COLOURFUL CHRISTMAS LIGHT BULBS flickered and glowed through the glass of the front windows. The porch had been decorated entirely in lights—winding around the balcony, threaded above the roof, spiraling past the steps. They illuminated the entire front yard in flickering neon colour.

Tasha held her breath. Waiting.

Beside her, Gloria hovered so close to the glass her breath made a faint, foggy cloud. She exchanged a grin with Tasha. The tension between them tightened, pulled taut.

On the porch, Rory had propped up a ladder against the roof. It teetered dangerously as she climbed up, unscrewing a neon red light bulb. Her face awash in glimmering colour, she winked in the direction of Tasha and Gloria's hiding spot. Tasha gave her a thumbs-up.

You got this, she mouthed, but Rory wasn't even paying attention anymore.

The plan had officially been set in motion.

From behind the couch, hidden in a swath of curtains, only their eyes peeking out through the window, Gloria squeezed Tasha's hand. Tasha's heart pounded, roaring so loud she could barely hear it as Rory shouted, "Paris!"

The urgency in Rory's voice must have worried Paris, because Tasha heard her hurry from the kitchen to the front door. The coat hanger fell over, clattering to the ground. Paris slipped into snow boots—not bothering with a jacket, even though it must have been freezing—and closed the door behind her.

Now, Tasha watched through the window as Paris came into view.

"What's wrong, baby?"

Rory, on top of the ladder, grinned. Paris hugged her arms to herself, already shivering.

"Can you pass me that light bulb?" It was the red one Rory had unscrewed just minutes ago.

"Is that all?" Paris bent down. "I thought something was actually wrong, you moron."

"No, everything's alright. Really alright."

A snicker escaped Tasha. Gloria's lips twitched. Really alright? thought Tasha. So much for being a playboy princess.

"If you say so." Paris reached up to pass Rory the lightbulb, and something must have caught her attention—she froze, withdrawing for a second. "Hey, something's rattling inside this thing. Is that supposed to happen?"

"No, what is it?"

"Well, it looks like—" Paris stopped. Then glanced up at Rory, who was grinning like an arsonist with a match and an unlimited supply of gasoline. "It looks like—"

"Like what?" said Rory, suddenly the portrait of innocence.

"A—"

She probably would have finished saying a ring, which had been Tasha's idea, but the ladder fell and Rory crashed to the ground.

Tasha clapped her hands over her mouth. Her breath fogged the window.

"Do we interrupt?" Gloria whispered frantically.

"No," said Tasha, holding Gloria back. "Not yet."

Paris had caught Rory's fall. Both of them were lying on the porch, the red light bulb shattered beside them. Rory, on top of Paris, braced her hands on either side of Paris's face.

"Did you hit your head?" Rory murmured, and it somehow sounded seductive. "Any injuries?"

"No, but are you hurt? How's your leg? I should check to make sure your dislocation—"

"Shh." Rory smirked. Their lips were only a breath away, not quite close enough to be touching. The tension simmered, heavy in the air even from where Tasha and Gloria were hiding. "I'm okay, Doctor. There's just something I wanted to ask."

Tasha's scrupulous plan had disastrously, catastrophically, monumentally failed.

For some reason, neither Rory nor Paris seemed to mind.

Tasha held her breath again, as Rory lightly pressed her lips to Paris's. The display of affection might have caused another kid her age to look away and make a face, but Tasha, Gloria, Dhonielle, and Cat had witnessed far, far worse back at the hospital. This was nothing, but she practically hummed with excitement anyway—at what was going to come next.

"Hold on," said Rory, breaking the kiss despite Paris's sound of protest. "I have to do this properly."

She rose to her feet and pulled Paris up with her, ignoring the fallen ladder and the neon red shards of glass. Soft snowfall glittered in the night air. Rory crouched down again, scattering the pieces of the light bulb, looking for—

"Is this what you want?" said Paris, her voice playful, as she held up a ring.

Tasha could barely see anything but a faint glimmer from here, but she had helped Rory pick it out in the store. It was thin and delicate, strands of silvery gold interwoven to form a band that looked like it belonged in an enchanted forest. The diamond, pure and clear like water, unfurled as if from petals in the center. It was beautiful. Breathtaking, even. Paris deserved it.

As for Rory, Tasha couldn't wait to help Paris plan that proposal.

"Paris," said Rory, dropping down to one knee.

"Yes."

"Would you do me the honour—"

"Yes. Oh my God, yes. Yes, yes, Rory, I do."

"Wait, let me finish! Tasha made me memorize my lines. Would you do me the honour of making me the happiest woman in the whole world?"

"Yes, you pain in the ass! Yes."

Rory fitted the ring onto Paris's fourth finger and then, hands on both Paris's cheeks, they kissed. This time, it was so passionate Tasha almost felt like she actually should look away. The kiss deepened, and Rory dipped Paris, one hand sliding down Paris's waist to squeeze her butt.

"Can we interrupt now?" Gloria asked.

"Yeah, and let's hurry before they start trying to make babies right there on the porch." That would be one hell of a sight for their homophobic neighbours across the street.

Gloria grabbed Tasha's hand, pulling her up from their hiding spot behind the couch. The curtains rustled, which must have been an obvious giveaway, because Paris's eyes opened and widened—narrowing on Tasha.

"Hey, you!" Paris, gasping, pulled away from Rory. "Were you behind this?"

Tasha suddenly didn't think this would be a great time for congratulations. "Maybe we should run away instead?"

Gloria nodded quickly. "Wise choice."

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAS IN THE cards after all. After a year since Rory's proposal to Paris—and Paris's proposal a little later, on the shore of the pink lake in Valeria—everything had been planned. The decorations, the location, the honeymoon.

Now, on December 24th—Christmas Eve—it was time. The afternoon sun glared bright and searing against the flurry of snow on the ground. Paris's dress, the same shade of white, streamed behind her in a silky river as she walked down the aisle. Her burnished-gold ringlets were flecked in small, glittery pearls, mimicking the winter landscape outside the church windows.

Tasha, already standing on the ceremony platform, couldn't contain her smile. She squeezed the bouquet of violets in both hands. Piano music swelled, almost deafening.

Paris lifted the hems of her dress—daintily, like a princess—and climbed the steps.

Rory, next to Tasha, had become white-knuckled. And was that . . . was she holding back tears? Tasha wanted to roll her eyes, but across the aisle, Gloria seemed to be sniffling. Was everybody here crying?

Tasha patted Rory's shoulder in what she hoped was a supportive manner. She was Rory's best man, after all. It probably would have been Simon in her place now, but he was officiating the wedding. Tasha hadn't known he was qualified to legally marry people in Valeria, but apparently his family had a long background in the royal court and the justice system. Also, there was that minor detail of him being king.

As for Paris, she had Alec as her maid of honour, with Gloria and Cat as bridesmaids.

Now, Cat shared a mischievous grin with Tasha. Everyone on the platform seemed to be tearing up except for, well, them. Even in the front row, Tasha could see Paris's mom—Tasha's grandmother, she had to get used to that—dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief.

The choir music faded. Simon, dressed in long crimson robes, cleared his throat. Positioned between Paris and Rory, he flipped open a thick, dusty book and began: "On this day . . ."

Paris's eyes, bright and shining and hopeful, were fixed on Rory. She looked like she wanted to drink from her, like Rory was water and she had an unquenchable thirst. Rory, on the other hand, seemed as if she had only a few breaths left of life, and she wanted to memorize Paris's face in time for eternal paradise. What lovesick idiots, thought Tasha.

Still, she couldn't help beaming.

Living with Paris and Rory had been unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Evelyn Tribeca had raised Tasha almost coldly, distantly; Tasha's first memory was of her four-year-old self showing off a crayon drawing. Proudly, she'd held it up to Evelyn, only for Evelyn to curtly say, Good job. After dinner that night, Tasha had glimpsed her drawing in the garbage, crumpled up among granola wrappers and orange rinds. And although Tasha wasn't four anymore, although she no longer showed off crayon drawings, if she did she knew that within a day Paris and Rory would have it framed. They loved her, and Tasha could say it without a shadow of doubt.

She'd been hesitant at first, of course. Moving into Paris and Rory's small suburban home made her wonder if she was a burden. If, maybe, they only wanted her because they felt obligated. She was a niece to both of them, and they were together, and it seemed like the most logical course. That first week had been the hardest. Tasha couldn't help worrying that they secretly resented her.

Until, one day, Rory had brought home pink lemonade.

It wasn't a big deal. After all, it was really only a store-bought jug. It wouldn't have dented Rory's finances, wouldn't have been expensive even if she wasn't a former princess. But still.

Still.

Tasha had been talking about lemonade only the day before with Gloria. They'd been arguing. Gloria had claimed original lemonade, in all its yellow, sour glory, was the best kind. Tasha had said pink lemonade could take regular lemonade on its worst day and still come out on top.

She hadn't expected Paris to overhear. She hadn't expected Paris to actually remember—and not just remember, but tell Rory about it. A team effort.

But Rory had come home from grocery shopping the next day, and she had set that jug of pink lemonade on the counter, and she had bitten her lip, saying, I hope it's the kind you like. Paris and I debated over it for twenty minutes on the phone in No Frills.

That was when Tasha had known, for sure and certain, she was wanted.

"I do," said Rory, adjusting the tie on her silk black tuxedo.

"I do," Paris echoed.

Simon, between them, spread his arms. Grinning widely. "You may kiss the bride."

Cheering exploded like rain in the church. Paparazzi cameras clicked furiously, lights flashing, from behind the stained glass windows and through tiny peepholes in the grand doors. The ceremony was small—meant for only close friends and family. But it had taken almost an army to keep back the tide of journalists and photographers and Valerian citizens; stiffly dressed soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder against the walls. Tasha had even spotted a sniper on the rafters next to the chandelier.

Even above the roar of cheering, Tasha heard Paris say, "Hey."

"Hey," murmured Rory back.

"Your tie is crooked."

Rory looked down at her chest, only for Paris to grab Rory by that same crooked tie and pull her in for a kiss. They collided so suddenly, with so much fervour, that Tasha wondered if they could even breathe. She had her answer when they pulled away, what seemed like an eternity later, gasping. Remind me not to get into any underwater breath-holding competitions with those two.

"We're married?" said Paris.

Tasha thought of Dhonielle at that moment, who had always wanted them to have a Christmas wedding. Who had offered to become the Queen of Valeria in Rory's stead. Who knows? thought Tasha. Maybe after Simon and Alec, she could've . . . but Dhonielle would never get the chance. Not anymore.

Rory whispered against Paris's lips, "I guess we are."

"Do you know what they say about wedding nights?"

Tasha really wished she didn't have such good hearing sometimes.

"No," said Rory innocently, kissing Paris lightly. "What do they say?"

Tasha cleared her throat in Simon's direction, hoping he would intervene. At his discreet nod, the black-clad soldiers cleared a path for Rory and Paris back down the aisle.

"Your bouquet," Tasha added, shoving the violets into Rory's chest. The force of it made petals shake free, sprinkling the lapel of her suit, purple on black silk. She did not want to hear what Paris and Rory were going to do on their wedding night.

Bouquet in hand, Rory kissed the top of Tasha's head, and Paris hugged Tasha to her chest, and then they were off—jogging, almost running, cheering all around them. They made it down the aisle, sharing one look together, before throwing open the heavy church doors.

Sunlight spilled onto the marble tile, clear and bright and dazzling. Like honey. Outside, snow swirled on a cold wind. A crowd had converged on the church steps, so dense Tasha couldn't see past them for at least a mile.

At the sight of Paris and Rory, newly wed, the whole world exploded.

Shouts. Applause. Whistles and whoops of congratulations. Headlines tomorrow would probably call it Valeria's wedding of the century.

Now that no one was watching—Simon had taken charge of security, Alec was talking to paparazzi, Cat had dashed off into the snow—Tasha and Gloria gravitated towards each other. Meeting in the middle, where Paris and Rory had stood not five minutes ago.

"That was pretty cool," said Gloria, still sniffling.

Tasha raised an eyebrow and decided to pretend she hadn't seen Gloria reduced to sobs when Paris and Rory had said, I do.

"You know, their honeymoon starts the day after tomorrow."

"Does it?"

Tasha reached for Gloria's hand. "Sleepover?"

THEY HADN'T KISSED YET. BUT they had come really close to it twice.

The first time had been after their argument about lemonade. Paris had left the kitchen, disappearing upstairs, and Tasha had been sitting on the kitchen counter.

Pink lemonade is really versatile too. It can be raspberry, strawberry, watermelon, pink berry . . .

You're literally just making up fruit now, Gloria had said, hands on Tasha's knees.

What, you've never heard of a pink berry? They're a rare and exotic treat from Valeria.

Gloria had leaned forward, her hips against the counter. Resting between Tasha's legs, and looking up at her with something like amusement, she asked, Are you trying to gaslight me into believing a pink berry is a real fruit?

That was actually one of Tasha's favourite pastimes. She loved making up things and claiming they originated from Valeria. The other day she'd told Paris that a rare cross between a bunny and rat existed in Valeria, christened the Bunnyrat. Small and adorable, but vicious predators.

Pink berries are real, Tasha insisted.

Cross your heart and hope to die?

At that point, they had been so close their lips were almost touching. Tasha could taste Gloria's breath—frosted sugar and gingerbread, like the cookies they'd just been snacking on. Gloria's eyes had been wide and dark, starry with what Tasha hoped was want.

Tasha had had a crush on Gloria for over a year. She really hoped Gloria felt the same. Gloria had never mentioned if she was straight or not, but Tasha had secretly wondered.

Is this friendly? Tasha had wondered, as Gloria leaned in. Do best friends usually . . .

Their lips had touched—barely more than a breath—when Paris's footsteps had sounded down the stairs. They'd broken away, Gloria stumbling back, red and stammering. Tasha had touched her fingertips to her cheeks to find she was no better: her blush burned her skin.

That felt like forever ago. The second time was yesterday.

After that first attempt, Tasha tried to tamp down any feelings for Gloria. And she thought it had worked—had convinced herself they were purely friends, until the accident.

Last night, at the rehearsal dinner, Tasha had worn a pale pink dress. It had been around midnight when she'd knocked over a glass of Rory's wine on herself—all down her front. Most of the adult guests had been drunk, their laughter bubbling up around the banquet hall. It had been all too easy to slip away from the mayhem and find a bathroom.

Scrubbing furiously against the blotchy wine stain, Tasha hasn't noticed the door opening.

"Need help?"

Tasha had glanced up. At Gloria, dressed in a long, form-fitting midnight blue dress. The neckline was collared, but her arms were bare. Not for the first time that night, Tasha wanted to tell her she was beautiful. She refrained, though—she didn't want to blur that best friend line. Just in case it wasn't wanted, just in case the feelings weren't returned.

"Yeah," Tasha said. "I think I'm making it worse."

"Here," said Gloria, and she was suddenly so close, their noses almost touching, their lips just an inch apart. One wrong step, one slight movement, and they would be kissing.

Tasha's heartbeat had quickened. She'd tried holding her breath. Afraid she'd give herself away, afraid Gloria would see just how much she meant to her.

Gloria had looked up. Their noses had bumped together.

A moment passed—the bathroom, empty, vibrated with the sound of muffled music and the trickle of water in the sink.

For a heartbeat, Tasha believed they would kiss. And they did, kind of. Her heart thrummed as Gloria leaned in. But her lips didn't touch Tasha's mouth—it was a kiss on the cheek. Just shy of the corner of her lips.

Definitely friendly, Tasha had thought, deflating. Unless . . .

Gloria had whispered, "Dance with me."

How could Tasha say no?

Now, days after the rehearsal dinner and the wedding and the honeymoon departure, Tasha and Gloria were home alone. Tasha had to be imagining the spark between them, the tension. Because nothing had happened, even though Paris and Rory were gone and the house belonged to them. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity to make a move? Unless Gloria was waiting for Tasha to make a move, while Tasha was waiting for Gloria to make a move, and neither of them wanted to make a move first.

Lying down on their stomachs, both of them were sprawled over the enormous velvety grey couch. Tasha had a perfect view of the road outside: the row of suburban houses, the baby trees planted on the front lawns, the sun setting behind the rooftops. A dad across the street was packing a cooler into a van, and a woman on the sidewalk was walking five dogs on a leash. Ordinary.

Gloria, legs tangled with Tasha's, murmured something.

"I didn't hear that," Tasha said, yawning.

"Do you want to watch something? A movie? Or listen to music?"

"Sure, let's listen to music. You pick."

The sky outside glowed orange. A chill breeze floated past the curtains. Simon and Alec would be coming soon to check up on them, as part of the deal for Tasha getting to stay home alone.

Tasha's eyes fluttered shut. The sound of Gloria clicking through buttons on the remote soothed her. Until she heard a familiar song begin playing.

"Did you just . . . is this girl in red?" Tasha said, sitting up so fast she knocked Gloria over.

Gloria's cheeks were bright, bathed in red from both a blush and the evening sky. They stared at each other, wide-eyed. "Yeah, did you . . ." A cough. "Are you . . ."

Was this it? Were they coming out to each other? Tasha refused to second-guess herself. "I am . . . are you?"

"So am I," said Gloria, even more flustered. Her eyes flickered down to Tasha's lips.

Tasha scooted closer towards her.

An eternity—it was an eternity before either of them broke the silence. Tension ripened in the air between them, heavy and thick and almost sweet. Tasha wanted to slice it, to make a move, but she didn't want it to be unreciprocated.

Gloria's head tilted, her lips an inch away from Tasha's. From up close, her black eyes were dark and glossy, like an oil spill, or liquid night. Her lashes fluttered. She didn't close the distance between them. She waited.

That's not friendly. That's definitely not friendly, Tasha thought, and she touched her mouth to Gloria's.

Neither of them had had their first kiss yet. Tasha had no idea what to expect. But the sensation of Gloria's soft, lush lips against hers . . . immediately, she was breathless.

"I've had a crush on you for so long," said Gloria suddenly, pulling away only a fraction. "But then I thought maybe you were straight, and I didn't want to . . ."

"Me too," Tasha said, incapable of containing her excitement. "Both parts. Especially the crush. You're so pretty."

Gloria bit her lip. "Says you."

The front door opened. They sprang apart. Simon, slinging a bag off from his shoulder, letting the bottom clatter against the floor. And Alec, his tinkling laugh ringing out not far behind.

"Where's my favourite niece?" Simon called.

Tasha heard him cross into the living room. She exchanged a look with Gloria. Would he take one look at them and know they had just kissed?

Apparently not. Simon made his way towards them, no hint of suspicion on his face, and wrapped Tasha and Gloria up in an enormous hug.

"Hi, girls," Alec said. Blue eyes twinkling. "What have you been up to?"

The song—we fell in love in october—was still playing.

Tasha swallowed. "Just, um, we—um, were listening to, well—" What was the word again? "Oh. Music."

Simon's gaze turned knowing, and she wondered if they were suddenly both thinking of the same thing: their conversation in the hospital, when Tasha had confessed she thought she'd never be loved. He'd told her, The strongest people in the world are the ones who have built themselves back up—who have put themselves back together.

She'd kept those words tucked in her heart. She still thought of them every once in a while. Using them on days when she didn't feel strong to remind herself she was okay, that someone believed her—believed in her.

"We forgot something," said Simon suddenly.

Alec raised his blond eyebrows. "Huh?"

"We forgot something," Simon repeated through gritted teeth, "at the store."

"What store?" Alec blinked. "Oh, the store."

"The store?" said Gloria. "Didn't you guys come from a press conference?"

But Simon and Alec were already packing up, hurrying away, so fast Tasha had to smile. Simon was the best wingman. She'd have to thank him later. Just before he left, he kissed her cheek and said under his breath, "Close the curtains if you want privacy. Valerian security is watching every angle of this house."

No wonder Rory and Paris had felt free to leave Tasha home alone. Tasha grinned. "Thanks, Simon."

"Bye, honey!" said Alec ar the door, waiting for Simon to join him before slamming it shut.

"Bye," Tasha echoed, knowing they couldn't hear her anymore. She turned to face Gloria, biting her lip, wondering if maybe Gloria had had the chance to regret it, or take it back . . . or maybe it had even all been just a dream and she would wake up right now . . .

"Tasha?"

"Mm?"

Gloria took Tasha's face in each hand, meeting her gaze head-on. A soft smile curved her lips. She said, "I know it's kind of soon, but—um, well, do you want to be my girlfriend?"

Tasha stared at her blankly for one second. Two. "Your girlfriend?"

"I mean, if you want, but you don't have to—"

"Yes!" Tasha cleared her throat and tried to act cool. "Um, yes. Yeah."

They kissed, hungrier this time, and it reminded Tasha of the city at night and summer rain. She never wanted this to end. Was that normal? She hoped so.

"So, you're my girlfriend," Tasha whispered, tasting the word, rolling it in her mouth, sweet and honey-like.

"And you're mine," Gloria said, holding back a smile.

Outside, the evening sky now glimmered in shades of violet and blue, punctured by the warm golden halo of each street lamp. Tasha had forgotten to close the curtains. She almost laughed. If the Valerian security personnel really were observing every angle of this house, she imagined what they'd see through the window: two girls tangled together on the couch, lips so close they couldn't possibly be mistaken for just friends.

Tasha had come a long way from that moment her mother had breathed in her ear, calling her a repulsive homosexual. She didn't believe it anymore—not in the slightest. The reminder of Paris and Rory, the love they shared, was enough to keep that internalized homophobia at bay. How could anything like what they had be repulsive?

And now . . . Gloria . . . kissing her for the first time.

This was nothing short of magical.

"What?" said Tasha, realizing that Gloria's eyes had locked on hers, unabashed.

"You're just really pretty. Sorry. Or, well, not sorry."

Tasha kissed her again, wondering if she'd ever get enough. "I kind of want pink lemonade right now. Do you want pink lemonade?"

Gloria grinned. "I'd be down for pink lemonade."

"Hey, didn't you say pink lemonade would always be inferior to regular lemonade? And that if it were really the better lemonade, it would just be called lemonade while lemonade would be called yellow lemonade?"

"That barely made sense."

"You know what I mean."

"Okay, fine, alright." Gloria let out a long-suffering sigh. "I was lying. Pink lemonade is good—okay, fine, better. But I have a good excuse. You're really cute when you're passionate about something . . ."

"You do know I have to get you back for this now, right?"

"Oh." Gloria's eyes glittered black. "I'm looking forward to it."

Tasha kissed her once before rising to her feet. "Challenge accepted."