Any Other Love

by Elizabeth Barone

  “You know, you can always call her.” Rowan didn’t have to say who. Charlotte knew.

  “And say what? ‘I made a huge mistake. I’d like to come home.’” She snorted. “I messed up, Ro. Big time.”

  Rowan nodded in response. “Still.”

  Char drew her feet up onto the couch and propped her phone between her knees, leaving her hands free. She was dying to ask about Amarie, but didn’t want to come off as nosy. Rowan was her best friend, though. It was basically her job to fill Char in on her ex. All she had to do was ask.

  “What am I doing, Ro? I think Della’s going to sell Gravity. Her painting career is picking up. She’s there less and less. Unless she’s angling for me to take it over completely . . .” She tapped her chin. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

  Rowan made a sympathetic face, her lips tugging to the side. She dipped a finger into the bowl and tasted the frosting she was making. “I think sometimes we have to try things to see if they’re really for us.” Her face puckered. “Like this lemon frosting. It’s clearly not my forte—kind of like those southwestern egg rolls I tried to make.”

  “I can’t exactly wind back the clock, though,” Char said. “I mean, it’s been a month. She’s probably already met someone, or moved out, or something.”

  “Actually,” Rowan said, pushing the bowl aside and leaning on the counter, “she’s still in the apartment.” Her eyebrows furrowed.

  “How?” Char blurted.

  Rowan sighed. “Matt moved back into his old bedroom. It’s not ideal, but he didn’t want her to have to move out. Sometimes I think those two are closer than you and I are. Char . . . I love you but I don’t know what happened to us. We don’t talk as much as we used to, and ever since that night you came over, I’ve just felt this chasm between us. I’m kind of hurt, to be honest.”

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Char nodded. “You’re right. If we’re being honest here, I was hurt, too. It seemed like you weren’t being supportive, but I should’ve said so. I’ve been a shitty friend.”

  “Ya think?” Rowan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, then shrugged. “I’m sorry if I didn’t seem supportive. I was just worried. Maybe I went about it wrong. I’m glad we’re okay now, though. You had to do a self-discovery thing, or whatever.”

  “I did,” she agreed.

  “Are you done now?”

  She tapped her chin. “I don’t know. I mean . . . I like it here. I do. Maybe it’s for the best, if Amarie’s okay.”

  Rowan sighed dramatically. “For someone so smart and so damned good at whipping up tasty food, you are spectacularly dense.”

  “I’m just saying,” Char said. “Isn’t it kind of rude for me to just waltz in and say I changed my mind?”

  “You can always change your mind. Nothing is set in stone. I mean, look at Matt and me. We broke up, but we got back together. Relationships take work, Char. They’re like careers. The more you put into the, the more successful you are.”

  Char’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. “Hold on.”

  “Staying over this cutie’s tonight,” Della wrote. “See you at Gravity in the a.m.!”

  “Della’s not coming home tonight,” she reported to Rowan.

  “How does it feel?”

  “What do you mean?” Char stood and ambled over to the refrigerator.

  “How many times did you leave Amarie hanging?”

  She peered inside the fridge, eyeing its empty contents. “So which is it? I should get her back or I suck?”

  “Both,” Rowan said. “Just make sure that this time you’re sure about what it is you want.”

  “Right now I want pizza.” She closed the door. “Which I have to either go out for or order in. It’s no fun stuffing your face alone, though.”

  “I’d say drive down and get pizza with me,” Rowan said, “but you sold your car.” She shook her head disapprovingly.

  “That too. I can’t just come back with no car and no job.” She returned to the couch.

  “If you want to come back badly enough,” Rowan said, “you’ll figure it out. I have to go, though. I should’ve gone home hours ago, but this damned frosting’s been taunting me all day.”

  With promises to keep in better touch, Char hung up with her. Then she turned to Della’s empty studio, considering her options.

  ∞∞∞

  Char thumbed through a magazine, only half paying attention to its contents. Most of her focus was on the decision she needed to make. It should be easy. She shouldn’t have to think about whether she wanted to try to get back together with Amarie.

  Maybe Amarie didn’t want her back, though.

  After just up and leaving, she didn’t deserve Amarie’s forgiveness. She didn’t even deserve Rowan’s friendship. Even her parents had been baffled by her sudden move, despite her longtime dream of owning a restaurant. She would chalk it up to a quarter-life crisis, but she wasn’t even twenty-five yet.

  What she’d done had been plain reckless, a move made out of fear.

  Fear of missing out.

  Fear of falling in love.

  For all her talk, she was terrified of making a commitment. She didn’t want to stay in Connecticut for the rest of her life, wondering about the what ifs. When Della had offered her NYC on a silver platter, she’d jumped on it.

  Especially because then she wouldn’t have to examine her feelings for Amarie. She loved her. All of the restaurants and gay bars in NYC couldn’t replace her girl. It’d taken her way too long to realize that. It might be too late to fix the mistake she knew she’d made.

  The door to Gravity Smoothie Bar opened and two of her favorite customers traipsed inside. The streets were slick with rain and both women wore windbreakers with hoods.

  “Hey Taylore, Jo,” she greeted them. Straightening, she pushed the trashy magazine to the side. “The usual?”

  “Yes. Please,” Taylore added. “And make it a large? It’s chilly out there.” She took off her jacket and hung it on a hook. Despite her tall, muscular frame, she shivered.

  Her lifelong best friend Jo hung her jacket as well. “Biking everywhere is all fun and games until it rains.”

  “I bet,” she remarked as she started their pumpkin spice lattes. If nothing else, her move to the city had made her an accomplished barista.

  “Are you coming to Niku’s tonight?” Taylore asked, taking a seat on a stool in front of the counter.

  Char shrugged. Niku’s was her favorite LGBTQIA+ bar in SoHo, but she wasn’t sure she was up to it.

  “Oh, come on,” Jo begged. “You have to. They’re doing karaoke tonight.”

  “They’re always doing karaoke,” she said.

  “Not true.” Taylore flipped her long hair over a shoulder. “Sometimes they do drag shows.”

  “Lesbians get $5 wristbands tonight,” Jo added.

  Charlotte plunked down their drinks. “I’m closing tonight.”

  Both women pouted.

  “Again?” Taylore cupped her drink between two hands. “Where the hell’s Della been?”

  “She’s been doing art shows,” she said, purposely vague. She didn’t want to admit that, for the first time since she’d started at Gravity, she had no idea where Della was. The other woman hadn’t seemed flaky when they’d first met, but she disappeared all the time lately.

  “Niku said he misses you,” Jo said.

  “Tell Della you’re closing early so you can come out with us.” Taylore gave Char an intentionally cheesy smile, and put her hands under her chin in an angelic pose. “Or don’t tell her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can!” Jo reached across the counter and patted her hand. “It’s too bad you’re not looking for a girlfriend. Honest people are so rare these days.”

  “Thanks,” Char said, her attention drifting to the door. A woman with deep olive skin and a head of dark curls stood in the doorway, shaking water out of her umbrella into the street. At first glan
ce, she looked just like Amarie. As she turned, though, Char saw their features were only similar. The woman had her septum pierced and was a few inches shorter than Amarie. Her shoulders slumped.

  Both Taylore and Jo glanced at the newcomer.

  Jo squeezed her hand. “We’ll see you later, honey.”

  They took their lattes and tucked themselves into a booth closer to the door, giving the newcomer room at the tiny counter.

  Heart writhing in her chest, Char greeted her customer and set about making her drink. Up close, the woman looked nothing like Amarie. It’d only been wishful thinking. After sliding the to-go cup over to the woman and taking her payment, Char wiped down the counter, thinking.

  She hadn’t so much as texted Amarie since their breakup. Her heart twisted again. Amarie hadn’t reached out either, though—Char wasn’t the only one doling out the silent treatment. She took her phone out of her apron. If she texted Amarie, there were a thousand things she needed to say. Though the phone was slim, it suddenly rested heavy against her hands. She didn’t know where to begin.

  Even if she did reach out, there was no guarantee that Amarie would answer. Maybe her girl had even changed her phone number.

  Her heart stuttered, chest aching. She needed to stop referring to Amarie as her girl, but old habits died hard. Apparently. Her stubborn brain just couldn’t accept that it was over—even though she’d been the one to break things off.

  She’d been too stubborn to see the good thing that she’d had, and her rash actions came with a hefty price tag.

  Still, it couldn’t hurt to try. She had to. If nothing else, knowing things were well and truly over would allow her to move on. She could throw herself completely into her new life.

  Even if that new life entailed shadowing a mentor with a tendency to disappear.

  Taking a deep breath, she started a new message—too chicken to open one of their old texts and accidentally see one of their inside jokes or selfies. “Hey . . . Long time no talk. How are things?” she typed with one thumb.

  She eyed the message. It was way too casual. She held her finger down, selected all of the text, and deleted it. Then she tried again.

  “Hello there. Just wanted to check in. How are you?”

  No. That sounded too easygoing. She backspaced until the bubble was empty again.

  “I just saw someone who could be your twin—your shorter, septum-pierced twin.” She added a winking emoji. “Anyway, I hope everything is good with you.” She hit send before she could over-think her third draft.

  Amarie’s response came almost right away: “UNSUBSCRIBE.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Though she definitely deserved the brush-off, it still stung. Blinking away tears, she tucked her phone back into her pocket.

  She’d gotten her answer.

  It was time to move on.

  Chapter 21

  Amarie washed her morning medications down with a gulp of water. Glancing down at the tray that held her cat’s food and water dishes, she checked their levels for the dozenth time that morning. She hated to leave Pops alone soon after bringing him home, but she needed to get to her rheumatologist appointment. He should be okay for the day, she reassured herself. After all, Pops was happily napping—his favorite activity. All of the adoption sites had recommended she choose an elderly cat, and she was glad she had. Not only did Pops share her energy levels, but she was happy knowing that she’d given a home to an animal that otherwise would’ve been overlooked.

  Plus, he was an excellent cuddle bug.

  She glanced at the couch where the black cat was currently napping, and shook her head at herself. She was becoming a helicopter cat mom.

  If she wanted to be honest with herself, she was nervous about driving to New York on her own. She hadn’t seen Dr. Warren since before she and Charlotte broke up, and she couldn’t put off her follow-up appointment any longer.

  At the thought of her ex-girlfriend, she felt a pang in her chest. Though her joint pain had waned over the months thanks to Plaquenil and Prednisone, her heart was still broken and memories of Char still stung. Charlotte, she corrected herself.

  Her ex didn’t deserve to be referred to by any of her nicknames.

  Charlotte had even had the audacity to text her, as if nothing had happened between them. Amarie hadn’t been able to help herself, and had replied with a snarky “UNSUBSCRIBE,” as if the incoming text had been spam. She wasn’t exactly proud of herself for that one, but it’d done the trick.

  Charlotte hadn’t texted her since.

  “Congratulations,” she muttered to herself as she grabbed her keys and a water bottle. “You’re more effective than the block button.”

  She locked the door to the apartment behind her and strode out into the crisp fall day. A light breeze whispered around the buildings. She hadn’t gotten around to hanging new pride flags, and she’d decided not to for the time being. Though she doubted Matt would mind, the idea of flags only reminded her of Charlotte.

  Then again, everything did.

  Still, between Pops and Matt, she was a lot less lonely. Even when Matt spent the night at Rowan’s—which was more often than not—Amarie never came home to an empty house. She owed Matt big time for stepping in and helping her keep the apartment. Sooner or later, though, she was going to have to afford it on her own. She couldn’t expect Matt to stay with her forever, and she had a feeling that Dr. Warren would be clearing her to return to work soon.

  She slid into the Hyundai and tried to still her thoughts. She had enough to worry about for the moment. The drive into the city required all of her concentration—and a small dose of Ativan for her anxiety. She plugged the address into her phone and let the GPS guide her while the medication stilled her mind.

  The highway was smooth sailing until she hit I-84 W in Connecticut. She tipped her head back against her seat with a sigh. She knew better. 84 was always a mess, especially with all the damned construction on the eastbound side.

  “Accident ahead,” the crisp voiceover from the app informed her. “Your estimated time of arrival is 11:09 a.m.”

  She should have given herself more time. If the app was correct—it usually was—she was going to be about ten minutes late. She might even miss the appointment entirely. Her shoulders stiffened.

  So much for the Ativan helping.

  Traffic inched forward. She switched on SZA’s Z album. Instead of calming her the way it usually did, though, she only grew more and more anxious with the slow and heavy bass and horns. She shut it off, replacing it with a children’s audiobook of Beatrix Potter stories that she often listened to on bad pain nights.

  Amarie stared through her windshield, hoping that the drivers in the cars on either side of her couldn’t hear what she was listening to. It was kind of embarrassing, the different things she had to do to keep herself calm. She probably should’ve grown out of Beatrix Potter ages ago, but as a child, she’d always felt safe when Paloma read Peter Rabbit and Tom Kitten stories to her.

  The effect was almost instant. Even though traffic remained stop and go for several long miles, the soothing voices and nostalgic tales from her childhood eased the tension in her shoulders and quieted her panicked mind. By the time she left Danbury behind and crossed the New York state line, Amarie’s mind was as serene as the voices of the various narrators.

  She also felt sleepy.

  She got off I-684 S long enough to stop at a Starbucks for a venti pumpkin spice latte, then hopped right back on. The GPS told her that her estimated time of arrival was 11:06 a.m.—a whole three minutes sooner than its original anticipated time. At least she wouldn’t be super late. In Connecticut, employees had a seven-minute margin. She wished doctors would make a similar allowance for patients—especially doctors who saw patients with chronic illnesses. Padding appointments with extra time should be a given, considering the many things that could go wrong with spoonies.

  Amarie turned the words over in her mind, trying to condense them to 140 cha
racters. She definitely needed to tweet that later.

  She arrived at the clinic a few minutes late, jumping out of the Hyundai almost as soon as she put it into park. Thankfully her body was moving much faster. She’d have to remember to tell Dr. Warren.

  If she was able to keep her appointment.

  Forgoing the elevator, she hustled up the stairs. When she got to the entrance door to the suite, she took a deep breath. Then she pushed it open.

  “Hi Amarie,” the same receptionist from her first appointment called. “Everything still the same, sweetheart?”

  “Yes,” she said, stopping in front of the window.

  “You’re all set. Have a seat. We’ll be with you shortly.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she moved toward the seating at the center of the waiting room. Someone else could have the closer seats.

  The door opened and Dr. Warren’s assistant poked her head out. “Amarie?”

  “Yes.” She followed Lisa to an exam room, still not entirely convinced they weren’t going to tell her that she was too late. As she settled onto the paper-covered exam table, though, the assistant took her blood pressure and pulse.

  “You’re still taking hydroxychloroquine? Prednisone? Tramadol?”

  Amarie nodded.

  “Good. Dr. Warren will be with you in a few minutes.” Lisa left the exam room, closing the door behind her.

  Taking out her phone, Amarie took a selfie and posted it to Instagram. “Waiting to see my rheumatologist. #spoonie #chroniclife #UCTD,” she captioned it. She scrolled through her feed, absentmindedly double-tapping photos as she scrolled down. A spoonie with Rheumatoid Arthritis was starting her methotrexate injections. Another spoonie with Lupus was in the hospital with a kidney infection. Amarie left them comments wishing them well.

  Then she saw a familiar face in her feed.

  “#TGIF,” read Charlotte’s caption. “Oh wait. I don’t get weekends off.” A laugh-crying emoji punctuated the caption. Her selfie was a melodramatic pout, magenta hair tied back from her face with her signature black bandana. She looked like a cute pinup girl, especially with her black chef’s jacket open and her tank top full of perfect cleavage.