✫✫✫

                IT HAD JUST OCCURRED TO RORY, NOW, TO ASK.

                "Hey, Paris?"

                They were parked in front of her mother's house—a one-story brick condo in a suburban neighbourhood. The small town of Squamish in Vancouver.

                Paris made a humming sound. Acknowledgement.

                Now, as she was checking her darkened lashes in the car mirror, Rory's chest caught. She was so lovely that Rory wanted to capture the artistic edges of her bold jaw, her full mouth.

               Rory's fingertips itched for her sketchbook.

               Focus, she thought.

               Rory said, "You told your mom I was coming, right?"

               Paris hesitated. Her eyes sliding towards Rory.

               "It'll be fine," she said. "She'll be happy that I—"

               "You didn't tell your mom you were bringing me for the weekend?" Rory said incredulously. "You were planning to throw me to the slaughter?"

               Paris rolled her eyes.

               "Rory, this isn't a slaughter. This is my mother's house. You'll be fine."

               "I will most definitely not be fine! I—"

               Paris set down her compact mirror with the final touches on her makeup. 

              "You're telling me, Princess, that you once went bike riding down Death Road. You once went cliff diving off La Quebradas. You even once went whitewater rafting in the DMZ! And you're scared of going inside a nice little suburban condo?"

               "I'm scared of meeting your mother,"  Rory hissed.

               Paris's mouth softened into a grin. "You get nervous meeting parents?"

               No, the truth was that Rory didn't get nervous meeting parents.

               Rory didn't meet parents at all.

               Her relationships had never been serious. Never more than one-night stands. Just like Declan, she had treated the lovers in her life like flings.

               And even with Paris, who had been the most important relationship in her life, Rory had never met her parents.

              "Do you think she'll like me?" Rory whispered suddenly.

              Maybe it was crazy. To be scared of such a simple thing, like meeting the mother of the girl she was falling for.

              And after everything she had done—

              After every stupid, dangerous, reckless stunt she had pulled in her life, this shouldn't have seemed like something so monumental to her.

              It shouldn't have been so terrifying.

              Paris climbed out of the car and opened the trunk. Unfolding Rory's wheelchair before she rolled it up the gravel driveway to the passenger side.

              "Ordinarily, I'd be the one to open the car door for you," said Rory. "Because, as you know, I'm a gentleman. But I do appreciate this gesture."

             Paris turned a lovely shade of pink.

             As Rory lifted herself into the wheelchair with Paris's help, her knuckles grazed Paris's wrist.

             The moment skin connected, electricity zipped through Rory's blood.

             Maybe Alec had been a right.

             Maybe things would get a little freaky in Paris's childhood bedroom later.

✫✫✫

              "SO, TELL ME, RORY . . . ARE WE SUPPOSED TO CALL YOU YOUR MAJESTY?" 

              "No, Paul," Paris said sharply before Rory could. "We agreed not to bring up—"

              "The fact that I'm a princess?" Rory cut in smoothly. "No worries, Paul. Your Majesty is used only for a monarch of the very highest rank. I'd just be Princess or Her Royal Highness."

              Paul had been introduced to Rory as Paris's stepfather.

             He sat at the opposite end of the table, next to a slender, pretty older woman. Paris's mother—with deep, rich brown skin, chocolate-coloured ringlets, and a slender, petite frame. 

            Paris looked more like her father, from what Rory could remember, but they shared their hair and the soft curve of their noses.

           "It's wonderful to meet you,"  Paris's mother had said. "I'm Ireland Thomason. And you are?" 

           Rory had wanted to die then.

           "This is Rory, Mom,"  Paris had said.

            And from the doorway, a tall, thin white man with circular glasses had said, "Isn't that Princess Camille Rory? The one with the snowboarding accident who disappeared a month ago?" 

             From then, Rory had thought it would only get worse.

             But Paris's mother had hugged her tightly, and even Paul had smiled warmly—although there had been a calculating edge to his narrowed eyes.

             Now, as they sat at the dinner table, Rory glanced at Paris.

             She seemed tense—uncomfortable. 

             Paul's question had set her off, and that was strange to Rory. Although he had said it with a sharp undertone, it usually took more to grate Paris's nerves.

            Ireland Thomason set down her fork. 

           "Baby," she told Paris. "What's wrong?"

           "Nothing," Paris said shortly, and she forced out a smile.

            If Paris knew how to tell the differences between Rory's smiles, then so did Rory. Paris's faked grin was brittle. She wasn't as good at it as Rory was, but then—she hadn't had the practice.

             When the dinner finished, Ireland and Paul invited them to play a board game.

            As the Sorry game was setting up, a wolf bounded into the room.

            No, Rory thought, scrambling her wheelchair back. It wasn't a wolf—it was an enormous, white-and-grey haired dog, with piercing blue eyes and sharp teeth.

             "Georgia!" Paris said, laughing.

              The wolf—dog—knocked Paris over onto the carpet of the living room. The game pieces scattered over the table. 

              "What is that?" Rory said breathlessly.

              "Georgia?" The dog licked one side of Paris's face. "She's an Alaskan malamute. Beautiful, isn't she?"

               Yeah, Rory thought. If I wanted to get eaten in my sleep. 

                As Georgia settled down, tugging playfully on Paris's knitted sleeve, Paris turned to Rory with something like daring. "What's wrong, Rory? Scared of a little dog?"

                "I don't know what dictionary you've been reading, but—"

                 "Who's ready to play?" Ireland said, carrying a track full of crackers and cheese and olives. She pulled up short when she saw the sprinkle of game pieces and the overturned board.

                 "We'll clean this up," Rory said quickly.

                 Paris held out a hand to stop Georgia, and Rory pushed her wheelchair over the carpet. Her fingers dancing over the edge of the fur, seeking out the plastic edge of pieces.

                 Four—she had collected four when she leaned down under the table.

                 One more left.

                 Rory reached out, but she couldn't lean far enough out of her wheelchair.

                 In an instant, Paris was there, her fingers brushing against Rory's.

                  Rory stopped breathing. Her heart kicked her chest.

                 For a moment, in the soft light of the lamp and the evening dark, surrounded by ordinary suburban furniture in an ordinary suburban house with a pretty girl she was falling in love with, Rory thought, I could live like this. 

                It was a terrifying thought.

                A boring suburban life? Rory had never imagined that.

                But with Paris, it seemed like . . . it seemed like home.

                "You've cleaned up!" Ireland said, returning.

                 Rory jerked back, and there was a faint simmer on her cheeks she knew she couldn't hide. "Yeah," Rory said casually. "Is everyone ready to get defeated?"

                 Paris took her seat on the couch next to Rory.

                 And in her ear, Paris whispered, "I think you're all false bravado."

                 "Oh, really?" Rory said. "You'll all be the ones saying Sorry by the end of this."

                 But once the game was over—and fine, Rory hadn't won, but that wasn't the point—Paris breathed against her neck, "This is kind of becoming a pattern."

                "I have no idea what you're talking about."

                "I think you do," Paris whispered, and her sly grin sent a ripple of heat along Rory's skin. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. The snowball fight. The country music."

                 "No idea," Rory said breezily.

                 "I'm starting to think you might be losing on purpose."

                 "I would never do such a thing! That's outrageous."

                 The lights had dimmed now—Paul and Ireland had gone off to bed, and now it was just Paris and Rory and Georgia alone in the living room.

                  Georgia nipped at Rory's hand.

                  Paris whispered, "I'm starting to think this big, bad reputation you have is easily corrupted."

                  "Nonsense. I've just had bad luck."

                  "You know," Paris said lightly. "You still owe me something. After you begged for mercy. You remember, don't you?"

                  "How could I forget? It isn't often my pride is so wounded."

                   "I think it's more often than you'd like to admit."

                   "Ridiculous!" Rory barked. "I'm amazing. My ego should be sky-high."

                   Paris laughed, and the sound was like rain to Rory. Soft and sweet and falling all at once. "You have a high opinion of yourself."

                   "As I should," Rory whispered, but the laughing was gone from her voice. She leaned towards Paris, tantalizingly close. "Now, considering I owe you one . . ."

                    Paris raised a brow.

                   "Oh, no," she said teasingly. "I'm not using my one chance to get back at you now. You're just going to have to wait to see what I do."

                   "I don't mind," Rory breathed.

                   "Hm?" Paris said, as her lips connected with Rory's jaw.

                   "I don't mind waiting for you," Rory finished.

                   Paris looked up into her eyes. The swirling, endless colour of cinnamon and sunlight and gold. And whatever she saw—her breathing stuttered.

                  "You're irresistible," Rory murmured, and when she kissed Paris, it felt like coming home.

✫✫✫

                   THE NEXT MORNING, RORY WOKE UP IN PARIS'S BED.

                   "This is your childhood room?" Rory mumbled, still dim with traces of sleep. She rolled over next to Paris, who was staring at the ceiling—

                   Glow-in-the-dark butterfly stickers.

                   "That's cute," Rory mumbled, raking a hand through her messy hair.

                   "Yeah?" Paris said, laughing. "Then wait till you see my secret butterfly obsession."

                    Rory sat up quickly, wincing at the sharp prick of pain in her leg.

                    "I thought you were obssessed with Alice Cullen from Twilight,"  Rory said. "There's more?"

                    Paris tipped her head back, her golden-brown curls glossy. She let out a laugh that made Rory's heart flutter.

                   "Alice Cullen was my middle-grade obsession," Paris said.

                   "No kidding—you loved butterflies." Rory had begun to look around the room. There were butterfly frames, butterfly art, and the blanket on top of them was covered in violet-pink monarch butterflies.

                   "Yeah," Paris said. "But let's not mention the horses, alright?"

                   "No way," Rory said. "No way. You were a horse girl?"

                   Paris groaned. "Don't bring that up."

                    "Too late." Rory was already thinking of Paris as a little wild-haired girl, holding onto a horse for dear life with her tiny hands. "You started it."

                    "I actually wanted to show you around today," Paris said.

                    Rory grinned. "What'd you have in mind, lover?"

                   "'Lover'?"  Paris repeated. "That's . . ."

                    "Charming? Delightful?"

                    "I was going to say idiotic, but whatever works for you."

                    Rory touched her heart. "Doctor, you wound me."

                    "Princess, you astound me," said Paris. "You are such a moron."

                    "And you like it," Rory murmured.

                    Paris didn't even disagree.

 ✫✫✫

                    "SO THIS IS WHERE YOU GREW UP?" RORY ASKED, AS THEY walked along the pier.

                    Paris licked at her ice cream come. French vanilla.

                    Rory wasn't ashamed to say she had made fun of Paris for picking the vanilla flavour. 

                    "What?" Paris had said. "What's wrong with vanilla?" 

                     "Oh, nothing," Rory said, ducking her head. "I'd just think you'd like more . . . kinky flavours."

                    Paris had hit her, laughing, and Rory had been grinning so hard both her dimples hurt.

                    "There's no such thing as a kinky ice cream flavour!" Paris had said.

                    Now, as they moved lazily along the dock, Rory couldn't help but steal a glance at Paris out of the corner of her eye.

                    She was so beautiful, with the halo of burnished-gold curls.

                    The long, glossy lashes. Her darkened stare.

                    And the way she smiled? 

                    It made Rory feel whole again.

                    "Yeah," Paris said softly. "This is where I grew up."

                    Rory licked her ice cream cone—chocolate peanut butter—and shook her head, saying, "I can't believe your home town is named Squamish."

                   "I feel like you're making fun of me," Paris said with a crooked grin.

                   "Squamish," Rory repeated in wonder. "Who thought, This place looks like a Squamish." 

                  "Shut up!" Paris said, laughing. "I'm sure there are weird town names in Valeria."

                  "Our town names are all very dignified," Rory informed her. "Like Castle Comb . . . and Clovelly and—Greendale."

                   "Point taken."

                    They continued along the dock. The weather was cold outside, the layer of snow beneath their feet. They probably shouldn't have gotten ice cream at the little café, but Paris had insisted and Rory had . . . well, Rory couldn't resist.

                  The ocean that sprayed the side of the pier was freezing, and the grey sky above swirled with light flakes of snow.

                   "Are you ready to go to the palace?" Rory asked suddenly. "To Valeria?"

                   Paris hesitated. Her tongue was stained white with French vanilla.

                   "No," she said. "Not really. But I . . . I want to be there for you. With you."

                   "I'll show you around, too," Rory promised.

                   "I'm looking forward to it."

✫✫✫

                   "RORY," SAID PARIS'S MOTHER.

                   "Yes, Mrs. Y—Thomason."

                   Rory still didn't know exactly what the deal was with Paris's father—why he was gone, why her mother had remarried.

                   "I would like to speak with you," Ireland Thomason said. "In private. Please."

                   "Of course," Rory said, and she didn't dare glance at Paris.

                   You'll be fine, Paris mouthed.

                    Rory wasn't so sure.

                    Ireland Thomason led Rory into the kitchen. Today, Rory was using crutches—holding herself up.

                   Paris's mother was a beautiful woman. She looked like—

                   London. She looked like London.

                   The same glossy cocoa curls. The same heart-shaped face and rich brown skin. Although Paris had inherited some of her father's lighter skin tone, Rory saw her in the way Ireland Thomason narrowed her eyes—the way she held herself back.

                   Paris had probably told her mother about Rory, when they had broken up.

                   It probably hadn't been pretty.

                   But Ireland Thomason said, "Rory, I need you to do me a favour."

                   "Of course, Mrs. Thomason."

                   "I know you hurt my baby once," she said. "But if she's forgiven you, so have I. My daughter has good judgement. So all I'm asking . . . all I'm asking is that you take care of her."

                   Rory's heart stopped. Softened.

                   "I can do that," Rory vowed.

                   There were tears in Ireland Thomason's eyes. "Thank you, Rory. Thank you so much."

                   And before Rory could stop her, before Rory could protest, Paris's mother had wrapped her in a warm, aching hug. The embrace was so tight that Rory's arms stiffened at her sides, still holding on to her crutches, but Ireland didn't seem to mind—and Rory relaxed in her arms.

                  How long had it been since she had been hugged by a mother?

                  "Thank you," Ireland said, sounding as though she was trying not to cry. "Thank you, Rory. I'll remember this."

✫✫✫

                  ON THEIR LAST NIGHT IN PARIS'S HOME TOWN, THEY watched a movie.

                  Dirty Dancing. 

                  And when Patrick Swayze said to Jennifer Grey, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner,"  Paris reached for Rory's hand.

                  Later that night, as they were lying in Paris's childhood bed, Paris rolled on her side so she was facing Rory.

                 "My father," she whispered. "You're probably wondering."

                 Rory did want to know, but . . . "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to—if you don't feel comfortable."

                 "I do," Paris said, and Rory's heart skipped a beat. "When I told my mother and father I was gay, they didn't believe me. My dad said, You're too pretty to be a lesbian. And my mom, she was no better, but . . . she eventually tried. I was at the boarding school to be a prim and proper lady because, to them, a prim and proper lady was a lady who didn't like other ladies. And my mom accepted it, as much as she could, and she's great. But my dad—he didn't think his daughter could be a . . . could be something so disgusting. My mom divorced him, and ever since . . . he's never even reached out to me."

               "Do you miss him?"

               "Sometimes," Paris admitted. "But if he came back right now, if he begged for forgiveness? No matter how much I miss him, I'd say no. He's been gone now for so much of my life because of his ignorance, and the things he's called me . . . no. I wouldn't take him back."

              "It's okay to miss him," Rory said quietly. "I get it. He's your dad, but he's done some horrible things. Family isn't really blood, you know? It's the people we love."

              The people we love. 

               When Rory thought of that—that word—the face of one person came to mind.

               And suddenly, so quickly she couldn't stop herself, there were tears in Rory's eyes that she was fighting to keep back.

               Paris tucked a strand of Rory's hair behind her ear.

               "What's wrong?" she whispered. "Shh, Rory, what's wrong?"

               "Your mom," Rory said, and her voice broke.

               "Did she—did she say something bad to you?"

               "No," Rory said softly. "It's just—the way she hugged me earlier. Even after knowing I broke your heart once. I promised her I would take care of you and . . . she hugged me. It was genuine, you know? And I haven't been hugged like that since—"

               "Since your mom left," Paris breathed.

               "Yeah," Rory said, and she tried to scrub her tears away with the back of her hand, but they kept coming. "Yeah, my mom. My birthday—it's not a good time for me. I hate my birthday. New Year's Eve."

               "Do you miss her?"

               "Yes," Rory confessed. "I miss her so much, even though she left and she didn't look back. And I don't think I'm as brave as you, Paris. If she were to come back in my life, if she were to beg for forgiveness, I'd . . . I think I might take her back. Because how could I say no, to the one thing that's been missing my whole life? I miss my mom, and I don't even know her, and I know she left me. Is that—it's stupid."

               "It's not stupid," Paris whispered fiercely. "Whatever you want to do, Rory, if it ever happens, I'll support you. I'll always be with you."

              Something brief and fleeting flickered through Paris's eyes—as though she had said something she shouldn't have.

              Rory said, "Thank you, Paris. I . . ."

              But Paris said, "It's okay, Rory, you don't have to say anything. I know."

              And then she kissed each tear from Rory's cheek. Pressing her lips softly, gently, against every inch of Rory's face.

              Surrounded by the light of the glow-in-the-dark butterflies on the ceiling, with the pink lamplight at Paris's nightstand and the picture frame of Paris at eight on a black stallion, Rory fell asleep.

             And as much as it scared her—this boring, ordinary, suburban life—Rory couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to spend the rest of forever with Paris Alvarez Young.

✫✫✫

I hope you guys enjoy these chapters. I like to consider these ones the "calm before the storm." A little bit of happiness before everything goes down.

Also ... it's Christmas Eve.

From the moon and back,
Sarai