Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  “That, I know. Hey, Em.” Reyna offered a firm handshake. “In addition to coaching track at the high school, I teach AP science. Dr. Jaramillo speaks to my genetics students once a year.” Reyna nodded to her belly. “I guess you’re expecting a little clone of your own, huh?”

  Emie beamed, her fists bracing her lower back. “And not a moment too soon.”

  “I hear you.” She tugged the wallet from her back pocket and opened it to expose an accordion of photos featuring smiling brown children. “We’ve got seven. My wife carried four, I carried three. Round about the seventh month of each pregnancy, one or both of us fears for our lives.”

  “Seven!” Emie looked vaguely ill. “Reyna, you are speaking to a very pregnant woman, need I remind you. You should fear for your life right this minute.”

  Reyna feigned a terrified duck when Emie raised her fists, then provided names as Iris pawed through the proud mama snapshots.

  Weirder by the minute.

  Paloma cleared her throat. “A mama of seven is the perfect candidate for coffee.” She inclined her head toward the kitchen. “Would you care to join us for a cup? Deanne should be home shortly.”

  “Ah, no. Thanks, but I’m due back at the school soon. It’s my planning period.” She stretched her neck from side to side, just as she’d always done before a meet. Mottled redness stung her cheeks. “I actually came to talk to you.”

  “Me?” Paloma tilted her face to the side. “What’s up?”

  Reyna cleared her throat, shooting an almost apologetic glance over her shoulder toward Emie and Iris. “Yeah, uh. Well, I was just, uh, wondering…” She chuckled, then shrugged, the grin tooling deep lines into her feminine-handsome, leathery cheeks. “Deanne wanted me to ask you if you might be interested in going to homecoming with her.”

  Ahhhh…huh?

  The entire room and everything in it froze.

  No one moved.

  No one spoke.

  No one drew a single breath.

  Paloma felt like Samantha on Bewitched just after she did that nose thing, but Paloma knew, in her case, the magic couldn’t last. She had to speak, to respond somehow.

  Let’s review: Deanne sent a pal to ask her out?

  Finally, Paloma managed a half-choke, half-laugh, splaying a hand she couldn’t feel on a chest that would surely explode if it expanded another millimeter. “You—you’re kidding, right?”

  Reyna clapped the baseball cap back on her head, settling it just so. “Nope. The dance is in two weeks, after the game, and I’m a freaking idiot who’s always up for a dare, so this is your invite. Just like old times, eh?”

  Paloma held up a finger, blinking rapidly and moving her mouth like a fish. “Let me get this straight. Homecoming.”

  “Yup.”

  “In two weeks.”

  “Bingo.”

  “And my partner of fourteen years enlisted your help in asking me out?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For a date?”

  “Exactly.”

  “To a high school homecoming?”

  “That’s about the gist of it.” Reyna grinned. “Some things don’t change.”

  “Oh, Pea.” Iris jostled Paloma’s shoulders. “It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Paloma darted a dazed glance at Emie, the more sensible friend by a mile. But no. Em had her hands clasped at her chest and tears shining in her eyes. Paloma wanted to write it off to pregnancy hormones, but…she couldn’t.

  “So?” Reyna smoothed her palms together slowly. “Can I tell Deanne yes, or do you already have another date?”

  Paloma’s breath left her in a whoosh, and she sagged.

  This was absurd.

  Unheard of.

  This was…this was…one of the sweetest things Deanne Vargas had ever done. Paloma’s heart melted. “Of course I don’t have another date, Reyna What’s-her-face Falcon. I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake.”

  “So, that’s a yes?”

  Paloma threaded her fingers into her hair and stared. This was so unexpected, she didn’t have the proper words. After a moment, she made some ineffective nodlike motions with her head. “Hell, why not?” She laughed, feeling light and silly. “Tell Deanne I’d love to be her date.”

  Iris and Emie cheered.

  Even Reyna looked triumphant. “Great.” She turned to leave, then snapped her fingers and spun back. “Almost forgot. Deanne will pick you up at seven for dinner.”

  “Pick me up?” She frowned. “But Deanne lives here.”

  “Not that night. She wants it to be perfect.”

  Excitement tingled Paloma’s flesh. “O-okay.”

  Reyna touched the bill of her cap and nodded to Iris and Emie before glancing back at Paloma. “One other thing. Deanne suggested you wear something red.” Reyna looked ever so slightly lost. “I have no idea what this means, so don’t hold me accountable if I’ve gotten it totally wrong. But apparently, red…is the new black?”

  Chapter Ten

  From Paloma Vargas’s journal, homecoming night:

  I haven’t felt this excited about seeing Deanne in a long time. She dropped the boys at Emie and Gia’s house yesterday to spend the weekend and packed a bag for herself. To stay with Ruben, I assume. In any case, she hasn’t been around. This morning, however, I awoke to find a gift certificate for a spa day at a local salon tucked beneath a hot cappuccino. Sneaky.

  Every time I think about it, my head swirls. It’s truly like falling in love all over again.

  So, now I’ve been massaged, salted, mud-packed, manicured, pedicured, waxed, and coiffed, and I feel like a queen awaiting the arrival of her royal court. Except in the most rudimentary way, Deanne and I haven’t discussed tonight too much. It’s been almost as if neither of us wanted to break the spell. And—holy hell—what a spell it is. The touch of mystery has only added to my anticipation. That and the fact that my new red dress fits like a dream and makes me feel utterly sexy. God bless stress for its slimming side effects. (Yoga and walking helped, too.)

  I feel like we’re on a threshold of a new beginning. Deanne and I have weathered the storm. We still have work to do, but I feel like we can. Finally. I’m ready to put the past behind us and move on with our relationship.

  Me <————hopeful. And in love.

  I can’t wait for her to arrive and take me to…I just have to laugh…homecoming. But only because that’s one step closer to when she can actually take me home…

  The doorbell rang, and Paloma’s pulse kicked into overdrive. Oh, God. Moment of truth. Smoothing her moist palms against the ruby-red crushed silk covering her curves, she headed to the door and pulled it open.

  Deanne.

  In a coal black, utterly feminine suit over a light gray silk shirt, she looked edible, and Paloma? Starving. The deep open neck of Deanne’s shirt offered an inviting peek at her cleavage—a good place to start the feast. A perfect red rosebud adorned her lapel, and the room felt suddenly more alive because she’d arrived.

  Deanne’s expression flashed with surprise and awe, then deepened into something feral as her gaze caressed Paloma’s body like a Porsche hugging the open road. “Lord almighty, Paloma. If you’ve ever looked hotter, I can’t remember.”

  Paloma’s tummy flopped, and she actually had the urge to laugh. Instead, she backed up and spun slowly, treating Deanne to a full view of the dress she’d found only after trying about fifty others. All red. Did Dee have any idea how hard it was to find fifty goddamn red dresses in one city? “You like?”

  “I love. Can I come in?”

  She swept her arm aside. “It’s your house.”

  “Yeah?” Deanne’s expression was wistful as she reached out and trailed one finger just inside the edge of Paloma’s neckline.

  Paloma bit her lip, suddenly scared.

  As though sensing her fear, Deanne entered the house, but stood away. A mischievous smile spread across her face, and Paloma noticed she had one hand behind
her back.

  Lighter tone.

  Good choice.

  She cleared her throat and lifted her chin toward the hand she couldn’t see. “Whatcha got back there?”

  “Something for you.” Deanne rocked from heel to toe playfully.

  “Hmm. A corsage?”

  Dee frowned. “Damn, I knew I forgot something.”

  “That’s okay.” She tossed her trimmed and styled hair. “I wouldn’t want to pin it on this dress anyway.”

  “Mmmmm, yes. That dress,” Deanne drawled, her gaze as disreputable as her tone.

  Paloma crossed her arms and watched Deanne look hungrily at her cleavage. Sometimes being a woman wanted by a woman felt more powerful than sorcery. “If not a corsage, then…wine?”

  “Nope.” Deanne’s grin was wolfish and enticingly uncouth. “You think you’d be safe around me with wine on the menu? In that”—she swallowed tightly—“dress?”

  Not in it for long. Paloma’s chin lifted primly, but she bit her bottom lip to think for a moment. “Is it candy?”

  “Silly to give candy to a woman as sweet as you.” Deanne shook her head. “Three strikes. You’re out.”

  Laughing, Paloma reached out. “Okay, sister. Give it up.”

  And suddenly, she held a plush white teddy bear wearing a miniature letter jacket. “Oh, Deanne! How absolutely cute…and silly.”

  Dee looked pleased with herself. “I would’ve worn mine, but it was too tight through the shoulders.”

  Paloma clutched the bear with both hands, grinning down into his black button eyes. “This looks exactly like the bear I wanted—”

  “In eleventh grade, for Valentine’s Day.”

  Her head shot up and her brows dipped. “How’d you remember?” Wait a minute. Deanne had been remembering a whole lot about high school lately. Paloma began to ponder this. “Tell me how you remembered.”

  Deanne feigned indignation, deftly sidestepping a straight answer. “Are you saying I have a poor memory?”

  “You really wanna go there, D?” Her expression epitomized drollness.

  Again, Deanne turned serious and almost predatory, but in a sensual, caring way. She reached out and cupped Paloma’s waist, pulling their bodies together. Deanne’s gaze traced the lines of her face, her chest, her mouth. “Nope. That’s not where I want to go. Actually, I don’t want to go anywhere. What I want to do is come home. Really come home.”

  Paloma’s breath caught, and she knew nothing beyond the aching throb that had begun at her feminine core and the blinding need to feel Deanne’s mouth on hers. This, this was how things felt between Deanne Vargas and Paloma Perea. This fire was what had burned them to trembling ashes the first six years of their marriage, what she’d missed so desperately since, what she wanted more than oxygen for her next breath. “I want that, too.”

  “You see this look on my face, Punkybean?” Deanne whispered, low and sexy. Rough. “This expression that says I want to be inside you? Now. Here. You see that?”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “That’s what your daddy saw that made him split us up that summer.” Deanne bent forward and nipped Paloma’s ear, pulling at her black pearl earring. Hot against her cheek, Deanne rumbled, “I wanted Daddy’s baby girl. Wanted to see how fast I could get past her innocence and make her mine. Forever.”

  Paloma clutched Deanne’s sleeve, leaning her head back to expose the rapid pulse in her throat to Dee’s famished, urgent kisses. “D…”

  A low, animal sound came from Deanne’s throat as she pulled aside the neckline of Paloma’s dress and sucked on her exposed shoulder, warm and hot and wet.

  Paloma’s body pressed into Deanne’s, and the teddy bear fell to the floor. Dee’s confident hands smoothed over her back to her buttocks, cupping, claiming. “Keep this up and we’ll never make it to the dance,” Paloma murmured.

  “Oh”—Deanne licked her collarbone—“we’re going to make it to the dance.” She hovered over Paloma, kissed the tops of her breasts exposed by the dress’s plunging neckline “I’m just giving you something to think about”—her tongue traced Paloma’s lips—“while we’re stuck in that darkened gymnasium.”

  Deanne took her in a breath-stopping kiss, backing her slowly until she was pressed against the wall, but pulled away at the sound of her throaty laugh. “You laughed at me the first time I kissed you, too. What now?”

  Paloma shook her head. “You are an evil, horrid tease. That’s all.”

  “Wrong. I’m not teasing at all, baby girl.” As if to prove it, Deanne thrust against her. Once, then again. “If you want the truth, we’re only going to the dance so I can bring you home from it.”

  “Just like high school,” Paloma groused lightly.

  “Just like always, Punky. I want you something bad. I will never let you doubt that again.”

  Feeling weak and wet and shaky, Paloma pushed Deanne away. She might think they were headed to the dance, but if she kept talking against Paloma’s skin in that stonewashed velvet tone, the only dancing they’d be doing was between the sheets.

  Not that Paloma was complaining.

  “Well, then, let me go fix my ruined lipstick, and we can leave.”

  She swiveled on her unfamiliar black stilettos and sauntered toward the hall, making sure Deanne caught every slow-motion sway.

  “Whoooey. I need a swing like that in my backyard.”

  Paloma laughed over her shoulder. “You used to say that to me in high school!”

  Deanne looked smug, and not at all surprised, Paloma noticed. Had they slipped into a time machine? If so, lock the door. She’d stay right here in the flames with Deanne, sizzling away.

  The brash bathroom light slapped her with the present, illuminating her true colors. Swollen lips, drowsy eyes. She clapped her cheeks. Oh, God. She wanted her wife. Badly. Why couldn’t she have a poker face when it came to Deanne Damn Vargas? As she re-applied the crimson color, she heard Deanne swear viciously from the living room. Warning tightened her chest, and she peered around the corner, down the hall. “What’s wrong?”

  Deanne didn’t answer.

  Paloma shrugged. Her imagination.

  She blotted her lipstick on a tissue, fluffed her hair, and headed down the hall. “What are you swearing about?” Her eyes dropped to Deanne’s hands…hands holding her work cell phone. She felt her world start to shred, her defenses drop into place. Warning screeched in her ears. Don’t say it! “Deanne. What is it?”

  Troubled brown eyes raised. “I got fucking mandatory paged.”

  Paloma’s chest began to tremble. She crossed her arms, already feeling this magical moment, this magical woman, slipping away. “Don’t call back.”

  Deanne flipped one hand over. “It’s the emergency page, P. Mandatory. Not calling back is a firing offense. I should—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips in a thin line. “Damnit. Why this now?”

  All Paloma could see, all she could feel was her precious dream crashing down around her. The pain ripped through her, worse this time. She knew she wouldn’t survive it. “Are you going to call?”

  Deanne remained silent, head hung, the muscle in her temple ticking.

  “Deanne?”

  Their eyes locked, gazes filled with pleading and pain. Desperation. Indecision.

  Self-preservation flared, and Paloma threw her arms up. “Call work. Just go ahead. I never have been able to stop you.”

  “Baby, I don’t have a choice.”

  Paloma stormed down the hall away from Deanne and slammed into their bedroom. Her hands shook with adrenaline and disappointment. She kicked out of her heels and paced the dark room from end to end, raging at the unfairness of it all. Yanking off her earrings, she tossed them on the dresser, gulping back a sob.

  No. No crying.

  She leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes. She was so stupid. So stupid. She should’ve seen this coming a mile off. Nothing had changed, nothing ever wou—

  “Nora, hi.
It’s Deanne,” Paloma heard her say. She stilled; her ears perked. “Listen…I got the page, but I can’t come in. Whatever it is will have to—”

  Deanne went dead silent, and Paloma couldn’t help but crack the door and listen. Had she really told her supervisor she couldn’t respond to a mandatory page?

  “Jesus Christ, no. How the hell did that happen? Where?”

  Deanne’s voice had gone hoarse and shaky. Acid lurched in Paloma’s gut. She knew that tone. As a cop’s spouse, she feared that tone. She opened the door and stood in the hallway, staring down at Deanne whose back was to her. Her shoulders slumped with defeat.

  “Oh, God. Not O’Doyle, too. His wife is just about ready to deliver twins.” Deanne bit out a rough curse and slumped to a squat, swirling a palm over her head. “Where’d he take the bullets?”

  Paloma’s stomach plunged and stars rushed her eyes. A cop had been hurt. No, a cop had been shot. A cop she knew, who worked Deanne’s shift, who’d been to their house for barbecues and football parties.

  It could’ve been Deanne.

  As the room dimmed to a sickening black pinpoint, she grappled for the wall to steady herself.

  Deanne’s next words were strained, halting. Underlying those words, Paloma heard shame, futility, defeat. “Nora…you know what’s been going on with me. If you can…get anyone else to cover—”

  “Wait!” Paloma said.

  This was wrong. Completely wrong.

  Deanne shouldn’t have to sound like that, to sacrifice like that.

  Dee spun to face her, hope and fear and sorrow in her eyes.

  With the sudden clarity of a roundhouse kick to the chest, Paloma realized how grossly unfair she was being to Deanne. Dee had done so much changing, made so many compromises. What had Paloma done to make things better between them? Jack shit, that’s what. If she wanted Deanne to consider her feelings and needs, then she needed to reciprocate. And if Deanne had been one of the cops who’d taken the bullets, Paloma would damn well want every single one of her coworkers to drop their lives and rush to her aid. No questions asked. Shame threatened to choke her as she drooped under the realization and remorse about her selfishness.