the bench-style seat of the pickup, head tipped back against the armrest of the passenger seat, with Carson on top of her, fingers tugging her blouse free from where it’s tucked in, beginning to undo the buttons with her mouth on her neck. All of her undergarments have been tossed somewhere in the cabin, a frenzied understanding that they needed to be off as soon as possible going unspoken between them as Carson kissed Greta the second that she safely put the car in park and turned her hat around. 

It’s always an ordeal, but they laugh through it, and it’s silly until it’s not, until Greta is spreading her legs and pulling Carson into another kiss that leaves them both dizzy, distracted and brought into focus by each other all at the same time. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, eyes slipping shut as Carson’s hips grind against hers, as Carson moans in her ear softly before her lips start moving slowly against her jaw, against her neck. “Carson.” 

“I’m here,” she murmurs, undoing a few buttons on her own shirt so they can have some semblance of skin on skin. Strong hands find their way under Greta’s skirt to the tops of her thighs. “Tell me what you need.” 

Arching against her, Greta whines, grabbing at the back of Carson’s shirt when she feels her nip at her pulse. “Fuck, touch me,” she begs. “Please–“ 

“Shh,” Carson breathes, rising to drop a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She presses their foreheads together, meeting dark eyes with her own. “I know.” 

And then her fingers slide against Greta’s clit, and Greta really thinks she does know. God, Carson knows her in a way that she’s never let anybody before. Her vision swims as Carson picks a slow rhythm that makes whimper, makes her even wetter, makes her want more, more, more–

“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty,” Carson mumbles without thinking, gaze still on Greta’s face. “You get so wet for me. Feels so good. Makes me feel so good.”

“Kiss me,” Greta gasps, and Carson does, slipping her palm forward at the same time until Greta’s eyes roll back as Carson finds her slit with two fingers. 

She whines, a little moan tearing from her throat when Carson slips her tongue into the kiss, curling her fingers until Greta’s arching forward, until her eyelids are fluttering as she tries to look up at Carson, until she tries to bury a hand in Carson’s hair and her hat gets in the way. 

“Stupid hat,” she complains, breathless, grabbing the crown of the cap and throwing it aside. 

Carson laughs with her, low and hot. “Frustrated?” 

“Carson, I swear to– oh, fuck,” she groans.

Carson takes her deeper, all the way to the knuckle, tipping her head back for her with her other hand, thumb pressing gently beneath her chin to give her space to kiss the underside of her jaw before her hand slides gently down to Greta’s throat. 

“God,” Greta whimpers as Carson flexes her hand just enough until Greta sees stars and bites her lip around a moan, wrapping one leg around Carson’s hip, and she’s close, so close, because Carson is fucking her like she’s trying to make her forget that anybody else has ever touched her. 

And in this moment, for the first time, Greta feels like the housewife and not the homewrecker: with Carson’s mouth now against her ear, whispering how good she is, asking her if she wants it rougher because she knows the answer is always yes, telling her just how fucking gorgeous she is. She feels powerful, and she feels a little bit guilty about it, but it’s also hard to care because she knows that Carson doesn’t, because Carson already knows that Greta is hers. 

“Fuck, I’m–” Greta’s so close that she almost wants to cry, that every inch of Carson against her lights fire under her skin.

“It’s okay,” Carson hushes her, nose against her jaw. “I’ve got you.” 

Greta’s heart cracks open at the affection until she has to close her eyes so that Carson won’t see how they suddenly shine with emotion, how tears prick at the corners. A whine catches in the back of her throat as Carson circles her clit quickly, curls her fingers until she finally comes, warm and wet, arching into Carson’s waiting hands. 

She comes and she comes, eyes slamming shut as Carson’s thumb presses harder against her, soft little sounds falling into Carson’s ear until she’s shivering, her own hips grinding forward gently. She’s so obviously wet just from having her fingers inside Greta, so needy and ready to be fucked too and it makes Greta want to come again, makes her want to make a mess of Carson’s hand–

And she does, because Carson isn’t letting up, is licking at that spot where her jaw meets her neck and she can’t fucking handle it, can’t fucking breathe and God, God, God– 

“You’re just so beautiful,” Carson murmurs, finally pulling her hand back and licking her fingers clean easily. She smiles and hums. 

Greta clenches around nothing, trying to catch her breath. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Carson laughs. 

Rolling her eyes, Greta ignores her and drops her head back on the armrest. “Just give me a second to catch my breath.” 

Carson’s dimples show as she beams at her. “We have nowhere else to be.” 

And for the first time, it’s really, honestly the truth. 

***

They make love until sunset, giggling through it about the lack of space in the cabin, about a little moment where Greta’s knee slams against the horn and it goes off, and fogging up the windows like teenagers. 

Carson talks through most of it, going on about how much she missed this, how nice it is to be free, how glad she is that nobody else comes out here, and Greta breathlessly agrees. 

And then finally, by the light of the slowly sinking sun, they spend their last hour in the bed of Carson’s truck, less close together just in case, books in hand and sharing snacks that they could never get away with eating during baseball season. 

Catching a pretzel in her mouth, Carson snorts at something in Sense and Sensibility, and Greta takes a moment to watch her, washed out in gold: her eyebrows quirk as she does her best to understand the dialogue, her dimple grows more obvious at her amusement. 

Forcing herself to look away, Greta settles back against her corner of the truck and into her own story. 

They sit side by side in comfortable silence as the clouds roll west, blush-colored and meandering. The night air is sweet, and the stars are just beginning to dot their way across the sky when Greta shivers a little too openly and Carson, ever-knowing, smiles at her, stands, and offers her a hand. 

“Why don’t we head back?” she asks gently. 

And it’s these little things, Greta finds, that have made it so easy for her to fall for Carson. 

***

Greta stares out the window most of the way back. She loves watching the city come into view especially at night, the way the lights peek through the windows of apartments and offices. Proof that people have gone about their days, and that they’ve hopefully been good. 

She likes to imagine that people have gone home to their families, that if they have children, they welcome them with hugs at the door or their spouses are in the kitchen, playing some record and waiting for their love to step over the threshold and into the privacy of night. 

“You know,” Greta finally says into the easy quiet. It’s casual. She can only ever be this casual, this genuinely curious with Carson. “You never said where you got your truck.” 

“Oh,” Carson laughs, shrugging a little. “It was mine and Charlie’s back in Idaho. Well, mostly mine in the end, you know, because he got shipped out. He thought I should have it.”

“That’s sweet of him,” Greta says, and she really does believe it. 

“I repainted it,” Carson points out. “It was ugly before.” 

“Less sweet,” Greta jokes, and Carson barely holds in a snort. 

“We have to christen this thing,” she decides aloud. 

A little smirk forming on her lips, Greta raises her eyebrows. “Didn’t we already?” 

“Not like that,” Carson admonishes playfully. “I mean, we should take a trip.” 

“Whatever you say, baby,” Greta agrees, just looking at her. 

Carson blushes furiously. “Stop that,” she laughs before something clicks in her head. “Wait. New Jersey.” 

Greta wrinkles her nose. “New Jersey?” 

“You New Yorkers and your hatred of New fucking Jersey.” Carson rolls her eyes. “We’re not going to New Jersey to go to New Jersey, Greta. But Max is playing there. You remember Max, right?”

“Darling, I never met Max,” Greta reminds, and Carson’s face falls a little. She lifts her voice gently. “But I would love to meet her.” 

The corners of Carson’s lips turn up. “Well then. I gotta bake a pie.” 

***

“You need to stop bringing me pies,” Max deadpans from the dugout when Carson offers it to her. 

Greta laughs immediately before she claps a hand over her mouth with a look that says oops, sorry, baby but betrays that she isn’t really sorry at all. 

Max turns to her skeptically, and Greta looks back, suddenly frozen. They’ve never properly met before, so of course she should have expected this to be a moment of stand off. Greta knows she doesn’t always have a trustworthy face to all people. 

“Max, this is Greta,” Carson fills in carefully. “My– I mean– we– we’re, you know, we–” 

“Of course,” Max says quickly, saving Carson from bursting into actual flames. 

“And I also keep telling her that she needs to stop giving people pies,” Greta adds teasingly. 

“Oh,” Max smiles, locking amused eyes with Carson for a moment before shifting her gaze to Greta. Now, her eyes are more trusting. She lifts her chin towards Greta. “Let’s start over. I’m Max. Nice to officially meet you.” 

“Greta. And the pleasure is all mine.” Greta nods toward her with a soft little smile. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“Aww, Carson, you talk about me?” 

Carson winces, like maybe introducing the two of them wasn’t her best idea, but at the same time, Max and Greta are already having so much fun that it’s hard for her to actually believe it. 

“And I am going to take that pie, since Max is a fool,” a woman pops up from where she was under the awning, plucking the tin out of Carson’s hands. “I’m Esther, by the way.” 

“Esther, like Esther Esther?” Carson asks brightly. 

“Do you see anyone else out here who could be an Esther?” She winks before she notices the All-Stars beginning to huddle up out of the corner of her eye. “Alright, we gotta get going. Thanks for this.” She holds up the dessert. 

Carson grins back at her, clearly pleased. “See, somebody appreciates me.” 

“Esther just has a sweet tooth,” Max quips. 

“And Max just doesn't like to admit when she’s wrong.” Esther knocks shoulders with her with enough affection that it’s clearly flirting to the four of them and nobody else who might be watching. 

“Chapman, Warner, let’s go!” Red calls from the field, and they both sigh, regretful. 

“That really is our cue,” Max admits. “But hey, meet us down at the boardwalk after dinnertime? Near the second lifeguard tower? We’ll catch up.” 

Carson and Greta look between each other, checking in silently before they both nod.  

“We’ll be there,” Carson says. “Can’t wait.” 

“Enjoy the game,” Esther says with a smile. “We’re playing to win today so expect a show.” 

“Oh, we’re counting on it,” Greta tells her, smiling back. 

***

Greta always forgets how different being in the stands makes her feel. There’s a different kind of anticipation in the pit of her stomach, something overwhelmed by excitement instead of unadmitted nerves. 

She takes in the air of the park, enjoys how she can sit even an inch closer to Carson because they’re totally anonymous here – they don’t know a single face in the stands, and nobody knows theirs. 

By the fifth inning, it’s abundantly clear to Greta that Max and Esther might be two of the best baseball players she’s ever met. Max is pitching today, and Esther is at centerfield, and they both have rocket-launchers for arms. They’ve both gone two for three at the plate, and for one of those, Max laid down a bunt that made Greta jealous even though she’s nowhere near the field. 

By the fifth inning, it’s also impossible for Greta to ignore that as much as she’s watching the game, she’s also watching Carson: the way her eyes flicker between players, how she seems to be able to predict a play even before it happens. She watches Carson watch Max, her friend, how proud she is, and Greta can see how easy the connection is between them, how similar they are. Max has that same glint in her eye on the mound as Carson does behind the plate. 

They’re a perfect match. 

And she can see some of herself in Esther, too, the quiet admiration that she hides behind a tough exterior, the confidence about the set in her shoulders. 

Looking at Max and Esther, Greta can’t help but see Carson and her, can’t help but see what they could be: women who secretly belong to each other; their religion is baseball, and the diamond is their church. After, Greta imagines, they go home together, find sanctuary, eat dinner while the world outside keeps moving. 

She wants that. And for the first time, in this ballpark in New fucking Jersey, she can admit it to herself. 

“You okay?” Carson asks, leaning into her for a moment. 

Greta smiles at her. “Never better.”

***

“Maybe New Jersey isn’t so bad,” Greta laughs. She’s shoulder to shoulder with Carson and sat across from Max and Esther on the picnic blanket that Carson, of course, had in her truck. 

From there, both Greta and Max obviously took it upon themselves to make it very clear that they believe Carson is secretly from a farm. Esther joined in too, just for good measure, despite any confusion she might have. Right at that moment, Greta decided she was certain she liked her.  

In the end, Carson only made it out of the teasing unscathed because she brought beer. 

Already within the first few minutes, it’s like they’re all old friends, laughing and chatting away while the sun sets. The waves crash in the background while Max tells Esther about all of the pitchers Carson didn’t know when they started playing catch together, while Esther tells Greta and Carson who Max declared that she had to dance with her before she left Bert and Gracie’s, between Greta and Carson’s two very different stories of how they ended up each other’s. 

The beach is empty by the time the stars come out, and it’s rather dark – so dark that Greta asks Carson if she has a lantern in her truck too, which gets a no, Greta, I do not and an affectionately exasperated laugh out of her even as she tries to hold it in. 

Esther throws her arm around Max first, a silent show of comfort, and Greta and Carson slowly start to lean into each other, careful, tentative; it’s obvious that their friends have more experience with this, with finding moments to be open, but Greta sees wisdom in Esther’s eyes – even more than Max’s – that tells her they’re more similar than different. 

Finally, Max chuckles softly and raises her eyebrows at Carson. “Lot more than five minutes, huh?” 

Carson laughs with her. “Damn, we’re lucky.” 

“We are.” Max raises her bottle to Carson’s, knocking them together. 

“What’s this five minutes business?” Esther asks, taking a sip of her own beer. 

“I’ll tell you–” Max begins teasingly, slipping out from under her arm– “if you can catch me.” And then she’s off and running down the sand, narrating loudly: “Chapman’s five yards out, ten, fifteen, and Warner is nowhere near her!”

Carson and Greta grin, watching them, before Greta pouts, resting her chin on Carson’s shoulder. “You’ll tell me, right?” She fixes her with soft doe eyes. 

Carson’s thought process flickers across her face openly, a little smirk quirking up at the corner of her mouth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Greta tries to say, but Carson is already ducking out of her grasp and rolling up onto her feet, following Max down the beach. 

Laughing, Greta follows, and there’s something distinct about this moment for her in her head, about the skirt of her dress floating around her as she kicks off her heels and runs after Carson, about realizing that this is the most unladylike thing she could do and enjoying every second. 

Waves crash at her feet as she quickly catches up to Carson, snagging her playfully around the waist and pulling her close, spinning them. She’s made sense of it all in her head: that at most, people may see their silhouettes, but there’s no reason to believe that this is anything out of the ordinary. 

And it’s true. Even just for this moment, Greta feels perfectly ordinary here with Carson, with their friends. They’re an ordinary couple on a double date, running across the beach and swimming in their own laughter. 

It’s all so easy, so right. 

It makes Greta think of something she read in To the Lighthouse. She spent most of the drive out of the city this morning reading, enjoying the soft way she and Carson coexist. There are moments where they are only laughing or only sitting together or only breathing, and they never feel anything less than perfect – all of these onlys that have begun to feel like always. 

She guesses that’s what happens when you really are opened up again, when you let yourself be. She guesses that’s what happens when you let yourself take steps towards settling down – even if you’ve never done that before, even if you’re not sure you know how. She guesses that’s what happens when you stop running away and start running towards somebody. 

She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.

***

Soon, the night reaches its end: Max and Esther have to head out for their next destination early in the morning, and Greta has her standing evening practice with Lupe, Jess, and Esti that she knows they’re all looking forward to a little more than usual because they’ll get to see Carson. Lupe and Jess will admit to such truth, Esti maybe not, in hopes of sparing Greta’s feelings. 

“Thank you for this,” Carson says at the end of the night, hugging Max tight. “It’s so good to see you. You’re a freaking star!” 

“So are you.” Max grins, squeezing her back. “And you got the girl.” 

“So did you,” Carson counters, and Esther and Greta just watch them. 

Greta meets her eyes, and Esther smiles back – one of those knowing, I see you smile that just feels right, that tells her that despite any distance, if they ever meet again it will be as friends. 

Max approaches her next, reaching up on her toes to hug her. “Damn, you’re tall.” 

Greta laughs, throwing her arms over Max’s shoulders gently. “So I’ve been told.” 

“Carson told me too,” she whispers into Greta’s shoulder. “I heard a lot about you. You’re just as cool as I thought.” 

“Oh?” Greta teases, looking over at Carson who blushes a little, adjusts her cap like always. 

“Stay cool, Greta,” Max says gently. “And stick around for her.” She squeezes Greta’s hip once, and they come to a silent understanding: that they both care for Carson in a way that they cannot explain, that it’s possible they exist to hold each other accountable in such care. 

Greta softens into the embrace and nods. “I plan on it.” 

Max claps her shoulder gently. “Good.” 

***

“Batter up! Hear that call!” Jess sings when she spots Greta and Carson walking up. 

“The time has come, for one and all!” they sing back – albeit it much more off-key. 

Laughing, Jess runs to meet them along with Lupe, but before either of them get there, Esti is speeding by her, tackling Carson in a hug. Greta watches fondly, giving a soft nod to Lupe and Jess who are both quiet too, decidedly not breaking up the moment. 

“Esti! Hey, kid.” The wattage of Carson’s smile could power the city. 

“I’ve been learning!” Esti tells her excitedly, releasing her. 

“That’s amazing,” Carson replies before she holds up a finger. “Hold on.” She reaches into her bag to produce the gift she and Greta had picked up. “This is for you.” 

Eyes widening, Esti takes the sign from her, showing it to Lupe and Jess who smile at her, encouraging. “Thank you, Coach,” she says, hugging her again. 

“Just Carson is okay,” Carson tries to say, but Esti shakes her head. 

“Coach.” She presses a finger into Carson’s chest. 

She smiles at her. “Alright then.” 

“Well, you’re not my coach,” Lupe quips, but she’s already reaching forward to pull Carson into an embrace. 

“I know, Lu,” Carson laughs, body slammed on her other side by Jess and Esti joins in, too. She turns her head slightly. “Hi.” 

Greta watches in amusement before Jess gestures with her head. “What, Red? You too good to get in on this?” 

Shaking her head in amusement, Greta wraps her arms around them, towering enough over Lupe that she can meet Carson’s eyes. Even in this group hug, they really only have eyes for each other. 

“I missed this,” Carson says, but she’s looking right at her. 

“We missed this too,” Jess laughs. “Gill was insufferable without you.” 

“Hey!” Greta protests, but her eyes betray just how amused she is. 

***

They end up playing a tiny pickup game: Greta and Carson versus Jess and Esti with Lupe pitching for both sides. 

It’s more derby style since there’s no way either team could cover all of the bases, but it’s all in good fun: the soft way Greta and Carson high five after each homer, Jess and Esti’s now-perfected handshake that they started making up during the season. 

At some point, they stop keeping track of the score, steals, or even innings, settling into the easy air of the night. There’s laughter and lightness in their chests as Esti steals another base, proud, and by what’s probably the eleventh or twelfth inning, they give up and call it a tie, flopping down in the outfield, exhausted. 

It’s so unlike them not to compete, not to count each ball and strike and foul, but for some reason, tonight feels like its own individual night from so many other nights they’ve spent playing ball together, like something that’s been so impossible suddenly feels right, feels real, within reach. 

Greta can sense a change even as she throws one arm over Esti and lets Carson lean on her other side: here she is, a woman who wants and is wanted in so many ways, in ways she never could have imagined. She’s spent the last few days sharing a bed with the woman of her wildest dreams, eating meals across from her, holding her hand until they fall asleep. 

She’s spent the last few days wondering about luck. If maybe it is real, if she’s really changed so much in such little time, if maybe, after so many years of searching too far and too wide, she found meaning in her life by simply staying put for the very first time. 

She thinks about how Carson is her lighthouse in the storm, about how she thought she may never cross an ocean so wide as to find the love of her life, to find joy, about how she thought she needed some grand reason to. But she doesn’t. 

Everything she feels, everything she is – it’s enough. She’s enough. 

She thinks again of Virginia Woolf's lighthouse, of all the questions her book has answered about Carson and love and life, the most important question:

What is the meaning of life? That was all – a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

There is no great revelation, or perhaps this is it: that there is none. That she found each tiny moment that built a throughline, a bridge between her past and her present and her future, her whole life, without even realizing it, the small moments that become big in her head if she thinks about them hard enough: holding hands hidden in the shelves of a bookstore. Baseball in the evening. Kissing a girl and knowing she’ll kiss you back and sitting in the kitchen while she makes pie. Sex. Heat. Clouds. Stars. An ocean at dusk. Your lover’s friends. The sound of a river. The color green. The sunset. Wild moments told at a whisper. 

“Hey Coach?” Lupe finally says, a soft sign of the respect she has for her. 

“Yeah?” Carson turns to their friend, and Greta can see her trying to hold back a smile. Her heart jumps at the sight; Carson’s smile always makes her heart go a little funny in the best way. 

“It really is a good thing you’re here.” 

“Yeah.” Carson nods, one corner of her mouth turning up as she tries to play it cool. Her hand slides down into the grass to touch the inside of Greta’s wrist. “I’m glad I’m here too.” 

And Greta just wants to say how happy she is, too, but at this point, she’s sure they all know it. 

She’s happy.

Chapter Text

“I have to go to work,” Greta laughs, breathless as she tries to get up.  

Carson makes a sound of protest, kissing her neck until Greta falls back against the bed, her eyes closing for a minute, head tipping back. “Not for another hour and a half.” 

“I still have to get ready,” Greta points out, but her fingers tangle in Carson’s hair anyway, her legs spreading, and God, she’s losing this battle. She’s losing terribly. 

“Stay with me,” Carson whispers, fingers trailing up the tops of Greta’s thighs under her nightgown. 

“Carson,” she manages, a little sound tearing from the back of her throat. Warmth rushes through her, and it’s more than just attraction that makes it so. She’s wanted, really wanted, and it makes her whole body light up. 

She holds onto the moment for as long as she can before she sits up with Carson still in her lap. 

“I can’t be late,” Greta tells her, regretful, smiling when Carson buries herself in her shoulder anyway. “I’ll be home by five-thirty.” 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Make pie, grow plants, I don’t know,” Greta laughs, kissing the top of her head. “Whatever you farm girls do. Oh, you can finish Sense and Sensibility! ”

“For the last time, I’m not from a farm,” Carson grumbles, but Greta can feel her smile against her skin, knows Carson lets it slide because it makes both of them think of Jo – Greta a bit more than Carson. As long as the joke stands, it’s like a piece of Jo still exists presently in her life, not seven-hundred miles away in South Bend. 

“Whatever you say,” Greta teases, rolling over carefully to drop Carson on her side of the bed. She kisses her on the cheek. “But will you finish the book?” 

“I have less than a hundred pages left, so probably,” Carson admits. “You know, it would keep me occupied longer if I didn’t start it so early and we stayed in bed–”

“Be useful and make us some coffee, would you?” Greta interrupts, and there’s a little strain in her voice, enough that it’s obvious how tempted she is. 

Carson lolls her head to the side, smiling, her freckles clear in the early light. “Of course.” 

***

Greta’s day at the office is, in a word, boring. 

She spends most of her time reading copy for their next set of advertisements, some of which are rife with edits and issues. Her red pen is almost out of ink, which makes the whole thing entirely more frustrating, not to mention the fact that she knows Carson is at home waiting for her. The hours can’t pass quickly enough. 

Her whole body feels heavy by the time she collects her things and begins to walk home. She’s ready to flop down in the first spot she can once she gets through her front door, but she never even gets the chance because Carson is standing in the entryway, arms crossed over her chest in that way she only does when something on the field is bothering her more than she knows how to say. 

“Hi,” Greta says, eyes a little wide as she tries for a smile, but Carson has that little furrow between her brows that’s normally hidden beneath her cap on full display. 

“Hi,” Carson says, tapping her foot nervously, but she does tip her head back for a kiss when Greta steps forward carefully. 

They embrace for a moment; the kiss is sticky and sweet, and Greta closes her eyes, sinking into it before Carson pulls away softly. She looks down, wringing her fingers. 

“Elizabeth came by,” she tells her finally. 

Greta freezes. “What?” 

“I’ve tried to make a habit of not getting angry,” Carson laughs, humorless and a little hurt. “I’ve found it doesn’t really fit me.” 

“But…?” Greta prompts, slipping out of her heels so they’re more eye-level, though honestly not by much. 

“But Greta, you– she–” Carson tries to collect her thoughts, taking a breath. “She can’t come around anymore. Not if we’re–” 

“Carson, it’s not like that,” Greta says immediately. Because it isn’t. It never has been. 

“She knows about me,” Carson says shortly, a terrified little cry caught in the back of her throat – Greta has never wanted her to be terrified, but she knows that it's part of who they are; they will never not be terrified. But Greta always wanted to protect her from it if she could. “She said she could tell the second she saw me. Said that she’s glad to at least know the reason why you never kiss her back.” 

“Carson,” Greta repeats carefully, digging her nails softly into her palm, trying not to be angry either. “It’s not like that. I haven’t kissed her since you’ve been here! I barely kissed her when you weren’t–” 

“Then what’s it like?”

Greta hesitates, doesn’t know how to explain it all, doesn’t know how to explain that nobody matters to her like Carson does, so it doesn’t matter how many times Elizabeth comes by. She doesn’t know how to explain how she’s lived most of her life with this viral, horrible, trembling need to be desired – by faceless men for survival and faceless women to feel alive – and now, she knows all she needs is to be wanted by Carson but that doesn’t mean the instinct disappears overnight. Deep down, Greta has been just a bit too desperate to be loved for too long, and now that she has it, she’s not sure how to live with it all. 

“I’m going to get some air,” she says instead of saying all of that, because it’s easier than saying all of that, because explaining herself has never been something she’s had to do, not really. 

“Greta, don’t,” Carson starts, but Greta is already stepping back into her stilettos, ready to run. She’s always ready. It’s something she’s always been a bit too proud of. “Please.” There’s a heaviness in her voice now, a fear. “Don’t.” 

“I’ll be back,” she says quickly, throat tight. The world gets fuzzy around the edges, static filling her head and her lungs. “I need– I’ll just–” 

And then, she backs away, her eyes fixed on the desperation on Carson’s face. She doesn’t remember how she leaves. She doesn’t remember if Carson says anything else. She doesn’t remember anything until she’s standing outside of Jess’ door, sweets in hand to share because Carson reminding her to do better with Esti still lives fresh in her mind even if most other things have dissolved down to panic. 

She knocks once, twice, three times, her insides trembling even as she tries to keep a cool exterior. Her stomach turns while she waits, shifting from foot to foot, until finally–

“Greta?” Lupe answers the door, cigarette hanging from her lips. 

“Can I come in?” she asks, suddenly out of breath. She knows that she looks a mess – even if it’s just evident in her eyes. She knows that she never looks like this. 

“Of course.” She steps aside to let her in. “You’ve never come by here before. I told Carson I thought we’d have to bring you kicking and screaming–” 

Greta’s eyes well with tears. She puts a hand on the wall, the other coming up to cover her mouth. 

“Oh,” Lupe says softly, taking a step forward, reaching out, but Greta recoils from the touch. “Okay.”

Jess comes around the corner, then, and her eyes are bright and sharp the moment she sees Greta. “What happened?” she asks quickly, taking off her cap. “Who do I need to fuck up?” 

Greta shakes her head. Her ears are ringing. “I need to just–” She takes a stuttering breath. “Can I use your phone?” 

“It’s in the kitchen.” Jess points around the corner. “Here, can I help–”

“I’m alright,” Greta says, pressing her lips together to steel herself. “I’m just gonna…” she trails off, gesturing with her head in the direction of the landline. 

Lupe and Jess both nod. Greta turns on her heel at that. 

“Tell us if you need anything!” Lupe calls, but Greta is already speeding towards the kitchen, pulling out her wallet and dialing the folded up number she keeps in the slot meant for coins. She doesn’t keep any change; she doesn’t like the way it jingles, and it always makes her fingers dirty and metallic-smelling. 

With shaky fingers, she presses each key, finally raising the receiver to her ear. It rings for a few moments before the sound of the pickup makes Greta stand a little straighter. 

“Office of the South Bend Blue Sox, this is Amanda speaking. How may I help you?” 

“Hello.” Greta clears her throat. “Could I please be put through to Jo De Luca?” 

“To whom am I speaking?” 

“Greta Gill,” she states confidently, and she does smile a little as she hears the woman take an audible breath. 

“Oh. Hello, Miss Gill. I will get the phone to Miss De Luca right away. I’m sure she’ll be glad to take your call.” 

“Thank you, Amanda.” And Greta knows she will be, knows that no matter the distance or how they’ve fallen out in the past, if Greta asks, Jo will come running. 

For a few minutes, Greta waits with the crackle of the phone. The pop and static reminds her how far she and Joey are from each other, how their lives have diverged. Her chest hurts. 

“Greta?” Jo’s voice comes through the phone. Greta chokes on her own breath. 

“Joey,” she greets quietly, emotion bubbling in her chest. 

“Hey, Bird,” Jo says with that soft voice that would always put her to sleep when she had nightmares. 

God, this all feels like a nightmare.

“Bird?” Jo says again, and the sound of her breath comes through the receiver. Greta basks in the familiarity. “Greta? You’re starting to scare me.” 

“I messed it up.” Greta sniffles, salt filling the back of her throat. “I messed it up so bad, and I think I messed it up because I’m messed up.”

For a moment, there’s silence before Jo only says, confident and slow to make sure she’s heard, “You’re not messed up.” 

“I think I am.” She laughs. Her self-loathing cuts the air like a knife. “More messed up than I want to be, anyway.” 

“We’re all more messed up than we want to be,” Jo counters easily. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget why they fit together so well: the way they balance out each other’s cynicism, the way they always find the truth in each other’s words. “We just have to find somebody we’d clean up for, and who would clean up for us. The only thing messed up about this would be if you let that farm girl go because she’s clearly fucking willing. And you’re willing for her.”

“How did you know this was about Carson?” Greta mumbles, looking down. Her tears fall onto the tile of the kitchen, tinted slightly with mascara. 

“Because I’m not an idiot,” Jo quips, and Greta can’t help but huff out the tiniest laugh. “And because everything comes back to Carson with you lately. In your last letter, you spent most of it talking about her.” 

Greta pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath in an attempt to even out. “I wish you were here with me,” she admits. 

She wishes she had somebody to keep her in line. Jo was always so good at that, and she knows it’s not her job anymore – really, it was unfair to ever make it her job in the first place and she knows that – but what she needs right now is somebody to shake her awake, to remind her not to waste her life, not a single drop, not for a moment. 

“I always am,” Jo tells her gently. “I’m always with you.” 

“What do I do, then?” Greta tucks some of her hair nervously behind her ear. How Jo used to. How Carson’s taken to doing. 

“Land, Bird,” Jo says, so simple, so certain. “Land on her arm for a while. See how it feels, see the world at the level you’re supposed to.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” Greta asks, clutching the receiver with both hands, now.

“I’m trying to,” she admits. “It’s beautiful, when you let it be.” 

“What is?” 

“Staying put,” Jo breathes. “Hoping. Counting on people.” 

“You’re finding new people to count on?” Greta asks, and selfishly, she wishes the answer was no, even though she knows it isn’t. Selfishly, she wishes Jo and her hadn’t made a new home in this awkward space between old friends and best friends. 

“Nobody like you,” Jo assures. “Nobody could ever be like you, Greta.” 

A fresh wave of tears spring to her eyes. “I love you, Joey.” 

“I love you too.” The sweetness in her smile is audible. “Go get your girl.” 

“I’m not sure if she’s mine anymore,” Greta admits. 

Jo laughs at that, actually laughs. “Oh, Bird.” It’s clear she’s shaking her head, amused all the way from South Bend. “She is. She’s never going to be anybody else’s.” 

***

“I’ll walk you there,” Jess offers when Greta’s done sipping the tea she was forced into drinking after attempting to leave the second she and Jo hung up. 

Lupe and Jess had both stopped her, insisting she slow down for a minute. Esti sat down with them too, and from there, Greta couldn’t really say no. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Greta refuses immediately, but Jess holds up a hand.

“Jo and Carson would both kill me if they knew I let you go alone, and I don’t have the energy to die.” She weighs her options for a moment. “Or plan a funeral.” 

“You say the sweetest things to me.”

Jess snorts. “It’s self preservation, Red. Plus, the last thing I want is to have to room with fucking Ruth next spring.” 

Greta barely holds in a giggle at that. She always forgets about Ruth. Ruth fucking Benjamin. She doesn’t even know what the girl looks like. She can see the pride in Jess’ eyes at getting her to smile, and she knows it’s the closest either of them will get to admitting how deep their care for each other goes. She’ll take it. 

“Fine, you can come but stay outside,” she says. 

“I don’t exactly want to be there,” Jess quips. 

Greta steals the cap off her head for that comment. “You have to be nice.” 

“You’re in my home,” Jess grumbles, snatching it back. 

“Our home,” Esti and Lupe cut in at the same time. 

Greta’s heart swells and her breath evens as she watches Jess roll her eyes affectionately and nod. “Our home.” 

It confirms, softly, though in a different way than what her three friends have, that she’s finally ready for change. That she’s ready to let go. That she’s ready to become the kind of person who can uncurl her fists, hold a new kind of bird gently in her palm and trust that it won’t fly away. 

***

“Clap twice if you need help,” Jess says when they get to the top of the stairs, leaning against the corner and pulling out a cigarette. Elizabeth’s unit is all the way at the end of the hall, but it’s clear she’s planting herself here to wait. 

“You’re not going to be able to hear it from outside,” Greta reasons. Jess gives her a look. She raises her hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll clap twice.” 

Jess smiles just barely, the right corner of her mouth turning up. “Good luck,” she says around her first hit. “Don’t fuck it up.” 

“You’re so kind,” Greta deadpans, but she takes a deep breath all the same, and the words echo in her head because Jess is right. All she has to do is not fuck it up. 

She fixes her skirt, standing up straighter to walk properly in her heels, and it pushes all of the confidence she needs back into her body from where it was floating – rather unusually – outside of her for the last few hours. 

By the time she reaches the end of the hall, she’s got ice in her veins, enough that may stop her from crying in the coming moments, and she raises her hand to knock. Her fist barely touches the door before Elizabeth pulls it open. 

“Sweetheart,” she greets before her face falls when she sees the look in Greta’s eyes. “Come in,” she says, quieter, stepping aside. 

Greta follows, not bothering to take off her shoes. For a long moment, they watch each other. Greta stands her ground like a lioness stalking her prey. Elizabeth is peacefully, horribly, annoyingly pleasant. It’s written so plainly across her face, like she knows this is the order of things. 

It’s making all of this entirely worse for Greta. 

They don’t say a word to each other. 

And though it’s not exactly the same, Greta recalls what Carson once said to her during another one of her late-night ramblings when they were both tipsy enough to be a bit more truthful than they would otherwise be. It was the same night, oddly, where Carson mentioned that she was certain she once saw a blue bee in Idaho. It’s a truly Carson thought, so random and adorable, and Greta couldn’t help but remember it. Maybe that’s why she remembers the rest of the conversation – she’ll never know. 

She recalls how Carson described two types of experience, of emotion. How Carson, bright-eyed and brilliant, boiled it down to the difference between bread and pizza, between warmth and fire. 

Betty is bread. Greta wants pizza.

Betty is bread, and she doesn’t deserve to be. She doesn’t deserve to be ripped through like another meal. Bread is for the starving, for the faithful, for the good. And Greta knows she hasn’t always been good; she hasn’t wanted to be. 

Greta is selfish. She’s selfish when it comes to love. She lets herself be with Carson. 

Greta wants pizza, in all of its burnt crust and messiness. Greta wants something she will savor for the rest of her life, and in her head, it is a moral, objective truth that pizza might be the greatest food ever invented. Just like Carson is the most beautiful woman to ever live. 

She’s sure that certain things remain true across time. 

Greta wants baseball, the sound of her bat cracking a homer. The sound of her and Carson making a home. 

She’s never loved anybody like she loves Carson – even though she hasn’t really told her yet. Even though she really needs to get around to it. Even though it might be too late. If she’s honest, Greta is worried about the number of things Carson’s learned from her. She’s worried Carson learned how to run, however contrary it may seem to the very fiber of her being. 

Greta is worried that she’ll lose her. She’s more worried about that than anything she planned to say, standing in this entryway, utterly silent. 

Finally, Elizabeth breaks the silence, resignation heavy in her voice and tears in her eyes. “I never stood a chance, did I?” 

Greta smiles sadly. She doesn't have the bravery to even say no. It feels like an understatement in a way. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, making a quiet but chasmic decision. “Betty, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, honey,” she says, kindness mixing with her heartbreak; she’s so fucking kind. “Don’t be sorry for loving and being loved back. People like us so rarely get that.” 

For a moment, Greta just looks at her, and for the first time, she notices the laugh lines beside her eyes. For the first time, she notices the birthmark on the side of her neck. She notices that Betty has good features, that she’s pretty, more than just nice. 

Somehow, she feels worse. It’s all so much worse. She can’t stay here. She can’t tell if she’s on fire or being frozen from the inside out. 

“Thank you for this,” Greta rushes out quickly. “Thank you. I’m just going to–” She points at the door, and God, this is all so unlike her, or maybe this is who she’s becoming: somebody who can live a little bit more and plan a little bit less. “You’re lovely. So, so lovely. I’ll– I’ll see you–”

Tripping over her own feet, Greta takes one glance at Betty before she wrenches the door open, forcing herself not to look back again as she steps into the hall. She stands there, just past the threshold, until she hears the lock click behind her. And then she stands there some more, at a profound loss for words because she just gave up everything she convinced herself she wanted for what – who she actually wants: Carson, and she isn’t even sure if Carson still wants her.

Fear wells up inside of her. Suffocating. And finally, with blurry vision, she remembers what Jess said earlier, and with shaky hands, she claps twice. Painful. She manages to take a step forward, and then another, and then another, and then she’s falling into the arms of her friend by the staircase. And then Jess is holding her while she shudders out her hurt breath by breath, not saying a word but wiping away Greta’s tears gently with her sleeve.

Something leaves Greta as she cries, and something rises to the surface, too, something she hasn’t felt in a long time. She thinks back to Houston, back to Sense and Sensibility and choosing sense, and she contemplates her now, contemplates choosing sensibility and that perhaps doing so isn’t something to be ashamed or terrified of after all. 

There’s an honesty about her tears, a truth to the tremor of her breath. Somewhere deep and softly lit for the first time, Greta knows what she wants, decidedly taking sensibility by the hand: she wants somebody to paint her in love. Stoicism be damned, Greta found religion. She found it in Carson. In road trips to places she’s never wanted to go. In blue bees. In pizza. 

Greta smiles, then, just barely against Jess’ shoulder. 

“What is it, Red?” she asks, taking off her cap and shoving it down on Greta’s head playfully, knowingly messing up her hair. 

For once, Greta doesn’t complain. In the way that Jo was always what Greta imagined having a sister would feel like, Jess is really everything that Greta imagines having a brother would be. She remembers a word she and Lupe always use: hermano. And it really does feel that way: all of the safety and security of it, the soft teasing, how they laugh together. 

For once, Greta doesn’t even complain. “Nothing. Just… before you drop me at my place, we have to buy a pizza.” 

Jess raises an eyebrow. “We do?” 

Greta nods. “We do. Please?” 

Rolling her eyes, Jess takes her cap back, pretending to be annoyed. “Fine. But no way in hell I’m paying for it.” 

“I make more money than you. Of course I’m paying for it,” Greta teases, barely dodging a swat on the arm. She giggles around her remaining tears. 

Rolling her eyes and throwing an arm over her shoulder, Jess presses a kiss to the side of Greta’s head. “Alright then. Let’s get you home.” 

Chapter Text

Carson is sitting in a chair by the door and caught up in dim light when Greta finally crosses the threshold, pizza box in hand. True to her word, Jess had guided her to the best nearby spot in town, and the fifteen minutes they waited outside for it was more than worth it just from the way it smells like heaven. 

Greta doesn’t think she’ll be eating for a little bit, though, not with the way Carson looks up at her.

There’s so much Greta immediately wants to say, and she can’t help but feel a little pathetic, walking into her own apartment with so many apologies scattered across her tongue. But it’s her home, and it makes sense Carson is there. Carson is what’s made her place even begin to feel like home, even if it’s possible she doesn’t feel that way about Greta anymore.

They hold eye contact, Greta suddenly frozen by the moment, Carson not saying a word. Not yet. 

Greta studies Carson through all the quiet, the way she actually looks a bit more uncomfortable in the shadows than she ever did when they lived in Rockford, and guilt grabs at her heart. She thinks of Carson waiting here for hours, not knowing where she’s gone, and she notices that Sense and Sensibility on the front entryway table, open to the second chapter. 

Carson restarted the book. Greta knows the choice immediately for what it is: a nervous habit she noticed after the second time she caught Carson reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from cover to cover. When she’s stressed, she restarts a story because she knows how it ends. 

Greta has been largely the same way with danger – anticipating, always. She’s searched for the decision that comes from disaster without ever being caught up in it. Most of her life has boiled down to a few simple rules: to wait for the apartment next door to burn down so she knows what not to do with flame, to run before she can be accused of lighting the match that did it, to let life happen to her – to not happen to life, be it her own or the lives of other women, no matter whether she believes they deserve better or not. 

But all of that changed with Carson. 

Carson offered her kindness, and she ruined every one of Greta’s rules. She ruined Greta – who she thought she was, Bird. She changed her, though for the better, resurrected her adolescence and gave her a second chance at her youth – a teenage romance ten years in the making, where they can touch and tease and tangle themselves up in each other. Carson made Greta believe that she deserves better.  

Carson reminded her, after so many years, that she can listen to her head and still lead with her heart. 

Sensibility. 

“Do you want to stay here until spring training?” Greta finally blurts out, impulsive, her heart racing. She knows there are so many other things she ought to say, but it’s the only thing that makes it out. 

“I already called James and Bobby to ask for a job,” Carson admits quickly, like she’s afraid she might lose the courage to say so if she thinks too long or too hard. 

Greta’s breath catches. She thinks again of all the things she wants to say, of the story she bought for Carson right in that bookshop. She thinks again of love, of how to say it when you mean it. She thinks of the Dashwoods, of their senses and their sensibilities. She thinks of their lovers. 

She thinks of Carson, her true, great love. The words she wishes she had, as real and romantic as Jane Austen. 

Tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.

“What did they say?” Greta asks. “About the job?” 

“They said they would be happy to have me,” Carson tells her slowly. “And I told them I would think about it because, well, I mean– if you didn’t want me to stay, I didn’t want to just assume I was going to, and we hadn’t said everything that needs to be said. In which case, I was going to call them, and tell them I’m sorry but I have to take it back, but I thought after everything–”

“Yeah, please don’t call them back,” Greta cuts in carefully, her whole body buzzing and dizzy. She feels the constancy of her heart in this moment. 

The air is heavy around them, filled with confusion and simmering tension. She takes a careful step forward, close enough that she can put the pizza down on the table. Close enough that Carson stands too, so they can at least be somewhat close to eye level. Greta kicks off her heels for good measure. 

Carson’s mouth opens and closes before she breathes, “I want to help you pay for this place. If I’m going to stay.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” It’s knee-jerk, a denial of possible commitment. Greta can’t help it, even if she regrets it the moment it’s out of her mouth. They’re careening towards something – something new and different and terrifying and exciting, and her stomach is turning over as she tries to pin it down.

“Greta, I want to,” Carson refuses her, the only woman who could do such a thing, the only woman brave enough to. “I want–” she swallows hard– “I want it to be ours.” 

And there it is. Ours. It knocks the wind out of her. She thinks of Jo again, of both her hands on the receiver, hanging on to her every word. 

Land, Bird. 

Greta nods to herself, taking a breath. Because Jo was right, she needs to stop circling above, telling herself there’s still time to find a place to land, not when she’s found somewhere she can make her nest. Someone to make her nest with, to curl up with at night, to wake up to in the morning. Someone whose dreams she wouldn’t mind listening to after so many years of trying to forget her own. 

“Our place,” Greta tries it out carefully. It sticks to her tongue a little bit, sweet. 

Carson smiles up at her, tears in her eyes. “Our place.” She reaches up to cup Greta’s cheek. “You don’t have to run away anymore.” You can run home. 

Greta leans into the touch, bringing her own hand to hold Carson’s forearm gently,  kissing the inside of her wrist, trailing her lips up, up. Playful. Soft. 

Until Carson’s hand is at the nape of her neck and she can guide Greta slowly, carefully to kiss her properly. Greta sinks down into it, breathless, needy, and a warm silence envelops them. Greta pours every last thing she can’t quite say into the kiss, into the grip she has on her hips, until finally, the tension snaps. Until finally, what’s been stuck on the inside of her throat comes out, her voice trembling as she brushes her nose against Carson’s, as her knees weaken. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, refusing to let Carson go. “I’m sorry.” She presses their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Carson kisses the corner of her mouth. “It’s okay.” She tangles a hand in Greta’s hair at the base of her scalp. “It’s okay.” 

And then Greta kisses her again, all desperation and devotion. She kisses her like a woman claimed. She is Carson’s and Carson is hers. They’re each other’s. In their place, in a city they will make theirs. 

“You know I’m yours, right?” Greta says into the kiss, a blush rising softly in her cheeks. She doesn’t know the word for what they are, what they have together. She’s not sure it’s been invented yet. 

Carson smiles against her mouth. “You mean it?” 

“Of course,” Greta whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her jaw. “Are you mine?” 

Carson nods, her throat bobbing when Greta’s tongue finds her pulse. “Yeah.” 

“Good,” Greta says. “That feels good to know.” 

“Yeah?” Carson asks, voice low, lips twitching around her flirtation. 

Greta meets her gaze, raising her eyebrows. There’s a shift, suddenly. “Yeah,” she laughs, before she kisses Carson again, hard, smirks when she lets out a little moan, pins Carson to the wall for good measure. 

Her hands follow the curve of Carson’s waist, and she falls a little harder for her with each passing second, when she feels the way Carson shifts to meet her touch, begs silently for more. 

On some level, to Greta, the body has always just been muscle, water, skin, warmth. Her body was just the space she took up. Other women only wanted her for it –  to touch and be touched, but they always held something just out of reach. Something they were quite adamant could never be hers. 

Years later, Carson is more than that. So much more. She always has been. Greta sees Carson’s body and she sees an end to the suffering, soft desire she’s felt most of her life. And Carson has made Greta’s body feel like home, like hers. Now, she says, breathes, thinks  I need, I need, I need, and Carson gives. She gives her everything, puts it all within reach. 

Carson’s body is water: corded and striking and strong, but soft and certain, too, in the shape of a woman whose affection for her knows no bounds. 

And Greta loves her for it. She does. 

She loves Carson.

“I love you,” Greta manages to say, the words falling into Carson’s mouth, her hand sliding up Carson’s stomach, against her sternum until she grasps the chain of her necklace, wrapping it around her index finger. “I love you.” It feels easier every time. “I love you.” 

Carson smiles, and there’s no hesitation as she replies, eyes fluttering shut, “I love you too.” 

Greta’s heart jumps into her throat. It’s been so long since anybody besides Joey has said so. It’s been so long since she’s felt like someone has meant it this much. 

“Say it again,” she pleads, shaking a little, barely able to kiss her back. 

“I love you,” Carson repeats, out of breath as Greta’s hands blindly search for the buckle of her belt, as her mouth finds the spot just under Carson’s jaw that drives her crazy. “I love you.” She cradles the back of Greta’s head. “I love you.” 

With unsteady hands, Greta pulls the tail end of the belt free and tugs the leather out in one quick motion, dropping it to the floor, undoing the button and zip on her pants easily with one hand. Her fingers trail over Carson’s hip, down past her waistband, and with Carson whispering, yes, yes, yes against her lips when Greta meets her eyes to check in, finally, strong fingers slide against her clit. 

Greta moans with Carson when she feels how wet she is. Carson is always so wet, always so good for her. 

“Mine,” Carson breathes with the rise and fall of her hips, when she lets out a whine against Greta’s shoulder. 

“Yours,” Greta agrees, whimpering, when Carson pulls at her hair. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” Carson mumbles. “Fuck, fuck–“ 

Greta smiles, slips two fingers inside of her, curls them until Carson’s head tips back against the wall, and God, she’s such a sight, her jaw clenched tight as she tries to keep quiet, her eyes fluttering shut. 

“God, Greta,” Carson breathes. “God–” I love you. Don’t stop.

“You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful,” Greta murmurs, and in moments, she’s slick down her wrist because of the praise. “Are you close, baby?” 

Carson nods, hands flying to Greta’s shoulders when her palm presses against her clit, circles slow, slow, slow, and then she’s coming, warm and wet, her knees giving out. Greta catches her against the wall, laughing, and Carson blushes all the way to the tips of her ears, trying to remember how to breathe.

And Greta just holds her there, tucking her face into Carson’s neck, breathing her in. She smells sweet, like moments after rain, like acceptance, like always. 

“God, we’re good at that,” Carson finally says, kissing the side of Greta’s head. “You’re good at that.” 

“I love you,” Greta answers because it’s all she can think to say. It’s all she wants to say. They are the easiest words she’s ever spoken, the easiest words she will ever speak. 

Sighing happily, Carson presses her nose into soft red hair, closing her eyes for another brief moment. “I love you too.” 

***

Sliding down the wall, they end up in a heap on the floor, tangled up in each other with most of their clothing shed and scattered around them. 

It’s their home, and they can do what they want. Which is how they find themselves eating cold pizza right out of the box on the carpet. 

“This is glorious,” Carson says, staring down her third piece, her navy blouse open with a white ribbed tank top underneath that has Greta staring just a little bit too hard. 

“Still your favorite food?” Greta teases, leaning against the wall, just watching her. 

“By far,” Carson tells her with a smile, and Greta’s heart swells to twice its normal size. 

Her own slice in hand, she thinks about all of the years she’s spent letting things go, letting people go. She thinks about all of the love she’s had to spare, about how all of it is Carson’s now. She thinks about the Dashwoods again, about happy endings and how hard they are to find. About how this might be hers. 

“You make me happy,” Greta says softly while Carson is mid-bite. 

Swallowing quickly with a furious blush, Carson’s eyes light up. “You make me happy too.” 

And for the rest of the night, they sit there. Sometimes they speak, and sometimes it’s quiet, but neither of them sleep. Instead, they spend this first night of something new together, dazed and deliriously in love. In a way, it’s just like any other night. In a way, they’ve always been a little bit each other’s. It’s possible that in their case, love preceded knowledge. 

And as the sun peeks in through the window early that next morning, after hours of holding hands and trading final secrets that they’ve never told anybody else, Greta dozes off against Carson’s shoulder right there in the front entryway of their home. 

She dreams of the weeks to come, of picking up Carson from the bookshop on the way home, of autumn trees and walks through Central Park. She dreams of winter, warming herself by the fire, being warmed by Carson’s touch. She dreams of spring. Of baseball season. Next April. And the April after that. And the April after that. There’s a crack of a homerun for each new year. She dreams of the war’s end, of all the people who will come home, of a world made new. She dreams of loud love, soft sex, quiet contentment. She dreams, and she holds fast to each one, tucks them all away in the back of her mind to be written down later. 

Because these are dreams that she doesn’t want to forget. 

Carson thumbs through the last pages of Sense and Sensibility while Greta sleeps, pencil and little slips of paper in hand, scribbling a thought down whenever she feels compelled. 

By ten o’clock, the world has woken, and reluctantly, they wake with it. Greta has a work dinner around seven, but it feels a million years away as they stumble into the kitchen, still hand in hand, giggling. 

Carson drops her book and her notes down on the counter roughly as she goes to make them coffee, and the cards go everywhere, sliding across the linoleum, onto the tile. And they laugh and they laugh and they laugh as they bend down to pick them up, their backs aching from their night spent on the floor. 

Greta retrieves one that flew across the room near the stove, softening when she sees a little quotation written out in Carson’s loopy handwriting – handwriting that is so much better than her own: 

Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience – or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.

And there it is – that is the word for what she and Carson have together – something deeper than steadiness or constancy, kindness or comfort. 

Together, what they really have is hope.