EVERY last thought in Adrien's mind evaporated. She wanted to tell Muse she could explain. She wanted to say it was a misunderstanding. But, as the priest continued on in his monotone about Christ, the saviour, Adrien remained perfectly still. No emotion touched her face―not a twitch, not a flicker, nothing. She knew it looked like she couldn't care less. It was a defence mechanism she'd honed for years. 

    Muse's words had been barely a whisper, barely a breath. To anyone watching them, with Adrien's blank face and Muse's serene expression, they were simply listening to the sermon. Just the average church-goers. 

    Only Adrien could feel the shock in her blood, the panic that stirred beneath her skin. And only she could see the clench in Muse's jaw, the barely stifled fury that radiated off her.

   "Please rise now," said the priest, voice echoing, "and repeat after me . . . the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit . . ."

    A great creak emanated around the room as people rose from their wooden pews, shoes shuffling, coat sleeves brushing against one another. Adrien stood, and Muse stood with her.

    "I'm going to the bathroom," said Muse, a whisper. "Come after me." A pause. "Or don't."

    And just like that, Muse was escaping. A soft chorus of "Excuse me," and "Pardon me," and "Sorry" trailed after her. Her footsteps faded as she disappeared down the aisle, towards the lobby of the church.

      Adrien felt rooted to the wooden pew. This, for some reason, felt like a turning point. It would change whatever was between them. Going after Muse would mean she owed her an explanation. 

     It would mean she cared.

     And of course Adrien cared. She couldn't deny that to herself. She had bought a museum for Muse after knowing her for three days. She had proposed after one. And just this morning, Adrien had made her breakfast―even though she could've called Margo, her housekeeper, even though she could've ordered anything in the world from any place at all. She cared―stupidly, irrationally, and far too much.

     She wished she didn't.

     God, she wished she didn't.

     It had been much easier, having flings, having hookups, when she felt nothing for the women. Muse and Adrien hadn't even really kissed. And still, Muse had the ability to make Adrien feel like this.

     I've lost my mind, Adrien thought. And before she knew it, she was squeezing past the people in her row, making her way down the centre of the aisle. Because there had never been a doubt, not really, that she'd go after Muse. No matter what it meant.

     Once she'd gently opened and shut the grand doors of the church, letting herself into the lobby, she zeroed in on the women's bathroom door with its little dress-wearing silhouette.

      She breathed in. The church smelled like incense and ash. 

      Then she walked towards it, purposefully, sharpening her nerves into confidence. No weakness was her mantra. She repeated it to herself daily. No weakness, but this wasn't her father, or another CEO, or some rich business prick. This was Muse.

      Adrien pushed open the bathroom door.

      Muse, leaning against the back wall, with her cloud of curly, dark gold hair falling into her eyes, had never looked so beautiful. She looked up as the door closed behind Adrien.

      The bathroom, besides them, was empty.

      "Hey," said Adrien.

      "Hi," said Muse.

      "About the apartment―I can explain."

      Muse crossed her arms and tilted her head, that familiar birdlike gesture. She let out a breath, and the curls in front of her eyes fluttered. "It's . . . fine. I overreacted. I'm sorry."

      "No, I'm sorry." Adrien took a step forward. "You deserve an explanation."

      "You don't owe me one, Adrien. I was being dramatic. I'd just found out and I was . . ."

      Adrien waited for Muse to finish. To admit she'd been upset, or disappointed, or hurt. But the words faded into silence, and then both of them were simply staring at each other, neither willing to break first. The urge to kiss Muse, even now, felt all-consuming. Overwhelming.

     Curiosity won out for Adrien. She said, "How did you find out?"

     "Your ex, some woman named Piper―she told me to follow her to the rafters, then warned me against you. Said you had commitment issues, and that you've slept with half the female population of New York."

     A wince. "Piper is not my ex, but she's not wrong."

    "So when I asked about that purse in the fish tank . . ."

    "One of my one-night stands. I'm pretty sure." Adrien scratched the back of her head. "Not that I really remember that night . . ."

     Something unidentifiable flickered on Muse's face. It disappeared in almost a heartbeat. 

    "We should get back," she said. "It's probably better for your reputation if your dad sees us paying attention to the sermon."

    "Right. Yeah."

    Adrien had just opened the door when Muse called out, "Wait."

    The faint music of the church choir echoed in the lobby. Adrien looked back into the bathroom, still holding the door open for Muse―

    Muse closed the distance between them in two steps and shoved her against it. Her eyes searched Adrien's face. And then she kissed Adrien, furiously. Adrien responded almost instinctively. Her hands slid up Muse's hips, against the back of her neck, into her hair. This moment . . . God. It was everything she'd imagined and more. She didn't have time to process anything beyond it.

      Muse pulled away first. Breathing hard.

      Adrien said, "My chauffeur just assumed . . . and you were sleeping so peacefully . . ."

     "I know I can't be mad," Muse whispered, staring into Adrien's eyes. "I know I have no right. But . . ."

      They were kissing again before Adrien could think about it. Muse's lips, so soft and warm, made her want to lose herself, to stay trapped in this moment forever. 

      They had crossed a line. Adrien knew they had crossed a line. She didn't care right now.

     "I'll show you my apartment," she said against Muse's lips. "My real apartment. I'll make it up to you."

      "It doesn't matter," said Muse, and kissed her harder.      

      Adrien spun Muse, so their positions were reversed. She placed one hand on the door, next to Muse's head. Muse was a couple inches shorter than Adrien, which forced her to look up.

      The air between them felt electrified. Something crystallized in Adrien's veins. She tilted Muse's chin with one finger. And Muse's eyes―gazing into hers―were pure warmth, melting liquid.

       "I want you to admit it," Adrien whispered.

      Tell me it hurt you. Tell me you care. Something―anything―would be better than Muse saying, "It doesn't matter." Or, "I overreacted." Adrien wanted a reaction, something raw. She wanted to know if Muse felt the same way she did, as fucked up as it was. 

      "Admit what?"

      "You know."

      Muse shook her head. Scoffed. "You're delusional, Vitale. There's nothing I have to say to you."

      "Why'd you come here?"

      "I don't know what you're talking about."

      "Piper told you I slept with half the women in New York City. She described the apartment where I take one-nights stands. Why did it bother you?"

      "It didn't."

      "You called my apartment a slut hut and ran away." Adrien shook her head faintly. "You're always running away, Muse."

     "I don't . . ."

     "Here, now. And at the restaurant, after the proposal, at the museum, whenever the conversation steers toward childhood or your parents . . ."

      At the mention of the word parents, Muse stiffened beneath Adrien and closed her eyes. 

     "I just need space."

     "Open your eyes," Adrien whispered. "I want to see you. Talk to me, Muse. Tell me. Why did you run away this time?"

     "No reason," said Muse, and clutched Adrien by the collar, pulling her in for a deep kiss.

     "Admit it," Adrien gasped. Hardly a beat passed before they were kissing again, hands roaming everywhere, like they were teenagers again.

     "There's nothing . . ." Muse let out a small, soft moan against Adrien's lips. "Nothing to admit, Adrien. I don't care . . . about . . . your past or . . ." She moaned again. "Whoever you've fucked. I don't care." 

     Adrien rolled Muse's lower lip gently between her teeth. Her right hand drifted to the curve of Muse's hip. Then lower. A featherlight caress. 

    "Liar."

    Muse let out something like a whimper. "I'm not―"

    A little more pressure, and Muse's neck arched, her head against the door. Adrien kissed her collarbone, the juncture of her shoulder. Muse's whimpering didn't stop.

    "Don't make me ask again."

    "I was hurt," Muse said, and her voice broke. "Okay?"    

    They kissed again, harder this time. Muse's fingers raked through Adrien's hair, undoing the ponytail. Adrien's fingers danced at the hem of Muse's silky dress, dragging it up inch by inch towards the swell of her hip. Desire pulsed in the space between them, like the midday sun, like a summer night.

    Hurt. It meant Muse cared. 

    "I'm sorry," said Adrien. "I should have told my driver . . ."

    "You don't have to apologize. We can still be purely professional." Muse kissed her. It was desperate and greedy and so, so hot. "This is a terrible idea. We can never . . ." She gasped as Adrien touched her inner thigh, and then swallowed. ". . . do this again."

    "Okay," Adrien agreed.

    Then, so swiftly she didn't have time to protest, Muse had shifted the dynamic again. Adrien was pressed against the door once more, with Muse leaning against her, hands on her chest.

     "And I hate . . ." Muse looked up through her lashes. "I hate . . . that I was hurt."

     "It's . . ." Adrien forced herself to swallow. "I get it."

     Because how could she give away more than that? How could she say just how deeply she understood?

     "If we're getting married," said Muse suddenly, "I want a list."

     "What?"

     "A list of all your lovers, everyone you've ever slept with. Prepare me. I don't want something like this to happen again."

     "Are you . . . sure?" That list would be very, very long.

     "Please. I don't want to be blindsided. It'll be purely professional."

     There was that phrase again. Purely professional, like they hadn't just come close to fucking in the church bathroom, like Muse hadn't just admitted she'd been hurt by something Adrien's ex had said. 

     Maybe Adrien wasn't in the right mindset, but she couldn't see the harm in preparing Muse.

     "Purely professional," Adrien repeated, her mouth still swollen with the warmth of Muse's lips. "Okay."

***

I love terrible ideas.

From the moon and back,
Sarai