…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
the dreams you've been burying alive start to dig each other up in the dead at night (billie dean howard x audrey tindall)
wc 1248
“Bill?”
“Yes?”
“...Can you scratch my back, please?”
---
“Billie?”
Rustling. A quiet groan.
“Billie, wake up. Billie.”
Audrey tapped at her partner’s shoulder incessantly, heartbeat hammering in her throat. Everything felt very, very small, and Billie felt so far away, and she was alone, and she couldn’t see, and--
“Billie, please wake up,” she whined, and it hurt her to have to wake the medium, who’d spent all day working and the evening cooking dinner and tending to Audrey, who’d simply just had a bad day. “Billie, I’m scared.”
She changed her tapping to rubbing. Moved so that her body was cradling Billie’s from behind, head tucked into the back of her neck. Inhale. Exhale.
Cigarettes and coffee and mint. Sage. Something else, something very distinctly Billie Dean. Savory and long-lasting.
She stayed like that for a long time. She wasn’t sure what time it was; only that it was dark outside, and the curtains weren’t as thick as she remembered them being when Billie had asked her to pick them out, and she could see some kind of shadow peeking out from the side. Her fingers clutched Billie’s shoulder like her life depended on it. Which it did, kind of, right then. Billie, her anchor. Her most humble helper.
“Baby?”
Audrey felt Billie move in front of her, shoulder blade twitching, muscle rolling in her back as she reached over. Click. Light. She’d turned the lamp on and Audrey could see, finally. She’d been mumbling. Bad habit. Right into Billie Dean’s shoulder, drool all over it, crescent moons in her skin where Audrey’s nails had been.
“Bill,” she breathed, making enough room for the other to turn around. There she was. Long, loose curls and tired eyes, but a face that showed concern regardless. “I’m sorry. I got scared, I don’t know what happened, I think I may have had a bad dream but I just can’t remember, and…”
“It’s okay,” Billie Dean sighed and rubbed her eyes. “It’s okay, pumpkin. Come here.”
Audrey moved towards her again and pressed herself into Billie. Curled up into a ball. Billie’s arms wrapped around her figure, and her lips littered tender kisses to the crown of Audrey’s head.
“Bill?”
“Yes?”
“...Can you scratch my back, please?”
Billie’s hum vibrated deep against Audrey’s cheek. She dragged the hem of Audrey’s nightgown up along her back until it rested, bunched, at her shoulders. A little bit of readjusting. Billie’s acrylic nails gliding smoothly along her freckled back, tracing over sunspots and moles and the faint ridges of her spine, soothing the tension into nothingness. Always perfect.
Audrey kept her eyes open. Billie’s fingers moved in a discreet figure eight on her skin: start between the shoulder blades, curl down to the hip, twist to the opposite hip, and back up again. After a while, the motion became almost hypnotic. Across, over, up, over, across. Over Billie’s shoulder, Audrey watched the shadow in the window sway to the rhythm of her girlfriend’s breathing. In, out. Side to side. Slow, quiet, and then a big crescendo, a sigh. A symphony of its own. She thought of opera houses and string concerts. Dancing on balconies. A night flawless without effort.
“Billie?”
“Mhm…”
Audrey pushed herself up until she was just about eye-level with her. Searched Billie’s face for signs of annoyance -- not that she would have been able to tell, anyway.
“Can we dance, please?”
Billie opened one eye. Twisted, craned her neck to peek at the clock on the nightstand.
“Babydoll, it’s two-fifty-five in the morning.”
“Just for a few minutes, please, Billie Dean?”
“Okay,” Billie whispered, eyebrows raising as she attempted to wake herself up just a little bit more. Audrey was up and out of the bed before Billie had even finished stretching. The overhead light flickered on with a surge. Their house -- Billie’s house -- was old. Very, very old, with rickety flooring and wood-paneled walls and a rustic, chilly feel to it. Creaks in the walls. The house lived and breathed alongside Billie Dean, and she found comfort in it, a kind of safe haven for herself, but Audrey despised it. Wanted a modern home with glass walls, or a British-styled cottage somewhere far away.
Audrey padded quietly to the far side of the room where Billie kept vinyls stored neatly in a cabinet. Picked one out, set it on the player and carefully adjusted the needle. Sinatra. She heard Billie chuckle quietly over her shoulder, and she turned, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth as she grinned.
“Is this one good, I--? I don’t think I’ve ever really listened to Sinatra.” She touched her fingers to the side of her head in vague distress, and Billie, who’d finally made her way over, took her wrist and kissed her knuckles in quiet reassurance.
“It’s perfect, don’t worry about it. Come here.”
She pulled Audrey into her, rested her hands on Audrey’s waist. Smiled softly when arms wrapped nimbly around her neck.
“I love the way you sound,” Billie said, tucking her nose against Audrey’s cheek. Sinatra in the background. The hum of the house all around them, surrounding them on four sides. Some level of home in a place that corners you, some kind of Stockholm’s. For Audrey, at least.
“You only like me because I’m British,” Audrey replied, brows knitting as she suppressed a smile. Fear forgotten and completely discarded, thrown over her shoulder to make way for Billie Dean. Just Billie.
“That’s not true. I like you for other things, sweetie.”
“Oh, really? Like what?” I dare you, Billie Dean Howard, I dare you to go there right now. That’s what she wanted to say. What she felt she was saying with her eyes.
“I think that you’re the most beautiful woman,” Billie breathes instead, the words floating lightly on the current of her exhale, “Every single part of you.” There was a pause where Audrey let the words settle deep in her chest, spreading out like blue fire through her limbs, and Billie nuzzled into the side of her face. “O, that I were a glove upon that hand,” she whispered, “That I might touch that cheek.”
Audrey’s entire face rippled just slightly, and she yanked herself away from Billie Dean almost entirely, hands resting delicately on her shoulders. “Bill… Did you just quote Shakespeare?”
“I think so.”
Audrey watched her face contort into one of sheepish pleasure, and she leaned in to press a kiss to her lips. “Where did you learn that, darling? You’ve never done that before.”
“I saw it when we had lunch the other day. On your page.” Billie blushed, a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t really know what it means, but it sounded pretty.”
“Maybe you should start taking Shakespeare to your book club, silly.” Audrey kissed her again. And again. And once more. Their rhythm had been tossed off of its hinges, and they were swaying aimlessly in the middle of the floor, the vinyl record clicking absently behind them.
“Maybe.” Billie closed her eyes and let a content smile rest upon her face. “If I get enough sleep, I’ll think about it.”
“Right. Sorry.” Audrey brushed her thumb over Bill’s smile. Let their noses rub together for a moment or two, their swaying slowing to a halt. “I think I can sleep now.”
“You’ll wake me up if you need me again, though, right?”
this little light of mine (billie dean howard x audrey tindall)
wc 1901. nothing but fluff & the slightest recovery trope.
Audrey was beautiful, and Billie needed beautiful things.
---
On days that Audrey would stay over, Billie Dean would make sure the house was clean, the shower curtains were drawn back, the garden tended to, and at least one source of light in every room turned on. It was just the way things were. She provided the safe space, Audrey dwelled in it, and she was able to watch her from a distance as the old came to surface and the thin, oil-like layer of personality gave way to clear waters and high tides. They would cook dinner together sometimes, with the TV blaring in the living room to drown out any noises from stray animals outside; they would curl up on the couch, tucked into each other under a fleece blanket. Popcorn in Billie’s lap. Audrey’s dainty little fingers gripping her wrist as she guided a piece from Billie’s hand into her mouth, doe eyes stuck on the television screen. These were good days for Billie. Sometimes they would even go outside, past the walled-in safety of her home, and they would sit in the woods behind her house and eat strawberries, nothing but the birds and the sway of the trees in the wind. If she were lucky, a little bit of juice would dribble down Audrey’s chin, and she’d reach over to wipe it with the pad of her thumb. “Careful,” she’d murmur, voice smooth with a kind of hidden adoration. “Don’t want to get it on your dress.” And she knew she was doing something right when Audrey’s cheek would dimple with a grin, and Billie could see just the tip of her tongue pressed against her teeth with glee.
There were some days, though, when things didn’t happen the way she planned for them to. Sometimes they would go to sit in the woods, Billie would spread out their patterned blanket across the ground, the tupperware full of berries tucked under her arm. And then she would turn around, and Audrey would be curled up against a tree, face covered with both hands; anything could have spooked her, really: the ruffle of a bird taking flight, a twig snapped under the weight of a small frog, leaves rustling in the breeze. Billie would kneel down beside her and cradle her so, so close. Kiss her temple and brush a palm across her trembling shoulder. Whisper ‘it’s okay’ and ‘I’m right here,’ over and over and over again. Tupperware tossed to the side, berries discarded and laying scattered across the ground. It wasn’t hard when these things happened, but it weighed hard on her. Billie Dean knew all too well how it felt to be haunted by something you’d willed yourself to be rid of. Some days it took mere seconds for Audrey to lift her head out of her little nest of fingers and peek at Billie, eyes wild with something that frightened the medium just a little bit. Some days it took hours. They’d have gotten there when the sun was just peaking over the canopy of the trees, and they’d leave when the sun dipped down over the horizon. Never past dark. Never, never.
Eventually, though, and as all things do, Audrey began to change. Billie imagined that something had happened that she wasn’t quite aware of; something or someone had gotten to Audrey out of the blue and made her realize how much potential she still had. It didn’t matter. Audrey was different. She would go outside by herself during the day, which she’d never done before. When Billie would go to turn on the television for background noise, Audrey would put a hand out and shake her head, tilting it to the side as she smiled just slightly. “It’s okay, Billie Dean,” she said, and Billie loved the way her name fell off of her lips, rounded and supple and ripe, “I’ve got you. I’m not worried.”
Billie would be in charge of fixing lunch on days that Audrey wanted to sit outside and read on the patio. Every now and then, she would step over to the kitchen sink and peek out of the window, eyes scanning frantically until they landed on sunflower hair and the prettiest profile she’d ever seen. She’d watch until she couldn’t, when the timer on the stove went off or the kettle whistled or the food burnt just a little bit. She’d just watch. It was hard, even after things changed, to catch Audrey with a full smile on her face, and sometimes, when she read, Billie would see teeth and dimples and a wrinkled nose and bright eyes and a smile so big that she wasn’t sure she’d see it again, but she would. She’d walk outside with lunch on a broad silver tray, sit down on the painted-white bench next to Audrey, and say, “What are you reading?” with cool indifference. And every time -- well, almost every time -- it would be, “Shakespeare. This is when…” and Audrey would fill her in.
Initially, Audrey struck her as the type of woman who put on a facade. Shakespeare was for looks, as was the acting school experience, and the heavy accent, and most of the things she said out loud. But as Billie grew closer to her, she realized that these things, all of them, were just Audrey. Audrey loved Shakespeare with an unwavering passion. She’d dreamt of going to a specialized school since she was barely out of toddlerhood. The accent, bless her heart, was just an outcome of her upbringing, and as for the things she said, well… She lacked a bit of a filter, but so did Billie, and so she never said anything about it.
Once going outside on her own was regular, Billie realized that her habit of looking through the window was unwarranted and unnecessary, but she couldn’t stop. Audrey was beautiful, and Billie needed beautiful things. Craved them, sometimes, when Audrey wasn’t around. And even when she was, Billie didn’t have her. They weren’t what she wanted them to be, but it was intentional. The necessary journey before the long-awaited destination. Audrey had been hurting when they’d met, and Billie knew better than to step over the carefully guarded boundaries that she had delicately put up for herself. The wait was long, but it was worth it. The time spent together made up for the time apart.
The first time they kissed, it was springtime; a year after Audrey had first started coming over to her house. Audrey had looked so pretty that day: cream sundress, sandals. Bright, unwavering smile. A single thread hanging loose from the seam at her shoulder that she didn’t know about. “Come on, it doesn’t take that long to put berries in a piece of plastic, Billie Dean!” It was the first time she had ever been so eager to go to the woods, and Billie had raised her brows and surrendered with a loose shrug. Okay, she’d said, Okay, Audrey, I’m coming. She’d clamped the lid down over the tub and Audrey had grabbed the blanket, and she trailed after her outside, watching the way the sun bounced and dived along her crown. It was hot. The sun was in the center of the sky, blaring, making Billie regret wearing a full blouse and loose pants.
“Is there a reason you’re so excited?” she’d asked cautiously, not wanting to overstep but anxious to figure out what was behind the sudden change in Audrey’s demeanor.
“Yes,” Audrey replied. She rolled her eyes. The hint of a grin at her lips. Might as well have said it was the most obvious thing in the world, Billie Dean, can’t you see?
Billie followed her with a furrowed brow until they arrived at their usual clearing. Audrey draped the blanket over the ground, patted it down with her foot. Plopped down on the side furthest from where Billie Dean stood, and Billie herself followed suit, sitting cross legged diagonally from Audrey. She set the tub of berries in the center of the blanket, glanced up, smiled, opened it.
“Raspberries today,” she said nonchalantly, ignoring the way Audrey had been looking at her like she was something to eat. “I didn’t know if you liked them, I probably should have asked. I was getting tired of strawberries.”
“I love raspberries.” Rasp-berries.
Billie smiled to herself and popped one into her mouth. The heat of the sun bore into her back, sinking into her blouse. It was nice. Audrey was beautiful. The raspberries were sweet. She remembered watching Audrey’s knee wiggle impatiently. The anxious-excited glances she gave Billie. And then there she was, leaning across the blanket, knee knocking over the perfect raspberries and sweet, floral perfume following in her wake. Soft lips on Billie’s. Like clouds. She had to remind herself to breathe. There was something off-putting about the chirp of the birds and the whistle of distant cars passing by. She wanted them gone. Wanted only to be aware of Audrey, Audrey, Audrey. She felt hands on each side of her face, the gentle prod of a tongue against her own. Raspberries. Raspberries. Heavy on the P, slow on the R.
Audrey pulled away, but didn’t go far. Her breath still pressed, dense and sweet, to Billie’s mouth, and Billie realized that she was straddling her lap.
“It’s been a year since you first invited me here,” Audrey panted, eyes closed. There’s a moment of silence where both of them had trouble catching up with their breath. With their heartbeats. Billie felt as though hers would thump right up her throat, out of her mouth. Bloody red mass on the blanket. “I am in love with you, Billie Dean,” she’d whispered, pressing the smallest kiss to Bill’s mouth. “You have done so much for me, and I would have never gotten to where I am without you, and I have so much to thank you for, but I am in love with you.”
There was a scary moment where Billie thought that this was something rehearsed. A practice run, maybe. Something to see whether or not Audrey still had her ‘juice.’ But then Audrey was kissing her again, and Billie could feel wetness on her cheeks, and when the former pulled away she sniffled hard and pressed her face into Billie’s neck.
Bill wrapped her arms around her frame. Rubbed into her back and kissed the shell of her ear, the side of her head, anywhere she could reach with her mouth. “I love you, too,” she said simply. She didn’t read Shakespeare in her free time. She wasn’t sure about what to say. What could she say? How would she describe how she felt? I’ve won the fuckin’ jackpot, baby, and you’re it!
Their relationship grew with fervor. Billie had known her all her life, it seemed, had been in love with her for twenty lifetimes and beyond, and it came to a point where she couldn’t imagine life without Audrey there with her. Audrey, who still called for Billie at random intervals as she showered, just to make sure she was there in case something happened. Who still, though very, very rarely, burrowed into Billie’s side at the sound of something outside. Billie still watched her read from the window. Just a glance, she’d tell herself, but it always turned into more than that. Her girl. Improving every single day. Her Audrey.
When Tammy wakes, it’s to a budding tingle in the base of her palm and a numbness in her fingertips. She forgets where she is, for one small moment, bliss swirling around in her head, behind her eyes, and then she opens them to chestnut waves. They wash away with the tide. She’s surprised she didn’t drown through the night. Surprised the current didn’t pull her in.
She looks at Debbie’s face and it hurts, almost, to see her so close, to be so close that she can see the pores in her skin and the way each individual hair of her brow turns. Her hand is tucked under Deb’s cheek, cradling the side of it, and Debbie’s leg is tucked between her own, their ankles locked. I don’t like hugs that much, thank you. Hand shake? Tammy’s head starts to ache. Paradox on paradox on paradox.
Debbie Ocean, criminal mastermind, needs your hand to hold in the dark, scared of trusting too hard, wins every game of Monopoly, squeaks when sneezes. Never passes go and collects two hundred in real life; always on Park Place, waiting to topple you, waiting to catch you at your weakest, ready to capitalize on your oversights. No reason to collect two hundred when she gets the world thrown at her feet just from being present, from being where no one else could ever be.
What time is it? 9:42. Thank you, clock on the wall. Have to hurry. Tick tock, tick tock. We have to go before the tide comes in again, don’t want to watch the castle wash away.
“Deb.”
It sounds rough coming out of Tammy’s mouth. Like sand on her tongue, grainy and filthy and guilt-ridden. Taken from the earth by accident.
“Debbie…” She strokes over a cheekbone with the thumb that Deb is laying on. Uses her other hand to rub at her bare shoulder, and Debbie shifts a little. The comforter slips down, past her breasts and to the middle of her torso, just above her navel, and Tammy, without much second thought, gazes at her. Breathes her in. Thinks about how easy it is to appreciate Deborah from afar. How, up close, it’s almost like you’re obligated to do so, like you owe it to yourself to worship every aspect of her. Tammy slides her hand along her arm and then down to her flank. All smooth skin until it’s not. There’s a scar right across her abdomen, and it’s absolutely ugly, raised and glossy and raw. She knows it’s from a biking accident in Debbie’s youth. She also knows that whenever other people ask about it, Debbie tells them everything but the truth.
No one knows but you. Lips on her own for the first time, and then a second, and a third, and infinity and so forth. Bitterness creeps in. That was said often enough, wasn’t it? No one. Who taught you that? No one, with a grin. Who else is coming? No one. Two tickets only. One way. Who is she? No one, Tammy.
She traces over the scar with a tenderness she knows she will probably regret. “Wake up, please,” she whispers, and it’s almost a plea, like she needs Deb’s permission to leave. Needs Deb to tell her to go, that she doesn’t need her here now, that she has kids at home who are waiting on her.
“Hm?”
“I need to go home.”
She pulls at her top lip with her teeth. Deb doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t give much acknowledgment at all, really, except for an unintelligible mumble and a vague raise of her eyebrows. She says it again, quieter this time, the words barely making it past her lips before they crumble and fall. Tammy watches Deb’s breathing start to shallow out and knows she’s awake, knows she’s ignoring her statement, and she groans on the inside. Too old for games, she wants to say. Too old, too experienced in how you work, what makes you tick.
“You don’t have to.”
What? “I do, Deb.” Does she? Yes, always. Her family needs her. The house is probably in ruin. The aftermath of Mount Vesuvius on Pompeii, a disaster worth tending to, something she knows she’s good at.
“You could stay.”
She could stay. A theoretical ‘could’. She could stay, and suffer through the looks that Debbie throws to Louise when she thinks that Tammy isn’t looking, cook up meals for the three of them, complain about the heating in the loft. Be the one that’s there when they need someone else.
Tend to their emotional sores, lick over their wounds like a dog. Come here, puppy, want a treat?
Of course.
Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred. Stay here. Pay rent. Go bankrupt. Let me have you.
“Yeah, right.” Tammy wiggles her fingers. Debbie’s cheek is still resting in her palm, both of her hands trapping Tammy’s arm, one hooked under it and one draped over it to keep the blonde in place. Their legs are still intertwined, and much to Tammy’s surprise, she’s the first to undo their little puzzle. With a halfhearted chuckle, she pulls her hand away and rolls over onto her back. Sits up after a minute. Don’t want to get too dizzy, old gal, take it easy.
She doesn’t have to look over to know that Debbie isn’t even looking at her, not like she wants her to, like she’s got the missing piece to each heist in the palm of her hands, like she has the world in her pocket.
Debbie has her eyes closed.
Tammy gets up. Finds her clothes amongst the mess of Deb’s room, scoffs at how an almost-forty-year-old could have the organizational skills of a fifteen-year-old. After tugging her socks on, perched on the side of the bed while Debbie squeezes out the weak parts of her sleep, she clears her throat and reaches over to rub over Deb’s hip. She gets a glimpse of earthy brown in response. A groan. Legs kicking off sheets. Debbie’s body, pale and lithe and pure in the morning’s light. She looks colder than she is. Like if you touched her, your fingertips would turn blue, and your breath would fog, and you’d freeze, but Tammy knows that it only gets cold in the north, and that the further south you travel, the softer the ground gets.
She looks away and knows Debbie is smirking at the back of her head.
“Have you seen my keys?”
Yes, they’re on the counter. Tell me to leave. Speak your mind, I want to hear it. I want it to bite.
“Come on. Leaving so soon?”
“Yes, Deb. I have to go. I have kids and a husband that doesn’t know how to cook breakfast.”
“Oh, yeah.” Deb’s voice is airy and loose. A deadpan that she has always had and always will have, probably, because who is Debbie Ocean without sarcasm, and what is sarcasm without someone to believe it? “I forgot about them.”
She’s starting to grow frustrated. Fuck you, Debbie. I wanted Boardwalk. Couldn’t you at least give me Boardwalk? Something of my own to hold, something to cherish without feeling overshadowed, taunted. Craved. Life’s second biggest profit, because the first is you.
“That’s not funny,” Tammy mutters, wiping her palms on her jeans as she stands. You can’t do that, Deb. You can’t forget about the other property. Boardwalk is crucial. You need it, too.
“It kind of is.”
“Debbie,” she warns, and she feels an edge creeping up from her chest. Hornets in her lungs. She presses her fingers to her temple and starts to walk towards the door. Send out the swarm, no regrets! Destroy the hive, you reap what you sow, the fields flood and you have no choice but to pass go. You’ll need the two hundred when the world disappears, Deb.
Tammy leaves the bedroom and makes her way into the kitchen. Coffee would help. Coffee would bring clarity to everything. Clear out the fog. Dust out the cobwebs. Leave the spider without a home.
Debbie comes down around the second cupful, keyring around her middle finger. She waves it around. The keys make an obnoxious sound that Tammy hates but smiles at nonetheless.
“You’re a gem.” She means it. Kind of. Hard to open up, beautiful on the inside. Beautiful and sharp. Don’t press too hard, you’ll get cut.
“You made coffee?”
“Well, you take forever to get up, so…”
“I don’t mind.”
Tammy nods and sips from the mug in her hands. No creamer. A little sugar. Helps her wake up to something sweet every now and then. They stand in shared silence for a little while, Debbie propped against the island and Tammy opposite her against the corner of the counterspace, the junction between the oven and the sink. The keys go round and round on Deb’s finger. Tammy watches. Thinks about how her finger would taste now. Now that all of the adrenaline and shock and vulnerability has worn off. Like metal, probably. Like blood.
She finishes her cup of coffee and turns to rinse it out in the sink. Takes a little too long. Am I stalling? Tick tock, Tam-Tam. The tide’s coming in. She pushes her hand into the mug until it cramps, feels the hot water burn into her skin, watches as her fingers turn pink, doesn’t stop until the last stubborn grain of coffee gives way to the water.
Arms wrap around her waist from behind, and she feels a nose tuck into her hair. Then she feels lips on her neck, not kissing but touching there. A resting place.
You’re always welcome, come on in, make yourself at home.
Debbie holds her waist with one hand and presses the other to her gut, and then sinks it lower. Holds the button of Tammy’s jeans with one hand. For one terrifying second, Tammy thinks she’ll pop it open. She doesn’t. Deb pulls the front taut, drags the zipper up, lets go. Bites playfully at Tammy’s neck and pulls away.
The older woman turns around, cheeks flushed beyond her control. “Deb,” she sighs, head tilting in the same way it always does around Debbie Ocean, exasperated and a little tired.
“What’d you want me to say? ‘Tam-Tam, your zipper’s down. I can see your panties.’ I’m not a perv.”
“You obviously are if you were looking at my fucking panties.” It’s playful. Some of the tension dissipates, and Tammy catches herself smiling without thinking about it. When was the last time she did that? Last night, maybe. Only around Deb.
“Okay. Okay, I deserve that.”
“Hand ‘em over.”
Cool nickel presses into her palm, and she curls her fingers around as much as she can, but Debbie’s hand remains, holding onto the thin piece of keyring. Tammy raises an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Tax,” Debbie insists, head bobbing as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Fascinating, truly. Her eyes don’t change with anything she says, not even when she’s laughing. Everything that comes out of her mouth could mean everything or nothing, and you would never know the difference. Tammy sure didn’t.
“Tax?” Her brows furrow so deep that she thinks they might meet in the middle. What does she want, a trade for Tammy’s keys? Another job? Here’s your life, but only if you leave it behind. The profit of Boardwalk falls, weeping, at the feet of Park Place.
Debbie nods again and, tightening her grip on the keyring, points to her mouth with her spare hand. “Just one. Then I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll let me go?” Tammy echoes. Her face relaxes, eyebrows raising as she weighs the option in her palm, the fingerpad of her index stroking over the ridges of her car key. “Okay.” The tide rolls in and the castle collapses. The moat’s no use for the Ocean.
She leans in and presses her lips, shy and careful, to Deb’s, and then she pulls away and tugs hard at her keys. “Thank you,” she exaggerates. She starts to thank Debbie for letting her stay the night, especially since it was so late when they’d gotten home, and her house is far away, so far away, into the countryside, and that really, she didn’t have to, but thank you, Debbie. And then she feels another kiss, one much harder and more demanding than she could have given, one that takes and takes until she can’t really breathe. But then she can. Deb pulls away and leans back against the counter. Watches Tammy’s face struggle to convey how she feels; watches Tammy struggle to figure out how she feels.
“What has gotten into you?” Asking Tammy to stay. Hiding her keys. Teasing her. Getting up in the morning, standing with her as she drank her coffee, being present. Kissing her on the lips, unprovoked, outside of the bedroom. These were new. She didn’t know how to feel about them, because everything that was ever new with Deb was always another thing to trip on.
“What can I say? Prison changed me.”
Something about the way it leaves her mouth lets Tammy know that it’s not completely true. Whatever it is, there’s an aspect to the statement that throws it off, like it’s not the whole story, like Deb has something to hide.
Debbie’s mouth fights a curl at the corners and Tammy just chuckles, once, hard through her nose, and walks to the door.
“Yeah,” she says, and that’s it. She slides her shoes on.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, Deb. You’re serious about everything.” Tammy flashes her a look, caves into a smile, opens the door. Picks up the card of chance and takes a long, long look at it, all brown eyes and silk robe and long legs. Go to Mediterranean Avenue. Pass go. Collect two hundred.
You won’t win this game, Deb.
“Tammy.”
“Give it a rest. Thank you for letting me stay, really.” She has one foot out of the door. Her eyes linger on Debbie. She could stay. Probably. Looking at Deb, now, she sees something she hasn’t seen in a decade, maybe. Maybe a little less. Something in her eyes.
The sheep comes out to graze while the wolf is away. The fruit falls from the tree, soft and ripe. The bees make way for the beekeeper. Boardwalk’s profit appeals to Park Place. The game is off.
Tammy closes the door and walks to her car.
Every sheep needs a shepherd to keep it safe, or the wolf overcomes it. If the fruit falls too hard, it bruises and rots. The bees still sting the beekeeper, and Boardwalk is always second place.
Looking back is a way to sharpen the focus on the things you want to change in your life. I think there’s something about nostalgia that really puts a fine point on the here-and-now, and that can be incredibly fascinating and interesting and engaging for the mind.
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