Life ended after divorce.

It was a well-known fact she'd never questioned. A divorced woman has failed her family, her man, and her purpose. She's peaked too early and has been reduced to a write-off, a lost cause, whether she's holed up in her two-story home with the blinds drawn shut, leaving the liquor store clutching a brown paper bag, or cruising from bar to bar with jeans so tight you could see Washington grinning on the quarter in her back pocket.

Ironically, it was Brenda who'd lifted the curtain a bit to show her all might not be as doom and gloom as people claimed. Of course, that was before the floozy went on and slept with her husband in her marital bed. After Sheldon had laid down a detailed rendition of what'd transpired on that fateful Sunday, Georgie, without asking, took the bed apart and went with Jeanie to see if Uncle Carl's old frame could be salvaged and fixed up. With some sanding and a fresh coat of paint they'd found in the shed and a mattress from one of Connie's spare rooms, the space was hardly recognizable — yet, when she stood on the carpet and thought about having to close her eyes in the same spot her husband had betrayed her with another woman, her stomach turned upside down, and she could barely breathe. Missy, sensing her discomfort under her forced exclaims of gratitude, had suggested switching with Georgie for the time being.

That first night in the garage, she did feel her life had come to an end.

A for-sale sign was put up on the lawn next to theirs, not long after her mother had come strutting in with strands of hair dangling from her updo, a button on her shirt popped and a scratch in her neck, and had slammed down a pile of papers on the breakfast table. "The bitch is leaving town," was all she said, blowing a lock of grey from her forehead, "and she's leaving you in charge of the bowling alley." Mary peered over the documents, took in the drop of what appeared to be dried blood next to a hasty scrawl, and wondered about the legality of it. The gesture left her feeling treasured. For all of her mother's faults, she had always been able to depend on her in times of need, and she hadn't needed her this hard since she'd dipped a stick in her own pee at seventeen and watched with dread as a blue line appeared in the window.

After the initial shock of her husband's faithlessness wore off, Mary started worrying about the kids. Sheldon had taken to checking the driveway before meals, like he expected his father's truck to wait for him there, only to slump his shoulders in disappointment every time. Missy, on the other hand, hadn't uttered a single word about her dad; it was as if he'd never existed. She was sweet as sugar, didn't even tease her brother, worked on her summer assignments without complaints, and cleared the table after dinner unprompted. She didn't go out as much, came home early from rare meet-ups with her friends to spill a waterfall of mindless chatter about dumb girls and even dumber boys. Until one day, Jeanie crouched down in front of her, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "It's okay to be sad. My daddy did about the same thing to me, and it broke my heart. And he wasn't even a very good daddy to begin with."

Missy hadn't bawled like she did then since she was a baby. Even Sheldon shed sniffling tears of his own, and patted his sister on the knee.

The following morning, Jeanie had packed some sandwiches, and they spent a fine day at the waterfront of a small lake she'd remembered from their youth. Mary lay there spread out on a blanket, dozing off with splashing and shrieking in the background, and felt the sun caressing her face through the leaves of the trees and the blades of grass tickling her bare ankles and smelled sweet water and sunscreen, and wondered when and why she had ever stopped taking off her shoes and immerse herself in nature without a care in the world about stains on her dress or whispers from the neighbors. It'd been ages since she'd felt as close to God as in that moment, and the clouds over her head slowly started to shift and revealed diamond-glistening, clear blue skies.

Life started after divorce.

She hadn't even noticed it happening, too busy taking over the bowling alley, fussing over the kids, sending documents back and forth to a lawyer. Her assumption had been that she was going to be miserable for the foreseeable future, incited by all the women talking trash behind her back in the soup aisle of the convenience store and the alarming state of her soon-no-longer shared bank account. Another punishment for her sins, another reminder that she was never going to be normal and happy. Only, she was — happy, that is.

Was she supposed to hate this? Was she supposed to drown in shame? Because she felt like she'd finally cut the ties to a heavy bag of sand she'd been dragging around for far too long, like she could finally stand tall again and laugh without reservations. Sometimes, she found her lips stretched into a smile without any immediate cause, and it shook her. Just like it shook her whenever she came home with groceries to stumble on Jeanie already cooking curry at the stove, chuckling that they'd now have milk for weeks because she'd bought a carton too, or when she dragged herself off the couch to tackle the clean towels she should've folded yesterday to find them arranged in a neat stack in the bathroom cabinet, or when she went to get her garden shears from the shed and wasn't confronted with dozens of empty beer bottles.

"She vacuums," she told Mandy as they were perusing a rack of secondhand baby clothing, "and she moves the furniture!"

Mandy, who had been huffing and puffing the whole trip to the store, now raised an eyebrow. "Have you given up on getting me to marry Georgie? Because right now, you're not really making a case for settling down with any man."

"Georgie is not his father," she said quickly.

When she returned home, another one of those thrilling surprises was waiting for her. She was about to announce her presence when her eyes caught sight of dark curls slipping over a bare shoulder, dangling in the air as Jeanie bent over to drag one of the laundry baskets closer to the couch. The muscles in her tan, freckled arms flexed while she flipped over a T-shirt — the quick movements of her fingers, the ease with which she worked off shirt after shirt, did something unexplainable to Mary.

The curve of her shoulders. Against the cotton of her top, the outline of a heart-shaped key in the valley of her breasts. Her collarbone, the slope of her neck, the little curl hanging down her forehead.

Mary couldn't talk, rooted to the spot, her pulse fluttering, her breathing out of pace. Oh, she hadn't been overcome with this in such a long time: the burning feeling low in her belly, begging for something unspeakable, her cheeks hot to the touch. She knew she wasn't ready to confront it, but Lord, did she want to be in that moment.

To go over, tuck that unruly curl behind her ear, linger there, run her hand through the rest of her glorious hair. Plant a chaste kiss on her temple, maybe. Or her cheek. She wasn't picky.

Jeanie pulled the next item from the basket, and she gasped audibly, struck with the need to do something, something to get rid of this rousing need. How embarrassing. Here was Jeanie, being helpful and oh so innocent, and she was behaving like some teenage boy simply because the woman that evoked flutterings in her stomach was holding up one of her very basic blue panties.

Jeanie looked up, completely oblivious, and blinked. "Hi?" she asked.

"Yes, hi," Mary managed, much too breathless, and hurried off to the kitchen, rounding the corner and slamming her back into the wall to steady herself.

The divorce wasn't even finalized yet. Her husband had cheated only a few weeks ago. And there she went, desperately enjoying the sight of a woman doing the dang laundry.

She wasn't supposed to. But it didn't seem very fair that her husband could have his fill and escape all the judgment and consequences, and she wasn't even allowed to smile and look happy in a parking lot without there being talk.

She rearranged her face, made some sweet tea for the both of them and spent a considerable time watching Jeanie work through the load with a pleasant heat low in her lap. She couldn't touch. There was barely a sin in looking, though, was there? It was only clean laundry, after all.

Life continued after divorce.

She should've done this years ago. She didn't give a hoot about the people gossiping behind her back, about the worried glances Pastor Jeff sent her whenever they crossed paths as she walked to her car. Keeping the house in order had never been this easy, and she frequently discovered she had energy to spare at the end of the night. Jeanie carried so much weight. She'd trained the two new bar employees at the bowling alley, effortlessly helped her do an inventory count, picked up Missy and Sheldon from all over town. Mary felt guilty; they hadn't made much headway with Uncle Carl's belongings since George took off, and she was secretly pleased, not ready to let Jeanie go. She felt so cared for.

She was caught up in this enclosed world of Jeanie and her family and loved every second of it. She'd never say it aloud, thought the earth would swallow her whole if she did, but in the cover of the dark in her bed in the garage, she thanked the Lord for getting rid of George. It wasn't the only unmentionable thing that took place there in the night, not with all that pent-up energy and Jeanie's eyes burned into her mind, and she gasped and flushed and bit down on her lip like He would never know if she didn't make a sound.

There was a spring to her step and a sparkle to her eye. She felt beautiful, desirable, like a woman instead of a mother, and when earlier, the idea of reinvention had scared her out of her wits, she now felt it electrified her.

She knew Jeanie looked at her like she looked at Jeanie.

It scared her as much as it sent shivers down her spine, and she was torn between shame and the need for Jeanie to just do something about it. If desire was a sin, she was barreling steadfast towards the gates of hell, and well, shouldn't her damnation at least have been worth it? She wasn't brave enough herself. She didn't know if she'd ever be.

She threw herself into getting the bowling alley in shape — anything to outrun the impure images infiltrating her thoughts. Very early on, they'd decided it was best if the both of them kept to the backrooms. Folk around here might start seeking out different activities to fill their leisure time if they had to purchase drinks from the local lesbian. As for Mary, she had developed a newfound kinship with animals at the zoo. Nothing could beat an evening of ogling the woman who'd taken over a business from the homewrecker who'd skipped town with her husband, apparently.

In the background, the push and pull carried on. Even when she was working through the books in the office and Jeanie was back home cooking for the kids, she was never far from her mind, and the clock on the wall would slow down until it was finally closing time and she could lock up and drive home, holding her breath the whole way there.

She wondered how much longer she could hold it.

She was only gone for a few minutes. One of the new hires, Tammy, a barely twenty-one-year-old mother of two, had left the bar a mess the night before, and when she'd walked into the unwashed glasses and sticky floors this morning, she'd immediately called Jeanie for backup. She'd tried to pretend to feel bad about leading her away from Uncle Carl's house once again, had sighed and paused in hesitation. The broad smile she'd greeted Jeanie with ten minutes later had probably betrayed her real feelings.

She returned with a new container of white vinegar, stopped in her tracks. Jeanie had turned up the radio, her voice rising above another woman's as she sang along to an unfamiliar breathy sort of song, all swaying hips in tight jeans and rolling shoulders. She threw her head back, shook those wild curls of her. "Damn, I wish I was your lover... I'll rock you till the daylight comes... Make sure you are smiling and warm..." Mary sucked in a breath, entranced by the smooth, unbridled movements, the curve of her butt, the sliver of pale skin that became visible whenever she lifted her arms above her head and her shirt ran up. A living reminder of why Baptists didn't dance. A living reminder of the weakness of her flesh.

If there was ever a time to walk away, it was now. But she couldn't, or maybe she simply didn't want to. Jeanie was no longer that ungainly tall teenager; she'd grown into her body, knew just what to do with it to make the girls come running. "Damn, I wish I was your lover," she sang again, and there was a fire burning inside of Mary that wanted to scream that wish could come true very easily.

She had never been saved. If she had been, there wouldn't have been that heat pooling low between her legs, there wouldn't have been a surprising sticky wetness in her basic blue panties, there wouldn't have been this all-encompassing need to finally touch what was so out of bounds. The Devil had once led her astray with the sweetest honey, and oh, she still couldn't resist.

Brown eyes met her blue ones, heavy and smoldering. The music swelled, and there was that line again, Jeanie repeating the words without breaking their connection — damn, I wish I was your lover. And damn, forgive her language, but did she wish to say it back, to give in and don't worry about any of the consequences for a change, take back what had once only been hers.

A hand was extended, and she accepted it. Just like that. She left the container on the bar, and the fluttering in her stomach went wild as Jeanie pulled her in, still singing, the twang in her voice suddenly as thick as it'd been in their youth. She giggled helplessly, wanting nothing more than to let go and join this gorgeous woman, but not knowing how. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done this sober.

"It's only you and me, Mare," Jeanie spoke against her neck, as the singer went for me, there is no other, and wasn't that the truth? Jeanie grasped both her hands and pushed her backward, creating some space between them. Her blood ran hot, her heart beating in time with the drums, and she tried to lose herself in it, tried to make herself move. Her gaze clung to Jeanie's hips, smooth like butter, and she began to mimic her, stiffly at first, building in confidence when she felt eyes travel lower and lower. A beautiful, open smile unfolded on Jeanie's face, and before she could overthink it, she was twirled around and drawn back in. Her back fell into Jeanie's front, denim against denim, and the fire burned with the warmth that enveloped her, the breasts pressing into her, the hands that took possession of her hips, rocking together like they were one. She tipped her head back, soft curls tickling her neck, eyelids fluttering closed, Jeanie muttering the lyrics in her ear, shameless and bold, eliciting a path of goosebumps all the way down.

Finally, she forget herself entirely.

That such songs existed. That a few movements could unearth this reeling desire in her. That it was possible to feel so alive.

She didn't think she could resist much longer now, no matter how wrong it might be.

The music died out — her heart thrummed in her chest, her breathing quick, all of her not ready to let go. She looked over her shoulder, found Jeanie's lips much closer than expected. She allowed herself to remember their softness, longed to test if her memory was right.

It was too much. Too much feeling, too much for a regular rainy Friday morning. Like she was struck with lightning, she jumped back, turning away from Jeanie with her heart still beating in the rhythm of that scandalous song.

Only a moment later, she was rewarded with a reminder of why they shouldn't be doing this — at least not in public. They had some near misses in the past: Caroline Baker walking in on them in the wings of the high school theater, her daddy frowning as he asked if they were coming down with a fever, her brother making fake retching sounds as he exclaimed girls couldn't kiss girls. They had learned their lesson very quickly. Never, though, had they almost been caught by a man of the church.

Because it was Rob who stepped around the corner. It was before opening time, but it seemed he was comfortable enough to enter early. His smile faltered as he came closer, and she wondered how much of her desire was visible on the outside. "Hi," he said, looking from one to the other with a tilt of his head, "hope I'm not interrupting."

"Oh, no, not at all," she said, hurrying to turn the radio off, set her head straight. She could barely look him in the eye. If he had been a few seconds earlier, had caught a glimpse of their... dance, he might've been struck down by a heart attack. There was no way Jeanie's hands all over her had looked anything but erotic.

The thought made her blush, and she tried to cover it with a smile.

"Morning, Jean," he said, giving her a little wave, and she nodded back, managing to curve her lips enough to look friendly. "How have you been? No more, eh... dog turd incidents?"

"Nah," Jeanie said, as she picked up her hair clip from the bar and slid it back into her curls, "mostly just little kids being annoying and people staring like they want me to burn on the spot."

"Well, sounds like an improvement."

Jeanie chuckled half-heartedly at that. Mary, however, couldn't find the humor in it.

"And how are you?" He turned to her with that gentle tone of his, that compassionate smile. He was handsome, with his lean build and cool haircut, his green sweater that brought out the color of his eyes. Brown, like Jeanie's. She tried to picture his hands on her hips. It didn't work.

"I'm fine," she said, then changed her mind, "You know what? I'm peachy. Happier than I've been in a long time."

He smiled wider. His teeth were surprisingly white and neat for a smoker. "That's great to hear. I thought maybe I could take you out to lunch, if you wanted to talk about it?" He held up his hands and added, "Or not talk about it, of course. Either is fine."

Momentarily, she was stunned. She had never expected he still wanted to be associated with her, not after she'd been seen running around with a lesbian and she'd be a divorced woman soon. She stole a glance at Jeanie, who'd unscrewed the cap on the white vinegar and was pouring it into a bucket. "Oh, err, we're pretty busy. I'm sorry, Rob."

"Mare, I can finish up here," Jeanie said, not looking at her. "You go out and have fun. You deserve it." She turned around, carrying the bucket to the sink.

She didn't know how to tell her she wanted to stay here and have fun without giving her deepest desires away, so she went to get her purse.

The multiverse could be seen as a patchwork quilt of separate universes all bound by the same laws of physics, or Sheldon had repeatedly told her. She'd accepted that fact without hesitation; it wasn't hard to believe God would be capable of creating an infinite number of worlds. She didn't doubt Rob and her could've worked in some of those universes. She would've allowed herself to fall for his kind smile, would've gone on dates and wore her best dress and gotten flowers. She would've gone back to church and regained the respect of those friends who'd dropped her as fast as all get-out. Maybe she would've even gotten remarried, a surefire way to reclaim her place in the congregation.

Now, she sat across from him in the diner and pushed down fresh memories of dancing and older memories of kissing. A more cunning person than her would've been able to use him for personal gain; a friendship with a pastor surely elevated your social status. She couldn't, though, not when she'd strayed further from the values he assumed they shared than he'd ever know. He was a much better person than her, his heart too pure, and she bathed in a pool of shame as he offered his support in these challenging times.

In another timeline, it would've scared her, how close she sat down on the couch next to Jeanie that night, how, where her body pressed into hers, her skin was alight with the memory of Jeanie murmuring those unmentionable things in her ear.

In this timeline, she closed her eyes and sighed.

"I think it's best if I go home."

She didn't want her to. She had barely had Jeanie to herself since this morning, had had to share her with her mother complaining about Georgie and Missy wondering if she should get a haircut and Sheldon's pleas for materials for a time machine. A shameful, hidden part of her had imagined turning on the radio in the privacy of Uncle Carl's house and dancing until it might not be dancing anymore.

"Alright," she said, "it was a long day."

She knew as soon as Jeanie turned to look at her with sorrowful brown eyes. They glittered in the low light of the lavender sunset, accompanied by a sad smile. Then, the words Mary had been dreading to hear for weeks: "I meant home home."

She was sixteen again, abandoned on the porch of her childhood home, her heart ripped from her chest. It still bore the scars; the wound opened easily now, and she dripped blood all over the couch, the floor, Jeanie — she wanted to scream, point at the river of red, make Jeanie see — instead, she kept silent.

"I could send money from the bar. We'll talk over the phone."

She didn't want money. She didn't want just a voice, a small part of the woman who held her heart in her palms and crushed it once again. She wanted late nights and early mornings and tangled sheets and sticky desire. She wanted so deeply and so clearly that it was as good as executing the sin for real.

"But why?"

She hadn't meant to sound so desperate. And she had not expected Jeanie to smile, run her fingers through her blonde hair, tuck a strand behind her ear, graze her cheek, touch her lips. "Because," she said softly, gaze dropping to her mouth, "if I stay here, I'm gonna kiss you. And if I kiss you, I'm scared we're gonna end up hurt again."

All Mary could hear was kiss you, kiss you, and her heart not only bled but melted, and she touched her forehead to Jeanie's, closing her eyes, wishing she was brave and bold and not a no-longer churchgoing no-longer wife from Texas. Just a few inches. Just a few.

"If Rob had walked in a little earlier —" Jeanie muttered, and she shuddered. "You've been through enough these past few months, Mare. I don't wanna add to that."

As if Jeanie could ever add to that. All she'd ever done was take away: the load, the labor, her sanity, her purity, her heart. She had the words; they swam around in her mind, ready to be harvested, only she couldn't speak, couldn't pluck them and make them express what she was feeling inside, what she had been feeling for quite some time. Her world was crumbling once more, and it cut to the bone this time. They had been lovers, as girls. They would not be lovers now.

It should've been a relief. It was the complete opposite.

"Maybe you could... you could come visit me somewhere down the line, when the kids are grown."

Just like that. Just like that, Jeanie got up and walked out and left, like it was nothing, like they hadn't been on the verge of baring their souls to one another, like she wouldn't be taking her battered heart all the way back to California.

For a brief moment of courage, she considered following, seizing her, and shaking her until she changed her mind. She was halfway standing up from the couch when the front door opened and she was pushed back by the excited sounds of her family filing in, her mother snickering mischievously at something Missy said. She froze, didn't know how to explain what'd just happened and that it had shocked her more thoroughly than the end to eighteen years of marriage had. So, she kept quiet and watched, let her kids feel like they were taking care of her, unable to take in anything about Dustin Hoffman playing some pirate, unable to move at all.

Slowly, the life drained out of her, like it had all that time ago.

Suddenly, it was just her and Georgie. She looked at him, at the son who'd been the result of her first heartbreak, and couldn't envision a universe without him, no matter how exasperating he could be. She couldn't envision a universe without Jeanie either, though.

She listened to the VHS tape rewinding, the green screen in a wavy jumble as Georgie waited for it to return to the beginning. If it was only that easy. He glanced up from where he was crouching before the player. "Ma," he said, nudging his head, "what's up? Why isn't Jean here?"

"She thinks it's best if she goes back to California."

Saying it out loud was like another stab to the chest.

Georgie screwed up his face in his usual helpless confusion, squinted eyes, scrunched up nose. "What a load of wack," he said, like he'd expected she'd never leave again. "I thought she was all crazy about you."

He made it sound so simple. No judgment. Maybe, just like her, he wasn't a lost cause; maybe, instead, he was a combination of the best parts of his mother and father. She thought about the bed he'd made her, the extra work he'd taken on, the steady support he'd shown her and Mandy while he must be just as anxious as she'd been when she discovered his existence. He would be a better parent than she ever was.

She smiled, found she could move again. Slowly, she picked up the cardigan hanging on the back of the couch, sliding it on. Georgie nodded in approval, and she bent forward to press a brief kiss to his forehead, like she used to do when he was the smallest person in her life.

Her brave son, who had stepped up when it mattered.

Her other boy, who had claimed himself a place in a world too big for him.

Her daughter, who had to fight for herself since her conception.

It was time for her to follow in her kids' footsteps.