Page 126 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls

Skye – 7:30 pm

Ha, fair.

Love you, my protector.

Celene wanted to bite back her smile and failed. “You know, they have cars in Yielding.”

Twirling a pretend lasso, Nadine’s attempt at a ‘yeehaw’ needed a lot of work. It was ridiculous—and heavily appreciated. “Whatever. She’s runningtoyou; this one won’t run away.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

Celene – 7:34

I love you, too, Nature Girl.

The next thirtyminutes with Celene’s friends loosened up, sprinkled with banter, and, unsurprisingly, more bickering when Nadine stole a bite of Dante’s pesto panini. Though this time, Celene could join in laughter without the dark barrier of her sunglasses.

Buzzing from the martini, her subway ride home didn’t bother her. She made a detour into one of her favorite shops for quick bites, filling a metal basket with a baguette, mozzarella, basil, jam, and anything else that evoked the intimacy of a picnic. Even if it’d be indoors, at Celene’s table, usually outfitted for a party of one. Those times in her own company were fortifying and sacred, yet Skye wouldn’t impede that energy.

Celene had ample time to shower and outfit herself in a loose, off-the-shoulder crew neck and shorts in breathable material. To really wrap herself in comfort.

Who was she kidding? She wished to come off as touchable, willing those graceful hands onto her without a verbal request.

And in all her preparation, Celene’s senses still blurred at Skye—in the flesh, present in the place she once called her sanctuary.

“I had to parallel park,” Skye groaned in the doorway ten minutes later, threading fingers into her flat-ironed hair and effectively diffusing the tension. “I disrupted an extra-large flock of pigeons, though.”

“Excuse you,” Celene volleyed back, “those pigeons are our valets. They’re remarkably competent drivers.” They laughed as she tugged Skye into the apartment.

Celene didn’t hesitate to commemorate this first visit with her hand on Skye’s jaw, submerging them in the depths of a long kiss. The wall ornaments, the contents of her open-face shelves, the blinds on her windows floated off into the annals of space, leaving her swallowed into the darkness behind her eyelids, wrapped in Skye’s arms and the warmth of honeysuckle.

Was this how it felt to be rescued?

To be adrift, displaced amongst everything she thought she’d known. Then, someone hoisted Celene up before she realized how far she’d sunk into her own unhappiness.

“I brought your fuchsia.”

No other statement could’ve pulled Celene away from Skye’s lips. She parted, both of them catching their breath. “Which one?”

“Your photosynthetic one.” Skye extracted the heavy pot from a canvas bag on her shoulder, the tubular flowers trembling. “Your Forever Fuchsia’s at my studio, about eighty-five percent complete. Using this as a reference sped up my progress. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that sooner.” And with a timid wink, she produced a bottle of red wine. “I got us this, too.”

It’d pair splendidly with their meal—curated, private, and impeccable. Celene thanked her, lips curling to herself as she brought it into the kitchen to chill.

She rarely threw around the word ‘dreamy,’ butdamn, she couldn’t deny it. That’d been so effortless.

With Skye’s shoes and bags stowed away, Celene returned the beloved fuchsia to her usual place in the bedroom, suspended near a humidifier.

After washing her hands, Skye wandered around the rectangle of Celene’s room. Eyeing her minimalism, the whites and teals of fabrics, her yoga and meditation section, and—Celene shook her head when Skye pointed—the only cluttered part. The area now holding three cardboard boxes of books. Reading more than ever in Yielding, her occasional single purchase from various bookstores multiplied, regardless of her library visits.

“Ignore that. I’ve been meaning to take them into storage. Or to the Vale house. Just to get it out of my face.”

Skye saw right through her, pinning Celene with, “Why haven’t you?”

Celene raised a high brow, then shook her head. “I like seeing them, my books. But another shelf in here would congest the area. I could set something up out in the living room...” Why did that question catch her so off guard? She cleared her throat. “I didn’t realize how much I’d like looking at the books I finished. Rereading’s not uncommon for me?—”

“It’s okay to be attached to your books,” Skye said. Simply judgment-free.

“Taking up unnecessary space is wasteful.”