Ping—
The stainless-steel chopsticks slipped from Oakley Ponciano's fingers and chimed against the small plate, then skittered across the warm-grained wood. Under the kitchen's honeyed light, she stared at Grace Barron as if an alien had just stepped in from outer space, lips parted, breath caught.
"What is it?" Grace asked, puzzled by Oakley's statuesque stillness. Had she done something wrong? Unlikely—she'd been as easygoing as one could be.
Shaking off the surprise, Oakley snatched up the chopsticks again, pressed her lips together, lifted her chin. "Nothing. Just… explain it. What do you mean by 'they are them, and I'm me'? We're all human, aren't we? How am I different?"
It was such a beautiful line—too beautiful. It made Oakley feel as if Grace had carved out a place for her apart from everyone else, so separate the rest of the world blurred at the edges. Even if Oakley were a stray creature and not a woman, faced with a Grace like this, she'd probably end up loving across species.
Grace smiled, brows arcing. "Don't you want to be different from everyone else?"
"I never said I didn't," Oakley retorted, a small defiant pout. She pushed Grace's question right back at her. "Being different is great. You get special treatment, shortcuts, little private favors. I love it."
Grace's mouth curved again. She was about to speak when a yawn stole up on her. It was late; the days had been relentless; she'd just eaten. With the blood sugar rising, drowsiness padded in like a cat.
Oakley watched her blink, the blinking slow now. She checked the time. "Grace—bed. Now."
"Mhm. I should." Grace reached for the dishes.
"Nope." Oakley frowned and stopped her. "I've got this. As for you…"
She folded one arm across her middle, pointed dramatically toward the stairs with the other. Her brows rose; her face shifted from adorable house kitten to solemn lioness in a heartbeat. "I command you: right now, immediately, upstairs. Sleep."
As if disobedience would cost a head.
Grace laughed under her breath. "All right, then. I obey."
She had meant to keep talking travel—where, when, what they'd do. But Oakley's play-serious decree knocked her thoughts askew. Another time.
"Enough chatter. Go." Oakley's voice held only gentle bossiness now.
Under her watchful gaze, Grace stood and headed for the staircase. Oakley waited until the last bit of her disappeared around the landing, then turned back to the table and went to work.
Ten minutes later, everything was where it belonged. The counters were wiped down to a new-made shine.
Oakley had one foot on the first step when a video call lit her phone. She detoured to the sofa, toed off her slippers, and curled into a soft corner.
"Hi, Mom?" She snapped her phone into a little stand and set it on the coffee table.
"Sweetheart, ready for bed?" Her mother looked as composed as ever—oatmeal-beige sweater, softness to match her temper. The kind of woman others called saintly: she only had to show her face and smile a little and the atmosphere gentled.
"In a minute." Oakley hugged her knees. "What's up?"
Winter had advanced; nights clenched like a fist. Her eyes felt grainy, as if the cold would scuff them raw if she didn't slip under a blanket fast.
"I checked dates for your wedding," her mother said with a small smile. "The fifteenth of October next year is beautifully auspicious. If you plan to hold it next year, lock it in."
Her mother was brisk and thorough about such things.
"Okay, that day." Oakley stifled a yawn. "I'll tell her tomorrow. She's probably asleep."
Her eyes burned—tiny flares of light spangling across her vision with every blink.
"Late there?" her mother asked, seeing the yawn. "I'll let you go, then. Sleep, darling."
"Night, Mom."
Oakley ended the call and stretched, arms floating up, spine smiling. She kneaded her biceps absently, then sat a moment longer. The thought of Grace driving back through the night made her grin for no good reason.
So many of Grace's gestures could be savored a hundred times without losing their taste.
Next year, they'd stand up and make this marriage known. The thought of everyone witnessing it sent a small, anticipatory shiver through her.
She turned off the downstairs lights, gathered the tablet, and climbed. In the bedroom she clicked on a newly bought lamp: a dreamy wash of violet spilled like gauze across one corner.
She opened a cabinet, took out a massage gun, sat on the edge of the bed, and pressed it to the taut bands of her neck and shoulder. Modern life, she thought, lamenting its losses one minute and praising its little miracles the next; its gadgets sprang up like mushrooms after rain, adding textures to ordinary evenings.
Grace threaded through her thoughts again—what she'd said these days, what she'd done. Oakley didn't know if Grace realized it, but Oakley had been thoroughly, shamelessly charmed. Her whole body fizzed, like someone had set loose a colony of ants beneath her skin.
Before, Grace had already been exactly Oakley's type—beautiful, meticulous, gentle. Every trait hit squarely at the center of Oakley's chest. But back then, even as Grace did things for her, she held herself in, a measured distance that Oakley could feel and respected. Distance bred restraint.
Lately, though, that unseen wall between them had been coming down brick by careful brick. Warmth had replaced caution. The surge made it hard for Oakley to keep her head.
At the same time, it frightened her. The new tenderness felt like something made of glass and breath: touch it and it might break, might vanish, might turn out to be a moon in water—beautiful, brief, not to be held.
Between excitement and unease, a question unfurled: Why was Grace doing all this?
Could it be that Grace—truly, truly—liked her? Was she… courting her?
The thought made Oakley blush at herself. Brazen. Shameless. And yet it bloomed on, unbothered by shame. If Oakley had a native talent, it was dreaming.
A message pinged on apptalk.
From Ellisa Cheney:Oakley, I can't help asking—did I do something wrong?Two teary-face stickers marched behind the words.
Oakley hadn't been in touch much with Ellisa lately. Not since the hospital. First out of respect—Grace had been vulnerable; she, Oakley, needed to rein herself in. Then because some of Grace's blunt observations had landed. And because of what Evelyn Luke claimed to have seen: Ellisa already had a girlfriend. Maybe it was a mistake. Still—Oakley remembered that odd moment in the dessert shop, Ellisa leaning in too close for a selfie, almost kissing her cheek. Oakley hadn't clocked it then. In retrospect, it felt like a near-miss.
After that, the urge to keep distance grew.
But Ellisa was someone she'd once looked out for, someone she had feelings for in a broad, human way. Oakley wasn't built for sudden deletions or hard blocks. She chose a slow fade: no initiating, cooler replies, slower timing. Maybe Ellisa would lose interest on her own. Cleaner for everyone.
She hadn't expected Ellisa's persistence.
Now Ellisa had come straight out with the question.
Oakley turned off the massage gun and considered.
You didn't do anything wrong, she typed at last. It's me. Too much going on. I've been more and more inward lately; I don't even know how to explain it well.
Ellisa replied fast:That's okay—we're friends. If you've got troubles, tell me. I might not fix them, but I can listen.
A dull ache gathered behind Oakley's eyes. She pressed her fingertips to her temples.
Another message:Our headquarters gave me two options—stay here, where I know everyone and can focus on climbing, or move to Skylark and start from zero, even if the long-term prospects are similar. I've decided to stick with my original plan: Skylark. Because you're there, haha. I really want to go. But starting over will be lonely. You said I could come find you anytime—does that still count?
A thin pressure formed beneath Oakley's breastbone. Perhaps she was overreading—but the gist she heard was: I'm giving up my comfort zone for you; remember to look after me.
Intentional or not, the weight settled on her shoulders.
She typed carefully, honestly:If staying in Lucent or moving to Skylark won't change your long-term prospects, but Lucent gives you stronger relationships and a foundation, while Skylark doesn't—my advice is to stay in Lucent.
No instant reply this time.
Oakley set the phone down, restarted the massage gun, ran it along her calves. The phone buzzed again.
A long wall of text unfurled.
I'll be straight, Ellisa wrote. Do you actually dislike me? Is that why you've been ignoring me since you got back to Skylark? As for staying or going—you're telling me to stay in Lucent because you don't want me in Skylark, right? If you really dislike me, just say it. I can take it. And… did Grace say something to you? I'm curious.
Oakley squinted at the tangle of words. She tried, again, for calm:
It's not that, Ellisa. I have no issue with you. But I'm married now, not single. I need to consider my wife's feelings. Last time we met, I was too casual, and I didn't think about Grace. I was confused then; I won't repeat it. I'm keeping some distance from everyone, not just you.
She had sanded the edges, softened the blows. She wasn't the type to attack unless attacked. Most days she was careful with others' feelings.
Ellisa didn't—or couldn't—hear her. The next message arrived hot:
So you've turned into one of those married women who lose themselves and even feel proud about it? I'm disappointed in you. Because you're married, you belong to Grace now?
Oakley hadn't planned to be angry. But she had a spine. And nothing set her off like being lectured on how to live. Call her ninety-nine pounds of contrarian in a hundred-pound frame—press the wrong rib and she'd show her teeth.
How I live is my business, Ellisa. Don't you think you're being rude? Kindness isn't an invitation to climb on the roof and tear off shingles.
Send.
Ellisa's typing bubble pulsed. Then, finally:
Fine. Choose a lover over a friend. Go be with her. I'm an outsider—I get it. But you'll learn she's not who she pretends to be. She told you she only ever liked Jessica Brooks? Please. Ask around. Before she pursued Jessica, she was fixated on another girl. People even say she was chasing her. So much for pure. She's a professional liar. But whatever—if she means that much to you, enjoy it. You should be worried about being fooled. You never learn. Don't come crying later.
Oakley stared at the jumble—leaps, fragments, accusations. A weary regret washed over her. She shouldn't have shared so much before. With some people, every word you give becomes a blade in their hand.
So, stung in childhood; stung again as an adult. Ellisa had called it earlier: Oakley never learned. No brain, no lesson.
A bitter little laugh broke free. Only Jessica?Another girl? Ellisa made herself sound like some agent with a dossier. What was this—investigative work?
The more she thought about it, the more it crawled under her skin. She loathed mess.
She typed, What do you mean— and hit send. apptalk flashed back: You are not this user's contact.
So Ellisa had deleted her right after dropping the grenade.
Oakley tipped the phone in the air, palm to her forehead, and laughed again—this time at herself. She had been tying herself in knots trying to minimize any hurt she might cause. And when Ellisa wanted to hurt, she hadn't paused for a second to consider the harm.
People with miles on them always said it: not everyone is as good as you hope; not everyone merits your whole heart.
Fine. Better this way. She no longer had to wonder how to handle Ellisa. One less tangle.
Still, the half-said thing gnawed. Maybe Ellisa had only lashed out to wound—maybe she'd made it up. But Oakley was human. She couldn't not care.
Even if it were true, what of it?
People had adolescent hearts. Maybe Grace had more than one "white moon"—the untouchable first loves that glowed in the mind. There was no law that said a person could only ever love one person at a time, or only once.
And yet—if there had been another, why hadn't Grace told her?
Was this someone more important than Jessica Brooks? Important enough to hide, kept buried as literature often promised: true love rarely brags; it buries itself deep.
Oakley couldn't name her feeling. She only knew she wanted clarity. If Ellisa had been spitting nonsense, then clarity mattered more. If she hadn't… clarity still mattered.
She turned off the massage gun, opened her door, and padded down the hall to Grace's room.
She stood with her ear near the wood. No light bled out. The silence was the delicate kind that could register a pin. Oakley licked her lips, closed her fingers around the knob, and tried it.
Unlocked. The door opened on a whisper.
She slipped in, head first, then step by careful step toward the bed.
The nightlight at the headboard woke at her approach, laying a small amber field over Grace's sleeping face. Oakley stood there and looked, unblinking, then sat down at the edge of the mattress.
When the light blinked out again, she eased under the covers, tugged them up to her chin, and drifted closer. Grace didn't stir.
Oakley bit her lip, then lifted Grace's arm, slid herself into its cradle, and tipped her face up, studying her in the dark.
Grace shifted a little, adjusting.
"Grace…" Oakley's brow ticked up.
Grace's breath was steady as ever. This time, though, her brow moved, a tiny knot and release. "Mm?"
Awake? Half-awake?
Oakley didn't care which. She propped her chin on her hand and leaned close. "I heard that, back in school, besides Jessica Brooks, you were… preoccupied with another girl?"
Unexpectedly, though her eyes stayed shut, Grace made a small sound. "Mm."
Oakley's teeth caught and released her lower lip. "Who was she?"