Archive of Our Own

It starts, of all possible things, with a suicidal fucking deer. 

No—rewind. 

It starts with a cold winter day, otherwise known as pretty much every day in Mass from December on through March, and a sheet of ice blanketed across the windshield of Nat’s shitty old ‘96 Ford Ranger pickup. Ten full minutes to scrape it off, and that’s just clearing enough to see through half the windshield. 

There’s the screech of her tires as she peels out of the driveway, too fast for a frozen morning, and the bitter black coffee she grabs from the gas station—leaves the engine running outside, plumes of dark grey smoke choking in bitter spirals from the exhaust pipe. There’s the drive to work, routine by now: left turn, straight ahead, bend in the road—

A deer in front of her suddenly, out of thin air, on a breakaway sprint across double yellow lines. Coming from the side of the strip mall that edges the main road, leaping as Nat slams on the brakes. Instinct swerves sharp, the car even sharper, and Nat has only a second split red-open to process—kick of acceleration, nicotine rush of adrenaline, joyriding terror straight into the front end of a sleek black BMW with a sickening grind of metal on metal. 

The truck slams to a stop and Nat falls back against the seat, her heartbeat jackrabbiting under predator’s wings. She breathes once, twice, pulls stock from the panic. 

Windshield: cracked, not shattered. Mirrors: dinged, not bent. Engine: still running fine, if the mechanic hum beneath her boots is anything to go by. 

Tall brunette girl now getting out of the Beemer: definitely pissed. 

“Fuck,” Nat says, and fumbles for the seat belt, clicks it loose. As she hops out of the cab, glass crunches under the steel of her toes—clear and perfect glass, not the grime-scratched stretch of her own windshield. Fuck. 

She rounds the truck and heads for the girl, hoping to cut this off at the throat, but one look at the girl’s face tells her that any chance of peace talks probably died right alongside the front half of her car. She tries anyway. “Hey—” 

“What,” the girl says, “the actual fuck.” 

Nat flicks a glance towards the front of the BMW: folded in on itself, accordioned in sections, a cheap can of beer at the end of the party. Looks back at her own truck: unharmed, other than a slice in the dark blue paint and a dent over the right headlight that’s been burned out for days. Say what you want about old cars, but god damn if they don’t know how to endure. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Nat offers, chastened. “Hit you, I mean. Sorry.” 

The girl frowns. “Don’t apologize,” she says, short and clipped. “It’s an admission of fault.” 

That’s a kick in the head, if not an especially violent one. “Fuck,” Nat mutters again, and then: “Shit. I knew that.” 

“Hm.” The girl looks at her— down at her, since she’s about six feet tall to Nat’s five foot four on a good day. “Maybe you did.” 

Nat has no idea what to say to that, so she takes a moment to once-over the girl instead. She’s tall and long-haired, brown waves in a cascade around her shoulders. Tan skin, strong features; dark brown eyes, wide and perceptive. Like any other basic girl in this town, but there’s something more to her, too: she’s sharper, self-assured. Untouchable, in the way that can only be achieved by being fuck off, fuck you, fuck everything rich. 

And also: familiar, for some reason. Known, even, as if Nat’s met her before and misplaced the memory in some ashtray, along with the ends of half a dozen American Spirits. 

“It is your fault, though,” the girl continues, “so it doesn’t really matter, I guess.” She casts an impassive glance at the ruin of her front bumper, which doesn’t look dented so much as meteor-struck. “Wow, you really fucked my car up. I hope you have good insurance.” 

Nat leans against the side of her truck, equivocating, or trying to, at least. Cold metal seeps through the back of her canvas jacket; a slow freezerburn, like a body left outside in the dead of winter. “Hey, let’s just skip that whole part of it. I know a place, a guy, I could get you a good cheap fix job. No insurance necessary.” 

“Yeah, no thanks,” the girl says, steady behind a brown gaze that’s somehow cool and burning hot at the same time. Judgemental, disdainful; now there’s a flavor always burning bitter in the throat of Nat’s life. “I don’t need to settle for cheap repairs just because you don’t know how to stay on the road.” 

She says you with a strange emphasis, heavy with some immeasurable weight. Nat feels a flash of indignation, hot and dark. If there’s something to be proved here, then fuck it—she’ll prove it. 

“Calm the fuck down,” Nat says, and there’s that gunmetal flare of temper between her ribs. “Ever think that maybe you’re the fuckup here? I had the right of way, you shouldn’t have been pulling out in front of me.” 

“You had the right of way,” the girl corrects. She’s dressed way down for this weather, just a soft pink sweater and jeans that look like they cost more than Nat’s rent. Shivering a little in the cold; twenty degrees today, feels like eighteen in the wind. 

For a second, car accident aside, Nat has a bizarre urge to take off her own coat and wrap the girl up. It’s fleeting, an involuntary muscle tense, and it disappears as soon as the girl says: “You gave it up the second you crossed the line and swerved into me.” She shakes her head, a motion that sets her hair flowing perfectly in the winter breeze. Somewhere in the area, a chorus of unseasonable birds starts singing in six-part harmony. “I’m going to be late to class now.” 

“Oh, I’m so fucking sorry about that,” Nat scoffs, disbelieving. “Where do you go, UMass?” 

The girl arches an eyebrow—the shape is annoyingly perfect, which pisses Nat off even more. “No.” One hand in her pocket now, pulling out a long lavender lanyard with a handful of cards and keys clustered at the end. “Mount Holyoke.”  

Nat tips forward, eyes scanning the card. Blue plastic, a headshot of the same face in front of her, and a name: CHARLOTTE MATTHEWS, in a strong black font, and fuck. Now Nat knows why the girl looks so familiar. 

“Fuck me,” Nat mumbles to herself. “You’re—” 

“Lottie Matthews,” the girl answers, holding out her hand to shake like a complete loser. Nat doesn’t take it, because she’s too busy hearing the magnetic strip of her cassette tape brain come fully unwound. 

Lottie Matthews, as in: the girl Tai speaks of occasionally, compliments never. Lottie Matthews, as in: the richest girl in Massachusetts, and maybe America too. Lottie Matthews, who allegedly once started a cult and tried to set fire to the entire Mount Holyoke campus. Nat’s not really clear on all the details; there’s a country mile and a few financial brackets between living with undergrads and being one herself.   

“You’ve heard of me,” Lottie says, words falling into the space left unfilled by a handshake. It should sound pretentious, presumptive. It doesn’t. 

“Eh.” Nat shrugs one shoulder. “Might have comitted arson, blah blah blah. Nothing big.” 

Lottie smiles, tight at the corners of her mouth. She’s got that rich-girl face on still, bored and waiting, but there’s a sad fault line running towards the wound of her tear duct, whisper-thin. Nat wouldn’t notice, if she didn’t have fault lines of her own. 

“I don’t need your insurance,” Lottie says at last. “Not really.” 

There’s a note to her voice that Nat can’t place, doesn’t try. Lottie’s eyes stay on her, big and brown like the deer Nat swerved to avoid, and something in the neighborhood of Nat’s chest tightens like a two-car pileup.   

“No, you don’t,” she agrees, and jerks a thumb towards the Ranger. “Want a ride to class?” 

+

Four minutes later, they’ve exchanged licenses and called a tow truck and Lottie’s climbing into the cab of the pickup. Cops and lawyers would tell them to wait at the crash scene, most likely, but Nat doesn’t trust either; plus, she’s been friends with the guys at the garage for nearly a year now. When she called up Original Auto Joe’s, all she had to tell them was the location before Joe himself said he’d be there in twenty with the rig. 

So now the Beemer’s been pushed safely into the nearest parking space, waiting alone, and Nat’s got a passenger seat full of Lottie Matthews. She wishes now that she’d made the space a little neater, aired out the old cigarette smell and thrown away some coffee cups, but hey. Not like anyone told her she’d end this morning fresh off a car crash with South Hadley’s richest riding shotgun. 

Lottie’s quiet for the first few minutes, sitting perfectly still in the front seat. She’s so tall that her head nearly touches the faded fabric of the cab’s ceiling, and her miles of leg are folded up in a way that can’t be comfortable, knees tight against the glove compartment. Nat’s pretty sure those thighs have their own zip code, not that she’s complaining about the view. Coming from a two-bedroom trailer in the sticks, you learn pretty quickly that you should never turn down free real estate. 

“You can push the seat back,” Nat offers, taking a left turn a little too sharply. Half a dozen cassette tapes come flying out of the cab’s side pockets, spilling into Lottie’s lap. “Sorry. Not used to having tall passengers in here.” 

Lottie just hums in acknowledgement, spreads the tapes out across her seat. Turns them over, looking curiously at Radiohead and Nirvana and the Smiths. Nat’s got Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, some Bowie, two different albums by the Doors, and a playlist of trap music Javi made for her that she doesn’t actually have a subscription to access. She wonders, unexpectedly, what Lottie listens to. 

“You have cassette tapes,” Lottie observes, folding her fingers carefully around a Joan Jett record. “That’s unusual.” 

“Yeah, well.” The light ahead turns green, and Nat floors it through the intersection. “I don’t have any streaming services, and the CD player in here doesn’t work for shit. Plus, tapes are cool.”

Lottie hums again, this time sounding amused. “Anti-establishment?” 

Nat scoffs. “Nah, just poor.” She glances sidelong at Lottie, gleam of her hair and the perfect softness of her designer sweater, and feels that familiar old kick of anger. “Not like you’d know anything about that.” 

“I don’t,” Lottie agrees. The admission comes light, easy; the willingness speaks of something almost worse than poverty, something Nat couldn’t touch with a ten-foot hunting rifle. “Turn left up here, okay?” 

Nat does. They’re coming up on the Mount Holyoke campus now, tall brick buildings and long grass lawns turned a drab brown from the cold; Nat’s worked half a dozen jobs here, phone-ins for simple help, and never once come close to belonging. 

“Should I drop you at the finance building?” she asks now, just to be a dick. “Or the econ hall, or like, a library that was probably donated by your family?” 

“Environmental,” Lottie replies, pointing to a low yellow-brick building enshrined by winter-bare trees. Oaks, or maybe maples; Nat doesn’t know, doesn’t really give a shit. “Over there.” 

Nat pulls up to the curb, shifting the pickup into park with only a few sounds of protest from the gears. “Here you go, then. Don’t forget to give me five stars.” 

Lottie unclips her seatbelt, but she doesn’t make a move for the door—just sits there in the passenger seat, fingers still tracing aimlessly over the front of yet another cassette case. Talking Heads this time, a tape that’s been run nearly ragged from endless winding and rewinding. Nat should snatch it out of her hands, probably, the same way she does when Van or Tai start messing with her stuff. (Van admires; Shauna meddles.) For some reason, she doesn’t. 

“Here’s the thing,” Lottie says slowly. “You did kind of wreck my car.” 

Nat grips the steering wheel tightly, hands placed at ten and too fucking tired for this bullshit. There’s a headache starting up somewhere between her temples, aching for a rip of nicotine. “Dude, come on. You said we could skip the insurance crap, I drove you to school.” One hand off the wheel now, gesturing to the building ahead of them. “What more could a girl want, right?” 

Lottie doesn’t say anything, just blinks. Nat’s starting to get the impression that she only speaks when she’s really got something to say, which is kind of annoying and kind of compelling at the same time. Still—clock’s ticking, and she’s twenty minutes late for work already. She doesn’t have time for a distraction sitting shotgun, even if it’s a gorgeous one. 

(Yeah, Nat noticed: Lottie’s gorgeous. Sue her, and good luck getting any money out of it. She’s a recovering addict, not blind.)

“Look, I’ll pay for the fix, alright?” Nat says, curling the fingers of her left hand into her jacket pocket. “Cover you, whatever. I’m not, like, some charity case.” 

Lottie shakes her head. “I don’t want your money, Nat.” 

The name sounds different in Lottie’s mouth: richer, softer. Lottie says it like she cares, and Nat bites back against a sudden ache in her throat. Asks, warily: “What do you want, then?” 

“A favor,” Lottie says. “No questions asked.” 

Nat frowns at her, disarmed. “What—” 

“No questions asked,” Lottie repeats, turning those deep-well chocolate eyes on her again. “Will you?”

Nat should say no. She wants to say no. She should, she should—but there’s something about Lottie, standing apart from the wealth and the designer labels, that reaches like an outstretched hand. Lottie needs help, in some way or other, and Nat is nothing if not a sucker deep down. 

“I’m not doing, like, illegal shit,” Nat warns her. “Or anything with drugs.” Anymore. 

Lottie laughs, a short and gentle sound. “None of that. I promise.”

“Fine,” Nat sighs. She digs her phone out of her jacket pocket and holds it out, hoping Lottie won’t look at the cracks in the screen or the years that have passed since the model was first released. “Put your number in.” 

Lottie takes the phone, thumbing in numbers over the chipped glass like it’s nothing. When she taps the call button, a Stevie Nicks song comes pouring out of her back pocket: something from her solo career, no band behind her. 

“There,” Lottie says. “Now I’ll have your number, too.” 

“Perfect,” Nat mutters, and leans across to push open the passenger door. “See you, then.” 

Lottie slides out of the truck, shouldering her bag—not a designer purse, Nat notes with surprise, but a canvas tote patterned with small black and yellow bees. It suits her, somehow. 

“You’re a shit driver,” Lottie says, standing on the sidewalk and smiling. The morning clouds have parted a little, sending a thin streak of light down to touch her face. “Thanks for the ride.” 

She waves, then turns and heads toward the environmental building. Nat sits and watches her go, fingers tapping against the wheel; once that’s done, she hits the gas and sets course for the nearest 7/11. She has no idea what just happened, but she needs to smoke a cigarette or five about it. 

+

Nat’s hope is to keep the whole thing under wraps, maybe call it even with an accidental dose of Benadryl and wave it away as a fever dream. It’s a pretty lame plan even by her standards, and it goes flying out the window as soon as she walks into the house. 

She’s barely kicked her boots off—Shauna bitches about shoes in the house, even though she keeps her own on half the time—when Tai pops up like a fucking jack in the box and asks, in her no-bullshit voice: “Nat, what happened to your truck?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Nat says, and gives her left boot one more kick. It goes flying off, landing vaguely near the shoe rack; well, close enough. “I can’t get in the fucking door without the prosecution starting. This is worse than living with parents.” 

It’s not, of course. Anything’s better than thin walls, the buckled metal of trailer doors, the cold concrete of front steps stained with blood. Nat used to stick an old box fan by the window and put her head as close to the blades as she could get, just to drown out the yelling. But no one here knows about that, and Jesus, why should they, so her crack sticks the landing just fine. 

Tai looks at her, calculating, all brutalism and pre-law D3 athlete. “I saw the damage as soon as you pulled in. I can work up a killer case for insurance claims, if you weren’t at fault.” She smiles, shark-like, and Nat watches the reflection of a hundred futures going up in courthouse flames in her eyes. “Or if you were.” 

“No thanks,” Nat mutters. “How did you even spot the dent? It could’ve been there already.” 

“It wasn’t,” Shauna calls from the living room, where she’s slouched against the sofa with a battered copy of Crime and Punishment like the sadomasochistic semi-psychopath she is. “I would’ve noticed it when I keyed your door the other day.” 

“What the fuck,” Nat says flatly. “Literally why the fuck would you do that.” 

Shauna shrugs. “You blocked my car in.” 

The back door slams shut with a familiar sound of cracking wood varnish, and Van comes in, shaking snow off her Timberland boots. They’re about three years newer and a hundred times nicer than Nat’s, but Van’s replaced the original laces with her own custom pair, pink and orange and white; Nat’s not sure exactly why, but Tai smiles a little every time she looks at them. 

“Hey, guys,” Van says cheerfully. “I got chicken for dinner. Who’s cooking?” 

“Not it,” Nat says, and escapes upstairs before anyone can drag her into the disaster zone of the kitchen. She’s seen the carnage that comes from Shauna at an open-flame stove, and she’d rather go hungry than witness that again. 

Back in her room, she tosses her coat on the three-legged wooden chair by her desk and drops onto her bed with a sigh. She looks around: pale grey walls and the low slope of the white attic ceiling, narrow windows frosted over. Posters here and there, OK Computer and Saturday Night Wrist and a Scream graphic that Van gave her , a couple old metal signs that Nat’s found or swiped from the porch of the local dive bar. 

And then the traces of her roommates creeping in—Tai’s spare reading glasses, a paperback novel that Van lent her, one of Shauna’s flannels stolen and draped over the open closet door. Just figures, really, that Nat moved in determined to keep to herself and somehow ended up playing the fourth wheel in some twisted collegiate sitcom. 

Because she doesn’t do this, alright. Doesn’t tie knots, spread roots, whatever bullshit human connection metaphor you want to use here. Her best friends in high school were a joint and a bottle, and she burned a one-way set of tire tracks out of her hometown the second she graduated. She may be clean now, but she’s not connected; no address marks her second home, no phone numbers cover the red in her ledger. She left that old trailer because she didn’t know where else to go, and she stopped in this town because it finally felt far enough from her father’s bones and the ruins of the motor court. Natalie Scatorccio doesn’t have family, doesn’t make friends. She’s alone and she likes it, or at least she makes herself believe that she does. 

But there’s this: the room she’s made her own, the house where she returns each day. The bike shop job she’s learned to like, if only to have something to do with her hands. Her roommates, drifting slow across the harsh black lines Nat’s drawn around herself. 

And now: the dim screen of Nat’s phone, a new message blinking up at her. The name Lottie Matthews, and one more slice of light pouring through the poorly-closed door of Nat’s heart. 

+

[lottie matthews] 

Hi!

This is Lottie

Lottie Matthews  

[nat]

who

[lottie matthews]

We got in a car accident this morning 

You were at fault 

[nat]

dude i was joking. obviously i remember

[lottie matthews]

Okay

Just making sure 

[nat]

what’s the favor i owe you

[lottie matthews] 

It’s probably easier to explain in person

Could we meet up tomorrow? 

[nat]

i work until 3

[lottie matthews]

That’s fine! 

My last class ends at 2 and it’s not even a good class

I could skip it if that works better 

[nat]

wow matthews such a rebel

3 is fine i’ll come to campus

[lottie matthews]

Okay perfect 

I would offer to drive us somewhere but you know 

This short annoying girl kind of wrecked my car earlier today

[nat]

fuck you i’m avg height

see you tmr

[lottie matthews] 

Sounds good! 

+

“You look nice,” Van says the next morning, giving Nat a knowing smile from her place at the stove. It looks innocent, which means it’s anything but. “You got a hot date later or something?” 

“Fucking—no,” Nat says, sliding into her usual seat at the end of the counter. The kitchen’s bright with morning sun, pale white nearly blinding; Nat squints against it, scrubs one hand tiredly through the bleached and pillow-tossed mess of her hair. “It’s way too early for this.” 

Shauna, separating bacon slices on the wooden butcher block with a knife and a surgical precision, scoffs quietly at that. Nat arches an eyebrow at her, minorly offended. “What, you think I can’t get a fucking date?” 

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Shauna replies, tone high and soft. When Nat first moved in, it took her almost a month to get used to that voice: the venom that broke through sometimes, dull blades edged with silk. “I’m just not sure you can get a date with someone actually worth your time.” 

Nat rolls her eyes. “Thanks for that, Shipman.” The knife comes down again, hard, and she raises her voice as she adds: “You’re going to be a really annoying mom someday.” 

“That’s a compliment, coming from her,” Tai points out as she breezes through the kitchen, fresh-faced and fully dressed in yet another weird combination of workwear and business casual. On the move like usual, like there’s a firing squad tracking her through the suburbs of western Mass. “Going both ways, actually, true equality. Somebody who’s not Shauna, pass me that civil procedures textbook by the toaster. Van, I don’t have time for breakfast but I’ll see you this evening.”

“Hey, goodbye to you too, Taissa,” Shauna calls after her as the kitchen door slams closed, sending a shower of ice shrapnel falling to the worn doormat. “We’ll all miss you so much.” 

“Leave her alone,” Van says, good-natured, and slides a plate of toast and eggs over to Nat—two of them, sunny side up with extra pepper. A mug of coffee, too, dark roast and a splash of cream; Nat would kiss her right now, if she could do it without Tai finding out, killing her with the same dirt-stained shovel she’d use to dig the grave. “It’s not her fault my personality is more charming and irresistible than yours.” 

Shauna gives her a look, skeptical, slaps a handful of bacon into the pan. There’s the snap of hot oil, meat against heat, and the smell of frying breakfast fills the air. “You’re a film major, Van. I don’t think you’re allowed to call yourself irresistible.” 

Van just laughs. “Right back at you, English department.” 

Nat spins the dial, tunes out the rest of their bickering as she eats. The kitchen’s warm with coffee steam and bacon smoke, the old clock on the wall ticking along towards punch-in. She’s got a few mountain bike frames to work on today, someone’s old three-speed with the gears still sticking. Inventory and cleaning, if Ben’s having one of his moody days, but at least Javi’ll probably come by at some point. Nat loves that kid, even if his older brother is a wet-blanket dipshit more often than not. 

“Hey, space cadet,” Van says, and Nat blinks at her, refocusing. Shauna’s gone now, left a plate of toast behind; the crusts are bitten away neatly on every side, the rest of the bread untouched. So fucking weird. “You good? You look like you ate one of Tai’s weed brownies by accident or something.” 

Nat smirks. “Nah, that was Shauna last week. I’m good.” She props one hand beneath her chin, rests her head there. Pulls the bullet between her teeth, bites down, and says: “Hey, Van. Have you ever met Lottie Matthews?” 

“Lottie?” Van pops another piece of bacon in her mouth, talks around the grease on her teeth. “Yeah, we had a couple gen-eds together—stats and comp, freshman and sophomore year.” She looks over at Nat, direct as always; no bullshit here, never with her. “I know what Tai says about her—Tai and sometimes Shauna, and like, half the people on campus—but Lottie’s a good person. She’s never been anything but nice to me, and I’m not the only one.” 

“Huh,” Nat says, thoughtful. She plays back her memories of the run-in, cuts the tape in freeze-frames: Lottie, cursing her out. Lottie, sliding that honeybee tote bag over her shoulder. You’re a shit driver, thanks for the ride. “Yeah, I guess. She was kind of a bitch to me at first, but she got better.” 

Van frowns. “Wait, when did you guys meet?” 

“The front ends of our cars got to know each other yesterday,” Nat says, dry, and takes the last sip of her coffee. “She dropped the insurance claims, I owe her a favor now. I’m just hoping it doesn’t turn out to be a ritual sacrifice or, like—a pint of blood.” 

“Lottie’s not like that,” Van assures her. There’s this certainty in her face, pure and distant loyalty, like she just knows. “Really, she’s not. I think she’s misunderstood, that’s all.” 

Nat nods slowly. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I got you, dude,” Van answers with a smile. “Good luck on your date.” 

“Not a—yeah, alright,” Nat sighs. She pulls at the hem of her nicest black sweater, absentminded, layered over the dark blue button-down of her uniform. It was at the top of her drawer, whatever. “I’m going to work.”

+

Nat’s shift runs long, caught between the frayed wires of a Trek Expedition gear shift, and she’s ten minutes late by the time she makes it to the Mount Holyoke campus. Could send a text ahead, probably, but fuck it. Lottie can deal. 

When she pulls to a stop in front of the natural history museum, Lottie’s waiting there already: shoulders rounded against the cold and pink in her cheeks, probably freezing her ass off. Dressed better today, at least, wearing some kind of off-white fleece pullover, soft and thick. There’s a pattern of small brown sheep on the front, near the zipper. Again, not what Nat would’ve expected from a girl who looks like she cut her teeth on solid silver. 

“Hey,” Nat says, leaning over to crank down the passenger side window. It takes a solid thirty seconds; the handle always jams in the cold, no matter how many times she tries to oil it. “Car for Matthews?”

Lottie raises her head, startled, like she’s been flung back down to earth. “You’re late.” 

“And you’re annoying,” Nat fires back, “but I’m not whining about it, so.” 

Lottie smiles now: a quick twitch at the corners of her mouth, illuminating. For the first time, Nat notices the little fang that flashes over her bottom lip, sliding out on the right side. A flash of imperfection, and one that makes Nat like her more; it’s endearing, somehow, that even though Lottie clearly comes from more money than god’s own country, she never bothered to get braces. 

“You’re kind of a bitch sometimes,” Lottie says, but her tone makes it sound like a compliment. “Do you want to go in and see the museum?” 

“Uh,” Nat says, and kills the engine. “What the hell, sure.” 

Lottie leads her into the museum, which is basically just a long, dusty brown hallway with a floor of green tile. Rows of glass cabinets line the walls, displaying native plants and grasses; all around them, large windows bend sunlight through the room. Nat pauses in front of a multicolored insect exhibit, eyes a row of long-dead fireflies pinned to styrofoam. Wishes, for some reason, that she could shatter the glass and rescue them. 

“Here,” Lottie says, waving her over to the back corner. “This is my favorite part.” 

Nat abandons the insects and wanders towards her, finds her at the edge of a little pond circled by stones. It’s the kind that’s usually filled with weird expensive fish for some reason, except this one’s got three tiny turtles floating around. Lottie bends over—a whole process at her height, like a tree leaning in a storm—and dips her fingers into the pond. As Nat watches, the turtles come swimming right over at the touch of skin to water. 

“Wow, alright,” Nat says, and waits till Lottie turns around again to raise an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t know you were some kind of turtle whisperer.” 

Lottie shrugs. “They’re easier than people,” she explains, like that makes perfect sense. “Do you want to hold one? They usually let me pick them up, if they’re in a good mood.” 

“Not really,” Nat says, and then: “Thanks,” because it’s the decent thing to say when someone offers you something, even if it’s a living breathing turtle. “Are you going to tell me what you want from me now?”

Lottie gently shoos the turtle away, takes her hand out of the pond; wipes her wet fingers on her jeans, smearing pond water across the dark wash denim. “My parents are coming to town next week. We were supposed to get dinner, but they—one of my dad’s big clients lives out here and he’s having a holiday party, so now they’re making me go to that instead.” 

“Tough,” Nat says, and means it. There’s a difference between neglect and straight-up abuse, but having shitty parents isn’t a zero-sum game, and she gets the sense that Lottie’s drawn a similar hand to her own. “So much for Christmas being a time for family, or whatever.” 

“Tell me about it.” Lottie smiles, but there’s no humor to it this time. When her teeth flash, they’re more sharklike than anything else. “So this party, it’s a whole thing. Black tie event, country club venue, my parents expect me to show up and prove to their high-society circle that I’m making something of myself.” She says those last few words in a voice twisted with bitter irony, but there’s something small and wistful in her expression that lands right between the lungs. 

“Your parents sound like they fucking suck,” Nat replies, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep them safe. It’s not like she’d know how to comfort Lottie, even if she was allowed to; holding someone else’s pain is foreign ground to her, nothing like palming a lighter or wielding a bottle opener. It’s delicate, living. She’s not sure she’d know what to do with it. “Do you need me to take them out? Cause I can try, but you’re paying bail if I get caught.” 

Lottie looks slightly touched at this, like Nat’s offered her flowers instead of a hit on her parents. “Not quite,” she says, serious. “I need you to be my girlfriend.” 

Nat laughs, sure that it’s a joke, and then laughs some more. Lottie watches her in confusion, frowning, and there’s that crease between her eyebrows again: thin, troubled. If Nat wasn’t laughing so hard, and also poorly acclimated to physical contact that doesn’t involve some kind of violence, she’d reach out and try to smooth it away. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Nat manages, once she’s able to breathe easy again. “Just—you’re fucking with me, right?” 

“No?” Lottie’s frown creases harder, looking almost hurt now. “Why would I do that?” 

“Dunno, but—” Nat spreads her hands, trying to illustrate her depressing point. “I mean, look at me. I’m not exactly ‘meet the parents’ material.” 

“Well, maybe,” Lottie says nicely, “but that’s sort of the point.” 

Nat exhales slow, amused—now she gets the picture. It’s an insult, but if Lottie’s parents are as bad as they seem, it’s also kind of a compliment. “Damn, Matthews. Pretty diabolical move.” 

“Thank you,” Lottie says. “So will you do it?”

“Sure,” Nat agrees. Against her better judgement, maybe, but fuck it—she’s never been one for smart decisions, and she won’t start now. “I’ll be your arm candy, rage bait, whatever. Just don’t go falling in love with me or anything.” 

The corner of Lottie’s mouth curls upwards, showing her crooked tooth. “I’ll do my best.” 

She holds out her right hand, waiting. Nat reaches out and takes it, and there: an agreement struck by words, bound by skin. Down the hall, across sun-drenched tiling, the shadows of tree branches stretch out like antlers below them. 

+

Nat’s plan for the party is to roll up cold and lie her ass off, but Lottie insists that they need a backstory; it’s the spirit of the thing, she explains, and her eyes are so brown and wide as she says it that Nat can’t quite get a handle on the word no. 

Two days out and she’s standing on the porch of Lottie’s place: a clean white row house, two stories, with the front door painted a pale shade of purple. The driveway’s got space for two cars, Lottie’s battered green Jetta loaner from Auto Joe’s and an old-school woodie wagon that’s honestly pretty sick. A lot nicer than Nat’s own house, overall—Tai sometimes refers to that as “the cabin,” not altogether fondly—but still falls short of the suburban mansion that Nat might’ve expected. 

The door swings open and Lottie appears, wearing a grey Mount Holyoke sweatshirt over black sweats, fuzzy pink socks with red hearts. Her hair’s braided loosely, slipping down over one shoulder, and Nat’s mind goes strangely blank. 

“Hi,” Lottie says with a little smile. “Come in.” 

“Nice door,” Nat says, stepping past her into the house. Their shoulders brush, or Nat’s shoulder brushes Lottie’s upper arm; close enough, she guesses. “It’s very…purple.” 

“Heliotrope,” Lottie clarifies. The door shuts behind them, and Nat finds herself in an open-plan kitchen that puts the cabin to shame. “Toxic to cats and dogs, but bees love it. It’s one of my favorite colors.” 

“Huh,” Nat mumbles, pulling her boots off and nudging them into line alongside a pair of straitlaced black Mary Janes that look about four sizes too small to be Lottie’s. More effort than she’s ever put into shoe organization in her own house, but she feels like Lottie’s is the kind of place where things are meant to be neat. “Nice decor you’ve got here. Did you rob a church or something?” 

“Very funny,” Lottie says, following Nat’s gaze to the array of wooden crosses hanging on the living room wall. “Those belong to my roommate.” 

Nat smirks. “Bet she’s fun at parties.” 

“She is,” Lottie says, this time bypassing the sarcasm in Nat’s tone. “She gets really drunk and starts rapping, it’s a whole thing.” 

“Rap music?” Nat gasps, mimics clutching at pearls she’s never owned. “What would Jesus say?”

“Laura Lee contains multitudes,” Lottie says serenely. “Freshman year, she baptized me with a gold cross and a handle of Malibu. She’s my soulmate, in a way.” 

Way too much to process there, and Nat pushes two fingers to her temple, frowns. “Soulmate, like…” 

“Oh, no.” Lottie shakes her head. “Not like that. I mean, we had sex once, but it just made us realize that we’re not meant to be together. Romantically, anyway.” 

“Sure,” Nat says, nonchalant. Her brain feels like a stalled-out engine between her ears by this point, kicked over and stuttering smoke. “So why didn’t you ask her to be your fake girlfriend?” 

That crease between Lottie’s eyebrows reappears, this time sad and downcast. “I couldn’t,” she says quietly. “It—it wouldn’t be fair to her.” 

“Matthews, you heartbreaker,” Nat drawls, grinning. She feels looser at the shoulders suddenly, light enough to throw Lottie a quick elbow to the ribs. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“Shut up,” Lottie says, with a little huff. “Let’s just go up to my room before she gets home and hears us talking about her.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Nat answers, biting with irony—but when Lottie moves, Nat’s right behind her, like a dog on a leash. Like a can on a lonely string, threaded long across a twilight town. 

Upstairs, Lottie’s room is to the left of the staircase: sunwise, facing east with the morning sun. Three windows, more than Nat’s ever had in her life, and pale yellow walls with no cracks in the paint; queen bed pushed into the corner, four bed posts and one of those fancy canopy things draped in copper-colored silk above it. 

“Make yourself at home,” Lottie says, draping herself gracefully onto the bed. “Fais comme chez toi.”

“I don’t speak French,” Nat says, distracted. She’s still taking in the varnished wooden dresser, the silver-lined mirror. When she looks down at her feet, which are sinking into the thick of a green plush carpet, there’s a new hole in the toe of her left sock. Skin there, showing pale through the black wool; she pushes her foot deeper into the carpet, covering it. 

“I don’t either, really. Except when I’m drunk, and then I become fluent somehow.” 

“Neat party trick.” Nat crosses the room and drops down at the foot of the bed, leaving a stretch of space between her and Lottie. The mattress is insanely soft, probably made of zillion thread count sheets and like, the feathers of some mythical, now-extinct bird. “Any other essential Lottie Matthews facts I should know? Blood type, maybe?” 

“O negative,” Lottie answers, no hesitation, places a finger to the base of her throat as if to illustrate. Nat tracks the movement: the smooth glide of Lottie’s skin, the pulse breathing there. “And I still have all my wisdom teeth.” 

“Same,” Nat says, although she highly doubts that Lottie kept hers because her trailer trash parents couldn’t afford the removal surgery. “No idea what my blood type is, though.” She shifts her eyes away from the elegant dip of Lottie’s collarbones, clears her throat. “Anyway.” 

Lottie takes a beat to reply, like her mind has strayed from whatever crooked path they’re walking here. “Right—we need a story. I doubt my parents will even bother to ask, but we need to be ready just in case they do.” She scoffs, bitter; it’s a new look on her, framed in dimmer light. “My dad’s a bitch when it comes to interrogations.” 

“We met during the car crash,” Nat suggests, tongue poked into ironic cheek. “You got out of your car pissed as hell, saw my face, and fell in love immediately.” 

“Close enough,” Lottie concedes, and there’s a warm amber gleam in her eyes as she says it. She stretches out her legs until they’re touching Nat’s, backs of her calves resting on Nat’s outstretched thigh, and the world goes first-snow quiet. 

Lottie’s warm even through layers of clothing, and the movement of her legs is solid, curving; Nat goes still at the touch, tense and blinded like she’s looking down the barrel of the sun. She has this stupid urge to climb into Lottie’s arms and curl up there forever, which means that she should probably pull away before it’s too late, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t. 

“I asked you out first, I think,” Lottie continues, blissfully unaware of Nat’s mental death by physical contact. “We’ve been together since…autumn, maybe? The start of the semester, before the leaves turned.” 

“Sure,” Nat says. It comes out more as a rasp than a word, and she clears her throat again—the cold weather must be getting to her, finally. “That works for me.”

+

Nat’s sitting on the roof later that night, wrapped in her oversized work jacket and smoking a cig, when Tai’s Land Rover pulls into the driveway. Brights on, like a total asshole; Nat’s about to yell down at her when the front door opens and Van’s there suddenly, catching Tai by the elbow as she gets out of the car. 

Tai smiles at her, softer than Nat’s ever seen on her proud face, and says something too low to hear. Van replies, and Tai laughs, and Nat watches from above like a chain-smoking creeper and feels—weird, like there’s a hand reaching halfway into her chest. It’s not longing, it’s just—

Van says something else, and Tai nods and heads into the house. Van stays planted in the driveway, happiness beaming through like it’s broad daylight— then looks upwards, still smiling. Says, like they’re just brushing sides in the kitchen: “Hey, Nat.” 

“Dude,” Nat says, and blows a cloud of smoke in her direction. Doesn’t reach, of course, but it’s the thought that counts. “How the fuck did you know I was up here?” 

“My spider sense,” Van replies, making a vaguely Spiderman-like gesture with one hand. “Hold on, I’ll come up.” 

She goes into the house, and Nat only has to wait a minute or two before her bedroom window is pushing higher and Van’s climbing out to join her. 

“Nice hoodie,” Nat says, holding out what’s left of her cigarette. “You know, you guys are the worst kept secret maybe ever.” 

Van waves away the offering, smoothes down the front of her sweatshirt. The lettering’s white, practically glows in the dark: Mount Holyoke Law, with a bright shine and a brighter future. Nat wonders what it’s like to have that, to see a path spelled out ahead and know it’s going somewhere. 

“Tai and I aren’t a secret,” Van says. “Like, literally never have been.” 

Nat frowns, confused. “I saw you guys on the couch the other day, and you stopped playing stealth grope as soon as Shauna walked in.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Van laughs. “We’ve been living with Shauna since spring of freshman year and we’re like, ninety percent sure she still doesn’t know we’re a couple. At first it was just funny, but Tai bet me twenty dollars last spring that we can make it to graduation before she catches on.” She eyes Nat closely, feigning seriousness. “Don’t screw this up for me, man. There’s too much on the line.” 

“I won’t,” Nat says, tapping the ash off her cigarette and taking the last drag. “But if you win, I want to be there when you drop the bomb on Shauna.” 

Van grins, slaps Nat a solid five. “Deal.” 

They sit for a minute, quiet with the cold and the lingering smoke. Nat’s content with it; in the not-quite year since she moved into the cabin, Van’s always been the easiest to kill time with. They’re two of a kind, from some angles— born in the doorway of poverty, knowing survival as a way of life. Scholarship kid and high school burnout, and Van’s talked enough about her mother in blunted, bitter sentence fragments that Nat can fit together a picture not too different from her own. Game recognizes game, whatever. 

But then there’s that big difference: Van is patient, kind, fundamentally good where Nat is middling at best. Van loves, and is loved. Nat doesn’t speak that language, wouldn’t know how to begin to learn. 

“Yo,” Van says, nudging her. “Changed my mind. You got any more smokes?” 

Nat digs out her battered yellow box of American Spirits, passes it over; Van takes one, accepts a flame from the tip of Nat’s cheap-shit Bic. Between the breeze and the damaged spark wheel, it takes two tries to get her going. 

“Surprised you haven’t quit yet,” Nat says, thumbing the lid of the box back down. “The way Tai goes on about it, everyone who’s ever worked for Big Tobacco will be court-martialed in hell by her personally.” 

“I probably will, soon,” Van answers, sighing deep with the first exhale of smoke. “For good this time.” Another sigh, this one softer, as she adds: “The things we do for love, et cetera.” 

She passes over the cigarette, even though Nat didn’t ask for it, and leans back against the roof. Nat takes the cig and holds it, doesn’t hit. Looks up at the stars, sharp scratches of light in the clear winter sky, and wonders if Lottie ever smokes.

“Hey, Van,” she says, quiet, keeping her gaze pointed upwards. “What’s it like?” 

She’s still looking at the sky, but she can feel Van’s gaze on her now: heavyweighted, empathy without pity. The triangle of stars to their left goes dimmer, a little blurry maybe. 

“It’s good,” Van says simply. “It’s just—good.” 

Nat turns the still-lit cigarette over in her fingers, lets the lick of faint heat trail against her skin. So many stars in the sky above her, and she still has no idea which way is north. People know, don’t they? How does anyone ever know where they’re really going? 

“Yeah,” she says, and flattens the cherry into glowing orange remnants below her heel. “Good. I bet it is.” 

Van sits up straight and puts her hands together, brushing grey roof dust off her palms. “Enough of your former emo kid crap,” she says kindly, slinging one arm under Nat’s to pull her up again. “Let’s go watch a movie. This Hitchcock marathon won’t finish itself.” 

“Okay,” Nat says, “but don’t go fingerbanging Tai under the blanket again, unless you’re asking me to join in on the action,” and then swears in pain as Van drops the window sash closed on her hand. 

+

[nat]

what do i wear to this thing tmr

[lottie matthews] 

Wow you actually texted me first 

Is the world ending or something? 

[nat]

shut up

[lottie matthews]

Hold on

Do you want me to shut up or do you want me to help you pick an outfit 

I’m getting some mixed messages here 

[nat]

both duh

help me first then shut up

[lottie matthews] 

Honestly Nat 

That’s no way to speak to your fake girlfriend 

Wear whatever you want, the party’s black tie but that doesn’t matter 

Dress codes are for suckers 

[nat]

ok so that was pretty much useless thanks for nothing

bitch

[lottie matthews]

You’re welcome

Loser

+

The evening of the party arrives with a snowfall, four inches deep by eight pm and still coming down. As Nat sits idling in Lottie’s driveway, waiting for her to emerge from the house, the wipers push six minutes’ worth of white drift off the windshield. 

Nat taps her fingers against the wheel, nervous despite herself. She’s wearing a clean pair of black jeans and a grey sweater, a white-collared shirt underneath, her nicest jacket on top: heavy wool and a brass zipper, one small tear near the cuff. Beat-up black high top sneakers on her feet, her only pair of shoes besides her work boots. She knows she won’t impress anyone at this party, all the rich-dick black tie guests born on third base with fuck the poor stamped across their foreheads, and she doesn’t care about that. She cares about—

Lottie, coming out the front door now, wearing a black leather jacket over a royal blue dress that looks like silk or satin. Nat stares dumbstruck through the glass and the snowflakes, feels like she’s been dropped inside in a snow globe; her breaths catch in her throat, lost somewhere in the beauty. Embarrassing, really, the way Lottie’s got her turning inside out from half the yard away. 

“Madam,” Lottie says as she opens the door of the pickup and climbs in, smiling. There’s snow caught in her hair, flakes caught in the long dark curl of her lashes. Nat bites down on the inside of her own lip, hard. “Lovely chariot you’re driving tonight.” 

“Nerd,” Nat says, but it’s not as biting as she meant it to be. She looks across at Lottie, catching details: the gleam in her eyes, the glow of gold jewelry, the rich deep blue of her dress. Lottie’s done her hair in a crown of braids, excess falling in silk-smooth waves down her back, and her nails are painted a pale shade of pink. Nat kind of wants to eat her whole, and the thought alone is enough to keep her hungry through the rest of winter. 

“You look nice,” Lottie tells her, still smiling. 

The praise drops hard into Nat’s stomach like a hot stone through water, but she just rolls her eyes. “You clean up pretty good yourself, Matthews.” 

“I’m serious,” Lottie insists. Turns her gaze fully onto Nat, wide and brown and genuine as a cut to the hand. “You’re gorgeous, Nat.” 

“Thanks,” Nat mutters, overwarmed, burning at the edges. She lets her eyes drift away from Lottie’s, because she’s nothing if not a coward when it counts the most, and punches play on the cassette deck before backing out of the driveway. 

There’s the whir of the tape rewinding, the click as it settles back into place, and then—soft strumming, softer vocals. She Hangs Brightly, slow and wistful, altogether too fucking sentimental for Nat’s taste. Van must have left it in her car or something. 

“I love this song,” Lottie says as they turn onto the main road, and Nat scoffs fondly, because of course she does. Lottie Matthews, everyone: environmentalist, weirdo, certified Mazzy Star lover. 

“Tonight’s your lucky night, then,” she answers, shifting into second gear. “I’ve never played this album before. I don’t even know where it came from.” 

Lottie just nods, looking unsurprised. Says, in a voice that stands knee-deep in lonely lake water: “Sometimes you don’t know what you need until you find it already waiting for you.” 

“Yeah? Where’d you read that, a fucking fortune cookie?” 

“No, actually,” Lottie replies solemnly. “I found it in a book at your mom’s house.” 

Nat glances over at her, incredulous. Lottie’s expression is smooth and serious, but there’s a suppressed smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, waiting to break free. And it’s not even a decent joke, and Lottie doesn’t know the half of it, the booze and the pills and the double-wide Winnebago, and it’s not funny—except Nat laughs, can’t help it, and feels lighter than a bird above the trailers. Lottie’s smile stretches out in safety, full and charming enough that Nat’s still laughing as she merges onto the highway. 

“You little bitch,” she says, taking one hand off the wheel to flick Lottie a hard one-finger salute to the shoulder. “That wasn’t even a good fucking joke.”

“You’re the one still laughing,” Lottie counters, flicking Nat right back. “Seems like it was funny enough for you.” 

The conversation trails off into quiet, lets them catch their breaths. The snow is falling slower now, tiny flakes drifting lazy through the night. Mazzy Star is still filtering through the truck’s scratchy speakers, a song about wading in for the cost; Nat listens for a moment, doesn’t really understand what’s being said.  

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Lottie says, sincere once again. “Even though I, you know, convinced you to do it.” 

“Eh,” Nat says, offhand. “What’s a little manipulation between friends, right. Plus, one dumb party can’t be that bad.” 

+

Nat was right, she realizes as soon as they arrive. It isn’t that bad—it’s worse. 

When they arrive at the address, they’re at some country club in the richest part of Northampton: white fences, tall gates, a long green golf course sweeping down the hill and wasting space into the darkness. The party’s up top in the clubhouse, which has two staircases and a literal fucking chandelier in the entryway. Nat’s pretty sure the valet spits at the pickup when he takes the keys from her. 

“You’re sure my truck will be good with that guy?” Nat asks as they walk into the main area, warm and perfectly decorated for a pretentious townie Christmas. It’s all white linens, accents of red and green, thin gold-wire tinsel everywhere like it’s waiting to garrotte someone; Nat can almost feel it at her throat. Lottie, in her deep blue dress, is the brightest thing in the room. 

“It’ll be fine,” Lottie promises, threading her arm through Nat’s like it’s nothing. Like this, all the luxury and the excess and Lottie holding her close, is just their normal. “Plus, I think my BMW proved the hard way that your pickup is pretty much indestructible. Do you want anything to drink?” 

It’s a simple question, meant kindly, but Nat feels it like a punch to the stomach—a reminder, again, that they don’t know each other. They’re not dating, barely even friends, and the failed Catholic in her blood reminds her: Sundays, like the coming tomorrow, are for collection. She can carry the illusion of this life for a night, but it’ll go out with the rest of the trash in the morning. 

“I don’t really drink anymore,” Nat says, pushing one hand deep into the pocket of her coat. Stand tall, the worst is yet to come. “Perks of having a dead alcoholic for a dad. Part of the whole package, you could say.” 

“Nat,” Lottie says on an exhale, soft; catches her on a wide-open glance, more amber than brown under these lights. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

Nat gives her a quick shrug, one shoulder only. “No big deal. Just thought I’d tell you now, before you get us a round of shots or something.” 

“We can leave,” Lottie tells her, casting a worried look towards the bar at one end of the room. Five different shelves and Nat’s old favorite brand of vodka, not that she’s looking or anything. “We can just—” 

“Charlotte,” someone says from behind them, Nat watches as and every window in Lottie’s expression slams shut. “You’re here.” 

Nat and Lottie turn at the same time, two bodies in one singular motion. Two people who must be Lottie’s parents are standing there in six figures worth of dress clothes, all black—to match their souls, probably. Lottie’s dad is shorter than expected, with a silver watch on his wrist like that’ll make up for it, and Lottie’s mom has the glazed-over look of someone who pops downers on the hour. Nat looks between them once, twice, can’t see even for a second how they ever produced someone like Lottie. 

“Mom,” Lottie says tightly. “Dad.” 

“You showed up,” her father says, “so that’s something, at least.” His glance lands on Nat, narrows with disdain. “Who is this? I told you: no guests. No influences. We will not have a repeat of past incidents.” 

“This is Nat,” Lottie says. Her voice is cold, but she looks smaller than Nat’s ever seen her before—smaller, despite being taller than both her parents. “She’s my girlfriend.” 

“Girlfriend,” Lottie’s mother echoes, surfacing from the downer haze long enough to raise a disapproving eyebrow. “That’s—new.” 

“Have you maintained your grades?” Lottie’s father interrupts, apparently not giving enough of a shit about his daughter’s sexuality to let it affect his interrogation. “You’ll need every average point you can get, after your disgraceful performance during freshman year. Wharton won’t accept just anyone for their graduate program.” 

Lottie’s hand clenches at her side, fingers tight against Nat’s. “I’m not going to Wharton. I told you a hundred times, I switched my major to environmental studies.” 

“You’re a child, Charlotte,” her father says, cruel, dismissive. Nat’s body goes tense, instinctive; they’re two different sides, two different coins, but she sees her own father in the anger. The body remembers, and for a moment, that rifle’s in her hands again. “A child and a disappointment to us, and now you’ve dragged this impoverished girl into the mess as well. You will never be capable of making good choices for yourself. I should have sent you to that psychiatric hospital when I had the chance.” 

Lottie’s head dips lower, but not before Nat sees her expression: hurt and scared and furious, all at the same time. She’s reminded of the deer in her headlights all those days ago, the wheel swerving beneath her hands. Lottie’s eyes flash wide, vulnerable, and Nat’s words come flying out like a car over the guardrail.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she spits, pure fire and vinegar and pissed-the-fuck-offness. “It’s Lottie’s life, not yours, and she should get to do whatever the fuck she wants with it. News flash, asshole—the only way she’s disappointed you is by turning out to be a a decent fucking person, unlike you two.” 

“Nat,” Lottie murmurs, too low to decipher meaning. Warning sirens, maybe. Nat can’t hear anything over the pounding in her ears. 

Lottie’s father looks at her, narrow, like she’s dirt on his hideous dress shoe. “I don’t believe,” he says tightly, “that you were part of this conversation.” 

Nat grins, wide like a split lip, and spreads her arms. “I am now, dude. And hey, you were right about one thing. I’m poor, and I’ve always been fucking poor. But at least I’m smart enough to appreciate Lottie for the person she is, which you’re clearly not capable of doing. Go fuck yourself.” 

She turns and walks out, hot with rage. The cold wind hits her as soon as she steps outside, but fuck it—she’s done pretending, done with the bullshit. Furious, in so many different ways that the pieces won’t push together, won’t make a whole. 

There’s a glass in her hand suddenly, which she must have grabbed on the way out: strong brown liquid, half full. Typical Scatorccio behavior, she thinks bitterly, to reach for the kill switch without even knowing it. She hurls the thing against the side of the building and hears it shatter, hisses in pain as a stray shard slices open her finger. 

Footsteps behind her, fast and frantic. Nat whips around to see Lottie there, tall again in the dim glow of the light through the windows. 

“I’m not apologizing,” Nat says, defiant. 

“I’m not asking you to,” Lottie answers. The corners of her mouth are downturned, despondent. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’ll forget about this by the time Christmas comes. Are you okay?” 

Nat scoffs. “Like you care.”  

“I do care,” Lottie says, small-voiced. “You’re my friend, Nat.”

“Is that what we are?” Nat know she’s not being fair now, but fuck it. She’s her father’s daughter at the worst of times, and the safety’s been off for years now; if there’s one way she knows how to handle a good thing, it’s by ruining it. “Are we, really? Or are we just two people who got in a car crash once and ended up using each other? Like—I’m what, this low-income accessory for you to drag along as rage bait for your fucked up parents? Look around, Lottie. I don’t belong here, and I sure as hell don’t belong with you.” 

The words echo in the cold, endless. When Nat dares to look up, Lottie’s eyes aren’t soft like she expected. Something’s shifted there in her gaze, determination fixed like flies in amber. 

“You’re right,” Lottie says, low but strong. “You don’t belong here, Nat—but I don’t, either. I didn’t choose my life or my parents or any of this. I asked you to come with me because I wanted you here, and maybe it was unfair, but it—that was the choice I could make, okay? One choice, and it was you. I wanted you here, with me, because I thought it would make this a little less awful.” 

Nat stops, stunned into silence. Lottie’s different like this, transcendent with truth; Nat could almost understand, if the rumors were even true, how a cult could grow beneath her. 

“I’m sorry,” Lottie continues, and now she’s familiar again: sweet, sincere, somehow small. Nat’s anger slips away as quickly as it came, leaves her with an ache in the jaw as she says: “Okay.” 

“You’re bleeding,” Lottie notes, overtones of concern. “Here.” 

She stretches her hand out, slow like she’s touching a cornered animal, picks up Nat’s injured hand, brings it to her lips. Nat watches, dumbstruck and weirdly turned on, as Lottie sucks the bleeding finger into her mouth. 

“Lot,” Nat says, more a breath than a word. Lottie’s mouth is warm, wet, and her tongue sweeps along Nat’s skin, cleaning her wound: careful, devastating. Nat’s standing weak-kneed at the crossroads between horrified and horny, not sure which is worse—that Lottie might be a freak, actually, or that Nat really, really likes it.  

Lottie pulls away gently, breath steaming silver in the cold. Nat’s fingers are damp, aching, gone numb with the sudden loss of heat. 

“I want us to be friends,” Lottie says, plaintive. “Really, this time.” 

“You just drank my fucking blood,” Nat points out, still dazed. “Forget being friends, I’m pretty sure that’s a body or two.” 

“Nat,” Lottie says. She’s got that look about her again, gentle and caring, searching for shelter. Deer in hunting season. Those brown eyes should be classified as psychological warfare, and Nat thinks: I don’t know if I deserve this. Thinks: but I don’t want to lose it. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Fuck it, Lottie. We’re friends.” 

Lottie smiles, warm enough to melt away the whole long winter. Nat looks up at her, caught between tiny diamonds of falling snow, and feels something closing like a hand around her heart. 

+

So they’re friends now, but Nat doesn’t know how to fully trust that yet; it feels fragile, glass-blown. Lottie said she wanted this, sure, but part of Nat still thinks it’s all a dream. She imagines waking up, the long fall and the hard come-down. Pictures Lottie looking at her in disgust, seeing right through her, walking away. 

It doesn’t happen, though. Instead, things go like this: Lottie offers to come over, Nat agrees for some reason, and nobody else at the house knows what’s happening until Tai comes striding into the kitchen and demands to know why Lottie Matthews is standing on their doorstep.  

“Shit,” Nat says, jumping from her seat to slide on socked feet across the tiled hallway until she reaches the front door. “She’s early.” 

“Why is she here, Nat?” Tai calls after her. “And why did I not know she was coming?”

Nat ignores her—just pulls open the door, hinge-stiff from disuse, and then there’s Lottie, standing in the hall like it’s exactly where she belongs. Surreal, given that it’s probably the most low-value real estate she’s ever set foot in.  

“Hey,” Nat says lamely, hands shoved in her pockets. “Come in the kitchen door next time, no one uses the front one.”

“Next time?” Lottie asks teasingly, unwinding a long blue scarf from around her neck. “Careful, Nat. A girl could almost get the impression that you like her.”

Nat ignores that, pointed, and starts leading the way up to her room. Lottie follows, soft steps so different from Tai’s strides or Van’s distinct paces. Even Nat’s own footfalls, gentled by half a lifetime of treading light on trailer floors, have more impact than Lottie’s. As they climb the creaky old-wood staircase, Lottie moves with silent grace—at least, until she stubs her toe on the jutting edge of the top step. 

“Fuck!” Lottie yelps, clutching at her injured toe, and Nat winces in sympathy. Says: “Sorry, Lot,” and means it; the faded bruise on her left foot still hasn’t forgotten that certain shade of pain. “Forgot to warn you about that.” 

“Too late,” Lottie gasps, theatrical, as she limps into Nat’s room unsteady like a newborn fawn. “I’ll never recover.” 

“I think you’ll manage,” Nat says, sitting down on the floor by the chipped wooden dresser. The bed and the chair are left open—space there for Lottie, if she wants it.  

Lottie doesn’t, apparently, because she stays standing, starts drifting around the room. She’s in a soft orange sweater and dark-wash jeans today, plus the misshapen blue scarf that she left downstairs. Nat looks at her socks—knitted, white, with little pink terrier dogs on them—and then down at her own, which are mismatched and possibly stolen from Van’s laundry basket. Wonders, with a sinking stomach, if this was a mistake. 

There’s nothing wrong with this house, or this room. This Nat knows, because it’s the nicest space she’s ever called her own—consequences of growing up in fucking Bayview Motor Court, which didn’t have a bay or a view to speak of besides the landfill across the street. But as Lottie wanders around, Nat can’t help but see new cracks in the paint, brown water stains on the ceiling. The old iron radiator in the corner rattles loudly, and Nat glares at it. 

Lottie pauses by the desk, touches the unframed photo propped against the lamp: a selfie with Nat and Van in the foreground, Tai and Shauna asleep on the couch behind them. The first picture they ever took together, snapped a couple weeks after Nat moved in. 

“I like your room,” Lottie says at last, sitting down next to Nat. Their knees knock together, right against left, but she doesn’t pull away. “It’s very you.” 

“Small and untidy?” Nat guesses. “Might have mold in the corners?” 

“If the shoe fits, sure. I was going to say cute.” 

Nat’s heart crashes thoughtless around her chest, rattling louder than the radiator. “You’re so full of shit, Matthews.” 

“Maybe,” Lottie allows. “Or maybe I’m just honest.” 

There’s the creak of stairs, a patter of steps in the hall, and then Van pokes her head through the half-open door. “Hi, Lottie.” 

“Hi, Van,” Lottie says, smiling up at her. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

“Sure,” Nat grouches, pushing away the quick sting in her stomach at the sight of Lottie lighting up like that for Van. “Just ignore me, whatever.” 

“I will, thanks,” Van says cheerfully. “Come down later, we’re getting pizza once Tai’s home from practice.” 

Van clatters down the stairs again, and Nat eyes Lottie, gauging the reaction. Lottie looks less than thrilled at Van’s suggestion, although jury’s out whether the food or the company is the real turnoff.

“We don’t have to eat with them,” Nat offers, “but I sure as shit hope you don’t have an issue with pizza, because that’s half my diet.” 

“It’s not that,” Lottie says, shaking her head. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them until she’s folded into herself. Nat still doesn’t understand how the girl becomes so small sometimes—except she remembers Lottie’s dad, that reflection of her own, and maybe she does get it now. Through a glass darkly, or whatever literary crap Shauna would probably have to say. “Tai doesn’t really like me.” 

“Huh,” Nat says, chewing at her lower lip. “Really?” 

Lottie turns her head until she’s meeting Nat’s gaze head-on, a sad little smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Nat, come on.”

“Fine,” Nat admits, honesty burning its way up her throat like it always does in the end. “She maybe said something, once or twice is all, about you being a hippie dippie occult-worshipping arsonist.” 

“Not the arson again.” Lottie sighs, resting her chin on her forearms as the edges of her mouth turn downwards. “No one believes me when I tell them it was a mistake.” 

Nat gives her a look, skeptical. “You committed arson by mistake? How the hell does that happen?” 

“Candles,” Lottie says sheepishly. There’s a slight cast of guilt to her expression, twisting into regret. “I knocked one over by accident, and they just kept rolling like dominoes. The whole soccer field went up in flames.” 

“Fuck, the new one? No wonder Tai was mad.” 

“It was an accident,” Lottie protests. “I wasn’t trying to like, sabotage their brand new turf. It wasn’t even that bad; it just happened on campus property, so the school made it a whole thing. They were talking about a suspension, expulsion even.”   

“Dude,” Nat says, and sees the vague legend of Lottie Matthews collapse in the span of a few short words; the rumors grow smaller, until they disappear in smoke and it’s just the girl sitting next to her. “No fucking way. How’d you get out of that?” 

“My dad donated a library,” Lottie confides, then cracks a slight smile at the look on Nat’s face. “Not actually. It was a new gym.” 

“Okay, that’s worse.” Nat bends one knee until the joint pops quietly, pulls absently at a thin tear in the denim of her jeans. “So, back to the pizza. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, cause I’m telling Van to get a large pepperoni today.” 

Lottie tilts her head to one side, puzzled. Nat recognizes something hesitant about the gesture, anticipating, like the shoe’s already in the air and she’s not sure where it’ll drop. “You’re not going to ask about it?” 

“Not unless you want me to,” Nat says, offhand. “I figure you’ll tell me, like, when the time is right or something. All that fortune cookie bullshit.” 

Lottie’s expression shifts, sliding slowly from confusion to surprise to happiness. “I usually get pineapple pizza,” she says, stretching out her legs until her thigh rests against Nat’s. It’s like being touched gently by lightning: warm and electrifying, leaves a fresh copper taste in Nat’s mouth. “But I’ll have pepperoni today.” 

“Fucking never say that to me again,” Nat scoffs, swallowing down sparks, and pulls out her phone to text Van the order. “Pineapple? You’re offending my Italian roots. I should ban you from this house.” 

“You should, probably,” Lottie agrees, leaning into Nat’s side a little more, “but I don’t think you will,” and, well—Nat can’t argue with that, really. She could try, and all her worst instincts say she should, but she doesn’t. Lottie’s here with her in a room Nat never thought she’d get to have, smelling like honey and wildflowers, her ridiculous sixty-dollar conditioner, and Nat forces her body loose, relaxed. Lets herself breathe, again and again. 

+

“It was a seance,” Lottie says a couple days later, complete non-sequitur, and Nat lets the steel wrench in her hand slip dangerously close to her thumb as she answers: “What now?” 

“A seance,” Lottie repeats, like it makes any more sense the second time around. It’s a slow Sunday morning at the bike shop, quiet enough that nobody’s around to care that Lottie’s perched on the counter with a book in her hand while Nat tries to unbolt a rear rack from an ancient Schwinn frame. “On the soccer field. That’s why I had candles.” 

“Lottie, what the fuck,” Nat says. Sets down the wrench before she can cause herself physical damage to go along with the psychic she’s being hit with right now, and squints up at Lottie from her seat at the workbench. “Who were you trying to contact, the ghost of soccer players past?” 

Lottie winces. “Sort of. It was—a weird time for me.” 

“Sounds like an understatement,” Nat says bluntly, reaching for an oil can and a rag. Fucking bolt is rusted right into the frame; no wonder Travis left it for her to deal with. “I can’t judge, though. College seems fucking weird in general.” 

“It is,” Lottie says. “And it was especially bad back then.” She closes her book, holds it carefully in her lap. Nat can see part of the cover, blue and green, something about water policies in the title. “You know how when you’re on drugs, there’s supposed to be that feeling like—I don’t know, like you’re floating? Nothing to hold you down?” 

Nat scowls at her, a play on indignation. “What, you assume that I’m a junkie just because I wear a lot of black and listen to, like…Nirvana and Pink Floyd?” 

“No,” Lottie says seriously. She’s sitting neatly on the counter, contained within herself. One leg extends comfortably, miles long, and there’s a flash of that strange certainty as she adds: “I know you’ve felt it, though. I can tell.” 

“Fine,” Nat says. “Yes, I know the feeling. You were on drugs?” 

“Officially.” Lottie nods. “Since I was like, nine. Not for the same reasons, I don’t think. I’m floating, always, unless the drugs hold me down.”

“So we’re opposites, basically.” Nat spins the wrench through her fingers, itches for a smoke. She doesn’t usually think about the highs, not anymore, but Lottie’s words have lit up a memory somewhere: the white-hot melt of coming up, slow creeping colors as the walls bend inwards. She doesn’t miss it, but at the same time she misses all of it. 

Lottie winks, or tries to; she can’t keep one eye fully open. It comes out more like a lopsided blink, which Nat finds weirdly endearing. “Well,” she says, “you know what they say about opposites.” 

Nat’s pulse races, jumps hot to the hollows of her wrists. “Nope, never heard that one before. You should probably tell me.” 

“I’m on again,” Lottie tells her, solemn, dropping the thread of the conversation and picking up a different one. “My prescription. I have been for a while now, and it works. It’s only when I go off the meds that I do stuff like—seances, and baptisms, and believing in god.” 

Nat tips the wrench towards her, a little salute. “Hey, nice. Ex-Catholic to pharmaceutical agnostic, I don’t believe in god either. Just another item on the long list of reasons I’m going to hell.” 

Lottie smiles vaguely at the joke, far-eyed. Nat watches her, the dark curl of her eyelashes as she blinks, the slant of her face towards the ceiling. Tries to imagine her at four, six, ten, bundled up and hurried to church between the two stern pillars of her parents, and there’s the clench of a phantom fist in her stomach. 

“Heaven sounds overrated anyway,” Lottie says after a beat, cheerful again, and slides down off the counter. “Can I see what you’re working on?”

“It’s not very exciting,” Nat warns her, but Lottie doesn’t seem to care. She sits down at the workbench alongside Nat, elbows planted freely on the dirty surface like she’s not endangering the life of a perfectly nice green sweater in the process. “See, the fucking rack is rusted right into the body of the bike. For some reason, the owner wants us to try removing it instead of tossing this thing in the scrap heap, so here I am.”

Lottie examines the bolt with careful eyes, like it’s another part of the final she’s supposed to be studying for. There’s a whole routine she runs through, a finger tap against the bars and a slide along the frame, and then she turns to Nat and says: “Yeah, that looks like shit.” 

“Thanks for the second opinion,” Nat says. “I was really on the fence there until you weighed in.” 

Amusement glimmers in Lottie’s eyes, at the edges of her mouth. “I bet you were.” 

“What kind of bike did you have as a kid?” Nat asks, genuine with curiosity. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Lottie’s perfume washes away the smell of grease. When Nat shifts, their knees knock together. “Bet it was a really nice one. A racer, or one of those big beach cruisers.” 

Lottie shakes her head. “It was one of the ones with huge tires. A mountain bike. Top of the line, insanely expensive—except we lived in the suburbs of New York, so it was just stupid.” She bites at her thumbnail, lowers her head a little. “And I never learned how to ride it.” 

Nat halts, kneecapped by the confession. Even she learned to ride a bike when she was younger, a rusty one-speed left by the side of the road. Her father didn’t teach her as much as he placed her on the seat and pushed her off into the small dirt yard, yelling “Pedal, Natalie,” while he sat on the steps with a cigarette, but still. She’d learned, as a kid. Lottie hadn’t. 

“That sucks,” Nat says, wishing for other words, better ones. “Like—really sucks, Lottie.” 

“Yeah,” Lottie says simply. “A little, I guess. It’s not like I didn’t have other modes of transportation.” 

“Still.” Nat rubs a hand across her face, feeling—something, again. Soft around the ribs, tender with a sort of sadness. “Someone should’ve taught you.”

“I fear that bike lessons weren’t one of our housekeeper’s duties,” Lottie says, dry, and that crooked tooth slips down over her bottom lip as her eyes follow Nat’s movement. “Hey, you have grease on your face now.” 

Nat curses, scrubs at her face harder. Lottie laughs. “You’re just making it worse. Come here.”

She reaches out to catch Nat’s face in the palm of one hand, presses a thumb carefully to the side of her mouth. Nat stays prey-still, breath held and waiting. Lottie’s touch is smooth against her skin, warm. So alive, both of them; so close, when Nat’s gaze lowers to Lottie’s mouth, it feels like an instinct she was born with. She inhales softly: honey, wildflowers, Lottie. 

The bell over the door rings loudly, all clattering metal. Nat startles, jerks away from Lottie like a high school boy whose parents came home early on prom night. 

“Looks super productive in here,” Ben comments, stomping through the door with a coffee carrier and a Dunkin box in hand. Javi’s trailing behind him, covered in snowflakes and wearing a literal fucking Naruto backpack. Headphones around his neck, at least, the way Nat taught him. “How’s the Schwinn coming, Nat?” 

“It’s a piece of shit,” Nat says. “Where’s my coffee?”

“Sorry, kid. Coffee’s for employees who actually do their work.” 

Nat flips him the bird, down low. “I’m helping a customer, actually, so…” 

Ben turns, catches sight of Lottie; gives her a warm smile, customer service deluxe. “Hi, sorry, didn’t see you there. Welcome to Different Spokes.” 

“Yes, that’s the actual name,” Nat adds, rolling her eyes. Millennial gay men and their lame-shit puns. “It’s fucking tragic. Van said we should just rename it Dykes on Bikes and call it a day.” 

Ben frowns. “Nat, I—uh, I don’t know if you’re allowed to say that.” 

“It’s okay,” Lottie says, smiling. Still sitting at the workbench, grease on her fingertips, and Nat’s ears burn with the recent memory of those same fingers touching her mouth. “Resident lesbian here, I’ll give her the dyke pass.” 

“Thanks, Lot.” Nat waves a hand back and forth, sweeping instructions into one quick circle. “Lottie, Ben, Javi. Ben’s my boss, Javi’s his unofficial kid, and Lottie’s my friend…customer. Customer friend.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Ben says kindly, and his eyes dart between Nat and Lottie with a significant sharpness that scratches at the back of Nat’s neck. “Donuts here, if you want them.” 

Lottie lights up, sliding off the bench. “Do you have any strawberry frosted?” 

While the donuts are being unboxed, Javi sidles over and pokes Nat in the side. He’s in that weird stage of growing pains, stretching taller every day; Nat actually has to look up at him now. “Is she your girlfriend?” 

“What the fuck,” Nat says. “No. Why?” 

Javi shrugs his scrawny shoulders. “She’s really pretty.” 

“She’s alright,” Nat mutters, and feels the weight of that understatement sinking warm into her throat. “Hey—you get your algebra test back yet?” 

Javi takes the bait easily, dumps his backpack to the ground and produces two stapled sheets of paper with equations scrawled in messy writing. Nat leans over to look, gives pointers where she can—math was one of her few solid subjects, back when school was an actual part of her life and not just something that happens to other people. 

As Javi rambles, Nat glances up and sees Lottie watching her: soft-eyed, strawberry-mouthed, somehow perfectly at home here in the dusty little shop. Nat turns away again, hiding her smile behind the shape of Javi’s backpack.

+

“So,” Ben says, later that afternoon. They’re in Nat’s truck to make a dump run, because Ben’s tiny Mazda Miata is less than useless when it comes to this kind of thing. “Slow day today.” 

Nat makes a noncommittal noise in agreement, hoping Ben will just drop whatever this is, but she knows better. Ben isn’t a dropper; he’s a nosy bitch, and the former youth soccer coach in him doesn’t help. 

“Lottie’s nice,” Ben continues, and the raise of his eyebrows says more than his words ever could. It’s this weird fucking look that’s half fatherly, half older brotherly—not that Nat would really know what it’s like to have either of those, but there it is. Sweet and slightly overstepping, always a toss-up whether it’ll make Nat want to punch or hug him. 

“Yeah, she is.” Nat takes one hand off the wheel, fiddles with the volume dial of the stereo. “Javi thinks she’s, and I quote, really pretty.” 

“Kid’s not wrong,” Ben says with a grin. “And I don’t think he’s the only one who thinks that.”

“Oh?” Nat dead-eyes him. “Didn’t know you were switching teams, big guy. Let’s throw a party.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Ben says, mild but resigned, like he’s telling the western Mass winter not to be cold. “She likes girls, anyway. That’s a start.” 

“Right, a start to fucking nothing.” Nat flicks on the turn signal, hangs a left into the entrance of the dump. “We’re friends, okay. Normal friends, not whatever the hell you have going on with Paul these days.” 

Ben’s mouth flattens into a line, compressed with annoyance. “We’re on a break. We’re fine.” 

“Sure you are,” Nat mutters, because she’s heard this one before: from we’re together to we’re on a break to we’re broken up to we’re together again, all in the span of eight months. She parks at the drop off point and kills the engine, unclips her seatbelt, gets out. 

Ben catches her at the truck bed, pulls down the tailgate before Nat can do it herself. “I’m just saying,” he says gently, in a voice that forces Nat to look at him. “This could be good, okay? Remember that. It could be good, and it’s alright to let it be.” 

Nat feels something in her eye suddenly, a salt sting like the air’s drying her out. She swipes at it, says, “Stop listening to the fucking Beatles so much,” and then pauses, chewing at her lower lip. Asks, quieter now: “You really think it could be good?” 

“I do,” Ben says, putting one hand on her shoulder. Nat allows him a moment, then twitches away from the touch like she always does in the end. “I saw how she looked at you. You ask me, the girl’s got it bad.” 

Nat shakes her head, disbelieving. Wanting to believe, though, and that scares the shit out of her. She can’t imagine Lottie wanting her, not really, not in any way that doesn’t involve a flesh and blood shield standing between her and her nightmares of parents. Can’t imagine Lottie looking at her, really seeing her, and finding anything worth keeping.  

Still, though: there’s something new now, echoing around her mind. Lottie’s words back in the bike shop, her offhand confession. Resident lesbian, and—a chance, maybe. False hope, sure, but Nat’s more than used to that. 

“Last thing,” Ben says, reaching into his pocket now. “Look, I know STD rates between women are much lower, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still use protection, so just…here.” 

He holds out a handful of little packets, flat and colorful. Nat takes one, frowns at it for a long minute before she figures out what the hell it is.

“Ben, are you fucking kidding me?” 

Ben holds up his hands, placating. “There’s still plenty of cases in woman-woman hookups, okay, and—”

“No,” Nat interrupts him. “Just no. Nobody in the history of the entire pussy-eating world has ever used a dental dam. Literally not a single one. I don’t even want to know why you have them on you.” 

“Tough crowd,” Ben sighs, shoving the things back in his pocket. “No wonder high school health class funds have been cut.” 

“Public education,” Nat shrugs, and vaults up into the bed of the truck. “I’ll pass, you trash.”

She starts handing down old bike frames and tires, two by two, for Ben to toss into various waste dumpsters. It’s cold as shit and her bare hands are freezing on the metal, but the last piece in the bunch brings her to a full stop: an old purple racer, elegant and straight-bar. Tires are shit, worn down to the treads, but there’s a nice wire basket on the front. An easy fix job, really, for someone who’s willing to put in the work.

Ben’s still standing below her, waiting, expectant. Nat picks up the frame carefully, weighs it. Flips it around in her hands, thinks of open parking lots nearby and a crooked-canine smile turned to her. There’s an extra helmet somewhere in the backroom; it might be purple, or could be with a coat of paint. 

“Hey,” Nat says, setting the frame back down on the bed protectively. “I’m gonna keep this one, actually.” 

Ben looks surprised, but doesn’t push it—just nods, holds out a hand that Nat ignores as she hops back down to solid ground. She pushes the tailgate up and closed, then punches him on the shoulder, feeling good enough to show a little affection.

“Thanks, Ben,” she says. “You’re a good boss.” 

“I should’ve recorded that statement for posterity,” Ben laughs, reaching for his seat belt as they climb back into the cab of the pickup. “You’re a good kid, Nat, and you got a good thing going here with her.” He levels her with a stare, serious but caring, and—holds out another fucking dental dam. “Don’t let yourself fuck it up.” 

“I actually can’t stand you,” Nat says, but she accepts it this time, if only to make him shut the fuck up. As she slips it into her pocket, making a mental note to toss it as soon as she gets home, she sees Ben smile proudly in her peripheral. 

+

Ben’s advice sticks with her, carries itself at her heels: Don’t let yourself fuck it up, and so Nat doesn’t, or at least tries her best not to. She’s not even sure what it looks like, really, the whole not fucking it up deal; she’s been fucking things up since she was born or even before then, a fuckup birthed from a long line of fuckups, and the metaphorical buck keeps passing even when the real ones don’t. She’s nothing from nowhere, always has been and always will be; all those things they used to whisper at her in the high school hallways, slut and crackwhore and trailer trash, aren’t too far off the mark no matter how much she wants to deny it—or maybe that’s just the ghost of her father talking, but either way it’s not too different in the end. She knows how fast news travels in small towns, anyway; knows, too, that even now, when she’s made it out and moved away and found a place of her own, a steady job with a paycheck that clears, roommates she could even call friends, she’s the best she’s ever been and she still wouldn’t come close to good enough for someone like Lottie.

But there’s the other side of things, too, which lands like this: Lottie stays, despite every reason she probably shouldn’t. Keeps walking back into Nat’s life, over and over, like she’s got a never-locked revolving door to Nat’s heart, and she’s almost always there now—in the bike shop, the cabin, shotgun in the truck. In Nat’s room, or Nat in hers, and Nat’s learning the ropes in that two-person college row home now, knows where Lottie keeps the silverware and sees the little orange bottles of pills beside the bathroom sink, even met Laura Lee and got an unexpected hug that felt more girl-like than god-fearing. Lottie’s there, not leaving, blurring all the lines of loneliness with the press of her thigh against Nat’s, the brush of their hands passing cigarettes—Lottie does smoke, as it turns out, takes American Spirits from Nat’s fingers with a spark and a smile, lights her cigarette from the tip of Nat’s in a close-breathed touch of embers. 

And there’s something there, Nat thinks, in all the touching and looking and the way they fit into each other’s lives now, not perfectly but undeniably, that magnet pull back around to north and new directions Nat’s never traveled. She’d do it, if this was anyone else; she’d take that risk and move that goalpost, push it forward like the dip of one mouth to catch another, but this isn’t just anyone and Nat’s just about no one. She and Lottie are similar in some ways, many ways even, two sets of antlers locked and drowning, and yet: not enough. The story of Nat’s life, and maybe the legend on her gravestone if the undertaker has a sense of humor, so she stays where she is, holds herself back. Reminds herself: girls like her are poison. Reminds herself: not everybody gets a happy ending. Reminds herself—and there’s Lottie again, walking up the driveway, BMW finally back from the shop and parked behind the pickup, and Nat opens the door for her once more, smiles, lets her in. Thinks, as Lottie’s shoulder touches hers: Don’t let yourself fuck it up. 

+

Finals end and Christmas comes around, sending all the college kids home. Van’s going with Tai for the holidays, some kind of destination retreat picked by Tai’s parents. Shauna’s heading back to the Berkshires, because her mother is actually the kind of parent to leave a porch light on and a childhood bed made up with clean sheets. 

Nat’s staying right where she is, no holiday plans except for a Christmas Eve invite to the Martinez house that she’ll probably pass up; it was nice of Javi to invite her but she doesn’t think the rest of the family would appreciate her being there like he would. And Lottie—

“I’m going to Laura Lee’s,” Lottie tells her, pouring glasses of orange juice at her kitchen counter. She slides one over to Nat, looking a little sad around the eyes for some reason. “My parents are in Tokyo until January, so her family told me I could spend Christmas with them—and Boxing Day, whatever that is.” 

“Makes sense,” Nat answers, beating back the dumb little hope she’s been holding for a two-person Christmas. “I’ll see you when you get back, then.” 

Lottie nods like it’s obvious, like she’s already penciled it into a calendar somewhere. “I have a present for you, okay? Don’t let me forget.” 

“Oh?” Nat takes a sip of juice, mostly to stop herself from smiling like a fucking fool. “You don’t have to give me anything.” 

“I know,” Lottie says. “Don’t get too excited about it until you see it. It’s, uh, a little rough.” 

“Yeah, well.” Nat scrubs a finger across the back of her hand, noting the grease stains left there from last night’s work in the garage. “Mine is too.” 

Now, the day before Christmas, the cabin’s emptied out and Nat’s left with the place to herself. She’s wished for this before, especially when Tai’s soccer teammates spill into the house and eat all the food in the fridge, but now it’s strange to see everything empty: the kitchen counter, the living room coffee table. Van’s room upstairs, the door opposite Nat’s showing a blank stretch of floor and DVD shelves. 

Back downstairs, Shauna’s door is closed and so is Tai’s. Nat makes herself a bowl of cereal with Shauna’s weird oat milk and slouches onto the sofa, boneless, listening to the little radio above the sink—Van’s radio, always tuned to 97.3 The Beat—spin a staticked version of Keep Their Heads Ringin.  

She turns on the TV after a while, lets the news anchors and sportscasters talk away at low volume without really paying attention. She deconstructs a cigarette, re-rolls it like a joint, just for something to do, doesn’t smoke it. The clock on the wall moves slow, her phone stays empty of notifications, and Nat’s—lonely, or something. 

She flips channels, settles on shitty movie reruns from the past decade. Outside, the afternoon fades into dusky light. Cars pass by, lights stretching quick across the ceiling and then disappearing again; onscreen, Home Alone is halfway through. Nat hates this movie, can’t care enough to turn it off. 

And then: a key in the lock, the cold-split sound of the kitchen door opening in subzero weather. Nat whips around, eyes narrowed, scanning the doorway. Burglars on this night would be maybe the stupidest fucking way to get robbed ever, some Christmas classic bullshit trope, but she’s ready to fight if she has to. 

The door slams open, and Shauna Shipman appears in a flurry of snow like a lesbian Ghost of Christmas Future in an oversized flannel. She’s pink in the face and shivering, holding a large glass casserole dish in her hands. 

Nat blinks once, twice, shivers in the arctic draft. “Aren’t you supposed to be back on the homestead singing Hanukkah carols or something?” 

“Or something,” Shauna says, hauling her casserole through the door. “My mom cooked way too much. Kugel and latkes for days, we can’t eat all of it, so we’re spending the holiday here.” 

Nat’s eyebrow nearly touches orbit. “Your mom is here?” 

“Guilty as charged,” calls a voice from beyond the door, and a middle-aged woman with Shauna’s hair and Shauna’s eyes comes walking through with an armful of bags. She closes the door and smiles at Nat kindly. “Deb Shipman, and you must be Nat. It’s good to meet you. Do you like potatoes?” 

“Uh,” Nat says, feeling a hot-salt scratch in the back of her throat. She blinks once, uncertain. “Yeah. I do.” 

Deb looks thrilled at this, drags her luggage off in the direction of the kitchen. Shauna lingers a moment, some complicated emotion playing across her face as she says: “Home Alone? I hate that movie.” 

Nat stretches, scoffs. “Me too.” 

Shauna smiles now, slow but sure. “Merry Christmas, Nat.”

The TV drones on behind them, background noise. Nat notices again the decorations Van stuck to the walls: cheap tinsel, pine branches from the side of the driveway. Somewhere in the kitchen, pitched and off-key, Deb Shipman is humming Silent Night— and somewhere in Pennsylvania, after two more days, Lottie’s coming home. 

“Yeah,” Nat says, and feels the corners of her mouth push miraculously upwards. “Merry Christmas, Shipman.” 

+

[lottie matthews] 

Hi Nat

Merry Christmas Eve

[nat]

why don’t you just text tmr on real christmas

[lottie matthews]

I’m going to! 

But I wanted to send a Christmas Eve text too

[nat]

you’re weird

[lottie matthews]

Thank you

[nat]

how’s it going w laura lee and co

bet you’ve already gone to church

[lottie matthews]

It’s not nice to make assumptions 

But yes we have. Twice.   

[nat]

ha

[lottie matthews] 

It’s not so bad actually 

I don’t buy into the entire birth of Christ thing but it’s nice to hear the choir 

[nat]

laura lee sings in it doesn’t she

[lottie matthews]

Again with the assumptions smh

(Yes she does) 

[nat]

i fucking knew it

[lottie matthews]

Shut up

What are you doing for Christmas?

[nat]

celebrating hanukkah lmao

shauna and her mom came to the cabin

idk why but it’s been nice tbh

[lottie matthews]

Aw that’s sweet 

[nat]

yeah it’s alright

[lottie matthews]

I’m glad 

So…

Are you going to wish me a Merry Christmas Eve back? 

[nat]

nope

[lottie matthews] 

>:( 

[nat]

ugh FINE

merry christmas eve lottie

happy now?

[lottie matthews]

Yes :-)

[nat]

unbelievable

+

Hanukkah with the Shipmans, Nat soon learns, is better than any Christmas she’s ever had before. Not a high bar to clear, maybe, but they’re miles above it still; holidays with Deb and Shauna are good, in a way that Nat’s never really experienced before. 

They spend the rest of the evening eating latkes and green beans and Deb’s potato kugel, which is insanely fucking delicious. Nat barely holds herself back from licking the plate, and that’s after having thirds. 

Deb’s kind and attentive, asks Nat dozens of questions about her job and ignores the way she dodges anything about parents or hometowns. Shauna’s different around her mother, a little: still sarcastic, but less biting. Nat watches the two of them together, bickering over some small thing, and aches down to the bone. 

There isn’t much ceremony that night—the Shipmans are what Deb cheerfully describes as “Jewish in theory, mostly”— but Shauna does set up a little brass menorah at the end of the table. Deb places one candle in the first holder, touches a lighter to it, and lets the flame go up; Nat watches the heart of the fire, feels like she’s witnessing something sacred. She goes to bed warm and full, and when she wakes up, there’s breakfast on the table and two people to eat it with.

The next day, it’s more of the same: the three of them lounge around the house, watch a late-morning snow come down, eat latkes with applesauce and sour cream until their skins are pushing at the seams. Deb goes out for an hour or so after breakfast and comes back with a tiny Christmas tree in a pot, more twig than anything. It’s pathetic, and pathetically small. Nat loves it on sight.

“God, Mom, could you have picked a sadder tree?” Shauna asks, eyeing the pot with a critical expression. It’s taken pride of place next to the TV, only half the height of the wooden stand. “Charlie Brown fucking wept.” 

“It was all they had left,” Deb answers, aiming a light swipe at the top of Shauna’s head, “and I thought Nat would want a tree around the house. It is Christmas, after all.” 

“It’s nice,” Nat says, horrified to find that tears are riding shotgun with the words. She shakes her head, holds her eyes tightly shut for a moment, opens them again. “It’s really nice.” 

“Whatever you say,” Shauna says, doubtful, but she takes a handful of Van’s leftover tinsel and drapes it over the top of the tree. “God better not smite us down for celebrating Christmas.” 

Nat scoffs now, no longer weak around the eyes. “Don’t worry, Shipman. If a god ever shows up around here, he’ll take me first.”

Shauna laughs at the joke, but Deb doesn’t; she just gives Nat a gentle look, one that somehow travels towards Nat’s heart instead of under her skin, and spoons the last of the kugel onto her plate. Nat lowers her head to eat, feeling mothered for the first time in years. 

After dinner, the three of them pile onto the living room couches in a tower of blankets to watch a double feature: It’s A Wonderful Life and the most recent version of Little Women, no prizes for guessing who picked which. Nat’s happy enough to sit and watch, even if she does give Shauna shit for picking a fucking period piece as her Christmas movie of choice. 

“It’s a visionary take on a classic pillar of American literature,” Shauna argues, “and it’s Christmas . This is the perfect time to watch.” 

“Fuck no it’s not,” Nat says, for the sake of argument more than anything else. She’s enjoying the watch a little, actually, but damned if she’ll cop to that in front of Shauna. “One: this movie is boring as shit, and two: you don’t even celebrate Christmas.” 

“Children,” Deb says, wry twist of humor to her voice, and Nat and Shauna settle into relative peace— relative. Nat continues the cold war by throwing popcorn pieces at Shauna’s back, one at a time; by the end of the movie, there’s a whole handful stuck in the hood of her sweatshirt. 

“Fuck off,” Shauna hisses, shaking kernels loose from her hair as the credits roll. “That’s such a waste of food.” 

Nat smirks at her, deliberately smug. “Not a waste to me.” 

Shauna glares, but her expression loses its point as it moves to her mother, who’s fallen asleep on the couch. Her glasses are sliding down, and Shauna reaches out to fix them, then pulls another blanket up over her. 

“I’ll let her sleep,” Shauna says, quiet, turning off the TV as she rises from the sofa. “Come on.” 

Nat pads afterwards, out to the hallway and in through the open door of Shauna’s bedroom. She’s never been here before, except one time when Shauna came home drunk and Nat helped Van get her into bed; back then, Nat had been too focused on avoiding a puke rocket to take a good look around. 

Now, she sees the room as if for the first time: brown walls and a queen bed, a rolling brass clothes rack. A long row of flannels, black and grey and blue, and a tasteful collage of posters on the wall, Joni Mitchell and Joanna Newsom and some movie based on a Virginia Woolf novel. Closet doors thrown open, careless, the punchline of a joke told in Van’s voice. 

Shauna drops down onto the bed, her gaze restless, and sighs loudly. Nat hovers in the doorway, unsure what she’s meant to be doing here. 

“You can like, come in,” Shauna says after a minute—so Nat does, wanders further in until she’s standing by the old wooden writing desk. A mid-range laptop on it and a stack of notebooks, novels Nat’s never read. One photograph, framed, of a younger Shauna and a younger Deb and someone else, blonde and brown-eyed, whose face has been crossed out in thick black marker. 

“Nice room,” Nat offers. “Is this, like—your Christmas present to me, or something? A look into the twisted bedroom of Shauna Shipman?”

Shauna frowns at her, fingers curling restless in the duvet cover. “What? No.” 

“Okay, then what is it? Cause no offense, but we’re not exactly the braid each other’s hair and have a sleepover kind of friends.” 

“We live together,” Shauna points out. “Technically, we have a sleepover every night. And I’m just—I don’t know. Having a moment, I guess.” She looks up at Nat, a careful kind of happiness resting in the slant of her mouth. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it was…actually nice to spend the holidays here.”

Nat’s body goes warm with the admission, comfortable heat, like a blanket tucked around her shoulders. “Wasn’t bad for me either, I guess.” 

Shauna smiles, almost shy. “We could do it again next year.”

“We could,” Nat says, pretty sure she means it; she has no idea where she’ll be or what she’ll be doing twelve months out, but she’d like to think this place is somewhere she could find again. “Merry Christmas, Shipman.”

That smile on Shauna’s face stretches longer, curls with satisfaction, subtly invites Nat to stay another minute even as she starts moving to the door. “Merry Christmas, Nat.” 

+

Nat’s asleep until she isn’t, until there’s a tapping sound against her window and she jerks awake from a latke-heavy sleep. She peers across the room, following the sound, squinting in the dark; one hand reaches for the baseball bat she keeps leaned against the closet, close enough to touch. 

The tapping comes again, the same one-two-three pattern. Nat leaps out of bed, bat in hand, and runs to the window ready to smack down whatever rat or raccoon or criminal is trying to break into her room. 

It’s not any of those things: it’s Lottie, crouched on the slope of the roof and shivering as she puts a hand to the window again. Nat’s heart does something complex in her chest, acrobatic, and she opens the window and yanks Lottie through it before slamming it closed against a freezing flurry of snowflakes. 

“Lottie,” Nat hisses, brushing cold white powder from her arm. “What the fuck are you doing on my roof?”

“Visiting you,” Lottie says, blinking. “Why do you have a baseball bat?”

“In case you were a fucking robber or something.” Nat drops the bat, kicks it under her bed. “You’re lucky I didn’t swing on you by accident. What are you doing here? It’s—” A glance at the clock on her nightstand, flat numbers ticking over. “Past midnight, Jesus. You’re out of your mind.” 

“Maybe,” Lottie agrees easily, smiling a little. “In my defense, I did knock.” 

“Most people knock at the door,” Nat mutters, rolling back onto her bed and bundling beneath the covers. “Fuck, it’s cold out here.” She looks up at Lottie, still standing in the center of the room, and sighs. “Get in, idiot.” 

Lottie does, after taking off her shoes and coat and bag to reveal green flannel pants and a grey ringer tee that hugs her body gently. Nat’s not an opportunist, exactly, but she takes a long look at after-dark Lottie and calls it even for the whole window break-in thing. 

“Thanks for letting me in,” Lottie says, once she’s burrowed into bed at Nat’s side. Her bare arm touches Nat’s, shoulder to elbow: cold skin, so very human. 

“Didn’t exactly give me a chance,” Nat replies, shifting under layers of blankets. Lottie’s body fits right against hers, curves interlocking, legs stretching far out beyond Nat’s own. She smells like herself, honey and wildflowers and that cold-snap metallic scent of the outdoors in winter; Nat breathes, bites down on the inside of her lip. Don’t let yourself fuck it up. “I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.” 

“I wasn’t,” Lottie says. “I did Christmas with  Laura Lee and everything, it was nice, but I left after everyone else went to bed and drove myself back. I had my own car, it was easy.”  

Nat frowns, though the effect is mostly lost in the dark. “And then you came here.” 

“And then I came here,” Lottie agrees, peaceful. “And narrowly avoided death by baseball bat. Weird, you seemed more like a soccer girl to me.” 

“I played rec as a kid,” Nat explains. “Baseball and soccer both. I quit, once they tried to make me switch to softball. Lottie, what exactly are you doing here right now?” 

“Oh,” Lottie says, reaching over to flick on the old low-watt lamp at Nat’s bedside. “Well, I brought you your Christmas present.” She pulls a package from her bag now, small and neatly wrapped in pale blue tissue paper; soft to the touch, when she hands it over. 

Nat turns the package over in her hands, smoothes her fingers against the edges of the tape. “Lot. You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“I didn’t get it, exactly,” Lottie says. A curl of her mouth, and that crooked flash of tooth. “Just open it.” 

Nat works the paper off carefully, scared to ruin it, ignoring Lottie’s little sigh of impatience as the layers unravel. Finally, the wrapping falls away and she’s holding a scarf: thin, warm, knit in dark blue wool. 

“It’s sort of rough,” Lottie says, a touch of nerves in her voice. “I’m not the best knitter. I’m not a knitter at all, really, I just started this winter, but I wanted to give you something. And it was between making this and going back to my TJ Maxx shoplifter days, so…” 

“It’s kind of hideous,” Nat says, truthfully; the scarf is a little lopsided, pulling to one side, with odd stitches poking out here and there. But Lottie’s there, looking at her with those liquid brown eyes like she wants Nat to be drowning for the rest of her life, and so Nat adds, also truthfully: “I fucking love it.”  

Lottie’s smile comes through, brighter, radiant in the dim light. “I’m glad.” 

Nat drapes the scarf over her bedpost, close to her head, then flicks the light off again. “I made you something too. It’s down in the garage, though. Didn’t know you’d be climbing through the window like bootleg Santa Claus, or I would’ve had it ready tonight.” 

Even in the dark, Lottie’s still-shining smile is unmissable. Her hand finds Nat’s beneath the blanket, holds on gently as she says: “Thank you, Nat.” 

“Don’t make this a whole thing,” Nat mumbles, going suddenly hot around the collarbones. “It’s not even Christmas anymore.” 

Lottie laughs quietly, lets go of Nat’s hand and rolls over to her side. She’s facing Nat now, arms folded in and hands tucked beneath her chin like some small precious fawn in the woods; Nat’s sightline, adjusting once more to the half-light, watches every tree in the forest go perfectly still. 

“You can come closer,” Lottie says, like they’re not already far too close, like Nat’s old twin XL spreads a full canyon of space between them instead of a mere heartbeat. “I won’t bite you.” Another quiet laugh, shit-starting this time. “Unless you ask really nicely.” 

“In your fucking dreams,” Nat scoffs, even as the memory of Lottie’s mouth around her fingers flashes white-hot behind her eyes. She twists beneath the blankets, tensing, relaxing. 

“Well, in the good ones, yeah,” Lottie says, thoughtful, entirely too serious for Nat’s wellbeing. Her hand comes up to catch at Nat’s wrist, holds her there gently. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“Not like I had a choice,” Nat grumbles, giving in and curling closer to Lottie. “God, your feet are freezing.” 

Lottie hums, unconcerned. “So warm them up for me.” 

“Unbelievable,” Nat says, but lets Lottie’s ice-block toes work their way between her shins until they’re both resting comfortably. “There. Now go to sleep.” 

“Okay,” Lottie says, with a little sigh of contentment. “Goodnight, Nat.” 

“Night, Lottie.” 

Lottie falls asleep soon after, her breaths going slow and gentle. Nat lies awake for longer, watches the occasional gold of headlights cut across the bedroom ceiling. Feels the familiar shape of Lottie’s face tucked into her, rested in the dip of her neck and shoulder, and lets herself smile in the safety of the darkness.  

“Look what you’ve done to me,” she says quiet, almost awed. “My blood in your mouth, and now it’s like we’re tied together.” She sighs, tired. “I won’t cut it, okay? Not if you don’t.” 

Lottie’s sleeping figure doesn’t answer, but the dark settles on them softer like a blessing. Nat closes her eyes, holds one hand to Lottie’s back, and sleeps. 

+

“Oh,” Ben says, “okay, I get it now,” and Nat punches him in the shoulder so hard he gasps in pain.

“Shut up,” Nat tells him, through the grit of her teeth, and goes back to staring out across the back parking lot. Lottie’s there, perched on the seat of her old-new bike; three days of practice, and she’s learned enough to balance precariously on it while she propels herself unsteadily around the pavement. 

 “You could’ve just said you wanted the frame for her,” Ben says, not unkindly. “I would’ve supported you.” 

“That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything.”  Nat takes out her lighter, flicks the flame on and off again absentmindedly. “Didn’t need another handful of dental dams, or like—a book of lesbian theory.” 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant.” 

“I got it, dude.” Nat clicks the lighter again, tiny fires jumping in her palm. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna let myself fuck it up.” 

“Nat,” Lottie calls over to them, swaying left and right as she pedals at the speed of a snail. “I think I’m getting it now!”

“Good shit,” Nat calls back, and offers the world’s lamest thumbs up. She really needs to get a handle on this whole being a loser around Lottie thing at some point. “Keep going.” 

“Hey,” Ben says, from her side, and Nat whips around. She’d forgotten he was there, really. “I think you and I have different definitions of letting yourself fuck it up.” He rests a hand on Nat’s shoulder, leaves it there a second before moving away. “I’ll go cover the counter. No smokes on your break. Nice scarf, by the way.” 

He opens the back door, pausing long enough to hit his lame little CBD pen twice before disappearing inside. Nat kicks the door closed after him, adjusts the scarf wound loose around her neck, shoves her hands into her pockets, and trudges over to where Lottie’s busily offending the memory of every cyclist in history. 

“You’re doing great,” Nat says, not entirely truthful. “Wanna try putting your feet on the actual pedals this time?” 

Lottie blinks almost meekly, telegraphing distress in the long curl of her eyelashes. “Do I have to?” 

“Yeah, you do. It’s kind of how biking works.” 

“Okay, fine.” Lottie tugs at the strap of her helmet, eyes wide and slightly anxious. “You need to help me, though. Steer me around, or whatever.” 

“Fine,” Nat says, reaching for the handlebars, placing one hand on the stem. “Let’s move.” 

She tries to pull the bike forward a little, but Lottie strikes her heels against the asphalt in protest. “Wait, not like this! Can’t you like, hold onto me or something?”

“You’re such a little bitch,” Nat sighs, and can’t even pretend that the words don’t come out drenched in affection. She raises her hands to Lottie’s shoulders, holds her steady there, tries not to go weak at the knees. Lottie’s solid and delicate at the same time, bird-boned but strong like old-growth tree roots; Nat’s slightly terrified to touch her, and never wants to let her go. Always a study in contradictions, when it comes to her. “Start pedaling, dummy.” 

Lottie pushes off on her right foot and starts pedaling gingerly, snail-paced, as Nat follows along. The bike sways this way and that, inching across the parking lot, but they’re moving forward and Lottie’s got both feet on the pedals, so Nat will take it as a win. 

“Holy shit,” Lottie says, breathless, and pushes a little harder at the pedals. “I’m doing it!” 

“You’re doing it,” Nat agrees, and flashes a grin even though she knows Lottie can’t see her right now. “Keep going, I got you.” 

They circle the pavement a few times, moving faster and faster until Nat falls into a half-run to keep up with the bike. Lottie’s face is hidden by the angle and the curve of her purple helmet, but Nat can hear her laughing: clear, lilting, free. Like she’s healing her inner child, or whatever therapizing bullshit those stupid pop-psychologists talk about—and as Nat watches, as Nat moves with her, the memory of cigarette smoke and concrete steps falls a little further behind. 

“That was fun,” Lottie says, laughing still, once they’ve coasted to a halt near the back door. “You’re not a bad teacher.” 

“You’re definitely a bad biker,” Nat says, cracking a half-smile as Lottie’s face turns suddenly indignant. She lets go of Lottie’s shoulders and takes a step back, reminded: they’re not in motion anymore, and everything looks different from the ground up. “You should keep practicing.” 

Lottie pouts for a second, mouth downturned, then brightens into a smile as she hops off the bike and leans it carefully against the brick wall. “I will, if you keep teaching me.”

“Nah,” Nat says, offhand. “You couldn’t afford what I’m charging.” 

“Pretty sure I could,” Lottie says. Her hands rise absentmindedly, catch at the bottom of Nat’s scarf, pull her in. Their faces drift closer, comets astray in new orbit; Nat nearly bites through her lip, again, at the breath of Lottie’s mouth so close to hers. “Hey, I like your scarf. Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, this random girl made it for me,” Nat says. “She’s really weird, actually—like, she’s fucking obsessed with me and won’t leave me alone. It’s annoying.” 

“A girl, huh? She sounds pretty awesome.” 

“Eh. She’s alright, I guess.” 

Lottie’s little fang pushes down over her lip, flickering white with her smile. Her hands are still tangled in Nat’s scarf, and her life is still tangled in Nat’s own, and Nat wants this, suddenly, with the vicious hunger of a wolf in midwinter. She tries to shift backwards, save them both, but Lottie catches her mid-flight. 

“Nat,” Lottie murmurs, almost too gentle. “Stay.” 

Nat swallows hard, stays. Lottie’s still here, so close, smelling so much like herself that Nat feels a gorgeous ache of wildflowers rooted in the back of her throat. She rocks forward on the toes of her worn-out boots, ready to say fuck it and throw herself right over the edge of that cliff, and Lottie’s there, against all odds, meeting her halfway with the knock of her nose against Nat’s cheekbone, so fucking close, and then—

Nat’s phone chimes twice, loud and insistent past the silenced ringer. A breakthrough alert tone, only one person it could possibly be, and the moment pops like a shimmering soap bubble. Lottie sways backwards now, an uncertain deer on new long legs, as Nat curses and drags her phone from the bottom of her jacket pocket. 

“Fucking Van,” she says, and then, scanning the cracked screen: “Fucking Tai.” 

Lottie tilts her head, frowning faintly. “Everything okay?” 

“We’re hosting a New Year’s party, apparently,” Nat relays, glaring balefully at the wall of words scrolling down her phone. “Co-hosting, whatever—I guess the soccer girls want to use our yard as overflow for their kegger, and Tai said yes for some fucking reason.” Another text appears, and she groans. “And Misty is going to be there. Shoot me now.” 

Lottie’s frown lines notch deeper. “Misty Quigley? How do you know her?”

“Ran into her a few times,” Nat mumbles, and pointedly avoids any mention of fog-stained glasses or fingers three deep. “Now she won’t leave me the hell alone. Van thinks I should get a restraining order.” 

“You should,” Lottie agrees, sounding almost sour with the aftertaste. She tucks her arms around herself, suddenly small again as she adds: “Or at least, like, a hot girl to bring to the party.”

Nat shades her eyes with a theatrical hand, looks high and low. “The hot girl option sounds good. Too bad there isn’t one anywhere around here.” 

“You’re such a bitch,” Lottie says, tapping her closed fist gently against Nat’s shoulder. “Is that a yes?” 

“Fine,” Nat says, and the word echoes in her ears: fine, fine. Lottie’s standing taller, whole again. “Don’t expect me to put out, though.” 

“I won’t,” Lottie promises, giving Nat one of her lopsided half-winks. “If you put out for me, it’ll be because I earned it.” She takes her helmet off and sets it on Nat’s head, looking pleased with herself. “Last one inside is a bitch-ass loser.” 

Nat throws herself at the door, but Lottie has her beat by a step. As the two of them fall across the threshold in a whirl of hurried laughs, Lottie’s hand slips into Nat’s for just a second: there and then gone, a long day’s sight sliding out of the crosshairs. 

+

[lottie matthews]

Laura Lee wants to come to the party too

Is that okay?

[nat]

yeah idc

[lottie matthews]

Okay yay 

[nat]

she knows it’s a party tho right

[lottie matthews]

Yes 

You’re so annoying 

[nat]

what if she thinks it’s like bible study or some shit

[lottie matthews]

Hang on

She said, Tell Natalie that my faith alone does not define me

[nat]

uhh okay

[lottie matthews] 

And also she’s bringing molly

[nat]

the fuck

[lottie matthews] 

Just kidding! 

She wouldn’t do molly  

It’s just shrooms 

[nat]

oh word?

[lottie matthews] 

Kidding again

(Sort of)

See you tonight :)

[nat]

yeah yeah see you soon

+

New Year’s Eve comes cold and clear, flush with winter-bright stars overhead. Akilah and Melissa show up at the cabin early asking for set-up help, and Nat spends half an hour wrangling gold streamers along the back fence before giving up and sitting on the back steps. As she digs in her pocket for her smokes, watching the soccer team haul two kegs into position by the gate, Shauna ghosts up like a shadow and scares the shit out of her. 

“Jesus,” Nat says, lighting up. “Say hello or something next time, creeper.” 

“You should really quit,” Shauna tells her, plucking the cig from Nat’s hand, taking a long and hypocritical drag. 

“You should really blow me.” Nat snatches the cigarette back, makes a show of brushing off the filter. “Nice look, by the way. I didn’t know you owned makeup.” 

She expects a snap in return, an answering bite of sarcasm, but Shauna just twists a lock of hair nervously around her finger. “I’m still recognizable, right?” 

Nat eyes her flatly. “Unfortunately, yeah.” 

Shauna nods sharply once, twice, and reaches for the cigarette again. She looks stressed enough, strung-out and frayed, that Nat lets her have it. 

“The Umass team is coming tonight,” Shauna mutters, blowing out a cloud of smoke long enough to kill a small child. “Akilah’s dating one of the captains or something, I guess. Gen just told me, like, twenty minutes ago.” 

Nat shrugs. “Good for them.”

“Not good for them.” Shauna scowls fiercely. “I can’t—I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“Sure you can,” Nat says, blithe, not a clue in hell what Shauna’s really talking about. Across the yard, two freshmeat JV girls are trying to stab the ends of literal fucking tiki torches into the frozen ground; a hopeless cause, but pretty funny to watch. “Have a beer, recite some Virginia Woolf, whatever gets your rocks off. It’s just another lame soccer party.” 

“But she’s coming this time,” Shauna says, haunted, weighed down with the misery of a thousand lifetimes or one complicated lesbian friendship. “It’s been three years. I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.” 

Nat shrugs again. Relights the burnt-down twig of Shauna’s cigarette, like a good fucking Samaritan. “Just, like—talk to her, asshole.” A flash of memory: Christmas night, blonde hair behind strong black slashes of marker. “Maybe don’t tell her that you crossed her out of the family photo like a fucking serial killer.” 

Shauna frowns, a riptide of psychopathy somewhere in her eyes. “I didn’t tell you it was her.” 

“You didn’t have to, dude. Sue me for having a functioning fucking brain cell.” 

“Fuck off,” Shauna hisses. Her mouth flattens into a line, furious; she makes a low kind of growling sound deep in her throat, and Nat’s jaw clenches automatically at the hint of danger. For the record, in case anybody somehow forgot: Shauna Shipman is batshit fucking crazy. 

The back door opens, saving Nat from her own personal Dateline episode as Van and Tai come tumbling out with a handle of tequila and a stack of cups between them. They’re smiling and flushed, holding hands, twenty-something teenagers still in first love. Nat’s eyes land on the fresy red mark at the base of Van’s throat, and she smirks. Van is so predictable that way—every way, really, when it comes to Tai. 

“Circle up, team,” Van says cheerfully, pushing cups into hands. Nat gets a glass of Coke, no rum, the same way she has ever since Van found out she’s mostly sober. “No drama tonight, or at least none that we can see—yes, Shauna, that includes crazy homoerotic friendship reunions. Bang it or can it, but we don’t need to hear about it until tomorrow.” 

Shauna glares, but knocks back her shot in silence and lets Tai pour her another. Nat takes a sip of her soda and tries not to inhale too deeply as the bottle of Cuervo passes by. Tequila was never her first choice, and she doesn’t even want to be drunk, but Jose’s looking a little too friendly for her liking right now. 

“Um, hi,” someone says, and suddenly Lottie’s there, standing delicately at the edge of the yard. Nat looks over at her, tall and graceful in the sparse twilight, and feels herself landing softly in the pocket of those long designer jeans. “Sorry, I think I’m early.” 

Van waves her over, grinning from ear to ear, and starts pouring another shot. “Nah, perfect timing. Here.” 

She hands the last cup to Lottie, who takes a sniff and immediately pulls a face of regret. Says, with a cute little pout: “God, that’s bad.” 

“You’re supposed to drink it, not smell it,” Nat says, knocking an elbow gently against her side. “Dumbass.” 

“Loser,” Lottie replies. She gives Nat a little sideways hug, soft and one-armed, follows it with a look of concern. “Are you drinking?” 

“Only Coke so far,” Nat says, with a tip of her cup to illustrate. “Not the fun kind, either. Where’s Laura Lee?” 

Lottie shrugs, a smile sitting bashful at the slant of her mouth. “She’s coming in a bit. I wanted to be here earlier.”

“Huh,” Nat says. There’s a smile of her own breaking through now, idiotic, no shot at stopping it. Forget alcohol—the warmth of Lottie’s eyes is the only brown she needs. “Wonder why that is.” 

“Flirt later,” Van interrupts, way too loudly for Nat’s comfort. “It’s drinking time, motherfuckers.” 

Cups tap together, toasting, and then everyone downs their drink. Most of them wince, Lottie especially; Shauna puts hers back without even a blink, impassive. 

“That’s more like it,” Tai says, triumphant. She pours more drinks, slides Nat a little glass bottle of Coke. Across the yard, the soccer girls gather in their own little pregame ritual. The JV captain turns on the speaker and a loud song starts up: bass-heavy, something by Rihanna. Respectable enough—probably picked by Akilah, one of the few girls from the team whose name Nat can actually remember. 

“I like the decorations,” Lottie says with a smile, eyes trailing from the streamers to the tiki lights. “Everything’s so pretty right now.” 

“It’s alright,” Nat allows. “Too bad it’ll be a bitch to clean up tomorrow.” 

“That doesn’t make it a bad thing,” Lottie says, in her strange and gentle way. “Maybe it’s enough right now to just enjoy it.” 

There’s a cynical response leaping in Nat’s mouth, a bullet loaded in the barrel of a familiar shotgun. That old killing instinct, and she almost lets it fire, but then she thinks, No. Then she looks around at the backyard of this house, the circle of these people, the girl by her side, and she thinks, What if? 

“Alright,” she says, and lays down her weapon. “Maybe it is.” 

+

Two hours later, the party’s in full swing—the sky’s gone dark, one keg’s been tapped, and the many-headed crush of the crowd has spilled through the fence between the soccer house and the cabin. There’s two backyards worth of partygoers here, nineteen and twenty and twenty-one, drunk and spinning around in the cold as the speaker shoves out pounding bass lines. 

It’s way too fucking crowded, is what it is, but the little satellite circle of Nat and Lottie and Tai and Van and Shauna stays steady in its orbit; Laura Lee, too, but they lost her a few minutes ago when she murmured something about the sky talking to her and drifted away with a girl from her sociology seminar. Nat’s got a Corona in one hand, special for the occasion, and she’s been sober long enough that she’s buzzing halfway down the bottle. 

“Lightweight,” Tai laughs, pointing, when she catches on. It’s lighthearted, carried on the shoulders of six tequila sodas. 

“Eat shit, Turner,” Nat says with an unfazed grin, and takes another sip of beer. She feels looser now, lighter, free without falling. “Least I won’t have to lift for three hours tomorrow to burn these drinks off.” 

Tai makes a face at her, which pulls tight into a grimace as she looks somewhere to the left of Nat’s shoulder. “Oh, god—psychopath, six o’clock.” 

“Nah,” Van says, swaying into Tai’s shoulder with a sappy smile. “Shauna’s more at, like, your nine or ten. It goes clockwise, remember.” 

“Not her,” Tai hisses, waving away Shauna’s indignant glare. “The other one.” 

“Shit,” Nat says, understanding now, and then: “Fuck,” and then she doesn’t have a chance to come up with another swear before Misty Quigley is pushing forwards into the circle, worming her way in like the fucking parasite she is. 

“Heyyyy, party people,” Misty says, irritatingly shrill. She’s done something questionable with her hair tonight, eyes huge behind those Coke-bottle glasses; Nat has no idea what she ever saw in the girl, besides the subject of a future true crime documentary. “How’s it going? Wonderful gathering here, guys. I mean, it’s fantastic. I can almost feel the friendship in the air!” 

Van snickers quietly. “That, or you drank someone’s cough medicine again.” 

“Natalie,” Misty continues, imploring. Her hand finds Nat’s arm, wraps cold fingers around her elbow in a way that makes the skin there feel like it’s going to peel right off. “Haven’t you been getting my texts? I miss you.” 

“Uh, no,” Nat mutters, yanking her arm free. “Must have missed them.” 

“It’s okay,” Misty says. She bats her eyelashes in a way that looks painful. “Maybe we could catch up over coffee soon? My treat? I found this adorable little place down the street, and…” 

Van and Tai go into some kind of Siamese choking fit, and Nat makes a mental note to kick both of them later. Misty’s still stuck to her like a DUI charge, stubborn and unshakeable. Nat looks both ways for a savior, finds one without even crossing the street. 

“I’m pretty busy right now,” Nat says, catching Lottie’s sleeve and pulling her closer. “You know, with my—my girlfriend, here.” 

“Girlfriend?” Misty echoes, incredulous. “Girlfriend?” Over her shoulder, Van is staring like she’s got front row seats at the original Scream premiere; Tai is staring like she’s got front row seats at the original Vanessa Palmer premiere. Shauna is spacing out, staring somewhere across the yard like she sees a ghost and owes it money. 

And Lottie? Lottie is rising to the occasion like a fucking supernova.

“Yes, girlfriend,” Lottie repeats, calm, and wraps her arm around Nat’s waist like they’ve been exactly here a thousand times before. There’s a warm flash in her eye, meant for Nat and no one else, as she adds: “It took Nat a few weeks of chasing me, but she finally locked me down.” 

“I didn’t chase you,” Nat huffs, both performative and not. “You wanted me so fucking bad.” 

Lottie smiles, holds on tighter. Her heartbeat jumps through her coat, right into Nat’s own chest. “Whatever you say, baby.” 

“This can’t be true,” Misty says, choked. She blinks once, twice, as a river of tears starts pouring down her face. “I—excuse me, everyone.” 

She turns and runs, sobbing loud enough that the music can’t quite swallow it. Tai scoffs, Van whistles, and Lottie—good, gentle, shooting star Lottie, who never talks shit about anyone unless they really, really deserve it—turns to Nat and says: “That girl is such a bitch.” 

“She’s annoying, alright,” Nat agrees, shrugging it off. “Forget that—what do you mean I was the one who chased you? It was the exact fucking opposite.” 

“Artistic license.” 

Nat rolls her eyes. “You’re not an artist.” 

“I can still have a license.”

There’s a point to be won, but Lottie’s eyebrows arch playfully and Nat loses the rest of the argument right there. She leans closer instead, held in the strong loop of Lottie’s arm at her waist. Says, low, mouth pressed to her shoulder because she can’t reach much higher: “Fuck a couple weeks, Lot. If I really had been chasing you, I would’ve only needed one day.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Lottie murmurs in return, even as her breath catches sharper on the inhale. “You fucking loser.” 

“Guys,” Laura Lee says excitedly, skating up to Lottie’s side with a glaze of far-off happiness to her eyes. “Come on, let’s dance. They’re playing my favorite song.” 

Nat turns an ear to the music, expects something soft pink and lightweight—Sheryl Crow, maybe, or Lady Gaga. Instead, it’s an old-school West Coast track spinning out: Ice Cube, fucking classic. Just wakin’ up in the morning, gotta thank God…

Laura Lee takes Lottie’s hand, Nat’s hand, grabs them both and jumps up and down as she rattles off the lyrics flawlessly. They go crashing into the middle of the yard, laughing and singing, and then Van’s hopping onto Nat’s back, arm in arm with Tai, shouting out the lyrics with a mouth untouched by scars, pulling Shauna into the mix by the tail of her flannel. The six of them whirl around, light as springtime beneath the almost-new year, and as Lottie falls laughing against Nat’s shoulder, tripping over her words, Nat looks up at the darkened sky and lets herself just enjoy it. 

+

They make it up to the roof ten minutes before midnight, just the two of them—Lottie’s had enough of the party for now, and Nat’s not about to argue. She lets Lottie into her room, raises the window, climbs out onto the shingles after her; she’ll be able to say no to this girl someday, probably, but it’ll be a long time coming. 

Lottie settles onto the roof, legs crossed neatly, and leans back on the side of the house. Nat follows suit, tips her head back against the window as she takes out a new pack of Spirits. It’s quieter up here, above the sounds of the party. If Nat looks at Lottie long enough, she can pretend they’re the only two survivors of the winter.  

“You and Misty,” Lottie says, and taps two fingers at Nat’s knee. “I wouldn’t have seen that coming.” 

Nat rolls a cigarette around her palm, deliberating. “No?” 

“No,” Lottie says firmly. “She’s like, a fucking case. And you’re…” She smiles faintly, shakes her head like she can’t quite believe what she’s saying. “Well, you’re you.” 

“Thanks, Lottie.” Nat clicks the lighter on, off again. “You have such a way with words.” 

Lottie just laughs, leans gently into Nat’s space. “You know what I mean.” 

Nat doesn’t, actually, but she’ll wait a little longer to find out. She flips the lighter around, rolls the sparkwheel, puts it away again; there’s the kick of nicotine, that dark grey rush to the head, and then there’s the upturn of Lottie’s mouth as the song below them switches from Queen to Dolly Parton. She knows which one she wants more, right now. 

“I didn’t think Laura Lee would actually be tripping tonight,” Nat says after a beat, watching as the girl in question dances a dreamy spiral across the yard. “She really does contain multitudes, or whatever.” 

Lottie grins, fond. “She does.” 

A chorus of shouting starts up, a group of guys dragging their friend into a keg stand. Lottie looks on with mild interest, then turns back to Nat. “I meant to ask—how come you’re drinking tonight?” 

“I can have a beer on really special occasions,” Nat explains, stretching her legs out along the roof. “I’m not, like, a fucking Prohibitionist.” 

“Makes sense.” Lottie blinks, no judgement there, smiling the sun-warm smile of the somewhat tipsy. Nat wants to do something dumb like curl up in her lap like a cat, which is enough to tell her that the one-beer buzz hasn’t quite worn off yet. “You could totally run a speakeasy, though.” 

“Dude,” Nat says, and lets out a laugh. “You’re so fucking random sometimes, you know that?” 

“You could,” Lottie insists. “If you wanted. All that jazz.” 

Nat hums in response, lets Lottie burrow into her side. They fit together nicely, despite their many-inch difference in heights: Nat’s head on Lottie’s shoulder, Lottie’s chin resting above Nat’s brown-blonde locks. Her roots are coming back in, she knows—hair growing longer, wolfish. Maybe Lottie will help her re-dye it. 

Five minutes to midnight, now, and a commotion at the fringe of the party catches Nat’s eye. Shauna’s standing by the fence, guarded stance, face to face with a blonde girl in a heavy jacket. Maroon and white, varsity soccer colors. They’re too far to be heard over the distance, the music, but the set of their bodies tells Nat pretty much enough. 

“Hold on,” Lottie says, following Nat’s gaze. “Is that Shauna with —Jesus, is that the Umass soccer captain?”  

“Pretty sure, yeah.” Nat rolls her head back, looks away—whatever that mess is, she’s not about to get involved. You don’t stick your hand into the mouth of a rabid dog unless you’re looking to die early. “Not our problem right now.” 

Lottie accepts this without question; settles down again, warm at Nat’s side, a respite from the cold. The seconds move forward, time ticking away. Nat feels restless, ready for something yet to pass. There’s a new year coming, and she’s wanting: if not a drink, then a decision. If not a change, then a rest. 

“Hey,” she says, before she can think better of it. “Why did you pick me?” 

Lottie tilts a few degrees, considering. “Hm?” 

“The car crash, back when we first met. You could’ve just taken my info and left.” Nat shuffles her boots against the roof, feeling vaguely like she’s giving something up. “You didn’t. You, like, picked me to stay in your life, be your fake girlfriend. Why?” 

Lottie’s quiet for a long beat, locked away in silence. Her breaths go silver in the air, tempting, precious. Finally, she says: “It was the deer.” 

Nat stares, thrown. “What?” 

“You swerved for the deer,” Lottie says, soft. She’s turned fully to Nat now, the sun and its flower running in reverse. “And you didn’t use it as an excuse, even when I was basically threatening to sue you. Right? You just wanted to spare it.”

Nat ponders this, lets out a quiet huh. She remembers so little of that exact moment: only feelings, only flashes. Only the deer, and the fear, and the urge to swerve aside—and then Lottie, on the far side of it all, striding up to the pickup. Changing Nat’s life, no two ways about it. 

“You’re a good person, Nat,” Lottie finishes, achingly sincere. “You’re good, and I wanted to be close to you. That’s why.” 

Nat exhales, and feels some great unknown weight lift its bones from her body. She looks at Lottie now, really looks at her—through the night and the winter and the music, the party still raging below—and thinks, Oh, this. This is how it’s supposed to be. 

“Lottie,” she says, and stops. The music changes one more time, kicks off with a triumphant riff of saxophone, as a yell starts up: Ten, nine, eight.

“Nat,” Lottie answers, starry-eyed, glimmering with hope. Seven, six, five. So close as always, so miraculously within reach, and Nat is done with the bullshit. She’s tired of running, tired of hiding. Lottie is here and real and beautiful, and this time, Nat knows exactly what to do with her hands. 

Four, three, two, the crowd chants, ritualistic, a call to the hunt, and Nat leans forward and kisses Lottie right before the night sky explodes into fire. 

+

It happens in handfuls after that, blurs of skin and touch: Lottie’s hands at Nat’s jaw, cradling her face, pushing a finger past her lips. The scuff of shins against the sill, paint flaking, window slamming shut to keep the cold out as they fall back into the room, onto the bed. Nat’s mouth at Lottie’s throat, licking there, a scrape of teeth across the skin as Lottie’s fingers pull deftly at the layers between them. 

Off, she says, please, please take this off, I want to see you, and so Nat does—drops her jacket to the floor, her shirt, her pants. Brings Lottie’s little black shirt over her head carefully, works her stupidly expensive jeans down her gorgeous legs. A scrap of lace in her hand, the soft sound of Nat’s boxers landing in a heap, and then they’re skin to skin and Nat can’t remember a single breath she’s ever taken. 

They move in turns, heated, slick and damp between their bodies. Lottie’s stunning in the half-light, a whole wilderness of skin, smooth to Nat’s touch; she’s vocal, wanting. Says yes and fuck and please in a way that drives Nat fucking crazy, whines low in the back of her throat at the first hungry push of Nat’s tongue between her thighs. Her hand finds Nat’s hair, roots there, pulls—possessive, desperate, and Nat feels it echo right down to the bone. 

“Come on,” she says, feral, half-mad, soaked in pure desire from her eyeteeth down. Fireworks keep bursting outside the window, sparks of pink and red and orange, nothing compared to the fire inside. “Come on, Lot, you’re doing so good, fuck—”

“Nat,” Lottie gasps, arching off the bed, “please, please,” and Nat gives it to her, hard and drowning, two fingers slipped tight inside the hot wet basin of her body. Lottie’s heartbeat jumps, harsh, hips rising, a stunning arch built just for prayer, and then she’s coming in Nat’s mouth with a low and drawn-out cry. 

“Lottie,” Nat says, sitting back, catching her breath. She wipes a hand across her lips, takes it away wet and shining. “Jesus fucking Christ. That was—wow.” 

“He’s not here,” Lottie says, beaming up at her, sweat-streaked and wrecked with the wild forest tangle of her hair spread around the pillow like a crown. “Just me.” 

“You’re so dumb,” Nat huffs, short on air. Feels a sudden urge to laugh, or maybe cry; she’s had a lot of sex, touched a lot of people, but never like this. Never like Lottie, water in her hands, a whole new universe birthed at their touch. “And you’re welcome, princess.” 

Lottie stares up at her, eyes slanted narrow, then rolls them over in one swift movement: script, flipped. She hovers over Nat, holds her down, leans in close. Nat swallows hard, desert-mouthed. 

“I may be a princess, sort of,” Lottie says, lips tracing the curve of Nat’s ear, “but I’m not a pillow princess.” 

“Oh,” Nat manages, punched-out, “fuck, Lot,” and then Lottie’s on her, covering her, one hand folded between her legs. Fingers long there, strong and skilled, searching, finding—pleasure comes in storm-surge waves, fast and rough with salt. Nat’s head goes back, hips up, eyes flying closed as she grabs for Lottie’s free hand, holds on tight. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Lottie says, almost reverent, and dips her mouth to bite at the column of Nat’s throat. “So beautiful, Nat—and you don’t even know, do you? You don’t even know it.” 

“You don’t have to,” Nat starts, gasps, tries again. “You don’t have to say that shit, okay, I’m already in bed with you.” 

Lottie goes still, looks at Nat with such tenderness that it feels like a kind of shattering. “I’m telling the truth,” she says gently. “You’re beautiful”— her hand starts moving again—“incredible”—thumb pressed against the swell of Nat’s clit—“breathtaking”—Nat’s entire body goes molten, liquid—“so fucking strong,” and she’s still there, still talking but Nat can’t follow the words. She’s too busy gasping, fisting the sheets as the ocean rises god-like inside her. 

“You’re so good, Nat,” Lottie whispers, thumbing her clit once more, and Nat sighs, sobs once, lets herself unravel. Comes harder than she ever has before, Lottie’s hand in hers, and when she lands back on solid ground, aching and hollowed-out, Lottie’s arms wrap around her like a signpost pointing home. 

+

Nat wakes up slow and sore next morning, fights a losing battle against the morning sun for twenty minutes before she concedes defeat. When she finally opens her eyes, squinting in bright winter light, the first thing she sees is Lottie: buried in blankets, curled on her side in one of Nat’s old band shirts. 

“Lot,” Nat whispers, half-afraid she’s lost within a dream. “Hey, Lot.” 

Lottie makes a soft little sound and rolls closer, still asleep. Nat takes in the mess of her long dark curls, the faint black smudge of mascara beneath one eye. A bruise on her neck, purple-red, and there’s a rush of heat in Nat’s stomach as she remembers exactly how she put it there. 

It wasn’t a dream, then. This is real. 

Sunlight stretches further into the room, draping over Lottie’s shoulder. Nat reaches out and traces a finger there. Runs it up Lottie’s arm, back down. Slips beneath the sleeve of Lottie’s borrowed shirt, the cut-sleeve Slowdive one that’s faded black and soft from a thousand washes. It looks better on her than it ever did in the mirror. 

“Hm,” Lottie mumbles. “That tickles.” Her eyes flutter open, silk curtains parting on a summer day, as she blinks fondly up at Nat. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Nat says, and wonders where the fuck they go from here. She’s never really been the type to spend the night, or let someone else spend it; she can’t remember the last time she woke up next to someone, skin to skin, and felt like it was right. But now, with Lottie in her bed and their hair tangled up together on the pillowcase, she doesn’t feel that itching bite to run. She just feels like breathing, and so she does. 

“So, um,” Lottie says, fiddling with a corner of the sheet. Her smile is small, bashful. “Last night was, like. Really good.” 

Nat grins. “Damn right it was.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Lottie says, shoving at Nat’s arm. “I didn’t say that to boost your ego. I more wanted to know if, like—you’d want to do it again.” 

Nat chews at her lip, feels a root of soreness there. “Depends. Do you want to do it again?” 

“Nat,” Lottie says, patient. Waiting on her, still, with that deer-in-sunlight expression. “Of course I do. I just want to know what you want, too.” 

Nat takes a breath, then another. Looks around the room, the four walls that she’s made her own, and then back at Lottie: this gentle, stubborn, north-star magnet of a girl who crashed her car into Nat’s heart and flung every lonely door wide open. 

 “I want to try this,” Nat says. It’s the hard truth, but it looks nothing like a knife fight—just a new year, and a soft beginning against all odds. “With you, for real. I want to, like, I don’t fucking know. Wake up next to you and ask about your day and drive you home at night. Whatever bullshit it is that happy people do together. And I might ruin it, but I still want to try.” 

“I’d like that,” Lottie answers, smiling like a year’s worth of sunrises. “The trying, not the ruining. Not that I think you’re going to ruin it.” She finds Nat’s hand, holds it to her chest. “Are you happy, Nat?” 

“Yeah,” Nat says, slightly amazed to find that it’s true. “I think so, yeah. Are you?” 

“Yes,” Lottie says simply, an expression of peace sliding over her face. Nat feels things settle, like the last turn home in earth's rotation: no more forest, no more trees. Only a wide blue sky, and the two of them under it together. “Yes, I am.”