Minutes later, they pulled into the grassy stretch of Centennial Park and tucked their scooters beside one of the few shady spots. Bette unclipped her helmet and shook out her hair, very aware that Emily was watching her, biting her lip as if she wanted to devour her, which was something Bette wouldn’t mind. Not at all.
“See something you like?” Bette asked, slipping the backpack off her shoulders. She had packed a picnic blanket, grapes, crackers, and some soft cheese. Nothing fancy.
Emily winked. “You have no idea.” She stepped forward, taking one end of the picnic blanket Bette had just pulled out and helped her shake it open. “If we weren’t so far from your place, I’d say let’s go back for a quick… you know.”
And Bettedidknow. She knew exactly what Emily meant and she hated that she couldn’t just slip under the covers, settle between Emily’s thighs, and fuck her with her tongue.
Bette snorted out a laugh. “You know, if we’d just stayed in bed this morning, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d look so hot on a scooter,” Emily replied.
“You mean a hot mess?” Bette asked, sitting down on the blanket when every part of her wanted to get right back on that scooter and sprint off to her cottage.
But there was a time and place for everything.
“You’re the opposite of a hot mess,” Emily said, joining her, sitting so close her knee brushed the side of Bette’s thigh. “Which is one of the reasons I actually fell in love with you.”
Bette froze. Her hand stopped midway to the container of grapes, her entire body stiffened as though someone had just yelled, “Freeze!” Slowly, as if terrified the moment might shatter into a thousand incomprehensible pieces, Bette turned to Emily and muttered, “You…what?”
Emily, on the other hand, looked equally as stunned. Her eyes widened, and her face turned about three different shades of red in the span of two seconds. Her lips parted but no sound came out. She only stared at Bette with a sort of deer-in-headlights kind of panic.
“Did you just—?” Bette started but she was cut off.
“No,” Emily muttered, shaking her head. Her hands flew up, palms out as if she was warding off an attack. “I mean—No, that’s not what I meant.” She groaned, dragging both hands down her face before letting them fall into her lap. “Can we just pretend I didn’t just say that? Forget it completely. Let’s… Let’s enjoy the picnic.” She grabbed a cracker and bit into it with more force than necessary.
But there was no forgetting that comment, no skimming past Emily’s confession. Just like there was no denying the fact that Bette had already thought about falling in love with Emily, not just once, or twice, but more times than she cared to admit.
“You said you loved me,” Bette mumbled, not sure what else to say.
“No,” Emily said quickly, pointing a half-eaten cracker at her. “I said I fellinlove with you. That’s a completely different thing. I’ve fallen in love with a lot of things. Cheesecake. I’m always falling in love with cheesecake.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Emily groaned again, this time shutting her eyes. For a few long seconds, Bette just watched her, wondering if she should tease her out of the mess or let her squirm. The latter sounded the most appealing.
Emily peeked one eye open, her mouth pressing into a tight line. “Will you just lie,” she said sighing. “Just tell me you fell in love with me too so this whole thing can be less awkward. You can ghost me tomorrow. I’ll completely understand.”
Bette moved closer, so close that she was basically on top of her. “I’m not going to ghost you, Emily. Just like I’m not going to admit that I fell in love with you. Rather,” she added, feeling nervous all of a sudden, so much so that she wasn’t sure if the sweat at the back of her neck was from the heat or the fact that she was going to open up her heart like it was a delicate gift. “I’m going to tell you that Iloveyo?—”
Before the words had fully left her mouth, Emily’s lips were on hers, fingers threading into Bette’s hair, drawing her even closer. She could taste the saltiness of the cracker, or maybe it was something else. Wait. Were there tears falling down Emily’s cheeks?
When the surgeon finally pulled back, her voice breathless and warm, she rested her forehead against Bette’s. “I love you too, Bette Bridge.”
EPILOGUE
FIVE YEARS LATER
Emily dipped the paintbrush into a can of soft sage paint and swished it against the plaster. The walls were beginning to take shape, moving away from the prison-cell chic the previous owners had painted it to a more welcome-home-and-put-your-feet-up kind of tone.
It was a Saturday morning and Emily and Bette, who took off most weekends, were renovating their new home. A double-story Craftsman-style house they’d bought on a whim after falling in love with it just less than two months ago. It was a work in progress—a massive work in progress—but that didn’t stop them from putting in an offer. Not only was it perfect for the two of them, but it was also a street down from the beach and walking distance to Oakridge. Not to mention that it had tons of potential—wide porches, classic white railings, large windows letting in plenty of light. Bette had insisted on restoring the original trim, the kind that was too detailed to be seen in newer homes, and Emily had insisted on choosing earthy tones to complement the natural light flooding through every room.
The only problem now was the splatters of color on the living room floor, the sides of thekitchen island, and—most notably—on the back of their border collie they adopted nearly four years ago. Herbert, or who Bette calledour beloved son, had run right through the paint earlier and managed to smear some of it all over his back, his front paws, and the underside of his tail.
Luckily, the herringbone flooring was set to be installed next week. Emily could never forgive Herbert if he got paint all over her perfect floors. That was a lie. She’d die for Herbert if she had to.
“I can’t believe we’re spending our three-year anniversary doing this,” Emily said, glancing over her shoulder at Bette, who was sanding down the edges of a doorframe with the intensity of someone trying to make it perfect. “When you said we were doing something special this year, I thought we were going to try that new Italian place downtown.”
“Renovating our new home definitely beats a creamy Carbonaro,” Bette said, abandoning the sander. “And we can order pasta if that’s what you feel like”
