She'd felt it growing this time. The love.

As kids, neither of them had noticed it; it was just a fact they agreed on one day, as if they'd always known. Playing pretend had given them a safe excuse to explore these exhilarating new feelings they harbored for each other. If Jeanie was her husband returning home safe from war, there should be kissing, obviously. If Eddie Myers was going to ask one of them to Winter Formal, they should practice some more, in case he'd lean in during the slow dance at the end of the night.

She remembered Eddie nearing in on her under the swelteringly hot theater lights, wishing she were wrapped around Jeanie back in the storm cellar under her daddy's house, tingling all over with the idea this would one day happen for real, with the boys all the girls at school were drooling over.

She remembered Jeanie waiting for her under the bleachers, as promised. The rattling of a crushed can of Dr. Pepper as she kicked it at the metal fence. "What was it like?" she asked, facing away.

"Don't know," she shrugged, because she didn't.

"Oh," Jeanie said then, finally looking at her, the can, flatter than a pancake, forgotten at her feet. "Maybe he never practiced?"

Funny. Her heart should've been beating this fast ten minutes ago, when Eddie's mouth had been on hers, but there'd been a delay, it seemed. Because this was the moment it had started hammering in her chest, watching Jeanie trying to disguise her relief with a serious frown. Eddie was a fool, asking her out when he could've taken the prettiest girl in the whole of Texas.

They hadn't known much about life at that point, though they believed they knew it all, and better. They didn't know their ride, Mary's mom, had passed out drinking during a card game, burying her own set of regrets. Didn't know they would ever have regrets bigger than kissing a boy at a school dance. Didn't know it was better to be careful, that they shouldn't be so close on school grounds.

All they did know was that Jeanie kissed her again and she kissed her back, and that, for their part, they could keep on doing that until the cows came home.

But the cows did come home, albeit two years later, and there'd been no kissing since.

Mary woke up that Sunday morning on an unfamiliar mattress in a familiar house, enveloped in the scent of sleep and Jeanie and the faint smell of decay that they hadn't been able to defeat yet, and was overcome with jitters of the kind that could destroy a woman to the core.

Nothing had happened — just two friends sleeping in the same bed — but it felt like something had, like she had betrayed George and marriage and everything she thought she believed in. She'd always considered infidelity to be something tangible, a clear line she would never cross. Then why did it feel like she'd jumped over the boundary last night, two feet in the air at the same time?

She dared to open her eyes. The other pillow was empty, a slight indent of a head visible. She reached out to feel if it was warm. It wasn't.

Seemed like one of them still possessed some dignity. And surprisingly, it wasn't her.

She'd been a fool for thinking she could fight it. It wasn't like it'd been Jeanie who'd led her astray in their youth; no, they'd been partners in crime, equally responsible for it all.

The only difference now was that they were both old enough to know better. The abandoned space beside her signified that Jeanie was aware of it too. They both had their lives. They couldn't do this again.

Slowly, she dragged her heavy body out of bed, when she picked up another scent: pancakes. A faint sizzle of a frying pan, clattering of dishes, and, she realized with a shock, voices.

Her head was thrumming with confusion. She pulled on some socks, wanting to avoid the dusty floors, and moved towards the sounds of utensils clanking against a skillet, interwoven with subdued chattering. Her stomach lurched; she was suddenly starving, so she increased her step.

The stove was burning; two pancakes sizzled in melted butter, filling the kitchen with the delicious smell of batter with cinnamon, Jeanie's favorite spice. A plate with a small stack of them had been placed in the center of the rickety dinner table, which was set for three. Because next to Jeanie, who was waving around a spatula, stood no one other than Missy, absentmindedly stirring a whisk in a metal bowl. They were chattering away happily, Jeanie still in her tank top, curls bundled messily in the nape of her neck, Missy in jeans and a shirt.

Mary couldn't move. The sight should've sent her into a panic; instead, it took her breath away — she imagined how she would smile, say 'good morning,' hug her daughter before sneaking her arms around Jeanie's waist. Showing affection like she hadn't in years, not since Missy had been small enough to fit in her lap, to gaze up at her like she wasn't a boring adult who sabotaged all her attempts to have fun.

She'd promised herself before Georgie was born that she would raise them better than her mother had. She wasn't entirely sure if she'd succeeded at that.

Jeanie was the first to notice her. She halted mid-sentence, spatula frozen in the air, mouth stuck on an "o"-shape. A noticeable shiver ran down her spine as her eyes raked down Mary's body, lingering on her bare legs.

Missy looked over her shoulder, eyebrows rising higher the lower she got, and Mary tugged at the T-shirt, wishing it'd at least cover her thighs. "Whoa," Missy said, "Mom, I've never seen you look so... young."

"Thank you, Missy," she scoffed, while Jeanie fought a smirk. She did understand where her daughter was coming from; she didn't think she'd ever shown so much skin in the vicinity of her kids, and Missy surely thought her wardrobe to be blandly old-fashioned.

"She just means you look very beautiful." Jeanie said it so matter-of-factly, her attention focused on loosening a pancake that got a little stuck to the skillet, that Mary thought she must've misheard.

She sucked in a breath, grasping the nearest chair for support. A couple months ago, she'd been sitting in the pews, listening to a sermon about vanity and humility, and now, she found herself in a punk band T-shirt being complimented by a woman who slept with other women, and her heart betrayed her and fluttered at the words.

Luckily, Missy had turned back to frown at Jeanie, apparently not in agreement with that translation, or Mary would've had to explain her shaking knees. She drew back a chair and set herself down on it, burying her vaguely throbbing head in her hands.

"Give her the Tylenol," she heard Jeanie say. There was a clank — Missy had dropped a container of painkillers on her plate. She was smiling nervously, pushing a glass of water toward her.

"Thanks, baby," Mary managed. If it hadn't been for the headache, she would've mustered up the decency to be embarrassed. First, Missy witnessed her crawling out from a bed that was not her own, wearing a lesbian's clothes, and now, she had to own up to having drunk too much. She swallowed the pills, flushing them down with the water, her daughter watching her with scarcely veiled interest. Only then did it dawn on her that Missy shouldn't even have been there. "What are you doing here, by the way?" she asked. Missy was in her light blue jeans with the flower stitching, paired with her red checkered button-up. Her mind was still foggy, but she was pretty sure she'd been wearing the same clothes yesterday.

Missy exchanged an understanding glance with Jeanie, who draped an arm around her daughter's shoulder. The gesture hit her with a bolt of jealousy. In the back of her mind, Mary knew it was her fault that she'd lost Missy somewhere along the way, always fussing over Sheldon and forgetting his twin sister. The girl reminded her too much of herself, bold and brazen and wearing her heart on her sleeve, and she didn't know what to do with that. She hadn't wanted the burden of Sheldon's care to fall completely on Missy's shoulders, remembering what it was like to have to change dirty diapers at twelve years old, to have to keep track of playdates when she should still be having them herself. Missy had always seemed to be doing just fine, especially compared to Sheldon. And now, Missy was more like her than she'd ever know, and she still had no idea how to handle her.

Jeanie slid the two pancakes on top of the other ones, the muscles in her arms flexing, drawing attention to the freckles dusting her bare shoulder. "Missy and I have struck a deal," she said. "She'll tell you, but you're not allowed to get mad." Their eyes met over the skillet, a silent message passing between them — and Mary couldn't ignore the little thrill it gave her, to be parenting Missy with Jeanie, of all people.

"What do you mean, I can't get —"

But Jeanie held up the spatula in warning, then nodded for Missy to speak.

Missy swallowed. Her hair was drawn back from her pale face in a tangled ponytail, dark circles under her eyes, her mascara smudged. She was fidgeting with a loose thread on her shirt, worrying her lip. "I snuck out with Paige last night," she spilled then. "We got drunk."

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if expecting her to lash out. And Mary would have, hadn't Jeanie shaken her head at her, only just so.

She counted to ten, forced herself to calm down. She needed time to process this information. She'd never wanted Missy to make the same mistakes as she had, and so had blindly forbidden everything that'd eventually led to her teen pregnancy. What other option was there?

"Why?" she asked impulsively.

Whatever Missy had expected, it wasn't that: the tension slipped from her shoulders, and she blinked, giving a shrug. "Why did you?"

"Well, I — I was having fun. And made a bad decision."

This was stupid. Missy was the daughter; she was the mother. Her feelings were hers, not for Missy to know. She wanted to rearrange her face to the stern expression she should be wearing, but she caught Jeanie's fond grin, saw her eyes dance as she leaned her palms on the countertop, and in a flash, Mary remembered swirling around on a dance floor, and falling asleep in a safe embrace, and she found she couldn't.

Missy lowered herself on a chair, uncharacteristically cautious, like you would approach a skittish cat. "I heard you and Dad fight," she admitted, offering a grimace.

For a long moment, Mary did feel the roles were reversed, as if she'd been the one crossing a clear boundary and breaking the rules. The butter hissed and crackled, reenacting the argument of the night before. The details were a little hazy — she remembered stomping and yelling, an explosion of what'd been building up for quite some time now, Jeanie the spark that lit the fuse. Mary was starting to like her new self and found it fit her like a slightly tight coat that could be let out, but she'd never stopped to ask if George felt the same. Big blue eyes now reminded her they weren't the only ones affected by her transformation. She felt a little guilty for overlooking her once again. "I'm real sorry about that," she said carefully. "It was pretty ugly, from what I remember."

"Pretty much. But Dad was being a douche, so..." Missy shrugged, her ponytail flicking up and down with the motion.

"Hey, now. Don't you go calling your Dad names. This ain't got nothing to do with you or your brothers. Your Dad loves you very much, y'know."

She could say it with full conviction; she might not be sure if George cared about her anymore, she didn't doubt he held his kids in his heart. He was a decent father and a decent man. If he was a decent husband, well, that was another question. In his eyes, she probably wasn't a very decent wife.

"I know," Missy said in her characteristic matter-of-fact tone. "It's okay if you two don't anymore, though. I'd pick two Christmases over parents who hate each other every time."

Jeanie, who had been in the middle of slipping a pancake onto the already towering stack, wobbled and moved the skillet too far; the floppy thing missed the plate in its entirety and landed on the table instead.

D I V O R C E, Dolly had sung in that catchy song of hers. For a long time, Mary had thought spelling it was the only way she could ever say it out loud. Wasn't like it'd never crossed her mind; no marriage was a bed of roses, after all. Still, the consequences had always seemed much heavier than simmering on. There would be talk, judgy sneers — she knew, because she'd been amongst the ones gossiping during Bible study, shaking her head as one more couple failed the holy vows they'd made before God. Not to mention the fearful faces of her twins, for whom the idea had been unfathomable, a big, scary thing of nightmares. That little boy and girl were growing fast, though, and with a start, Mary realized Missy wasn't just talking big. She meant it.

The kitchen bathed in silence. Jeanie turned off the stove, wiped her hand on a towel, took the remaining seat. "There you go," she muttered, flipping a pancake onto each plate. She wasn't looking Mary in the eye, and Mary was not ready to reflect on the reason: D I V O R C E was one thing. Jeanie was a horse of a whole different color.

Mary pricked a fork in her breakfast, a little put off by the way Missy was munching away on hers so happily, like she hadn't just declared she'd be okay with it if her parents separated. "Mmm... These are so good. I was so hungry."

Jeanie watched her with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know, when I left my bar, I expected there'd be less taking care of hungover ladies, not more."

The joke was meant to lighten the mood. Missy giggled, and Jeanie snickered — all Mary could think about, however, was the number of women that must've ended up in the same place as she did last night. It was irrational, humiliating, and probably against everything ever written in the Bible, yet she finally stabbed her pancake, shoving it down like she wanted to do with the misplaced jealousy grinding around her stomach.

"That why you came here, Mom?" Missy asked, unaware of anything happening inside her mother's head. "You screamed you were going to Meemaw's, so I thought I'd be safer here."

Mary met Jeanie's gaze, who immediately stopped chewing, swallowed. She had a spot of maple syrup stuck on her bottom lip; Mary felt her cheeks heat up as Jeanie licked it off with her tongue, a completely innocent action that somehow made her squirm in her chair. Jeanie must know, especially after her almost yelled-out confession last night. They were interlocked with each other: no matter how far apart they grew, they seemed to always bounce right back, clashing together.

Later, she couldn't remember if she ever replied to Missy's question.

Connie had snorted the first time Mary came home skunk-drunk. "You look like you had a good time," were the only words she recalled her mother saying. Like she hadn't even cared. Mary had resolved to take the complete opposite approach when she had kids of her own. She'd never considered there might be a third way.

If it wasn't for Jeanie, her daughter would've stormed off to her room by now, slamming doors and shedding heated tears, and she would've been biting back her own, feeling like a hypocrite and a failed mother.

On this Sunday morning, there was none of that. Jeanie had managed to weave in a cautionary tale between pancakes, warned that a high-school dropout boozer wouldn't end up marrying a Hollywood millionaire, and miraculously, Missy had listened, admitting she didn't like the woozy feeling anyway. That was all. Missy had done the dishes without complaint. Had even thanked Jeanie for cooking.

When Georgie was a toddler, Mary had always had a vision of her future Sundays: church in their best outfits, then family brunch, maybe a fun picnic, spending the afternoon playing games together in perfect harmony. Obviously, that bubble had burst soon enough, and she'd given up on it.

Now, she felt like maybe she'd still gotten a version of it, even if it looked slightly different. She hadn't expected to be in a T-shirt, or for Missy to smell like cheap booze and dried sweat, or to have another woman sitting at the other end of the table. But it made her heart glow and her laughter flow freely, and maybe that was better than any prim attires and neat picnic baskets.

Jeanie raced her green car over The Game of Life board. She was the first to stop and get married, and Missy rummaged in the box and stuck a second pink pin next to the other one, so casually, without comment, like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world. When Mary reached that point, she held her breath, terrified Missy would do the same to her.

But she received a blue one. It was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment.

Their second game, Monopoly, was interrupted by the doorbell.

"It's just Sheldon," Missy said, a little annoyed, when she returned with her brother in tow. "He won't say what's wrong. It's like he's seen a ghost."

If only he had.