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It's a somber moment.
Sitting on the roof of the house that used to be theirs, Lucy and Kate observe the vicious cycle of waves coming and going; dragging the sand in their retreat and erasing the steps of the tourists that had been there moments ago.
Inside the house, boxes are arranged in the corners, piling up memories and the remains of a past that no longer evokes relaxed smiles and known flavors. The only last bit of them are the pictures left on the walls — the ones Lucy refuses to put down and the ones Kate has no strength to touch.
Outside, where they currently are, their shadows projecting into the dark-clay tiles, merging into one, pointing at the chimney could be an evidence of change — or life itself. How natural it is to allow the months and years to catch up with the human body and mind. Give and take. Restore and erase.
“Did you really think I was pretty back then?” Kate asks, holding her knees closer to her body. “Back when we first met.”
“You know I did. I've told you before, Kate. I've never seen anything quite like you.” Lucy's reply is almost instant, with no hesitancy. Her eyes are red, she's been tired from all the packing — partially regretting being so insistent on doing it on her own. “But I think you never believed me no matter how many times I told you, did you?”
“It took me a while.” She breathes out. “No one has ever loved me quite like you did.”
“Love you. I still love you.”
“It's just not quite the same, is it?”
Lucy closes her eyes. She feels the tiredness of weeks creeping up her bones, and it makes her sick. (It's hard to remember when she had an actual meal, and not just chips and beer. Or when she had last washed her hair. Or walked outside when the sky was still bright and her faults were visible for everyone else to see. Lucy Tara, incomplete.)
The woman wants to lean back, and just fall asleep right there. Ask Kate to wait a bit more before leaving, to watch over her so that they can have a proper goodbye. Shake hands and agree it could've been great if it had lasted a bit more — ‘if we only had more time’.
“I can hear you thinking from here.”
“That’s because we're close.”
Kate hums, her eyes focused on the shore. “Not enough.” She waits a beat, calmly placing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Why didn't you tell me you hated this place?”
She thinks of denying it — like she tried to do the past 20 years. No I didn't. “Because you loved it.”
“We were married. It was our house. You had to like it, too.”
“It didn't matter back then.” A shrug. Doesn’t matter now. It was so silly when they picked the two-story house by the beach. All she could think about was Kate's beaming smile as she showed her the photos. How could she say no? How could she ever deny Kate anything when she looked at her like that? “I spent most days at work. You too. We only came back to sleep, and by then I was too tired to think about anything but wrapping you in my arms and listening to you breathe.”
Kate turns to her for a second. Her eyes are hazy, clouded by something Lucy is unable to name.
“Still, you should've told me. We could've moved somewhere else.”
“Kate.” It comes out as a sigh. A sign. A split second of transparency, of honest exhaustion. “I just wanted to be with you. I would've lived on a damn boat if you wanted us to.”
A snort. “No, you wouldn't.”
Her gaze shifts to the side. She wished the other would just look at her right now. See the offense on her face. The grimace on her lips. “I would.”
But she doesn't.
She never looks at Lucy anymore.
At every conversation they have, Kate's eyes are always somewhere else. (A spider web on the top corner of the bathroom wall, the unwashed dishes by the sink, the broken couch Lucy decided to leave behind. The windows — the curtains she bought herself — or the garden — with the small paths of flowers she used to adore.)
But never at her.
So whenever Lucy needs a bit more, she reaches out; find a way to coax the other's body into her in whatever way she's able to. Lean into my side. Give me your hand. Lay on my lap. Please. Come closer.
“I’m glad you're moving out.”
“Kate–”
You were mine once. If this must be the end, let me have this again.
“You should sell the house. It's in your name, anyway.”
“Don't.”
She looks up at the clouds. The faint brightness of the sun being slowly suffocated by the depth of the ocean. The stupid cotton ball that keeps her from breathing properly. Forming words. Gathering enough courage to speak her hurt in a steady voice.
“I hate when you say these things to me. A-Asking me to leave. Pushing me away. Why are you– Why do you keep doing this?”
Kate doesn't respond, just intertwines their fingers. (Lucy is able to feel all of her knuckles, her cold hand, the length of her fingers and the softness of her skin. She can see the meticulously painted nails, and the mark of where their wedding band should be. A lonely promise ring.)
“You’re hurting me, Kate. Why– You– You promised me you wouldn't do this again.” A shameful sob comes out of her mouth, making her shoulders shake like a reflexive movement of her muscles to nausea. It tastes like bile. It makes her want to scream.
“I’m sorry, darling. I never meant to.” The moment a hand touches her chin, she screws her eyes shut. Don't look at her. She won't run from you if she's not on sight. “If I could, I'd never make your heart endure any pain. I'd keep you from all this burden, I swear.”
“So don't go. Stay with me. Please.”
“Luce.”
“No.”
The street poles keep their shadows intact on the roof, but it's more artificial. Lucy is afraid to look behind herself and find that their projections don't fit anymore. That maybe Ernie was right when he said she should learn when to close certain doors. Leave the ship.
“You can't stay here, baby. You’ll be miserable for the rest of your days just for the sake of savaging something that's been gone for a long time.”
Don't open your eyes.
Don't.
She feels the breeze touching her flannel, messing with her hair. (The claustrophobic movement of her lungs against her rib cage, and how hard it has been to keep it all working when she's so aware of the missing half. ) She senses Kate coming closer, laying her head on her shoulder.
“I wish I could hate you for all this.” Salty tears speed down to her jawline. Her hands ache to touch her wife, but they end up on the chain around her neck— and she holds onto it, tight. “It’s your fault. Everything is your fault, Kate.”
A wet laugh — a sniff. “Oh, I know. I made you fall in love with me, right?”
“You did.” Lucy chuckles. Her heart sinks. The pendant trapped in her palm starts to mark her skin. “Talking about politics and big conspiracies. What was I thinking?”
“That I was unbelievably smart and beautiful? Isn't that the story you liked to tell?”
“It’s the truth.” Her voice crumbles at the end. Kate's proximity starts to dissolve into the wind, and she feels her retreating. “I knew it could only ever be you even before I knew who you were.”
Retreat. Like the waves would.
Except she never comes back.
Never comes back to me.
Never–
There's no response anymore.
No shadow, no intertwined hands, no sun.
The pendant that leaves a mark on Lucy's palm is Kate's wedding band.
And every lasting tear she still has in her is no less heavy than the ones that fell from her eyes the day she got the call.
That hasn't changed.
Funny.
(Because) Nothing was the same since that day — nothing would ever be the same again.