Chelsea cleared her throat. “I’m fine with beer. Whatever you guys are havin’.”
“Blue Moon?” Daisy offered.
Aiden nodded. “That or Stella.”
“Either one.” Daisy noticed Chelsea’s fingers dipping through her own.
Fae, being the second-most-impatient person at the table, whined about playing games. Aiden, being entirely the most impatient person at the table, whined with her until Karman agreed to let Fae go play games with him.
It was adorable, really. Almost as adorable as Shannon hoisting Fae onto his shoulder and Karman taking the chance to press herself against Marcus and kiss his cheek as they stood by the bar. But none of it was quite as shocking or adorable as when Chelsea very quietly asked, “Do you like Mario Kart?”
Daisy stifled a laugh, but it came out through her nose, ugly and snorted. “Do I? Yes, of course I like Mario Kart. Do you?”
“I’m not some prissy little girl, you know,” Chelsea said, her voice dancing the edge between annoyed and playful. “I happen to like video games just as much as anyone else. And just because my last name’s Cavanaugh doesn’t mean I don’t like havin’ a good time.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to dampen your pristine certificate of authenticity.” Daisy rolled her eyes and scooted out of the booth after Chelsea. “Speaking of which,” the words got stuck on her tongue, trying desperately to crawl back down her throat. She choked them out. “Are you going back to Georgia?”
Chelsea whipped around to walk backward while she looked at Daisy. Her eyes narrowed; her lips drew tight. She was upset, or she was offended, but either way she wasn’t happy with the question. Maybe Daisy had blindsided her. Maybe that was what this expression was—frustration curled around budding anger.
“Well, I have a job here,” Chelsea snapped. She whisked around and walked in front of Daisy to the racing games. “And you’re here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Daisy fished through her small purse until she found her player’s card. “We haven’t talked about your parents much. You say you miss it. You’re living out of a hotel right now, and I just—”
“Do you want me to go?” Chelsea asked, wavering slightly as she cast a glance over her shoulder.
Daisy caught the significant twitch of her brow creasing above her eyes. She grabbed for Chelsea’s wrist, missed, grabbed again and caught her, spun Chelsea to face her. “No,” Daisy hissed, “obviously I don’t want you to go, but I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t like bein’ like them,” Chelsea admitted. She squared her shoulders and pulled her wrist from Daisy’s grasp. “I never had a reason to leave so I stayed. I thought that’s all there was—Shannon, Milford, the family practice, and my horse. Everything else was a vacation or too far away to get to.”
Daisy fiddled with the orange player’s card.
“What have I done to make you think I want to go back?” Chelsea searched her face, gaze flicking from Daisy’s eyes to her mouth and back again. “What haven’t I done to make it clear I want to stay?”
“Nothing,” Daisy said through a sigh. She looked at the floor because one, she felt like an asshole, and two, Chelsea would’ve stolen the words from her if she held eye contact for too long. “You haven’t done anything wrong, I just— your parents are important, you love your horse, and I’m not… you haven’t mentioned me meeting them or anything and…”
“And?”
“I’m not used to blind faith,” Daisy admitted. “I don’t need a solid answer. I just don’t want to wake up one morning and find out you’ve left.”
“Isn’t that what you did? To Aiden, I mean. You left him here; you think it was the wrong thing to do, and now, what? You think karma would work through me to punish you for it? You think I’d just…” She fluttered her hand dismissively. “… head back home to my lovely family and leave you here?”
Well, that hurt. Daisy felt it right in the middle of her chest, as if a thread tied around each rib wrenched tighter and tighter.
“I imagined you thought more of me,” Chelsea said quietly. Around them people chatted and laughed, games rang and dazzled. “But if you must know, Daisy, no, I don’t plan on going back home. I haven’t figured out how to tell my parents that yet, but I’m workin’ on it, all right? My mother calls me three times a day, and I ignore it. My daddy,” she paused, swallowing hard, “hasn’t reached out once.”
“My family wants to meet you,” Daisy said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“Well,” Chelsea, regaining all the composure she’d lost during their argument-not-argument, brushed her hands across her jeans and straightened her back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, and I’d like that an awful lot, so.” Her gaze flittered around, landing on everything but Daisy. “Happy now?”
Daisy heaved a sigh, allowing the tightness in her chest to fade and warmth to spread evenly from her palms to the tips of her fingers. “Yeah, I am, Charm School. Maybe that’s the part I’m not used to.”
Chelsea exhaled a rough breath. Her jaw clenched, hollowing out the place beneath her chin. It reminded Daisy of Aiden in a way that no one ever had: power mingling with absurd anger stacked on top of sadness. They were so alike it hurt to acknowledge sometimes.
“Look at me.” Chelsea pinched Daisy’s chin with her thumb and two fingers, forcing her gaze rather roughly. The tug caused Daisy to flush. She felt Chelsea’s grip everywhere. “We’ve had this conversation several times. I happen to like you,” she said impatiently, “and I would appreciate it if you’d accept that for what it is.”
“I’m trying to.”
Chelsea hummed. “Try harder.”
They played four games of Mario Kart. They laughed until Daisy’s sides hurt, until Aiden showed up and demanded to play the winner, until the food appeared at the booth and Chelsea dipped a ball of fried macaroni and cheese into barbeque sauce—catapulting the table into an argument over which sauce goes with what.
They played a horror game that made Chelsea jump and yell. They played vintage-style fighting games and ate curly fries and sang happy birthday to Marcus as he blew out the candles on his red velvet cheesecake.
This was her life, Daisy realized. She watched Chelsea take a bite from their shared piece of cake and listened to Marcus gush over the new paints Karman had bought for him. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Aiden, speaking nervously with the man who ran the gallery uptown. Shannon joked with Fae about putting French fries on her cake, and Daisy’s heart was so, so swollen.
It beat and it hurt and it felt too big for her, all of this. But she was trying.
Chelsea topped off their beers with the last of the pitcher and tilted her head. There was a smidge of frosting on her lips. Daisy wanted to kiss Chelsea and lick it away, right here in front of everyone. She wanted to want Chelsea, to allow herself the pleasure of trusting her, having her. Instead, she wiped it away with her thumb.
“What’re we going to do when we get back to my room?” Chelsea asked, leaning into Daisy’s palm. She tried and succeeded at insinuating what she wanted to do with her lidded gaze and arched brows.
“I have work in the morning,” Daisy said and internally screamed, because that was the wrong answer.
Chelsea inhaled a deep breath and sighed. “Well, all right then.” She pushed the plate toward Daisy. “Have some cake, honey.”
Daisy did not want cake.
Daisy Yuen 8/27 11:14 p.m.
What do you think about when you can’t sleep?
It wasn’t the first time Daisy had asked that question.
Chelsea Cavanaugh 8/27 11:16 p.m.
You, usually.
However, it was the first time Chelsea answered with the truth.
Chelsea poured herself a glass of red wine, the cheap kind that was on the middle shelf in the
grocery store. “Cupcake,” she said, sounding out the name on the front of the bottle. She took a sip and rolled her lips together. A contented hum vibrated her throat. The wine tasted warm and sweet, notes of red velvet mingling with the standard tang of a robust cabernet, reminding her of the cake they’d eaten a few hours ago.
A knock rapped against the door of her hotel room—well, not much of a hotel room anymore—home away from home, sort of. Chelsea didn’t really know what to call it at this point. All her belongings were in this room, shy some sentimental things that were back in Georgia. The only thing she missed was going to the stables anytime she wanted, and she’d given that up in a heartbeat to come here, to the ocean right below her and Daisy down the street.
She pulled the silk tie of her white robe tight and unlocked the door. When she opened it, it wasn’t a mistaken room-service delivery or hotel staff asking if she needed more towels.
Daisy stared back at her, clutching her car keys in both hands against her chest. “I texted you to see if you were still awake. I’ve been in the parking lot.”
“Don’t you have…?” Chelsea was going to say work in the morning, but Daisy pushed inside, tossed her keys on the floor and closed the door behind her. Nimble, artist’s fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, plucking it delicately from Chelsea’s grasp. “I could pour you a glass,” she murmured, trying to ignore the pull low in her belly that always seemed to twist when Daisy did certain things—certain things with her hands, how they moved, quick, precise flicks of each finger; her gaze, when it set with purpose, intent written in every blink; her mouth, when it parted as though she was waiting to be kissed or to say something important.
Daisy took a sip, reached past Chelsea to set the glass on the dresser, and grabbed the tie on Chelsea’s robe. “I didn’t come up here for wine,” she said. Her plastic black jacket was cut short, highlighting the place where her jeans met her crop top.
A fair eyebrow arched playfully. “Heaven forbid I’m polite,” Chelsea said, trying and failing to suppress a gasp when Daisy’s cold hands pushed her robe aside and landed on her ribs.
“I’d prefer it if you weren’t,” Daisy rasped. Her lips were painted sinful, dark red, and her eyes were covered in the blackest black.
Chelsea didn’t bother saying anything else. Daisy was backing her against the side of the dresser. The wine glass almost toppled over, shaken from the collision of Chelsea’s backside against a drawer. They kissed as if they’d committed murder, as if there was a body somewhere, buried with their fingerprints all over it, and they had this night—this night alone. Daisy’s palm smoothed the underside of Chelsea’s thigh, lifting her leg until it wrapped snugly around her waist. Her breath was hot in Chelsea’s mouth; her teeth were sharp when they sank into Chelsea’s lip.
Something about it—Daisy’s lipstick streaked across her face, her waist pressing into Chelsea’s hands, which were trying to undo the button on her jeans—was dreamlike and surreal.
Chelsea wanted to say this is unexpected, but saying so might change the pace. Instead, she pawed Daisy’s jacket off her shoulders until it hit the floor. “I won’t break,” Chelsea managed, because she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, and she wanted Daisy to try to break her anyway.
The hand not holding onto Chelsea’s leg snaked around her neck. Fingers threaded through her hair until she yanked, tugging Chelsea’s head back to expose her throat. “We’ll see,” Daisy said, chewing on the words before they left her mouth.
Daisy kissed Chelsea’s mouth, her jaw, her throat, and bit down on her fluttering pulse until Chelsea couldn’t breathe. Chelsea felt the capillaries break, the blood rush to the surface of her skin, and she pushed into it.
Daisy let go of her hair. She squeezed Chelsea’s thigh and, in a flurry of movements, pushed Chelsea onto the bed. An outfit had been laid out for work. Chelsea tossed it on the floor. Daisy’s top followed, thrown somewhere close to the nightstand.
They stayed like that, Chelsea looking at Daisy, lit by the dim lamp on the right side of the dresser. Her shoulders looked jagged, her arms appeared longer. For a moment, Chelsea thought Daisy wasn’t real.
“I’m not some…” Daisy paused, struggling with her words. “… manic artist with commitment issues and fucked-up baggage, all right? I’m allowed to want you as much as I do.”
Chelsea looked at Daisy’s collarbones, her lips and sternum and the tendon that flexed in her throat. “Clearly.”
“And you’re not some dainty, pure-bred bitch with daddy issues,” Daisy said. It sounded harsh. The way she said bitch made the hair on Chelsea’s neck stand up, the four syllables that made up dad-dy is-sues flipped her stomach. “You’re my Rose Road and you’re allowed to let go of who you think you need to be when you’re with me. I’m allowed to have this. We’re allowed to have this.”
Chelsea swallowed hard. She was not in control—she didn’t want to be.
Daisy’s knees hit the edge of the bed, followed by her hands. She crawled over Chelsea, paying attention to her bare legs, dragging her mouth across one kneecap, over the lace top of her panties and the silver barbell through her belly button to Chelsea’s sternum, her breasts, and clavicles.
Chelsea watched light bounce off the ring in Daisy’s septum.
I love you. The words were right there, but Chelsea didn’t say them. She kissed Daisy hard, until their teeth clicked and lips parted. They were a mess of trying to consume and give, devour and shatter. It became Chelsea’s teeth in Daisy’s shoulder, and Chelsea not silencing herself this time because Daisy wanted to hear her and she wanted to be heard and honestly, she couldn’t help it.
“Me? God, you have no idea,” Daisy said, her breath hot and wet against Chelsea’s hipbone. Her hands gripped Chelsea’s waist, holding her down. “No fucking idea, Chelsea.”
Chelsea didn’t realize she’d said it until she heard herself mumbling it again.
You’re beautiful, so goddamn beautiful.
22
September crept in, bringing more heat waves, and more long days at the hospital. Everyone seemed to be staying busy. Daisy had on a new project at work, Aiden was considering renting a booth for Art Walk to show his photography, Shannon was working himself to death on this unsolvable case. Things were progressing, moving in the solid direction of normalcy, but Chelsea still had secrets and demons and unanswered e-mails.
Chelsea tapped the empty space next to the trackpad on her laptop. She heaved in a deep breath and let it out as a heavy puff. She took in another breath, but this time she held it, wondering how long she could go before she needed to breathe. It wasn’t very long.
She did it again, breathed deep, held it until her lungs burned, and let it go. She still couldn’t hold out long enough.
She bit her lip and clicked on the sender’s e-mail: Ana_Cavanaugh
Dear Chelsea
Chelsea rolled her eyes. Who started e-mails to their family members with dear anything? This had to be the fifth time she’d read the e-mail her mother had sent months ago, and it still hadn’t ceased to bother her.
I’m pleased to hear that you’ve found your Rose Road, however it’s unfortunate you had to travel to California to do so. Things are well in Milford. Your father hired another full-time doctor to replace you after the fourth week went by without a phone call or a text. I’m disappointed, Chelsea.
Of course you are, Chelsea thought. When are you not disappointed over something, anything?
I’ve done some research on your Rose Road, things I found through social media and the like. I think we should talk, and your father agrees. We think perhaps the Camellia Clock made a mistake, and you know mistakes can be rectified, all you need to do is ask for our help. In short, my sweetpea, I miss you. I miss our talks and dinners and outings together.
Things aren’t the same without you here.
Please call.
&
nbsp; Chelsea read the e-mail once. She read it again.
The cursor in the reply box bounced.
Not once had her mother typed I love you, and if she had, she’d deleted it from the e-mail before she hit send. It wasn’t something they said to each other often. Instead, they said things like you did well today or so and so said you looked stunning at the mixer or shoulders back, honey.
The first time Shannon uttered the words I love you to Chelsea was the first time she’d heard them spoken honestly, and coming to terms with that had hurt. It hurt worse when he left, it hurt most when she met Aiden, but now when she thought back on the memory she found a gentle fondness. She’d been fourteen, and they’d met at the gas station on the corner of Rockfield and Gully Road after a football game. He’d bought her a chocolate bar and stuttered when he’d said it, but he’d said it all the same. She remembered not knowing how to react, not knowing if saying the words back would break or extend the curse she’d endured with her mother.
She had said it back, with forged confidence and a beaming smile.
Chelsea hadn’t meant it until two years later, when she’d realized loving someone wasn’t a state of mind or a practiced act; it wasn’t a place she went to when she needed to escape or a statement to make to the rest of her classmates. It was an ongoing destination, a curvy road late at night, a familiar smell and an easy smile.
Simply put, Chelsea had loved Shannon because he’d loved her. She’d been too young to understand the difference between being in love and loving someone. How could she? Who had taught her? Was such a thing even teachable?
Chelsea shut her laptop without responding to her mother’s e-mail.
How did love change at such a rapid pace?
How did Chelsea go from loving Shannon when she was sixteen, to loving him when she was twenty, to loving him now? How did it shift inside her from love like sunbursts to love like needles in her throat to love now, like laughing too hard, or being hugged too tight, or waking up from a good dream?
When had it changed?
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