It was one of their non-negotiables. Greta was traveling more for Vivienne (having Carson travel along with her was simply out of the question; the frequency and spontaneity didn’t mesh well with Carson’s school schedule), and they both truly became the worst versions of themselves when they spent too much time apart.
Every month, for one night (more, if they could swing it), they closed themselves off to the rest of the world. Don’t answer the phone unless it rang more than twice. Not a single word about cosmetics or grades or unreasonable coworkers. No essays to mark or conference calls to Dubai or London or Rio.
Because it was date night.
Just them, a home-cooked meal (or takeout if it had been a particularly hard week for the both of them), and whatever activity got their minds out of the real world, and back to what mattered most: their marriage.
Sometimes it was a night of board games and bottles of wine. Others, it was picking at cold leftovers at midnight, clad in bedsheets, robes, or nothing at all.
The hard part of non-negotiables, though, is that when they’re broken, it feels like a personal grievance.
It’s how Carson finds herself sitting at their kitchen table, chin in her hands, dinner piping-hot, yet with nobody to eat it, her brow well and fully furrowed.
She’s worried, confused. But not angry.
Because she knew the frantic, unsteady look in Greta’s eyes as her cutting remarks -- some jumbled-up mess of misunderstandings and misguided anger -- whizzed past Carson, narrowly missing her. She knows to not follow as Greta leaves Carson standing in the living room. Greta needs time for the storms to calm, for her thoughts to untangle.
Still, she doesn’t know why.
She busies herself with throwing together a dessert -- a crumble with leftover peaches from their backyard. The light outside has changed from orange and golden to murky and dark when Carson stands in their doorway to their back porch, a blanket draped over her arm, ready -- hoping -- to coax Greta back inside.
Greta is sat on the bench, feet propped up on the railing, still in her dark slacks and light-colored chiffon blouse, staring out into the darkness of the groves surrounding their yard.
Carson is at her side when she she catches the glass in her hand, filled with a dark red liquid.
“Wine?” Carson asks, even though it's not at all the question she's really asking, the question she doesn't want to ask, the question she doesn’t want to hear the answer to.
Greta gives the faintest of nods. Not to conceal shame or guilt, but rather something much deeper and sadder.
“Dr. Henry called me this afternoon, just as I was wrapping up work. Blood work came back negative.” She takes a long sip.
Carson lands on the bench next to Greta, tucking her legs under her. She wraps her arms tightly around her wife, holding onto her, holding her together.
Carson doesn’t say she’s sorry. It’s her loss to hold as much as it is Greta’s. She drops her head to rest on Greta’s shoulder, a release of tension held in her body like a breath held for weeks.
Greta doesn’t apologize for her outburst. It's her anger as much as Carson's.
It's the one thing they hoped they wouldn't have to go through together.
It was their third round in six months, each with the same devastating, hopeless results. Not even a false positive.
They were told everything should work. Everything was perfect, everyone in perfect health.
“Something felt different. I was so sure it would happen this time.” Greta’s voice is thick and warbled with wine and grief. She reaches across with her free hand and lets it rest on Carson's arm, rubbing her thumb against her forearm, grounding herself.
Carson lifts her head and rests her chin on Greta’s shoulder, able to see just the profile outlined by the porch lights. She sees the deep longing and want that don't surface as easily on her own face, yet flood her body until it aches.
"I know it's date night..." Greta sighs.
"We can do whatever you want..." Carson pressed a kiss to her hairline, imbuing some semblance of solace into the touch. She wants to do everything to ease that ache, to ensure that neither of them feel it knocking on their doorstep again. "But I do want to let you know that dinner's still warm, dessert is in the oven..." She presses another kiss lower, against her temple, behind her ear, along her jawline.
"Mmmmm," Greta hums, tucking herself closer to Carson. "That sounds nice..."
"So we eat dinner. And dessert..." Carson goes lower still, nibbling at the hollow of Greta's neck, feeling a thrum of satisfaction at the shudder Greta releases. "And then I'm going to take you to bed..."
Carson shifts so that she's sitting on Greta's lap, straddling her with her knees against Greta's hips, faces close, arms still slung loosely around her shoulders.
“...And we’re going to go make a baby.”
Greta dips her head down, letting out an incredulous, bemused bark of a laugh. She shakes her head at Carson, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“Not with that attitude, it won’t.” Carson smirks, "I hear it's how most people do it, and it sounds way more fun than anything with shots and petri dishes and having someone in the room who is most definitely not part of our marriage."
Greta lets out another laugh -- this time sparking the crinkles in the corners of her eyes, full and light. Carson tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, cupping her face. She kisses her forehead.
“It’ll happen, my love. I promise.” She’s bold and confident, as if it’s something she can promise at all.
Greta nods, now in a quiet affirmation, as if she can already confirm it. "I know." She tips her head up to capture Carson's lips.
She runs her hands around Carson’s middle, tugging at her crisp, fitted dress shirt, teasing along the warm skin of her waist. Carson arches her back, pressing against Greta. She parts her lips, inviting her in, savoring the sharp taste of fruit and hope and wishing that the universe will finally work in their favor.
And, it does; it’s a year to the day exactly when they’re able to meet, to hold, to marvel at their son, perfect and healthy and soft and instantly adored by his moms.
But before futures and promises are fulfilled, the oven timer dings.
Because it’s still date night.
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