There was a faint light behind the windows, and when she knocked, she almost expected Uncle Carl to call out for her to "come in, unless you're a cop or a churchman".

Instead, a shadow moved behind the frosted glass, getting closer and closer until it swallowed up most of the light in the hallway. "Who's there?" a very different familiar voice called.

Her response, "it's me", was awash with relief and was met with a sigh of the same kind. Clicks. The scraping of a latch. Turn of a lock.

The door swung open, and there was Jeanie, a toothbrush sticking out from between her lips, a smudge of toothpaste on her chin. She didn't seem surprised to see her, merely guided her inside by the elbow, craning her neck to check the street left and right before locking up again.

Jeanie mumbled something, cupping her hand under her mouth, and hurried off to where Mary knew the bathroom to be.

This was as far as her plan had gone, if you could even call it that. She stayed where she was, listening to the sounds of water running and being spat out, gurgling down a drain that should've been unclogged a long time ago. Her body was heavy, the tip of her fingers like scale weights, as was her mind. She didn't really want to think; she just wanted to go back to fifteen minutes ago, when she was still alive with the magic of folk songs and spinning around on a hardwood floor.

Jeanie returned to the hallway, coming to stand before her. Brown eyes took her in, inquisitive, yet it didn't feel like criticism when it was Jeanie doing it. She was already ready for bed; curls wild and loose as people deemed her to be, jeans and shirt exchanged for a tight tank top. She'd taken off the key necklace, and the freckled skin of her chest seemed forlorn without it. Not that Mary was looking. No, never that.

Her balance was a little woozy again, and she forced herself to focus on Jeanie's face, the sharp, minty scent of her toothpaste. There was a pile of boxes next to her, towering high and blocking off half of the space, and she could all but restrain herself from using it to keep herself upright.

"This a sleepover?" Jeanie broke the silence.

Mary was nodding before she'd thought it through. "Yes. I have no desire to sleep in the same bed as my husband right now."

Jeanie nodded too. "You don't wanna go to your mom's? I only have the one mattress, y'know." She said it so casually, scratching her neck, gazing up at her from under her lashes.

It unlocked one of those memories that only surfaced when she'd had too much. The last time they'd shared a bed, not knowing it wouldn't happen again, tangled limbs under the sheets, the window open to let out that sweet smell of forbidden love. How they'd ever been able to sleep with their bodies flush against each other was a mystery to her; as an adult, she needed her space, from George, the kids when they were young, or she'd lie staring at the ceiling until the sun rose and set their room alight.

This was exactly why she shouldn't be anywhere near any alcohol. With a clear head, she wouldn't have stayed out so late. She wouldn't have argued with George. She wouldn't have ended up here. And she would've never in a million years said: "Can I borrow a T-shirt, like old times?"

But now she did.

Something had shifted. Before, this had seemed like a short excursion away from her current life, something temporary she'd be looking back on with fondness in a couple of months, when Georgie would be married, she'd be a devoted grandmother, and Jeanie had returned back to her bar and her colorful collection of friends. Something she could get back from.

Now she stood next to a mattress on the floor, in a borrowed T-shirt that referenced some sort of punky band that Missy would surely have known, and her knees buckled, and her breathing came heavy, and there was a tingling in her belly that was bordering on nauseating. The shower she'd taken had sobered her up enough to grasp the reality of what getting into this bed could, no would, mean, and she wasn't sure she had the guts. So far, she'd justified her every action with the fact that she was allowed to have a friend, especially if she'd be a godly influence on the person.

She could not bend those reasons enough to apply them to this situation, and she started to wonder if she'd misjudged her own strength and it was Jeanie who was changing her.

Jeanie was already in bed, facing away towards the wall, only her shoulders and head emerging from the sheets. She was still, too still, as if she wasn't even breathing, and for a fleeting second, Mary was overcome with the worry she somehow died. Then, she rolled over. "It's small, I know," Jeanie commented, patting the full double she was lying on. Maybe she imagined it, but it was as if Jeanie couldn't bring herself to look at her. "Wouldn't blame you if you went to your mom's after all."

She should have, and she regretted she hadn't, tugging nervously at the shirt that barely covered her hips. She wasn't used to being this exposed in front of another person, and she felt like she was teetering on the edge of something unknown. Before she could lose her cool, she gave in to her buckling knees and sat down on the edge. "Mandy's there," she said, and it was a perfectly good reason.

Jeanie laughed, propping herself up on her elbow, chin supported by her hand. She didn't shave her armpits; it matched her curly hair, and with her upper body at an angle like this, her breasts were squeezed together, tanktop scandalously low, and too much was visible. "So?"

She looked away, pretending to search for something in the pile of clothes that belonged to her. Her hands were shaking. Maybe this was a mistake. "You think she'll ever marry my son if she sees me leaving my house in the middle of the night after a fight with my husband?"

There was a snort, and she felt the sheets shift under her. "Get in here, you," Jeanie ordered fondly, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw the sheets had been opened wide, welcoming her.

Mary shifted to her knees, crawling in, counting to ten in the hopes that Jeanie would have covered all of them again once she'd lain down next to her — all the tanned, freckled skin she should've never seen again.

There wasn't enough time to contemplate what position she should take and which side she should face, so she settled on her back, her hands intertwined on her stomach, hoping Jeanie wouldn't notice her trembling. The small light on the floor was turned off, and she dared to glance toward the woman beside her.

A streak of moonlight cast a soft glow on her face, so close to hers, and Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd been near something so beautiful. Jeanie watched her intently, withdrawn in the sheets like a turtle with its shell. "You happy you married George, then?" It came out soft and subdued, like she feared it would scare her away.

Which was stupid. It was a simple question. "Yes, of course," she responded, with full conviction, "we've got three great kids. I don't know what I'd be without them."

"Mm," Jeanie responded, dropping onto her back as well. It felt like an attack. "You think me and my insurance man Herb would've had kids?"

This was it. The breakthrough, much closer than Mary could've ever expected. Her heart thumped eagerly in her chest, and she could barely breathe, because maybe, maybe, Jeanie wasn't a lost cause after all. "Oh, wouldn't that be nice," she said, "we could've raised them together, you and me. Wouldn't that have been wonderful?"

"I don't know." Jeanie turned her head. She was frowning, for some reason. "Would it?"

The seriousness of the tone stunned her into silence, and for the first time, she contemplated a different side of the scenario. Jealousy. Discontent. Regrets. The enthusiasm she'd mustered up so suddenly had slipped away; her heart calmed down again. "Well, at least we would've been together." It fell from her lips, another truth coaxed on by the alcohol in her blood.

It made Jeanie smile. "Or," she said, "we could've gone to San Francisco, just the two of us. I'd have the bar now, and you would've had a degree in something and be, I don't know, a pilot or something. And sometimes I'd go with you, and we'd fly all over the world."

It should've made her laugh; the idea was ridiculously far-fetched. But it struck her then that being married with kids might be just as outlandish to Jeanie as this vision was to her. She remembered then that she'd once wanted to grow up to be a pilot. It'd seemed like a kind of magic back then, and if she was honest, it still did, no matter how many times Sheldon explained it was pure gravity.

"Mare."

Jeanie reached for her, careful fingers touching her chin, forcing Mary to look at her. The brown of her eyes glinted in the moonlight, and Mary couldn't help but drink in the shape of her soft lips, the tilt of her brows, the lashes casting spidery shadows on her cheek. "You, are wonderful," she said, "kids or no kids. Pilot or no pilot. I'm just saying, we didn't have much choice. Mandy does. Don't you think she's kinda brave, following her own path?"

She thought of an answer, wanted to give it, but Jeanie was tracing the line of her face, from her ears to her chin, very slowly, causing an eruption of goosebumps to form. The urge to shudder rose from inside of her, though if she did, she might lose Jeanie's touch, and that seemed catastrophic at that moment, so she kept still, holding her breath.

"If you'd had another choice besides rushing into marriage, wouldn't you have at least considered it?"

She had. She'd never admitted it to anyone, but of course she had. Endlessly. Not just the drastic, soul-crushing options, no. Options like going to California to track down Jeanie's grandma. Options like leaving and taking out ads in multiple local newspapers until Jeanie saw one and responded. Options that were no options at all, just desperate daydreams.

She didn't say it. She stared a long, long time, not breathing, unintentionally conveying the answer with her eyes — they locked onto Jeanie's, and she couldn't move, realizing they were breathing the same air, that they were chest to chest, closer and closer, like they were being pushed towards each other by the force of gravity itself. A hand on her thigh, suddenly, sending sparks of heat over her skin, lighting her up from the inside. It was impossible to think, outside of the words closer, closer, closer, so she brought her forehead to Jeanie's.

Jeanie's breath hitched, eyelids fluttering. "We..." she managed, "we should go to sleep."

They should. Mary knew they should. So many things she should. She should stay away from Jeanie. Should be in bed with her husband. Should be asleep. Should be thinking about God and Jesus and her kids and the Kingdom of Heaven.

Yet, there was a fire pit burning bright inside of her, one she hadn't lit in so many years, one she had foolishly believed she was strong enough to resist now. How, how could two women be so connected they could've melted into each other, and why, why was the Lord so cruel as to make that impossible for man and woman?

The hand withdrew, the place where it had rested immediately cool, and Jeanie turned away, so fast, so abruptly.

"It would've been you." Mary didn't know why, but she had to say it in case the message hadn't been clear. It electrified her, as she realized the truth of it, as it spread to all fibers of her being, tainted all her memories, all the choices she'd ever made. "Oh God, it would've been you."

She'd fooled herself with church, bibles, children, china, and neat, pretty dresses, convinced herself she'd vanquished the devil, while all she'd done was keep him at bay.

If she'd known where Jeanie had been sent, she could've come clean to her parents and gone with her. Perhaps this sin inside of them could've only been defeated with the two of them together.

The sliver of moonlight had moved away from them. In the dark, Jeanie shushed her, pulling her close, wrapping herself around her, drawing her fingers through her hair. She held her like that, and Mary held on desperately.

Until the both of them fell quiet, knowing the morning would be new.