She hid in the cover of darkness, weaving in and out between streetlights. Being seen around town with Jeanie in broad daylight was one thing. A midnight visit was a whole other. Her steps were curt and quick, fueled by determination and something akin to rage. That Jeanie would leave her again, by choice, without discussing it, without once breaking the charge that'd hung between them since she'd slid off that wedding band and allowed herself to feel. So many decisions had been made for them, rarely in their favor. Now they had a chance, and Jeanie wasted it.

She didn't have a plan, just pounded on the front door, persistently, with such force that she tumbled into the hallway when it was finally opened.

"Mary? What's going on?"

Jeanie's brown eyes were wide and watery in the dim light, her curls swept to one side like she'd repeatedly run her fingers through them, revealing the soft shell of her ear, the vast expanse of her freckled neck. She was in denim cutoffs and a band shirt and grimy socks, a bottle of beer held loosely in her hand. The jitters in Mary's stomach once more proved that she might've lost her mind; anyone else, she would've judged for their fashion choices. Jeanie, however, had never looked more stunning.

It only further ignited the familiar fire inside her.

She slammed the door behind her. The towering boxes and trash bags in the hall dulled the blow.

"I'm so mad at you, is what's going on!"

Jeanie closed her eyes and surrendered her head to the wall, the bottle dangling from her fingers. She breathed in deeply, rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand. "Mare," was the word that fell from her lips, soft and pleading and hopeless, "Can we just —"

"No, we can't!"

Feelings crashed over her, tangled and giant and overwhelming like they only were when she let herself be true. This rage was not borne out of exasperation or irritation; it flowed straight from her heart, the other side of a coin that'd been given to her long ago, that she'd only stumbled upon again recently.

Her yelling took Jeanie by surprise; she blinked, her lips slightly parted. Mary had to force herself to look away from them, focus on the things she had to convey.

"You can't go around saying you want to..." she blustered, her cheeks warm as her gaze dropped again, "and then just leave."

Jeanie placed the bottle on a cardboard box. She raked her hands through her hair, hiding her face, then lowered them in defeat, shoulders slumping, the wall the only thing holding her up. "You can't even say it," she managed, her voice thick with unshed tears. "You run away whenever I get too close, and I just... I don't want to be someone who makes you uncomfortable. It brings up," she paused, a noticeable shudder running through her, "stuff."

Mary saw it then, the scars etched into the both of them, some deep, some shallow, some barely healed. Once, they'd been two girls who loved each other, and it had been simple, guiltless, a place of joy and contentment. Then, the world tore them apart, and the shame had erased the memories from her consciousness and moved them to her conscious. Relatively smooth, in comparison to Jeanie, who had no one left to care for her, who had been castigated for this thing that was entangled with her sense of self, who had to endure a year of no loving words, no safety, no peace. She was a complete fool for not realizing Jeanie would never be the one to take the first step. Second step? She lost count of where they were.

If she wanted this to happen, she would have to be the one to take the plunge.

She cast her eyes toward the heavens, silently asking God why He'd put her through all this, and finally looked back into the dazzling depths of brown. "Lord," she said, more a sigh than a prayer, "it's not that kind of uncomfortable."

It was not a conscious decision. It was the little frown that appeared on Jeanie's forehead, the expectant intake of breath, the glint in her irises. It was memories and that rage still coursing through her bloodstream and the whispered words of a love song and the ache for something precious that was stolen from them by the vicious claws of people who didn't even understand and a life that could've been lived.

It was that, and more, that gifted her the courage to surge forward and crash into Jeanie so determinedly it hurt before she could feel anything else. Bodies smashed together, the metal of the key meeting the gold of her crucifix, engulfed in a cloud of beautiful curls, Mary's lips had finally met Jeanie's again, and her heart stopped, and her body tensed, and something that'd been locked in place for a long, long time, broke free and set the world right. For a moment, everything made sense.

She stumbled back, hitting the opposite wall, her eyes wide open as she watched Jeanie with her breathing deep and fast and a rapid beating drumming in her ears. She couldn't think, could only stare, drown in the wave of deep, deep longing that overtook her.

That was all the encouragement Jeanie seemed to need. She seized Mary's wrist, pulled her back in, with no real force required, because Mary found she fell into her willingly, and there was that look she knew so well, the look she used to receive right before the girl she loved went in to sweep her off her feet. One arm snaked around her waist, knuckles brushed her cheek, eliciting shivers of the best kind, fingers tangled in her hair to tip her head back, just a little. Her breath caught in her throat, and her knees buckled, and she was on a plane about to teeter to the earth, because her back collided with a pile of boxes and Jeanie moved with her, finally, finally giving in.

Far softer, this time, she could at last revel in the sparks flittering over her skin, running down her body, rendering her incapable of anything but surrender. The fire burned too hot: she was melting, desperately clinging to Jeanie's neck so as not to lose any contact, and she was overwhelmed with the comfort of it, with how much she needed it to never end. Reminiscing was nice, but it could never compare to making new memories.

Jeanie kissed like she did anything: with tender care, with warmth, with her heart and intoxicating abandon. Eighteen years of hurt, longing, and missing poured into one outstretched moment of coming together. Mary could feel it all now: the softness of her lips, the bitter taste of beer on her tongue that, surprisingly, she didn't mind, clammy skin in the humid summer weather, and the wonder of a woman's curves against her body, an entirely new sensation. She grew hungry and deepened the kiss, dying to listen to the fire blazing bright in her core — Jeanie gasped, then moaned, and she savored the sound, trembled under it.

She didn't know what she was doing; she just knew she had to do it, had to hold on and never let go and bask in the miracle that was Jeanie Lucas, the one person who had ever managed to reduce her to this panting mess — and seemed to have gotten better at it too.

She had to come up for air. Her mind spun, and Jeanie's eyes were closed, swollen lips curved into a blissful smile, curls mussed up. It was almost a shock to find her feet planted firmly on the floor of Uncle Carl's dusty hallway; she'd half expected to be floating somewhere. Jeanie's forehead fell to hers, and she said, "Like hell I'm leaving now."

Mary laughed — in relief, in love, reeling with the idea of what this could be — and Jeanie joined in, untethered and free.

Mary loved that laugh. Mary loved those eyes and that color and just... Jeanie, and she wanted, Lord, she wanted so much that it was frankly terrifying. She had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed, that couldn't be explained away as recklessness of the young and innocent, and it should've felt so wrong, and yet, it hadn't been this right in so long. With one split decision, she'd changed the entire course of her life, cut off a multitude of roads that could never be taken now, and it was a lot to process.

She kissed Jeanie sweetly, shortly. She needed this incredible woman to understand it wasn't her, that she was perfect as she was, that there was no reason to doubt. "I — I want this but — I need some time," she stammered, hoping her eyes conveyed how much she meant it. "And Sheldon — and Missy — and..."

Jeanie smiled one of her pretty smiles, slightly crooked front teeth and laughter lines, and said, "Okay. You take your time. I'll be right here."

The freckles dotting her skin. The sparkle in her iris. The trust in her words. All this time, Mary'd reckoned she would be struck down by lightning if she relented — and in a way, she had, just in the best sense possible. Did she really want to leave? Her body behaved treacherously, her lips finding Jeanie's instinctively, and Jeanie sighed against her and pulled back, peppering her with sweet kisses, on her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her chin. She swallowed, released her, went to open the door reluctantly.

Very smart. Mary couldn't lose herself any further now, not when they could be spotted.

She stepped back, stuck on the image of Jeanie, all undone and radiant, with her face flushed and her chest heaving up and down under her band shirt, and almost tripped over the threshold.

It rewarded her with a fond chuckle that made her heart skip. "Don't worry, Mare," Jeanie said, running a hand through her own hair, "I'm never gonna get tired of practicing with you."

She winked, and Mary blushed like she'd never been flirted with before, accompanied by a breathless giggle, and she floated home before she could change her mind and dive in without reservation, admiring the endless expanse of inky black sky and twinkling stars.

She was still waiting for the guilt. She had felt it occasionally when they were kids, usually on Sundays in church as pastor Joseph preached about Jesus's sermon on the Mount or when her dad would make some ugly comment about homosexuals and her brother would snicker in delight. But the guilt had never managed to outweigh the way her heart swelled whenever she was with Jeanie.

She'd expected it would now. Instead, she witnessed the seconds tick by on her watch and sipped her tea with trembling hands, like there was a set time when the shame would come kicking in.

Her father was rolling over in his grave right about now; she was sure of it. Her brother too — if he was, in fact, dead, because no one really knew where that ungrateful boy was. Her mother, she had no idea about. Had she already figured it out, like Georgie had, and did she simply think it was none of her business? Or did she believe Mary incapable of going that far? Missy liked and accepted Jeanie, but would she feel the same when it was her own mother? And Sheldon, oh, that boy, would he be confused?

She was getting ahead of herself. There hadn't been a point in telling anyone back then. There wasn't one now.

Her love for Jeanie was private, a beautiful secret between them and God, and she would happily pay the price when it came to it.

Footsteps caught her attention, and she looked up with irrational hope it was Jeanie, coming to demand more of her time. More of her lips. She blushed at the thought, at the dumbfounding realization she could still want this much, even at her age, and tried to hide it as Georgie sauntered in in his pajamas.

At least she didn't have to guess what he was thinking: he smirked smugly at her, his hair disheveled and his eyes bleary. "Jean staying, then?" he concluded, leaning in the doorway. She couldn't help the wide smile that entered her face, so she quickly hid it behind her mug. He grinned in response. "Nice. Now can you blame me for falling for a hot woman you ain't supposed to fall for?"

"Georgie!"

She and Jeanie could barely be compared to her son and Mandy. This was not an indulgent bout of lust; it was an accumulation of years of cherishing a memory, followed by a slow re-build of that earlier love. She knew Jeanie, inside out, and longed to discover even more.

"Just saying," he said, tapping his nose. "God making the cattle black and all. Just be careful you don't get her pregnant."

She wasn't sure if she should laugh or sigh and settled on both. She didn't correct him: Sheldon did enough of that in the day-to-day. "That's impossible when it's two women."

The world was intent on hanging upside down today. She could've never predicted she would ever talk about such things with her son. She felt vulnerable, like he too was seeing her in just a T-shirt, and she wondered if he felt the same. He was uncharacteristically quiet after her own uncharacteristic comment, and she started to panic — when she looked up, though, he was frowning, the gears in his head working overtime. Lord, couldn't the batch of intelligence have been distributed evenly amongst all her kids?

Finally, his brow relaxed, and he grinned mischievously. "Ain't that handy?" he said, watching her with intense curiosity, and she knew something lewd was coming. "Does that mean you tried?"

She gave him the coldest stare she could muster with her insides on fire, but he just grinned wider. "Who would've thought," he said, whistling. "You weren't kidding when you said you weren't a perfect kid, huh?"

She only sighed in response.

"It's okay, Ma. I kind of like knowing you're human like the rest of us. And now we got something in common."

She buried her face in her hands; finally, she was alight with shame, only of a different type than she'd expected. The last thing she ever wanted to admit is that she'd thought about Jeanie like her son thought about girls, and she would very much like to check out of this conversation.

"Georgie," she said, "you understand this is a secret, do you? You can't tell anyone. Not even Meemaw or Mandy."

He bobbed his head. "'Course. Mandy knew before me, though. She's the one who pointed it out to me."

She stiffened. George, Georgie, Mandy — how obvious had she been?

"Don't worry. She won't say nothing, either. We both know what it's like to be a screw-up in this town."

That he did. It was remarkably comforting, to have people she loved know about her and Jeanie and be fine with it, and she wished he would still let her hug him, because she really wanted to in this moment. Instead, she gave him a sad, affectionate smile.

He moved into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. He took it with him, halted in the doorway. "By the way," he said, eyes dancing, "just so you know, no one can hear what goes on in the garage — in case you and Jean were wondering."

She was far too flustered to call out his name again.