I barely manage to make it off set without puking.

My legs are wobbly; my breath is short; my head swims. I'm trying to smile, but it's hard when you've just gone on national television—and have already blocked out all the many potentially embarrassing things you've just said.

"That was a great interview," Darius Hughes says, following a few feet behind me. He's one of the hosts of Great Morning America, the one behind their new book-centric interview series. The one who my publisher convinced to let me (of all people) on air. Oh, sweet Jesus fuck. Live television. Live television. "Thanks for being our first Release Radar pick."

I turn and nod, a little numb. My face hurts from too many fake, panicked smiles. I think my eyebrows are going to fly off any moment now. "Thanks for having me. This–this was an amazing opportunity. Is. Was. Thanks! Again."

Behind us on the massive screen backdrop is the fir-filled cover of my debut novel, The Monster Down the Lane. Our timeline from contract to pub date was a lot shorter than most other debut authors—I guess that's why they're pushing it so goddamn early. I didn't think "getting a jump on marketing" was going to include putting me on air.

Darius smiles—I can't tell if he's being sincere, or simply nice—and circles back around to the set, and I make my way over to the back hallway, so I can get to the green room, grab my girlfriend, grab my shit, and get the fuck out of there.

I'm intercepted, however.

"Your first interview," Roz says, reaching for me as she steps out from the shadows like an opera-loving phantom. I try to wrap my arms around her in turn, but I'm too nervous, too stiff. "You're all grown up."

"I don't know about that," I say, trying to smile through the uneasiness in my stomach. I feel like everyone is watching us. The walls, the audience through this wall, the crew. America. In a few days? YouTube Shorts, quite possibly. "Can we talk about this in the green room?"

Roz's playful expression softens, turning to something more sympathetic. "Sure thing." We link arms, and we walk (more like she pulls me, but gently) into the hallway, passing by a few runners hiding for a moment to check their phones, and some fledgling actress, visible through her open green room door, bickering with someone over the phone.

My green room is right next to it—a small cement room full of a whole lot of nothing, just a couch and a counter and a tray of cheese and crackers. Roz helped me pick out the outfit for today's interview—a black turtleneck and dark grey trousers—and while I certainly like how it looks, I hate how high the pants fit, and how tight the turtleneck feels around my throat. But, she's right: it was definitely the move for this morning's interview.

"I have the rental car outside," she says, grimacing as she stretches. "But, hey. Just think, you're old enough now that you don't have to pay any silly daily added fees. You're like a real person now. The big two-five."

"Right," I tell her, closing the green room door so I can switch shirts. The black turtleneck lands on top of my tote bag, and I pull on a white-and-red-striped sweater. I grab my favorite jeans to change into next, stifling a yawn. "Because my birthday wasn't three months before yours."

"Hey, don't bring my birthday into this. Although this trip is to celebrate the fact that I am now thirty, flirty, and thriving. And to celebrate that, a year ago, this would have broken you financially," Roz says, grabbing me by the waist and pressing a quick kiss against my shoulder. I giggle despite myself, then try to compensate by rolling my eyes.

"We can't all be millionaires, babes."

"Mm. Socioeconomic disparities are a bitch." She folds my turtleneck as I finish changing. I still flush when I catch her checking me out with focused, yet smiling eyes. "So, do we want to grab bagels before we go? Or stop for something on the way?"

I shrug. "I don't really care. We could always—"

"Do both?"

"Do both."

Her grin is wide. "I love the way you think. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Yep. Because that's what this is." I pull my hair, now halfway down past my shoulder blades, into a messy ponytail. "A popsicle stand."

"Mm. And we're blowing it."

***

It feels completely bizarre to be sitting in the front seat of a car. Probably because, as I realize after about half an hour, I haven't sat in the front seat of a car since I sold my rickety car to my neighbor back home, in preparation for the move with Gina.

Wow. I haven't driven a car since I was twenty-two. Somehow, it feels even longer.

Roz drives well enough, but she drives like a Minnesotan. It's amusing, to say the least—how she seems to always be precariously above or below the speed limit, how she seems to periodically forget that there are other drivers on the road, and how not overtaking (at barely above the speed limit) doesn't seem to be an option for her.

It's only about a four hour drive to Keuka Lake, but it feels deceptively shorter. There's an inexplicable comfortableness in the car; I keep having to force my eyes to stay open. Roz and I haven't been too focused on talking—although our banter, while more spaced out, has been pretty standard—and have instead settled into a comfortable silence, where Roz habitually reaches across the center console and grabs my hand, before letting it go to overtake once again.

I don't even realize I've fallen asleep in my seat until we've pulled up the long cement driveway of the small lakefront cottage we've rented, and Roz is gently shaking me awake from the driver's seat.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Her voice is soft. She squeezes my hand lightly. "We're here."

Damn, a longer nap might've been nice. I groan and stretch till my knee pops and my back cracks. My sweater suddenly feels itchy, maybe a little bit too sweaty."Fuck. I was cozier than I thought."

"Mmhmm," she says, letting go of my hand and shutting the engine off in the middle of an Electric Light Orchestra song. The dashboard screen of the Elantra we've rented goes black, and Roz slips out of her side of the car to do some stretching of her own.

I'm too groggy to complain as she takes the bulk of our luggage up the tall steps leading to the front door, her messy bun bobbing with each step. The cottage is a bright white with a dark blue door and matching shutters. It looks one story from this side, but the photos online showcased the dip in the back, with lower story doors leading straight out to the property's private dock. It's the most secluded rental we could find—and already, just looking at the front of the house with its well-kempt flower beds and slightly rickety front steps, it's perfect.

I grab my tote bag and overstuffed backpack, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I follow behind Roz. By the time I've made it to the front door, she's already punched in the security code and made her way into the front living space of the cottage. It smells of vanilla and lemon with a slight tinge of lake, and its white shiplap walls are distinctly reminiscent of the old Fixer Upper episodes my mom was obsessed with when I was a kid—although those episodes never had kitschy art like a map of the lake, or a sign that says, "Live, Lake, Love," in scrawling cursive.

I kick off my shoes next to the door and toss my bags next to Roz's on the navy blue couch, taking in the rest of the living room—the tan brick-laid fireplace; the gingham blue, pink, and yellow pillows atop navy-and-white-striped chairs; the bookcase full of board games and thick, aesthetically-ordered books. The open floor-plan leads straight to the kitchen, where Roz is already standing, staring out the window.

"It's so pretty," she says, wrapping an arm around my waist as I join her in front of the kitchen farmhouse sink. "Look at that."

She's not entirely wrong. The sun is well past its peak, but we have hours yet till sunset. It makes the lake water seem an even brighter blue than the photos online, and the green of the shoreline trees a sharper, more saturated hue than I'd anticipated for this early in the summer. There are a few boats and jetskis out on the other side of the lake directly adjacent to us, probably a mile or so out, and the dock is long and wooden and obviously well-trodden. It's gorgeous.

"This was a good pick," I tell her, shifting an arm over her shoulders and pulling her closer to me.

She laughs, beaming up at me. I smile down at her. "Mm, thank your agent. She's the one who came in with the recommendation."

"I'll have to remind her that she's the best agent of all time."

"Woah, bud, hold on." She half-heartedly tries to push away, even with her arm still wrapped around my torso. I squeeze her shoulders. She remains tight against my side. "I won't take this Cat slander."

"I'm not slandering her, per se. I'm just saying, Cassidy is better."

Roz rolls her eyes, then darts up on tiptoe to press a quick kiss against my cheek. "Whatever you have to tell yourself."

I try to frown but can't bring myself to, so I lean down to kiss her back. Her arm around my waist tightens, and I find myself moving a hand up the side of her face, cupping her cheek until stray strands of raven curls from her bun tickle the back of my hand.

The kiss deepens, and I press her back against the sink, my hand from her back sliding down to her hip. She tilts her chin back, a natural instinct for her, and I immediately give into what she wants—my kisses against her neck are firm yet sweet, with no chance of leaving anything like a hickey behind, but more than suitable in eliciting a breathy sigh from Roz.

"We haven't even been here five minutes yet," she murmurs, tangling her fingers in my hair. I keep kissing her while she speaks; her throat buzzes slightly against my lips.

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask, tugging slightly on her hair to expose more of her neck and pressing another tender kiss there. "Because, I can stop."

I don't know if her next sound is more of a groan, or a strangled sigh. "You're such a tease."

"Sorry." Another kiss, gripping her hair slightly tighter. "I'll stop."

"Ugh. Don't you dare."

I pull back. Her eyes search mine. I let her wait a moment before kissing her once more, this time right on the lips. Her hands tighten in my hair, and I press both my hands against her hips.

"Maybe we should go find the bedroom," she suggests, her breath shallow.

I pull back and laugh. "'We haven't even been here five minutes yet.'"

"Oh, shut up."

"We'll have all night," I tell her. "But if we get into bed right now, I think I'll fall asleep."

Roz frowns slightly, propping her elbows up on the edge of the sink. One of her eyebrows is quirked up. I already know what she's about to ask.

"Are you still not sleeping?"

"What? Yes. Of course. I just woke up from that nap, so—"

"Marcella."

I lean back, my hands still on her hips. "I'm sleeping. I'm sleeping."

"Just not a lot," she says, as if reading my mind. "Marcie, sweetie...."

"It's fine! It's literally fine. I'm just more productive at night."

She cocks her head. "You need to take better care of yourself, or you're going to burn yourself out before your book is even released."

"It's fine. I'm done with edits now." The advanced reader copies for my book, The Monster Down the Lane, are shipping some time this week. My book comes out midway through August—which feels unfathomably close and gut-wrenchingly far at the same time.

Roz reaches out and takes my hand in hers. "Then what's keeping you up?"

"Nothing," I lie. "Nothing at all."

Half the time I sleep at Roz's, we're both up late—but, even once she falls asleep, I find myself tossing and turning, until I find myself sneaking out from beneath the covers and onto the couch, pulling her thick knitted blanket over my shoulders and nursing a cup of tea as I open up my Google doc to try and get something, anything, down on the page.

"Is it...?" She trails off, hesitating. "Did I do something?"

"No! No, Roz, you're perfect." I lean down and press a kiss against her forehead. "Absolutely perfect."

"I'm not perfect," she says. "Look, darling, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? Whether it's about us, or writing, or ... well, anything. Okay?"

"I know that." My throat is dry. "There's just nothing to talk about."

"Okay. I believe you." I hate myself for lying to her, and I hate putting her in a position where she has to lie back.

"Let's make dinner," I suggest, kissing her forehead once more before speed walking to the living room to find our bag of low-maintenance meals for our four days here. Her birthday was last week, June fourth, so Roz is taking a few days off from writing and accepting frantic calls from the movie set so we can spend some much-needed time away from our work commitments and with each other, and maybe get some writing done. It's like a mini romantic writing retreat. It's going to be perfect.

"Soup?" I glance back over my shoulder. "Are we in a soup mood?"

Her frown turns into a more relaxed smile, and I wish I could explain to her just how fucking beautiful she is. She's wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that hug her hips just right, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt that we had to stop and take a Tide pen to in the first hour of driving. Her messy bun has almost entirely fallen out now, and I find myself hoping that she's still wearing it later when we go to bed, so I can pull her hair-tie out and let her raven curls fall into my hands.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing her cheek to the top of my hair. "I think we're in a soup mood."

"Perfect. Soup it is." I stand up, her arms still around me, with the box of tomato soup in hand, but Roz snags it.

"Mm, no. I'll cook this," she says, holding it high above her head—as if she's playing a game of keepaway, one she could possibly win. "Don't need you burning the place down."

I scoff, reaching for it. She pulls it away, and I cross my arms, leaning against the back of the couch. "One, I hardly think that heating up soup counts as cooking. Two, I have never set anything on fire ever. And you can't disprove that."

She's shaking her head slowly before I even finish. "Ohhh, Marcie. Silly Marcie. The oven remembers. The oven knows."

"Give me that soup, woman."

I reach for it, and she shrieks, hopping backwards, still holding it above her head. "No! Stop! Thief!"

"I want to cook for you!" I reach for it again, but I'm laughing too hard to do anything but miss,

"You'll kill us all!" She's running to the kitchen, and I'm running after her, trying not to slip on the hardwood floors in my socks. "Bad cook! Bad cook! Bad cook!"

I catch up to her at the kitchen counter. She hops up onto the soapstone—her legs dangling over the edge, still holding the soup box above her head, her chest heaving as she pants. I have to drag my eyes away from the sight, focusing instead on her and her defiant, smug glare. I reach for the box.

"Stop!" she exclaims, her chin tipping back. Her elbow bends, as if exhausted, and she drops the box of soup down on the counter next to her. "Truce. Truce."

Grinning, I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then grab the box of soup from next to her.

"I'm cooking for you. Redemption arc."

She groans. "Oh god. We're dead. We're all so, so dead."

"Okay? And? At least we'll die together."

"Most sapphic death of all time: 'lesbians die together attempting to cook for each other.'"

I press a firmer kiss in that same spot. "You know you love it."

She sighs. "Yeah, yeah, I love it, whatever. Now where the fuck is my soup?"