TIMING: February 14th LOCATION: The Codfather PARTIES: Constance Eades (@constanquence) and Nova Yang (@punchalot) SUMMARY: Nova makes a dinner reservation for her and Constance at the Codfather on Valentine's Day. What could go wrong?
Constance was in the middle of testing her pipes when her phone alerted her of a reminder, covering the screen and pausing the YouTube video she was watching. She looked down at her hands and then up at the screen unsure what to do. She turned a valve left and got sprayed in the face. Turned another right and got sprayed again. “Shit!” She used her hands to block the streams and ran out to turn off her water. Her phone chimed again and she rushed a little too much and slid toward the counter, wincing as her body collided into the stone. Groaning, she lifted her phone up to see the reminder—Dinner with Nova @ Codfather. In one hour! Constance looked down at her hands, half-debating showing up soaked and dirty but then remembered it was a fancy restaurant.
She wouldn’t make Nova reschedule again. So she hurried off to get ready—already in the shower nude when she remembered she shut off the water. Idiot. Once she got that situated, she showered, dressed—she settled for a fitted dark charcoal dress, with heels adding a modest height, and a thin black velvet choker. Her hair, she kept it simple, sleek and down. Then she was on her way. Late was just unacceptable. She wasn’t late. She was never late. Constance arrived on time, noting the crowd around the entrance—the pink and red balloons, the heart shaped ones bobbing against the awning, the soft glow of candles visible through the windows. She slowed, just a fraction, processing what was in front of her, wondering if she had somehow entered some alternate reality or someone was playing some stupid, terrible joke on her.
She pulled out her phone, knowing the truth was already there. Still, she waited before unlocking it, as if the delay itself might allow something impossible to happen. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Of course it is. The oversight irritated her more than it should have. It was a complete failure on her part for having no awareness. Had Nova forgotten too? Or was this intentional? Constance dismissed her worries immediately, straightening her posture and schooling her expression back into neutrality. It was a day. Just a day. It meant nothing. This was probably the only availability and she was sure Nova got them a discreet spot off to the side away from the celebration. There was no way a restaurant went all out for a silly capitalist holiday.
The host at the entrance took the name for the reservation, repeating it for confirmation. When Constance confirmed it again, a raised eyebrow and smirk lingered on the host’s face. She did not like that look one bit. As they did whatever hosts did, Constance took a peek in the restaurant through the windows, already able to see there was quite the crowd inside. She caught sight of a table by the patio. It was a table set with soft candlelight, rose petals scattered across the cloth, and the ocean stretching endlessly past the railing. A place card was set in the middle reading: Reserved for a very happy couple. She blinked once and looked away. That’s so ridiculous. She wondered if they’d get a view of the poor suckers who reserved that table.
“And is your other half present?”
Constance glanced around, already spotting Nova heading over. Their eyes met. “Yes,” she said, too quickly. “She’s just arriving.” The words registered a beat late. Constance turned back to the host.
“Oh—but we aren’t—does it say that?” She stepped closer, peering over the stand.
“Ma’am, please step back.”
“I only want to verify what the reservation indicates,” Constance countered, leaning in anyway. “Does it explicitly say other half or is that an assumption—”
—
When Nova called to reschedule, she had no choice but to exaggerate the situation—The Codfather was a hard enough place to get seating, harder in the month of February, which was an oddly busy month for restaurants. Nova emphasized the specialness of the occasion, the specialness of her friend, how special she wanted the night to be. She used the word special no less than twenty times. When asked what the occasion was, all Nova could think to say was that it was the most special night two people could have. Which, somehow, prompted the woman on the phone to cry. She explained that there had been a sudden cancellation on the night of the fourteenth. Whatever that table was, Nova said she'd take it. It was such a special night, after all.
“Okay,” the woman said, sniffling, “you and your girlfriend would make better use of it, anyway.”
She'd obviously meant girl friend in the friend way, like how people used to say it (girl friend, emphasis on the cavernous platonic space). Nova confirmed that she wasn't allergic to roses and promised to be careful around the candles; distracted from asking why that was important by the strange array of questions the woman posed to her. Nova met each one with effusive praise of her "special friend"—since Nova was always enthusiastic in matters of friendship. The woman assured her, like promising to save the world from certain demise, that she’d personally make sure the night was unforgettable. When the phone call was over, Nova forgot about it.
When it was finally the fourteenth, there was a tickling at the back of her mind. It must be nerves, she told herself. She was nervous about not being late, wanting to prove that it was possible for her to be on time for once. She set three alarms and seventeen reminders throughout the day. Except, in her focus to make sure she wasn't late, she forgot about her dress. It was the nicest thing she owned (thrifted) and she'd meant to get it tailored to actually fit her but one thing happened and then another and now it was too late. Really, it wasn't an issue; what was alchemy for? Just shrink a little material here and there and make it sit right on her shoulders. Except, in her excitement over how good her idea was, she forgot she was a shit alchemist. At first, she made the dress too small and then too long and then oh look, it was on fire now. After stomping her dress out, her first alarm went off.
She texted everyone she knew, who was about her size, in a hurry. An emergency, she said. Extremely dire, she added. The only person who got back to her in time was Amanda. If there was one thing anyone needed to know about Amanda it was that she loved a good time. Which was to say, the type of things she wore were designed to pull looks. Nova's second alarm went off; she couldn't be picky.
When Nova drove over and explained the situation, Amanda gave her an unblinking, suspicious stare. She asked if Nova really meant her dinner was today. Yes, Nova confirmed, in like, an hour. Amanda kept asking her if she meant today, if she was so sure it was this Saturday, the fourteenth. She pressed the date as if there was something wrong, the way someone talks about a forgotten birthday. Nova, as she had on the phone, emphasized the specialness—she didn't like the way Amanda was squinting at her. Amanda had two conditions: she got to pick the dress and do Nova's makeup. Nova's third alarm went off, she didn't care.
By the time Amanda was finished, Nova wanted the burnt dress instead. The deep-red satin dress was open at the back, which made Nova shiver. The worst had to be the accentuating halter design, leaving her chest strategically bare. At least it was long, swishing around her legs. The makeup didn't help the impression either: a sharpening of her eyes, a reddening of her lips. Nova wanted her hair down, to give her shoulders some kind of warmth. Amanda insisted she tie it up, and supplied dangling gold earrings. Why was she styled like a Bond girl? What was she going to do? Seduce the scallops? The stilettos had been Nova's choice at least; she wanted to get closer to Constance's height. Amanda seemed to find something very funny. Nova left with a grumble.
She was late. Well, not exactly, but Constance was already there, which meant she was late. Nova started jogging, and then their eyes met, Constance's body turning for a second to face her. Nova froze. Constance turned back around, distracted by something the host was saying. Obviously, Constance was attractive; water was wet. But, knowing the state of water didn't make it less shocking when it was dumped over your head. Maybe she was thankful for Amanda after all, now she wouldn't look like a rotting log beside Constance.
“Yes!” Nova jogged up behind Constance, clearing her throat. She slipped her arm around Constance's and curled into her, needing her warmth since the dress wasn't giving her any. Nova tugged Constance back from the stand, sensing that she'd walked in on some kind of argument with the host. “Here and definitely on time and not a second late! And no, definitely not halves.” Nova grinned and knocked her head against Constance's shoulder, the best she could manage for a greeting. “Connie is more than a half to me.” What were the two talking about it? Really, Nova just wanted to be sitting down now. Inside. Where it was warm.
The host offered another smirk before the traditional “follow me”, turning and leading them through the restaurant. Nova attention was on the sheer pinkness of the decorations. Why was everything so pink?
“Here you are,” he said, arm out stretched.
And why was their table covered in rose petals and candles? Was that… a complimentary bottle of champagne in a bucket full of heart-shaped ice? Whoa! Free booze! This place was fancy! She moved forward and clutched the sign to her chest. “Aw, thanks. We are a happy couple.” A happy couple of girls! Girl friends, giant space.
—
Oh.
Of course. Nova had always been beautiful—it was hardly surprising, really. Just sharper, and more deliberate now. A beauty that had once belonged to a young girl, now stood in front of her, fully realized as an adult woman. The acknowledgment was all her own; the stirring, hers to manage. And so she did. She took in her friend’s beautiful appearance—the dress, the hair, the accessories—a stark contrast to the more modest pieces she’d seen from her. It was a sight to be admired, not acted upon.
It made Nova’s touch burn even more. The heat she carried—already sparked by Constance’s admiration, flared on contact, an intimate offering of shared warmth, insistent and overwhelming. Her arm gave into the pull of Nova’s presence, letting her slip naturally around it, as if it had been there for no other purpose. She didn’t dare move just yet, but her arm curled on instinct, locking into place, ensuring they remained connected without conscious effort.
The host guided them inside where she was met with softened yellow light spilling over the white tablecloths, glasses catching the glow and reflecting it back like tiny stars. Pink, red and white flowers adorned every table. Soft pink ribbons cascaded along the natural curves of the restaurant and the murmur of conversation and clinking silverware filled the air. Soft harp music curved throughout the space. Constance might have found it beautiful, might have enjoyed it, really, under different circumstances.
She was just naturally perceptive, naturally needed to put meaning to her observations. The romantic nature couldn’t slip past her. She chose to simply register it and set it down as her attention lingered where it always did—on Nova. Constance looked at Nova’s face, cataloging any tilt of her head, any recognition to pass through her and instead saw the way candlelight caught in her eyes. The restaurant's gentle buzz forced Constance closer than she would have chosen. Leaning in, she let the words slip low, near Nova’s ear, breath brushing gently along it. “You look beautiful,” she murmured, her voice not betraying any control, maintaining her composure.
The realization that Constance and Nova had been the happy couple this table had been reserved for, settled tight in her chest and her lips pursed into a polite smile recalling her earlier remark. What were the odds? Really, with how perfectly the universe had orchestrated this joke, Constance ought to go somewhere to place a bet. Nova’s untethering sent the cold ocean air along Constance’s arm, one she realized had been tensed without her noticing. Her elbow loosened immediately, fingers flexing almost imperceptibly, as if begrudgingly reclaiming its space. It was disconcerting still, how familiar and instinctive it felt to come together and yet so foreign once they parted.
Of course Nova didn’t notice—the pink and red flowers, the heart-shaped accents, the table reserved for a happy couple. Every careful placement of romantic flourish, she was oblivious to it all. Honestly, it was rather worrying how subtly had difficulty reaching her. In a town like Wicked’s Rest, where danger lurked even more around the prettiest corners, being perceptive wasn’t optional. People needed to see, to anticipate and guard themselves. Constance had thought Nova would be one of them.
Clearly, Constance had to remain close, as a precaution. She would keep this logic in mind, even in the moments their proximity settled in her in ways she’d prefer to keep locked away—that if someone had to notice, if someone had to act, it would be her. She took a step to pull back the chair she had designated as Nova’s seat. No gesture lingered longer than necessary, it was just a moment of attention, of care, before she stepped aside, letting Nova slide into place across from her.
As Constance settled, the faint crash of waves against the coast and the warmth from the nearby heaters enveloped them. The waves reminded her of her great-uncle’s home at World’s End. She had visited it sometimes as a child, typically just to say her hellos as she waited until the first chance to go see Nova. Constance debated moving into it when she arrived but hated the stark isolation of it. If she wanted to truly root the hunters from the town, she’d have to settle in even deeper.
Present, she reminded herself. It’s what Nova wants. Her gaze fell to the chilled champagne in between them and when their eyes met, she could see the anticipation in her expression, the excitement. Constance allowed herself to be affected by her friend’s positive and warm emotions, to enjoy this moment as well, to be excited for their dinner. To relax. Constance would find a chance to return to her head later.
“Shall we have a toast?” Constance suggested, eyes dropping to the champagne before returning back to Nova.
—
Nova’s cheeks heated, she turned her head to catch Constance’s whisper—or to keep her friend’s breath pressed for a second longer against the shell of her ear—but Constance moved and the moment with it. She caught Constance right as her attention shifted, and Nova was left to stare at the curve of her jaw and the lines of her lips. Really, fixating on the sign was all she could do to keep her brain from looping through the timber of Constance’s voice. She ran her fingers over the words. Happy couple. They didn’t mean like…? But Nova had specified about a dozen times over the phone that this was a friend. Sure, in exaggerating, she’d leaned on calling Constance a special friend; their connection deep like a river, she remembered saying. High as a mountain, too. Yes, she was quoting the song. Fuck, had she also mentioned that when she was a little girl, she had a rag doll (only doll she ever owned), and now she loved her friend like that rag doll? Except now that love was grown and it got stronger in every way? No. No way. Definitely not. She was smarter than that. (Someone please agree.)
Nova set the sign down, watching Constance pull a chair open and then…not sit in it. She blinked at the pulled chair. Keeping her eyes on the tablecloth, she sat down. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever pulled a chair for her before—usually she was in such a rush to sit down, even trying would be a physical hazard. Nova glanced around the restaurant, as if to find a witness that could confirm the effect. Watch this tree fall, hear its sound. Can you feel her heart? Thump-thump-thump—the rhythm of deforestation. All around her, tables were absorbed in their own bubbles of intimacy: people leaned in, others averted their gazes with pink cheeks, hands played with the stems of glasses, lips were bitten. No one had seen and so, as it went, there must not have been a sound. The pulse of her heart, climbing into her warm ears, was nothing.
“The restaurant sure is pink today,” she commented. “And with lots of…PDA.” She smiled thinly at a couple near them, who were leaning over their tiny table to kiss. Nova reached to her side for Constance and found the railing. She scooted up and her stomach hit the table. The small thing, intimate in any other circumstance, was an astronomical measure of distance. There, the sun; her, the earth; one unit apart. Nova slapped her hands down on her thigh to hold back the sudden bouncing. As children, Nova was scolded for scooting her chair all the way around the kitchen table so she could sit beside Constance. As an adult, she knew nothing was more ridiculous. She could be mature about sitting on the opposite side of a table, like a normal person. She was normal. She breathed in, sucking in the breeze of the water, and she exhaled. A second later, she reached across the table to touch Constance’s forearm, laying her fingers over her skin.
“You look beautiful too, by the way,” she said softly, meeting Constane’s eyes. It was polite to return the compliment, though the words were like calling the inside of the sun warm. Nova drew her fingers back quickly. “You want to toast?” She snorted. “What are we celebrating? Oysters? Clams? I celebrate my clam all the time, particularly after a long day.” Ah, her old companion: the innuendo. How much more comfortable that skin was to wear. She reached for the champagne bottle, which had been opened already before they reached the table, still steaming with water vapor from the mouth. She poured for Constance first, and then herself, settling the cold bottle back in the bucket.
“You sound so proper”—Nova switched to her imitation of Constance’s voice; British by way of Dick Van Dyke—”’shall we have a toast? I want to organize the bloody candles by size and it bothers me that those blokes over there are snogging. Premaritally.’” Grinning, she leaned her arm on the table, propping her head up. Thankfully returned to her normal voice, she continued: “I don’t wanna toast. Toasting is something old couples do when they have to pretend to like each other. It’s all ‘to my beautiful wife, who has a face’.” Nova looked out at the water. She’d always loved the way the moon caught inside the ripples, that white glow multiplied in ribbons. “If it were me, I’d say something like: to my Constance, who…” Beside the moon, she found Venus. Nova crumpled her thought up and sent it to the sky; it was safer with Venus. “I dunno,” she lied. “Maybe something about how I keep mistaking you for a giraffe.”
Nova turned her attention back to Constance, wiping the forlorn expression for one of (what she hoped) was exuberance. “What’s your not-toast toast?” She held up her flute of champagne.
—
That damned touch.
It settled into her before she was ready—would she ever be ready? A clash of familiarity and the disarming effect it carried. Her body was quicker than her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to change that. Feelings were meant to be digested quietly, never displayed. Her crying had drawn the attention of annoying siblings and never the care of her parents. Her frustration made things worse—anger was chastised, never examined. The moment Constance spilled over, she became the problem, not what had pushed her there. Nobody cared what she believed, what she felt. All years of therapy taught her how to function like the adults wanted, and little else.
But once Nova’s touch was registered, nothing felt more right—as if connection were their natural state and everything else a deviation from it. The compliment warmed her, and she smiled, holding Nova’s gaze. Nova’s commentary on the pink decor, on the couples around them caught in public displays of affection, drifted past unheard. Constance couldn’t even hear the soft harp music threading through the restaurant. When she looked into Nova’s eyes, it all fell away—her nerves, her vigilance, the careful awareness she carried like Atlas. The entire restaurant dissolved. There were only the two of them. No one else. Constance and Nova existed in the same place and time, perfectly aligned, and it felt like a small wonder.
Nova’s innuendo drew a light laugh from Constance, her smile widening. If there was one thing Nova had always done effortlessly, it was making her smile, even as children. The way Nova strung words together, how easily she coaxed laughter and joy from her, had been mesmerizing to young Constance. The imitation of a British accent earned a genuine giggle, and Constance’s eyes lit up with the same unguarded brightness she’d had as a girl, watching her friend perform for her. They had always been like that—feeding off each other. Nova bright as a star before her and Constance reflecting that light back, amplifying it. “I didn’t know proposing a toast was so proper.” She paused, considering. “You should talk in a British accent more,” Constance teased, knowing she’d at least get a kick out of it.
Her brows lifted in anticipation as Nova began her toast. Constance’s gaze followed where Nova looked, catching the moon in the sky, but little else. She looked back to Nova, her smile softening into something smaller. She blinked. I keep mistaking you as a giraffe. The smile faded. She wet her lips in a placating gesture, her eyes dropping for a moment, caught off guard. She had not expected that, but with Nova, betting on seriousness would have most likely left you a loser. That too, was on her.
“Thank you for that beautiful toast,” Constance replied dryly. “I’m so moved.” She lifted a hand to her collar. “Well, before I found out that toasts were something proper, unloved spouses do, I would have toasted to–” Her eyes returned to Nova as she raised her glass. “To my Nova,” Constance couldn’t grow too sentimental now with Nova still watching, waiting. “Glad we found each other again.” Her gaze dropped then, as though Nova might glimpse what remained deliberately unsaid. She brought the glass to her lips and drank, trusting the motion more than her own control over her voice.
“I’m starving,” Constance pulled the conversation to something else entirely, not wanting it to settle into what was said and unsaid. The bustle of the restaurant resumed and her eyes caught a couple leaning over their table to kiss each other. Her eyes darted away and she rubbed at her temple, using her hand to shield her eyes. Did people really have no sense of manners when it came to Valentine’s Day and being in public? This was why everyone hated couples. The performative intimacy, the insistence on being witnessed. Constance had never been one for it. Affection, if it existed at all, was meant to be private—contained, considerate. It was rude, honestly, to impose it on strangers.
Yet, Nova’s touch lingered.
Not the initial contact—that had already been registered—but what had followed. Somewhere between one thought and the next, Constance had shifted, her arm angling just enough to encourage exploration of the soft skin of her inner forearm. An unconscious offering. She felt a faint drag of Nova’s fingers as they traced along her skin, idle and absentminded, as if she hadn’t noticed she was doing it either. The realization came slowly. Too slowly. She did not pull away. The hypocrisy formed in her chest, sharp and immediate and yet her arm remained. Contained, quiet, visible only to the ocean and sky. Which, Constance reasoned, meant it wasn’t PDA at all.
“Good evening!” The waiter said, already beaming as he approached. “You two picked a very good night to come in.” His eyes flicked between them, his perception enough to cause Constance to draw her hands to her lap. “First time here, or are we celebrating a tradition?”
He set the menus down. “Either way, we’ve got a couple of specials that are… very popular with couples.” A grin that suggested something Constance didn’t want to think about. “Sharing is encouraged,” he looked over at her. “But not required.”
—
Many cultures, for a time, thought Venus was two stars. It was the morning star and the evening star. Because of Venus’s proximity to the sun, the two followed a similar arc—and after the moon, what else shone with such certainty but the sister planet? In the morning, there it was. When the sun slipped down beneath the horizon, there it was again. It must be two messages of cosmic light; like any star, those furious balls of fire signalling the insignificance of the humans looking up, seeing only bright specks. Nova had made the same mistake, an ancient misstep locking her to a legacy of curious minds. She didn’t know what astronomy was, she was a curious child, lonely, sensitive, leaning her head against her open window and looking up. There were shiny things above, bright things. Most of them twinkled, some of them were steady. One moved—that must be a plane. The sky was only dotted with those curiosities, but it wasn’t until her first time at Granny’s cabin, looking up while mosquitos dined on her rich blood, that she realized the sky was crowded with wonder—in streaks, in dots, in shapes, in traveling blinks.
What were they? Some were called stars. The bright steady ones, those were planets: she could see Venus, Jupiter, Mars—myths that existed only in diagrams, and in names. Granny, though she was the sort of woman who seemed to have been born elderly, was Luna—even if no one called her that. Her father was Pluto, Mars was her brother and she was Venus. Granny told her simply: “everything we are already exists; nothing can be created or destroyed. You are everything that was, is and will be—we are all a signing choir of transmutations." Carl Sagan put it a little more succinctly: “we are made of star-stuff”. Nova sat at her window nearly every night. What she felt then was the same now, words that denied commitment: I look up, and I am home. I am small, and I feel big, and I want to be nowhere else. What a miracle to be alive, on this wild planet, in this system, inside this galaxy, against the ever-expanding universe, at this time, in this moment, sitting across from Constance. I could look up forever. The same material flowed through them: above, below, between. Whatever constituted Nova, made up the body of Constance and whatever lived inside her had kissed Nova too.
You might mistake them as two stars. Look a little closer.
That was all Nova had wanted to say. Her questions were the same asked a millions times, throughout the life of humanity. Her feelings were the same, felt a million ways, in the clumsy humanness of living. I like this, give me more of it. Please don’t stop. Nova reached for Constance’s forearm again. “No comments on my clam? I thought I’d get a clam toast.” She laughed, and drank her champagne at the same time as Constance while her fingers danced over Constance’s veins. Not much had passed between them—in the language of sound, at least. Time dissolved and inside Constance’s eyes, conversations fluttered by. Nova was happy enough to look and remain in orbit.
The spell—whatever it was—was broken when their server moved to the table. Nova nearly started up; her hand snapped away from Constance. She smiled brightly in the automatic response of friendliness. She touched the waiter’s arm instead, laying her fingers lightly against his sleeve. “Oh, we love sharing,” Nova said, winking. She loved sharing, because it was the only way to try multiple things, and there was no way she could afford another visit to The Codfather. Any insinuations from the comment were lost on her. “Definitly celebrating a special occasion,” she added. “So special.” Which was what she had said on the phone, hoping it would alchemize into a different adjective. It never did; she was fearful to commit another word. Special was comfortingly nebulous; Nova adored the easy reach of anything that absolved her of the responsibility of specificity.
Nova flipped to the drinks menu and pointed at the first thing on the list, just to get the server to move on. “We’ll take the Valent—” Her voice caught. She looked down at the menu: a one-day only Valentine’s drink! “That.” She gulped, cheeks prickling with heat. “That thing. Please. Thank you.” She smiled widely at the server until he was gone with a promise to come back later when they were ready to order food. She looked around again, feeling very much like some wool had been removed from her eyes. Nova yanked her phone out of her clutch and swiped to the calendar. “Ah,” she said. Wordlessly, she set her phone down on its face. Nova was very sure of her own stupidity, but even so, it always embarrassed her.
Nova kicked Constance under the table. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Valentine’s?” She leaned across the table. At once, the pink, the PDA, the bizarrely emotional phone call, made terrible sense. “How could you? Why didn’t you say anything? Betrayal! First, I don’t even get a clam toast. You—you giraffe.” Nova groaned and sunk into her seat, pressing her red face to the table. To make matters worse, she had no idea what drink she’d just ordered for them. If it was one of those shared drinks with double straws, she was jumping in the water. Nova smiled sheepishly as she slowly looked up at Constance, still resting her head on the table like a dog. “I didn’t steal you from someone did I?” she asked. “I promise I totally forgot. Oh god…” She lowered her head again, voice muffled. “I think I implied that I was going to propose? I don’t know. I kept saying ‘special’ on the phone. Oh god. That could mean anything!” She whimpered and lifted her head again, pouting. “I want the scallops, by the way. Can we get stuff to share?” Misery was not going to keep Nova from eating.
—
Constance’s gaze rested heavily on Nova, watching the word catch in her throat, watching the red bloom in her face, watching her eyes dart and the realization settle in. It was almost tragic. Constance fought the smirk at her lips, lifting her glass to disguise it—only to feel Nova’s sharp kick at her shin. She sharply set the glass down, eyes narrowing at her friend. “I thought you knew.” For all Constance knew, Nova might have. “It’s just another day.” It wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about. People spent Valentine’s Day with their friends, didn't they? They’d even renamed it. Galentine’s Day or something equally absurd. Constance didn’t see the problem—unless… her eyes flicked up to Nova.
“Nova, I’ve been in town for a little over a month. Do you really think I’ve found someone to spend Valentine’s Day with already?” The idea was ridiculous. As if she had the time, or the inclination, to chase something as trivial as a holiday date. Valentine’s Day was a spectacle she only indulged when she had a partner. She had none. Therefore, it was simply a Saturday. Had she known they would be spending Valentine’s Day together, she might have chosen somewhere quieter. Private. Not that it meant anything. Constance let out a quiet laugh into her glass as Nova continued to spiral. It was entirely Nova—earnest and oblivious. Of course she had not realized the date. The only people who were aware of this were in relationships or bleeding romantics. They were neither.
“It could mean nothing,” Constance reassured. “I highly doubt the staff believe you’re planning a proposal.” A beat. “And on Valentine’s Day? That’s so tacky.” She leaned back in her seat, expression composed, but something sharper glinted in her eyes. “It’s the most predictable day of the year. Everyone’s expecting romance on Valentine’s Day. The restaurant is already staged for a spectacle—candles, champagne, a bloody harp. You don’t even have to try.” Her fingers traced absently along the stem of her glass. “If one were going to propose,” she continued, her tone turning almost academic, like a lecture, “it should feel singular. Not because a holiday demanded it, but because the moment did. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that already belongs to you both.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the water alongside them. Quieter now, softer, she spoke. “Not a performance. Not something that invites applause from strangers.”
Valentine’s Day proposals were for people who mistook timing for meaning. The belief hung there. And, traitorously, her mind supplied her with another night. Years ago. Not February, not roses and hearts. But still, it was carefully arranged. Deliberately witnessed. She had chosen the venue for its view. High enough above the city that the skyline felt private, even with others present. They had the top floor to themselves. Along with family. Friends. Constance told herself it wasn't a spectacle. It was significance. It was intimacy. It was—appropriate. There had even been a string quartet. God. Constance swallowed, her jaw tightening. Constance hadn’t proposed because she was ready—not truly. She had seen the doubt flicker in her partner’s eyes, the ever present quiet question: Are you in this? Fully? Of course she was. She was always in it as much as she could be. It had never seemed enough for anyone. And so Constance had panicked. Not outwardly. Never that. She had loved her. She had wanted to marry her. In some distant, carefully scheduled future—which still counted. But responsibility had already begun to draw tight around her, like a bowstring pulled too far back. Something would demand release. She couldn’t afford the distraction of her partner’s worries.
Constance needed her to believe it. To feel secure. To stop looking at her like she might disappear. So she created a moment. A ring selected months in advance, a speech rehearsed until it sounded natural, a public declaration designed to silence doubt. The tears were real, it had all been real. Later, alone, her partner held her face, eyes red, voice trembling, she whispered, “You’re sure, Connie?” Constance said yes. She meant it. But she had not meant “now”. The distinction mattered. It festered. Quietly. Until it poisoned everything. She hadn’t proposed because the moment demanded it. She had proposed because she was afraid of losing her. Constance hadn’t meant for it. Hadn’t meant to hurt her. But she had. In trying to secure something she wasn’t prepared to fully inhabit, she had fractured it instead. Worst part? She had known. Even then, she had known she was forcing the timing to prove devotion. And she did it anyway.
Constance’s fingers tightened around her glass as she drained the last of it. Valentine’s Day proposals were tacky. But at least those people were honest about wanting to be seen.
You’re lingering, Constance.
Her eyes snapped back to Nova—too quickly, perhaps too vulnerable. Damn. Could Nova still read her the way she had when they were children? Probably not. She hoped not. If therapy had taught her anything, it was how to appear functional. That was all anyone really required. Contents didn’t matter inside a pretty package. Her gaze dropped, recalling what Nova had said. Scallops?
“Yes, that’s fine.” She smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Scallops are great. I don’t mind sharing.” With you. Together. That pulled an easier smile out of her, and one that gleamed in her eyes as she looked at Nova. The way the two of them fell into shape again was not something she wanted to question. Had it felt the same for her? This effortless settling, like two pieces slipping back into an old shape. For Constance, it felt as though it was a space carved long ago that had never quite closed. As if Nova’s outline had remained pressed into her, so deeply she’d forgotten it was even there. It didn’t ache for all those years. Didn’t demand. It simply existed. And when Nova returned to her life, there was no shifting required from her. No shrinking. No rearranging. The space had been waiting. Fit still perfect.
“Nova,” she began softly, her arm sliding across the table, closer. “I really wanted to–”
“Your Valentine’s feature,” the server interrupted with the arrival of the Valentine’s Day drink Nova had ordered. “Limited edition, highly recommended and allegedly known to inspire bold decisions.” He stepped back, giving the two of them a quick glance. “Shall we make this an evening to remember? Or are we still pretending we haven’t looked at the menu?”
Constance hated this man.
—
“Yes,” Nova answered with a gusto that suggested she thought any other answer was ridiculous—and that Constance was ridiculous for it. “Yes, you totally could have someone to spend Valentine’s with. You could walk into The Pile and walk out with an army of dates. If I wasn’t your friend, I’d be…” Nova froze, her hand mid-gesture. Hey, foot. I see you going inside mouth. Think, for once—she could do that. Supposedly there was a brain somewhere inside her skull. “…something. I’d be… something.” Oh, good one. She winced at herself. “Look, my point is: you’re hot. I don’t think being here for over a month…” Nova stilled again, her hand halted inside another passionate gesture. She did the math. So, Constance had been here for a bit before they ran into each other (by happenstance, as her brain would like to remind her). Oh, shut up. Constance didn’t owe her a greeting; she was probably busy settling in; they’d known each other over a decade ago, why would anyone care about that? Anyone normal, at least. It’s perfectly understandable that trauma shapes the—I need to stop talking to myself.
For safety reasons, Nova decided to shut up. She crossed her arms as she listened to Constance explain her romantic opinions with the passion of a professor on their third lecture to a group of sleepy freshmen. She wasn’t wrong exactly, but Nova could do with less slander against the holiday. She hadn’t celebrated a Valentine’s since she was in elementary school, handing out little cards to her classmates. Wasn’t it just a little sweet though? An excuse to be gross about how in-love you were? Nova had spent the time she was actually dating (boys in college, not recommended) being cool about it—oh no, don’t bother, she wasn’t like those other girls. Then she’d dropped out, and there was that dark storm, swirling with smudged memories and dread. She’d forfeited all pretense of romance, of her sexuality, of normalcy; identity was the least of a drowning woman’s concern. She’d hadn’t officially dated anyone since, dancing around the label until she couldn’t, and when she couldn’t, she moved on. Nova liked flowers, she liked chocolates, she liked candles and rose petals on a table. Who didn’t? They just didn’t like her back.
She was not a woman to expect anything from. She was tired of disappointing people, tired of pulling aside her skin only for people to turn away, some better than others at hiding their disgust. Tired, even more, of having to pretend like she didn’t know the thing inside of her was rotten from toe to tip. She imagined herself marked like a toxic insect, bright yellow and orange stripped through her black exoskeleton. Turn away! Do not eat! Nova slumped on her hand, looking at the couples around them. In theory, she understood what it took to be loved; that was exactly why she knew she couldn’t be. It didn’t stop her from wanting it though, even if it was a cliché. Or maybe, when you had nothing, even pennies looked like gold. “Yeah. Stupid.” She sighed, watching a man reach his wife’s hand across the table, rubbing his thumb over her wedding band. “Totally stupid.” If she’d known what the day was, she would’ve suggested a private evening—as friends—but it was too late now.
Nova looked across and it hit her at once: the proposal. Idiot. Yeah, maybe Constance didn’t want a reminder of her engagement. Constance downed her champagne and Nova knew the action for what it was, and she was sorry. Her foot had already sailed directly into her mouth (not in a kinky way, please pick the minds out of the gutters). Constance was going to say something—what? Yes, what is it? She reached for Constance at the same moment Constance reached for her. She never got to touch her.
Nova was startled up by their server, and his overly sweet voice and smug grin. He plopped down the drink—a fishbowl sloshing with a pink cocktail and grenadine floated on top. It was one drink with two bendy, heart-shaped straws. “Oh wow.” She forced a smile. “Pink!” She felt especially miserable about it now, knowing that the most passion she could expect out of the day was an accidental Valentine’s booking with a friend who was about as interested in her—and generally in romance—as Nova was interested in the underside of their table. The height of passion! This and the fucking fishbowl. How much alcohol was in that? She wanted a lot.
“Yep! I definitely want to remember everything about this right now,” she mumbled, leaning on her hand again. She flew through their order; the scallops, a bunch of other things they probably didn’t need and wouldn’t eat and she couldn’t really afford. When he walked away, Nova downed the rest of her champagne. Okay, so, there was no getting back whatever Constance had wanted to say—she could ask, she didn’t think Constance would be honest. And, okay, so there was no way they were going to dredge up Constance’s engagement and talk about that. Nova pulled the fishbowl between them and leaned in, drinking as much as she could get away with before it started to look concerning. She could only hope that it looked like a casual invitation for Constance to ignore the romantic elephant in the pink room.
And what was there to do? What Nova excelled at: playing the fool. “So, do you want to hear about my dream proposal? First: spaceship. Oh, in this reality, we’ve invented interstellar travel. Actually, let’s just go full Star Trek. Earth? All problems solved. Utopia. And we all have those slutty earrings all the Bajorans have. But not as a religious thing, just to be slutty. And—”
Conversation flowed easily, and in time, and with the arrival of their food, Nova lightened up again—enough to pretend again that there was nothing heavier inside of her. And with Constance across from her, enough to forget—in second bursts like solar flares, carrying the warmth on their solar winds—that it existed at all. Peace probably felt a lot like this. Time dissolved, stretched, smeared, fell back to the primordial. Before the expansion, before the violence of cosmic chemistry, there was this.
Then, Nova did forget. She was normal. She was a woman. There was Constance, and it was a nice night, with good food and better conversation. She forgot, she forgot, until the plates were gathered, the drinks emptied, the bill paid and the lull of encroaching midnight filled the air like a fog. She remembered—a fist shoved down into her throat, ripping out of her esophagus to crush her heart. Her misery was an oil well. At once, her body lit with the usual shame: the shame of wanting, the shame of feeling, the shame of living. She had to say goodbye now, because if she didn’t, she’d drown Constance.
She held on to the edge of the tablecloth like a child to a mother’s skirt. “So…” Nova started, smiling without a hint of the bubbling tar inside of her. “Sooo…” She leaned on the table. “What plans do you have for the rest of the night?” That don’t include me. Please don’t include me.
—
If I wasn’t your friend, I’d be…
The words hung in the air, incomplete. Constance’s mind immediately went into motion, the way it had the first time she sat cross-legged on the floor with a puzzle, tiny hands fumbling with uneven edges until pieces finally clicked together. Most children tried to mash the pieces together—not Constance. There was a thrill in the pattern recognition, a quiet satisfaction that had captivated her at a young age. Brainteasers, riddles, logical sequences… she’d chased them relentlessly, drawn to the subtle art of uncovering an answer.
This was no different. People were no different. Watch them close enough, they all had patterns, they all had missing pieces, spaces to fill. Yet, this one carried a weight unlike any puzzle she’d faced before. Constance traced the shape of that blank in her mind, feeling the weight behind the words left unsaid. The puzzle she had been piecing together—her and Nova—it altered right under her fingertips, rearranging itself with every thought that passed through her, each one propelling another forward, and another, until its layout became something almost unrecognizable.
Constance’s chest tightened. The space had been filled—the piece had slid easily into the gap—and so it must be true, right? Right? Or was it only her own projection, a solution her mind had crudely forced into the blank space with all the stubbornness of a child; a simple wish masquerading as logic. She blinked, forcing the moment to dissolve before it could fully settle, though a faint seed had already been planted. It couldn’t—it wouldn’t bloom without attention. Attention that Constance would not give. Not now.
The pink drink was a vibrant, almost alarming shade, and Constance briefly considered letting Nova finish it. She wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with. Alcohol tended to be a social accessory, something to occupy her hands in the bars she hovered through rather than belonged in. But, this was… social. Constance had felt some awkwardness when she realized it was Valentine’s Day, but this was Nova. Nova who, despite the long absence, was likely the longest friendship Constance had ever sustained. The longest she’d gone without ruining it. That had to count for something didn’t it? To have known someone as a child, to have seen them unformed and foolish and bright… only to return to each other as adults. No one else got that perspective. Not even siblings. Not really.
Constance leaned forward and took one of the heart-shaped straws. As a girl, she had loved straws like these—the spiral ones, the way the liquid swirled visibly upward before reaching you. There was something satisfying about it, watching cause and effect so plainly displayed. The drink carried a definite burn. Alcohol, unmistakably so. But, there was still sweetness there, and overall, not the worst drink she has had… nor the worst person she’d shared one with.
When Nova began describing her dream proposal, Constance leaned in again, elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm, eyes bright with an easy, unguarded smile. Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was simply Nova. The conversation followed without effort after that. Even when the waiter interrupted, even when the food came, the pause felt temporary, like the conversation was alive and needed to take a breath, only to resume with the same familiar intensity they had always shared.
At some point, the restaurant thinned out. Tables emptied quietly, candles almost melted through their wick. Constance hadn’t noticed. Her attention had been fixed entirely on Nova. So when Nova asked, “What plans do you have for the rest of the night?” It felt pointed. An invitation disguised as casual curiosity. Constance leaned back slightly. “I don’t have anything planned. This was my Saturday night.” Was that pathetic? Did she care if Nova thought so? Nova had seen pathetic after all. Had seen her bark and howl as a child playing dog just as Constance had seen Nova sit and eat her dinner like a dog. It was a hazy memory in detail, mainly shaped by the wild, yet safe feelings it brought her.
“What about you?” Constance asked, hopeful in her tone. A thought arose in her mind. Her smile shifted—softened into something neutral—before Nova could study it too closely. Nova had told her she had a date every night. Surely tonight, of all nights, wasn’t one of them. Was it?
—
Oh no. Constance didn’t have plans. Oh no, no, no. Where was her excuse now? What was Nova going to do? Pretend like she didn’t want to ask Constance if she could come over? Why did she think Constance would have plans, anyway? What kind of an asshole would try to min-max their social calendar? It would’ve been easier if Constance had just said anything—said she was tired, or wanted to shower, or thought Nova was nice but actually they needed to see other friends.
Nova’s thoughts corralled in her mind: a playground of her facets meeting gravely over the see-saw. Up: Look, do I even need to patrol tonight? Down: Like I’ve ever been able to stop myself. Up: Look at her! Down: Stop looking at her, you creep. Up: Do you think she wants to have sex? The see-saw creaked to a stop, balanced on both ends. Never think that again. Down: I hate myself. Down, down, down. It was convenient that she’d baked in a fun (hotly debated word choice) lie into their conversations. As far as Constance knew, for some really stupid (no debate) reason, Nova had dates every night. Of course Nova didn’t; she didn’t know anyone who had the sort of magnetic pull to arrange that—except for the woman sitting across from her. What other reason could she have come up with for why she was busy every night? Something reasonable and normal?
Pain shot up her arm. Nova followed the sting down to her trembling hand, fiercely balled against the tablecloth. She didn’t want to go, but somewhere, someone in this flyblown town was dying. How could she sit there? How could she enjoy herself? Tomorrow wasn’t owed to Nova, she had to earn it. Nova’s hand loosened. That thing in her head wasn’t a see-saw: it was the pumpjack, swinging up and down working the oil. Honest mistake; if you stare at something long enough, you can turn it into anything you want. It’d been a rocketship once—a very brief stint, and if she was being honest, a stretch. She wasn’t going anywhere. Mentally, at least.
Physically? She was getting the fuck out of here before she said something stupid like: I want to spend the rest of the night with you. Every time she looked at Constance, her resolve to lie withered. Nova shifted, and when she looked again, she wanted to explain that there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Even when the clocks chimed and the magic wore off, when the panic would rend her body and demand she send herself to the meat grinder, she wouldn’t want to go. She would want to be here.
Nova opened her mouth. Nothing came out. I want to stay. Constance didn’t have any plans, she didn’t have any plans, the van was so cold and Constance could start up such warm fires. Please let me stay. Somewhere, someone was dying; Rachel's cracked voice wailed over the sky. Rachel needed her. How could she sit there? Please. In the festering belly of Wicked’s Rest, someone was dying right now. But I like it here. Too bad, you piece of shit. Up, down, up, down, drawing the sick oil up and over. What was she going to do? Let Rachel die again? Oh, she would, wouldn’t she? That miserable, limp, putrid—
A slap pinged over the quieting restaurant; Nova ripped her gaze away from her friend and landed on Noah. Noah was tall and that was the only nice thing to say about him. They’d dated in college, briefly, and while he was the least egregious of the aforementioned college boys (he was endlessly fascinated by the fact that their names were similar), he was still a college boy. Evidently, he hadn’t changed much. He held his hand to his cheek as his date stormed off. He met Nova’s gaze and offered her a thin-lipped smile and an awkward wave with his other hand. He was standing behind Constance, three tables away—a distance long enough away to justify leaving their greeting at a wave. Not that Nova would; he was a great way to bolster her weak excuse.
“Noah!” Nova got up, waving him over and after his awkward lumber towards them, she drew him into a tight hug. He was taller than Constance; he had deep brown eyes like her, but his black hair was a curly mess on his head and he was one of those men who felt he needed the beard to square up his jawline. Which was to say, his height was the only thing that kept him from looking average. In college, that was the only thing that mattered to Nova. She whispered in his ear, “don’t say a word. I will fuck you if you go along with this.”
He pulled back, wide-eyed for a moment. He looked at his vanished date then back at Nova and then down the neckline of her dress, over the curves of her hips. He nodded, wrapping an arm around her waist. No, he hadn’t changed much.
“Constance, this is Noah. Noah, this is Constance and—Oh shit!” Nova whacked his chest. “Sorry, I lost track of time. You were coming to get me, right? For our movie?” Noah nodded like a bobblehead. “Yep, for…” What the fuck was in theatres now? “...Crime 101. That movie… that we’re so thrilled about. Hope it’s informative!” She loved Noah, just a little, for laughing at her stupid joke. “Wait for me outside?” He nodded again in that dopey, neckless way, and strode off with his chest thrust high.
Nova turned, but she couldn’t look at Constance; she looked over her head, or to the side of her, or at her hands. Nova’s body burned all over, prickling with shame. It was a very bad lie: maybe Constance had noticed Noah before, sitting at the restaurant. Maybe Constance would look up showtimes and realize that Crime 101 wasn’t showing at some sleepy time of night. It didn’t matter. Constance’s mind would fill in the gaps with the easiest answer. All she had to do now was make sure Constance’s mind moved away from the really wrong answers.
“I had a lot of fun,” Nova said slowly, in a sheepish way that made even the truth wobble like a lie. Some job she was doing convincing Constance that she wasn’t running away, while actively running away. And how exactly did she come to think she was some kind of hero? Miserable, stupid, disgusting— “I’ll see you soon?” She needed to go. Her eyes drifted to Constance’s finally, and she hoped none of her rot was visible. What she wanted never mattered. Wicked’s Rest would take, unless she stopped its mouth from closing; and all she could do to stop the oil from drowning her was to try. I want to stay. “Sorry about this.”
—
Constance’s gaze remained on Nova, studying her for an answer. Looking for the slightest shift in Nova, curl of her lip, a knit of her brow, anything that would speak to Constance before words did. It would provide Constance a fraction of a moment to ensure her reaction wouldn’t—couldn’t spill all over her face. Hope had been snuffed out, even a spark was enough to set ablaze to the fortress she had built. Nova was the heat that could melt it all down. Maybe that was why the universe kept an ocean between them all these years. Why their encounters were brief, temporary. And for a stretch of time, nonexistent. But the universe made a mistake. Like a moth to flame, or one magnet to another, their connection was inevitable, no matter the distance. Better to have created these two forces on separate galaxies—yet even then, while it might have taken billions of years, their waltz would eventually have ended in a violent merge. No force in existence could keep them apart forever.
A sound caught her ears and her eyes left Nova to look in its direction, noting it, but not quite turning her head to get the full picture. Only then did she catch movement from Nova and a name—Noah? He came into view, shattering the scene. He didn’t fit into Constance’s sight the way Nova had. She always had a way of staying right in frame and if Constance ever did adjust, whether with a turn of her head, or a shift back in her seat, it was movement akin to breathing. Unnoticed, natural. The tilt of her chin to bring him into view felt wrong; he ruined the shot, made her pull back, disconnect.
Constance’s eyes took in Noah the way a predator assessed their prey. The hair that couldn’t have even been bothered to be styled, read easily as such. The beard, while decent growth, hadn’t been shaped nor moisturized. Even his outfit, Constance couldn’t fathom what kind of man didn’t own an ironing board—hell, they even made handheld steamers. When Nova embraced him, Constance averted her eyes—just a moment, as both turned their focus to each other. She had a second to process and seal it shut before flicking her eyes back to them. Her gaze dropped, imperceptively, acknowledging the hand snaking around Nova’s waist before shifting her focus back.
Nova’s voice reached Constance’s ears and she listened, truly. She’d be able to tell you Nova was going to the movies with Noah and they were going to see Crime 101. Constance was good at that. She was good at listening, she was good at being able to sift through information and gather its most important points to find its meaning. It was why she was an archivist; she sorted through the mess and made sense of it. However, with Nova, she didn’t enjoy doing that. Constance enjoyed being present, letting herself hear everything because everything Nova said was important to her. Even her rambles. Constance could recognize what was happening—of course she could. Constance was self-aware in a way that would give most therapists a complex. It didn’t mean she could stop herself from doing it. No, in moments like this it was best to keep disengaged and wait for the eventual departure. She was shutting down; her failsafe, triggered.
When Noah turned to leave, it took a blink, and Constance attuned herself back to Nova, eyes softening. Not that Nova would have noticed. Not because one couldn’t notice the way her brown eyes melted into Nova’s shape, but because Nova wasn’t looking. Constance’s gaze remained steady, as if willing Nova to meet it. Yet when she did, Constance blinked once more and gave a polite nod, breaking the contact. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. Go enjoy yourself now.”
Go. An attempt for Constance to feel like she had some sort of control in this; that Nova’s departure was finalized with Constance’s command. Like that made it easier to swallow, as if it softened the fist that had gripped her chest.
It didn’t.
As Nova turned and left, Constance remained. She watched Nova leave. She had to. Even as the fist twisted, even as it fell heavy into her stomach—even naming it—Jealousy—didn’t rid her of it. Naming it didn’t give her authority. Naming it didn’t give her the power to banish it, like a demon, back into the depths from whence it came.
Like any being in existence, Constance needed connection. It was biologically engrained in her no matter how much she wished it wasn’t. It was a nature she couldn’t slip out of like a dress that no longer fit. And god, did it not fit. It dug into her, embedded itself, left raised marks on her skin that Constance could almost feel with her own fingers. Denying nature wasn’t an easy feat. On lonely nights, nights where she had forgotten how danger’s breath felt on her skin, Constance dreamt. She dreamt of a life where she could settle down. Where she could allow herself the luxury of being known by another. She fantasized about issues turning simple—what would they cook for dinner? The dog tore up your slipper. The children won’t eat their vegetables. I missed you, you’ve been working too much. In those moments, that dream didn’t seem so far away, didn’t seem so forbidden. She could have it, couldn’t she? She deserved it.
Then she would pull the trigger as danger’s breath left a cold spot on her neck and she’d come back to reality, come back down to Earth.
It couldn’t be hers. It could never be hers.
There was no retiring. There was no happy ending in this life. She had pledged her fealty to her family and she would live by her sword and die by it.
But, Nova. Her old friend. She didn’t bear the weight of responsibilities that Constance did. It was a weight even Atlas couldn’t comprehend. He carried a single world. Constance had two. Nova had the freedom, she had the luxury to live a normal life. To date. Hell, even the ability to find people who wanted to sleep with you was a privilege to Constance. To be able to allow yourself to indulge, to take. It was a crude form of human connection—but it was still a connection. Now, the stirring of jealousy made sense. Why it sparked at the sight of Nova with someone else and made a home inside Constance after Nova left. Nova could have that. Constance couldn’t. And she envied her for it.
As Nova had disappeared from view, off to enjoy the rest of her night, it became clear to Constance. She had carried that hope, albeit buried within her all these years. But now, as she sat alone at the table, as she remained in Nova’s echo, a thought cemented in her mind.
It was just a dream. And it was time to wake up.
—
I want to stay. Nova turned, feeling scolded more than released. She walked through the restaurant with her shame dripping and the stares of the staff confirming to her that yes everyone could see it. Someone told her to have a nice night and she croaked something unintelligible, the sound of a swallowed sob. She was puckered, or shriveled, maybe—her organs were collapsing up in a churning spiral and her skin was peeling away from itself. She’d felt—not the way someone watched a smile turn into a frown or noticed the loss of heat from a snuffed candle. She’d felt in that nebulous way fortune tellers tugged on fictional threads to regurgitate confirmed beliefs. She’d felt something fall over Constance, or up, or sideways, or like the teeth of a rusted trap creaking shut again. She’d felt Constance close, but she had nothing to point to. It wasn’t the tone of her voice—polite. Or her face—polite. Or her words—also polite. It had to be pointed at with the same vigor of examination that turned background smudges into proof of ghosts. She knew, in some incalculable way, that Constance had shifted. To what—she didn’t know. Why—she also didn’t know. What she could do about it—she knew even less. Nova could only grasp the shoulders of the world and scream: I know Constance and I felt that. Who would listen? And what could she explain about it if someone did? The that that she was feeling was… what? Nova clawed at thick ice, truth buried under nothing and frozen over and over again to leave her surface of emotion smooth and unbreaking. It was the oil well again; bad things happened if she tried to dig. The ice, the oil, the bubonic muck of her life. She and Constance were childhood friends, not adult friends—not exactly. If anything, it was some wishful thinking and sooner or later she had to stop doing that.
Nova braced against the cold. Let me go back inside. “Go enjoy yourself” was a phrasing she should have argued against; what was she meant to enjoy away from the place she wanted to be? Noah talked. He wanted to know if she really did want to see Crime 101, he heard Thor was in that. I want to go back. Nova pushed past him, brushing his chest with her shoulder. Okay, so were they taking his car or hers, he wanted to know. He was parked right over there and—I will turn around and I will walk back inside. Nova leaned over to the window, she couldn’t see Constance. Was she still sitting? Noah asked her if she was okay, she was looking a little pale, and she kept chewing the inside of her cheek. Okay, now she was really worrying him, because her lip was bleeding and she kept bending her neck back.
“Fuck you,” she said, spitting blood down on the ground. This part was never fun, but she’d gotten very good at it. “I hate you, you’re sad, stupid, I don’t want to look at you and I definitely don’t want to sleep with you.” And when he laughed, thinking probably she was joking and maybe this was foreplay, Nova committed the grand act of assholery and sniped his appearance, and the size of a certain appendage. Humans had trouble balancing two opposing ideas, no one ever succeeded in holding two worlds: either she was a good person or a bad one. To Noah, she couldn’t be both. In two seconds, with the right words, she could unspool and recolor college memories. She’d been a bitch all along, he’d think, real crazy. He said as much, anyway.
I am going back. She marched on and climbed into her van. I am walking back to the restaurant. She started her coughing van and drove off. I am sitting down again, I am telling Constance that I don’t want to see the movie. Nova parked near an alley in Worm Row, peeling off Amanda’s red dress—had Constance liked it?—and pulling on her patrol gear. We are walking around at night, because it’s a nice night, and I show her Venus. By the time her boots were tied, her thoughts died into their usual prodding mantra: I am worthless. But she could take her shame, and her guilt, and her self-loathing, and transmute into the necessary form: someone who was willing to fight. The walking couples, tangled around each other, burned in her periphery.
The night was a good one, in the end. She’d saved a couple from another couple of hungry spawn. The bleeding calf and the popping in her shoulder meant nothing to her. Hobbling back to her van, she imagined herself driving to the hospital. She pictured the roads as she crawled onto her mattress, curling her body around nothing. She saw the turns she needed to take, the traffic lights she’d curse at. Afterwards, all patched up, she’d drive to Nightfall Grove and to a certain mansion. Nova closed her eyes; her fantasy sputtering for a hollow, dreamless sleep.
