Any Other Love

by Elizabeth Barone

  Amarie sighed. She’d dyed her own hair back to boring old brown, in an effort to get a new job. So far she’d gotten zero calls for interviews. The night they’d dyed their hair was still fresh in her mind. All of those sweet kisses, nights full of snuggles in that king-sized hotel bed.

  Then there were the perfect nights they’d shared in their apartment. Looking back, those days seemed both so precious and too few. She closed Instagram, her heart aching.

  Dr. Warren knocked on the door before opening it an inch.

  “Come in, please,” Amarie said, straightening. The paper beneath her crinkled as she moved.

  “Well hello there,” Dr. Warren said with a big smile. “You look fantastic. How are you feeling?”

  Amarie couldn’t help but grin back. “My pain is down from a nine or ten to about a five,” she announced proudly.

  “Five is good. We want it more like two, though.” Dr. Warren sat on her stool and rolled up to the exam table.

  “I don’t know. I’ll take anything below a seven at this point.” She would, too. Four months into her new meds, she was pleasantly surprised by the results. She had to admit, she hadn’t expected them to work. Hoped, yes, but she’d been cautious.

  Dr. Warren nodded. “I understand,” she said, “but I think we can do better than that.” She scrolled through Amarie’s chart on her iPad. “I’ve had you on ten milligrams of Prednisone daily for four months now. Have you noticed any weight gain?”

  “Yes,” Amarie said, holding back a sigh. She had—especially in her face. “It’s okay, though. I can’t complain.”

  “You can be honest with me.” Dr. Warren smiled gently. “Still, even if you are okay with the weight gain, Prednisone isn’t good to stay on for long periods of time. I’d like to take you off of it, if you’re comfortable with that.”

  Amarie swallowed. “I’m just nervous,” she said.

  “There’s that honesty. Tell me why you’re nervous.”

  “Well, in the past, when my primary doctor put me on Prednisone, the pain went away. As soon as he took me off, though, it came right back.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t want it to come back.”

  Dr. Warren patted her hand. “I completely understand that,” she said. “It looks like Plaquenil is doing its job, though. And I wouldn’t just take you off. We’ll taper down slowly. Is that okay?”

  Amarie took a deep breath. She had to trust the rheumatologist, she told herself. Everything she’d done to get into the autoimmune clinic would be for nothing if she couldn’t have faith in Dr. Warren. “Okay,” she said in a small voice.

  “Okay.” Dr. Warren tapped her iPad. “So we’ll start by dropping you down to seven and a half milligrams every day. I’m also going to start you on a daily NSAID in the meantime. Have you ever tried Mobic?”

  Suppressing a scowl, Amarie nodded. “It didn’t do anything, to be honest.”

  “I’m thinking that was because the inflammation in your tendons was too much for it to handle alone. I think you have what’s called enthesitis,” Dr. Warren added. “It means that your tendons are inflamed where they connect to your joints.”

  “Ah,” Amarie said. “Does that change my diagnosis?”

  “Not really,” Dr. Warren said. “Autoimmune diseases . . . Well, we’re only beginning to understand them, and that’s really to say we don’t. They’re very complex diseases, especially because everyone’s system is different.”

  “So I’m still kind of undiagnosed.” Amarie sighed.

  “Well, no. It’s definitely a connective tissue disease. It’s probably not going to go away. But we can get it controlled with medication.” Dr. Warren tapped on her iPad again, then put it down on her lap. “While we taper you off the Prednisone, I want you to take fifteen milligrams of Mobic daily, just to help keep the inflammation down while the Plaquenil continues to get its groove going. Remember, I told you it can take up to six months for its full effect.”

  Amarie nodded. “I’ve also noticed I’m flaring hard when the weather gets nasty.”

  Standing, Dr. Warren put the iPad on her stool. “Unfortunately, that can happen, even with the Plaquenil. We can get you to a point where you only have to take the Mobic as needed. You might not even need your Tramadol anymore.”

  Amarie’s eyebrows lifted. She’d been relying on pain relievers for so long, she couldn’t imagine a life where she didn’t need them. “You mean, I can stop taking a laxative every day?” she joked.

  “I sure do.” Dr. Warren examined her joints and checked again for Fibromyalgia pressure points. “Still negative,” she assured Amarie. “Everything looks good. So I’ll fax those prescriptions over to your pharmacy in Connecticut, and I’ll see you again in three months.”

  Amarie walked out of the clinic feeling slightly dazed. Her disease was getting under control. She could go into remission with only tiny flares. They’d still be painful, for sure, but maybe not as debilitating. She smiled into the sunshine, wanting to skip to her car but also not wanting to tempt fate. The last thing she needed was for one of her ankles to decide to stop being an ankle.

  As she slid into the driver’s seat, her stomach growled. She pulled up the maps app on her phone and searched for restaurants in the area. Even though she had a slight love affair with McDonald’s, she’d been trying to stay away from fast food. The app informed her that a smoothie bar wasn’t far from the clinic.

  They had sandwiches, appetizers, coffee and, of course, smoothies. All of that sounded good. She selected it and headed toward the parking lot exit.

  A smoothie bar.

  Something about it seemed familiar, as if there was something she should be connecting it with, but that was probably her brain fog acting up. Sometimes she got the sense that she forgot things she should know, and other times she thought too much about things and worked herself up. She let go of the thread for the time being. Maybe some food would help her think more clearly.

  She fought city traffic and found the place relatively easy but had to circle the block to find parking. Rolling her eyes, she parallel parked around the corner. There was no other option in New York City.

  A chalkboard easel outside the café announced the soup of the day: chili. Her mouth watered. A hot bowl of chili would hit the spot. She pushed the door open and went inside, noticing the paintings displayed in the glass cases that served as windows. One was a smoky abstract that reminded her of a haunted tower on top of a cliff. Another was less abstract: a zombie painted with bright greens and pinks. A flyer taped on the door announced an upcoming Halloween art show.

  Amarie strolled past booths where several people sat eating, a small area with a display case full of stickers and other items, and stopped in front of the counter. The woman behind her counter stood at a grill, her back to Amarie. The person wore a black chef’s jacket and yoga capris, her magenta hair shouting from amidst the monochrome outfit. The banana knotted on top of her head was something no brain fog could ever erase, though.

  It was Char. She knew that the smoothie bar had sounded familiar. The city was probably full of them, though. Yet somehow, she’d ended up at her Char’s place.

  “Shit,” she blurted.

  Elation swept through her, followed by shock. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t had time to practice the conversation they needed to have.

  She waited, not wanting to interrupt. As Char turned, though, Amarie’s breath caught in her throat.

  Char’s blue eyes widened and she took a step back.

  Amarie glanced around for the woman who had essentially stolen her girl, but it seemed that Char was the only one working at the moment.

  “Hey,” Char said, her tone unusually shy.

  “Hi.” Amarie glanced over her shoulder at the entrance. It wasn’t too far away. She could just walk out, get into her car, and never look back.

  Or she could stay.

  She wanted to. She had to admit, she missed Char. Even if all they talked about was her order, she
could soak in Char’s presence. Real life was so much better than Instagram.

  Besides, she was hungry. Her stomach rumbled in reminder.

  “Can I have a bowl of chili?” she asked.

  Char blinked. “You’re . . . here to eat?”

  “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Oh.” Char grabbed a bowl and turned, ladling chili into it. “How did it go?”

  She was asking, Amarie mused, because she actually wanted to know. Not because she was trying to make polite conversation. “Good,” she said, perching on a stool. “I graduated down to seven and a half milligrams of Prednisone.”

  “Cool.” Char placed the steaming hot bowl in front of her, then slid her a set of utensils rolled in a napkin. She leaned on the counter. “So you’re feeling better?” Her eyes slid back and forth Amarie’s face, as if her answer held more weight than medical issues.

  Amarie took a bite of chili to buy herself time. “Physically, yes.” She forced herself to meet Char’s gaze. “But . . .” She set her spoon down, not sure whether she should say more. After all, Char was the one who had left her. Not the other way around.

  “That’s good,” Char said. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No,” she said.

  Char nodded and turned away, grabbing a towel.

  “Wait,” Amarie blurted, her cheeks flushing.

  Facing her again, Char lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Um.” Her mind raced. She wanted to say something. There had been something else. “Coffee? Can I have a coffee, please?”

  Charlotte’s shoulders actually slumped. “Just regular? We do lattes and stuff,” she explained, pointing to a menu board on the wall.

  “A PSL?” She winced. She sounded so shy and uncertain. As usual, Char’s mere presence was flustering her. Damn it, Char should be the one leading the conversation, not her. “And . . .” She took a deep breath. “Can we talk?”

  There. It was out. Whatever happened next was up to Char.

  Chapter 22

  Amarie was taking forever to finish that damned bowl of chili, Char mused as she wiped down the counter for the hundredth time. Her nerves were a tightly wound ball. It wasn’t even that large a bowl. She sneaked another peek over her shoulder. The curly-haired woman was sopping up the remaining chili with a piece of buttered cornbread.

  Resisting the urge to steal Amarie’s bowl away from under her hovering hand, Char made herself walk away. Her girl was the last person she’d expected to see at Gravity, especially after how she’d replied to her last text. The chance to make everything right literally sat in front of her, but she wasn’t sure there was anything she could say. She’d made a huge mistake, and she couldn’t blame her girl if Amarie didn’t forgive her.

  She strode into the back, where Della’s latest piece was drying. It was her first non-abstract painting: an acrylic of a blonde girl wrapped around a dark-haired, dark-skinned girl, representing Della and her new girlfriend. To Char, though, the girl with the brown eyes and wild curls represented Amarie. It was supposed to be a present for Della’s girlfriend, but Char secretly hoped she would put it in Gravity for sale. At least then she could have something to remind her of the good days.

  She might not need it, though. The last person she’d expected to walk into Gravity had been Amarie. She definitely hadn’t expected her to want to talk, either.

  Char skirted other paintings and went into the employees’ bathroom. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she took the bandana off, letting her hair fall free. As soon as Della came in, she told herself, she was leaving with Amarie. Whatever happened next, she could deal with. She was done filling Della’s shoes, though.

  She glanced at the time on her phone. Della was running late, as usual. It was just as well, considering Amarie was making that bowl of chili last an entire year.

  Steeling herself, she walked back into the café.

  Amarie sat, sipping her coffee and reading a book on her phone. The empty bowl sat to the side. Charlotte grabbed it before she changed her mind and asked for more. She watched Amarie for a moment, soaking in the way her brow furrowed in concentration, how her dainty finger swiped to turn the page on her phone.

  She missed her little curly-haired girl, damn it. She’d been so wrong, running off to the city thinking she could play chef. She didn’t need to go to New York to achieve her dreams.

  Besides, her picture would never be perfect without Amarie in it.

  “My partner—I mean, boss—should be here any minute,” she said.

  “Okay,” Amarie replied without looking up.

  Char leaned on the counter, folding her arms. “What are you reading?”

  “A f/f erotic romance.”

  Without seeing her reflection, Char knew her fair skin was flushing red. She cleared her throat. “Right here?”

  “And in my doctor’s waiting room,” Amarie replied, her eyes still on the book.

  Charlotte whistled. “I hope you don’t read that while your students are napping.”

  Giggling, Amarie bookmarked the page and closed the iBooks app. “I’m kidding. It’s f/f fantasy. There’s kissing and dragons, with some steamy scenes, but it’s pretty tame. Besides,” she deadpanned, looking Char straight in the eye, “how do you think babies are made?”

  “It would be amazing if women could make babies together,” Char said, holding her gaze.

  “It would.” The corners of Amarie’s mouth curled upward. “We can totally steal some hot guy’s sperm, though.”

  “We do know quite a few of them.”

  “Lucas,” Amarie said immediately. Her face remained serious only for a minute. She burst out laughing.

  Char couldn’t resist joining her. Fortunately, Gravity had reached a lull and was empty at the moment. “If not him, I’ve met quite a few sexy gay guys who wouldn’t mind donating to the cause.”

  “Would they try to get weekends, though? Those would be my only days off, except for the summer.”

  “Nah,” Char said. “They are a hundred percent not into the family scene.” She studied Amarie, her heart pounding against her ribs. “We’d get that baby all to ourselves.”

  “Good.” Amarie scrunched her nose up in a face that was supposed to be fierce but only looked viciously adorable. “Because I’ve got a mama bear streak in me.”

  “So,” Char said, hoping she wasn’t about to kill the mood, “are we seriously discussing babies or are we just avoiding the actual topic at hand?”

  “Yes,” Amarie said.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “‘Yes,’ what?”

  “Both of those things.” Amarie slid off her stool. “We should talk, though.”

  As if on cue, the door to Gravity opened and Della waltzed in. Char's shoulders loosened. She took a deep breath. Then, she stepped out from behind the counter and met Della halfway.

  “I have to leave early,” she said.

  Della quirked an eyebrow toward Amarie.

  Charlotte gave her a tiny nod. “I probably won’t be back.”

  “Understood.” Della brushed past her. “You probably shouldn’t worry about it. But Char?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Gravity was lucky to have you. I might be in my thirties, but I’m still figuring all of this business stuff out, too. If you ever need a reference or anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thank you,” Char told her.

  Della smiled as she stepped behind the counter, then made a shooing motion at both of them.

  “Shall we?” Char asked Amarie.

  In response, Amarie shouldered her bag and grabbed her keys from the counter.

  Charlotte held the door for Amarie on their way out, then followed her into the crisp afternoon. For several beats she merely followed Amarie, both of them walking in a comfortable but considerable silence, each of them in her own thoughts.

  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be the one to break it, but she probably needed to take the initiative.
After all, she was the one who’d been wrong. She didn’t know where to begin, though. It wasn’t as if they were meeting and she could stop somewhere and grab flowers. Besides, a bouquet wasn’t nearly enough of an apology.

  The little blue Hyundai came into view. It was time, before Amarie drove back to Connecticut and out of her life. Char took a deep breath.

  “So I have a confession to make,” she said, drawing even with Amarie on the sidewalk.

  Amarie slowed. “Me too. You first.”

  “When I decided to take Della’s offer and move out here,” she began, “I guess I had this vision of New York solving all of my problems. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. I was wrong, Am. I should have stayed. Leaving Watertown—leaving you—was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

  She licked her dry lips, watching Amarie’s face. If Amarie forgave her, she decided, she would immediately move back. She would try to make things right—not only with Amarie, but with Rowan.

  They reached the Hyundai. Amarie leaned against it and crossed her arms. “I agree.”

  “Can we also agree that we never should’ve broken up?” Char asked. She hoped she didn’t sound like she was begging—though she kind of was.

  “I don’t know,” Amarie said. “We both want completely different things.”

  “Not really.” Char joined her, leaning against the car. “We both want each other . . . Unless that isn’t true anymore. Am I wrong?”

  Amarie’s lips twisted to the side as she thought. She gathered her thick hair and arranged it into a curly top knot. “You’re not wrong,” she admitted, sending Char’s heart soaring into her throat. “I miss you. That’s my confession. I tried not to. I really did. But Charlotte Butler, I kind of love you. And I also kind of hate you for leaving.”

  Nodding, Char latched her eyes onto Amarie’s. “I love you too, and I hate myself for leaving. Can you forgive me?” Her heartbeat pounded a rhythm of please please please throughout her veins. She held her breath, waiting.

  “I can,” Amarie whispered, “though I could kick myself for letting you go.”