Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This year won’t suck.

It’s the mantra I repeat, scrutinizing an old note on my phone. Namely, last year’s goals, all of which I failed spectacularly. So spectacularly that if life had Razzies, sad trombones would've been playing when I got my “at least you tried” star.

I sigh and strike through the title.

I’ve propped my elbows over the counter of Thanks-a-Latte, the San Francisco’s SoMa coffee shop, where I work between school and roller derby practice. It’s trying for that homey, hipster vibe—the bright colors, abstract art, and potted plants on floating shelves scream “the gays love it here.”

I lean over my screen.

Gideon Nav’s Junior Senior Year Goals:

1. Win something roller derby

Not sure what I’m supposed to win. A few bouts? The junior regionals? Last year we made it to a local competition before the Salty Dolls wiped the floor with us, so maybe I want to beat them? I’m leaving it vague.

2. Get a girlfriend

This one stings. Literally–it feels like someone stabbed me right through the ribcage.

At least with derby, I know I’m good. Quality has never been our issue—we just don’t have enough players or enough money or dedicated practice space, so we gotta sneak in during weird hours, after the ‘real’ sports.

But there’s something intrinsically wrong with me when it comes to girls. Sure, time moves differently when you’re queer, but I’m eighteen. I’ve known I was a lesbian for almost as long as I could walk. I live in one of the gayest cities, play one of the gayest sports and I’m still girlfriend-less. I know I’m hot (not to toot my own horn, but I have eyes). So, like. What gives?

The bell at the door chimes. I lift my head and suppress a groan.

The bane of my existence— aka Harrowhark Nonagesimus—just walked in.

She comes here every day in all her tiny goth glory. Everything about her is tiny—a slight frame with just a hint of curves around the chest and hips; and a pointy, hateful rat face. Everything, except her eyes—big and dark, like two black holes. Looking even bigger thanks to her heavy outliner. Her nose wrinkles at the smell of rewarmed pastries and dry, AC-filtered air and scrutinizes Thanks-A-Latte, like she's about to ruin someone's day.

And that someone is always me.

I scribble third item to the list:

3. Stop falling for obvious bait, and pocket the phone, plastering on my best customer service grin.

Harrow strides towards the counter, sparkly skulls dangling from her earlobes. Her entire vibe is counter-culture ice queen, but those earrings? Probably cost enough to send me to community college.

“Why, hello, Nonagesimus,” I say, dusting the counter.

“Griddle.” Harrow sneers and juts her sharp chin.

My smile falls. What kind of person doesn’t even call you by your dad-given name?

Nonagesimus, that’s what kind!

Bait, I remind myself and grit my teeth.

“Black coffee, please,” she says—the only person who can say ‘please’ and make it sound like a threat. That’s all she ever orders. A coffee—no sugar, no cream, no milk, no fun.

I grin. “Are you sure? We’ve got a brand new pumpkin spice latte with caramel syrup.”

She grimaces and I mentally high-five myself. It’s been my personal mission to tempt her with anything I know she’d hate—smoothies, iced tea, freshly baked treats, limited offer holiday concoctions. One single time she bought plain yogurt and my good mood from that achievement lasted three days straight and propelled me through midterms.

“I’m certain.” Harrowhark offers me a ten-dollar bill, her nails coated in sparkly black nail-polish.

I don’t chat while making her coffee, as with my other clients. I do, however, serve it in one of those pink cups with silvery swirls. It’s a leftover from the cotton candy latte we released this summer. “Sorry,” I say, dropping the customary pink straw into the drink. “No other cups available.”

Her eyes flicker to the plainly available expresso cartons, but she just huffs. “So mature, Griddle.”

You started it, I want to snap but I’m at work.

Also, she’s baiting me. Again.

So instead, I give her my best approximation of the shrug emoticon (not the emoji, that’s a very different vibe.) Harrow rolls her eyes and flounces around in a cascade of meticulously styled black ringlets. The band pins on her designer bag clink with each stride.

And because I have no other work, I just… keep watching her. She retreats to one of the faux-leather booths and takes out her noise-canceling headphones, glowering at everyone like a tiny, black cloud. I know her routine by now. She’ll go through her homework until about 4 p.m., when she’d promptly march out to suck out the souls of the poor, or whatever evil rich people do in the afternoons.

My laser-focus breaks when two light-brown hands squeeze my shoulders.

“Hey,” Cam blows against my ear.

“Ew.” I jump back, rubbing it. She’s back from her break, at least.

“Are we obsessing over Nonagesimus again?” Camilla asks, pushing a lock of her short brown hair behind her ear. It’s bluntly cut to the edge of her jawline. Most likely with the kitchen scissors.

“Excuse me.” I scoff. “I do not obsess.”

Cam just tilts her head, which. Okay, fair. Camilla Hect is my derby wife—my best friend, my track partner, my person. And unfortunately, she knows me too well.

I know I shouldn’t obsess—Harrowhark and I haven’t been around each other much since freshman year. She’s that wunderkind that hasn’t met an AP class she didn’t get into, and I’m decidedly not that.

But it’s hard not to be a little obsessed with the person who ruined your life.

Not even Cam knows the full story there—that’s something I’m taking to my grave. I simply can’t survive the loser lesbian vibe, biceps and six-pack notwithstanding. Instead, when I’m asked what the deal between me and Harrow is, I cite ‘ideological differences.’ Such as the fact that I’m a good girl and Harrowhark is a wicked demon, forged in the depths of Hell.

Anyway. Even if I had a proclivity for megabitch sticks, I wouldn't like Harrow. The first time we met, she took one look at me—my ginger hair, my Walmart clothes—and turned her sharp-tipped nose so high, it practically cracked her delicate neck.

And it only got worse from there.

Cam scoffs harder, clearly not buying it. “I got a text. We’re meeting Judith and Corona at The Scorebar.”  She rolls her eyes.

As a known appreciator of a good pun, The Scorebar makes me chuckle almost as much as Thanks-a-Latte.

I don’t chuckle this time, though. I just groan. “Judith’s coming? That’s can’t be good.” Since she was promoted to Captain last June, she’s been avoiding hanging out with us outside of post-game celebrations. She claims she doesn't want us to ‘get our wires crossed.’ Personally, I think she doesn’t approve of what the rest of us consider a good time.

“Pal had the same thought,” Cam says, scratching a scar on her jaw. “I added him to the group chat, by the way.”

I give her my best ‘what the hell’ face. “He’s not even on the team!” Palamedes may be our adopted cishet boy, but the way he’s been involved with us lately has been unprecedented. He’s always just there. He’s just Cam’s second cousin, but they have this weird soul-connection I’ll never understand.

“He kind of is.” She shrugs. “Spiritually, at least.”

I shake my head. “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Camilla blows me a kiss.

She’s right, but I’m saved from having to admit it when the door chimes again. As I go back to making cappuccinos, apprehension gnaws at my stomach. The school year has barely started and I already feel like I failed two of my goals.

Razzies, here I come.

#

CW: mentions of underage drinking

After my shift, I change into my best casual clothes—boyfriend jeans, a bomber jacket and a graphic tee with a ‘No One Knows I’m a Lesbian’ print. A teammate I had a crush on in sophomore year told me the red in the shirt brings out the amber in my eyes… and maybe the sharpness in my cheekbones and square jaw. Cytherea… She was two years older and way out of my league, but I always think of her when I wear it now.

I park behind The Scorebar—the unofficial bar-and-grill for all of San Francisco’s young queer athletes—and slip through the front door. I have to lower my aviators—they make the dim light coming entirely from LED and blacklight graffiti even dimmer. The first thing that hits me is the familiar smells of cheap beer, grilled meat, and toasted bread. 2000s pop-rock sounds through speakers nestled below near rainbow shelves full of alcohol and sodas, that hide a kitchen in the back. My skin tingles pleasantly in the warm air.

Cam waits in line by the counter, elbow propped against the faux-marble. With her jeans cuffed and a white tee, she looks staunch and acute-faced—all thin lips and brown eyes. My lips pull into a soft smile. She fits so well here, she could easily pass for just another college student. Even I would’ve missed her, if not for Coronabeth.

Corona… is not a girl easy to miss. She’s six feet of lean muscles with hair so huge and yellow, it could rival the sun. Red halter top, a size too small for her chest, and a pink tennis skirt show off full curves. Her golden complexion screams “I spent my summer in the Bahamas.”

I pause and my heart does the little skip thing. God damn it, I cannot possibly be pathetic enough to still be pining after her. Not after this summer. She was very clear on not wanting us to be an item and I should’ve moved on.

Cam spots me, smiles, and waves me over.

That’s it for my anonymity. I run a hand through my fade, fluffing the front—I need to get my undercut done again—and force a grin, before walking up to them.

“Hi, Gideon.” Coronabeth greets me with the same bright smile she greets everyone—giving nothing away. She’s only an inch shorter than me, making her one of the few girls who doesn’t need to crane their necks, talking to me. If you count the hair, she’s actually taller.

“Hi—” I start, but her focus is drawn to the door.

Judith just came in.

I can’t help rolling my eyes. I like Judith, but she’s the kind of straight-laced girl who always dresses like she’s going to a job interview. A blouse with a Peter Pan collar and beige slacks that compliment her light brown skin, full mouth and deep-set eyes; her hair braided into cornrows away from her face.

I suppose that’s attractive, if you’re into the whole “step on me, Mommy” vibe. Couldn’t be me. Everything about Judith says ‘future air-force pilot.’ Maybe when she becomes one, she’ll meet my AWOL bio mom and clog her. She can do that much, after stealing my girlfriend.

I take a deep breath.

Okay, I know that technically Judith didn’t steal Coronabeth. Hell, I don’t think she realizes Corona is flirting with her. Even if she did, she’s far too by-the-book to get involved in other people’s drama. And technically, Corona was never my girlfriend.

Whatever. I’m still bitter.

Judith slips between Cam and Corona in our line at the bar, frowning. “So.” She sighs. “Who wants to guess what we’re not getting this year?” She’s never been one for sugarcoating. I can appreciate that.

“Sponsored for regionals?” Cam groans.

I snort. “When have we ever?”

Coronabeth chews on her finger. “What about new uniforms? Skates?”

“Maybe.” Judith shakes her head. “Listen, y’all. We need strong recruits, at least one more jammer. Now’s the time to show the Vice Principal how responsible we are, so we could convince her—”

“Ray.” Corona pouts. She brushes her arm over Judith’s bicep, which—I smugly note—is not as big as mine, although it’s hard and wiry.

Judith doesn’t even blink.

How does Corona not find all this shameless flirting demeaning? Especially when Judith barely notices her. I’ve no idea what she would notice—it’s all homework and derby for that girl.

It doesn’t seem to discourage Corona, though. She gives Judith her most adorable puppy-eyes. “If this is going to be just another season of broken hearts, can we at least have one night of fun?”

Apparently, that works.

“Oh, fine.” Judith sighs and throws up her hands. “Might as well.”

Corona is the only one of us who can both pass for over twenty-one (Judith) and has zero qualms about buying alcohol (definitely not Judith), so she gets everyone drinks. Beers for me and Cam, an iced tea for Judith, a cosmo for herself. Sipping it makes her look like a women’s magazine ad, but I’m not here to judge. We buy burgers and french fries, pull two tiny circular tables together and stack around them to toast.

“For our last year.” Cam calls.

“For our first successful season,” Judith gives us a look that says, ‘I’ll whip all of your asses if you don’t make me proud.’

I wrap an arm around Cam’s and even Corona’s shoulders, sniffing. “I’ll miss you when you go off to college.”

And I mean it.

We toast and drink and toast again, until the warmth in my body stretches all the way to my toes. Our junior and sophomore teammates come over too and we all huddle and cry about our last year together. It’s happy and sad and so, so much, it makes my chest full and toasty.

A feeling that would’ve lasted, had I not turned to Coronabeth. She’s jittering and playing with tufts of hair. Corona checks her texts then, and—crap. There’s exactly one person she could be texting, considering that all her friends and the girl she likes are here.

“Coronababe.” I prop one arm over the booth’s top. “You got something to tell us?”

She winces. Yep. That pretty much confirms it.

Cam’s eyes snap to her, then soften. “Corona. You didn’t.”

Even Judith frowns. “I normally wouldn’t care, but ‘one last night of fun’ was your idea.”

“I’m sorry! She asked me where I was. What was I supposed to do?”

“Nothing?” I lean over to stare her down, lowering my sunglasses over my nose. I’ve taken to wearing them inside, because I think they look cool. (Cam disagrees. I disagree with her disagreement.) “Say ‘none of your business’ and ‘none of my friends like you, anyway’?”

Coronabeth just shakes her head. “I’m the only one she has.”

All three of us sigh in unison.

As if on cue, the door swings open and there she is. Harrowhark Goddamn Nonagesimus. A black shadow in a short dress with fishnets and knee-length combat boots. Full-length skeletons flashing at her ears.

Well, my night is about to take a nosedive.

Chapter Text

CW: underage drinking, fire

The thing about Coronabeth and Harrowhark’s friendship is that it really sucks. For me.

I’m not jealous—my friends can have other friends. It’s just Harrow.

Like, I get it. They’ve known each other longer than they’ve known any of us. It’s that rich girl connection we, mere peasants, can’t truly grasp. But Coronabeth is the only other person besides Harrowhark herself who knows the entire freshman year drama (which is a separate drama from my junior year drama with Coronabeth). So I feel like, when one of your friends bullies one of your other friends, you can’t spend three years playing Switzerland.

But that’s exactly what Corona is doing.

And I still fell for her. So who’s really the idiot here?

Harrowhark stalks to our table like a preying cat. “Hello, girls.” She nods at me. “Bonehead.”

“Nope.” I shake my head and look up at her, lowering my sunglasses. “Sorry, asswipe. You can’t talk to me like this here. We don’t have that kind of relationship.” I’m already failing the third item on my list, but it’s one thing to call me names at my workplace or random school hallways; and another to do it in front of my team. Time and place, dickhead.

Harrowhark just huffs indignantly. “Oh, Griddle, we don’t have any kind of relationship. I don't even remember about you, half the time.”

I grit my teeth. Honestly? I could. I could throttle her. “Well, our table is full, so—”

“As if I would bother,” she spits. “Coronabeth? When you tire of these three, come and join me.”

Coronabeth stands immediately, mouthing ‘sorry’ and grabs her purse.

I lean towards my friends. “She can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid she is,” says Judith, staring directly at Corona, who at least has the decency to blush.

Cam just frowns.

Harrowhark spins in a movie-like fashion, her dress actually doing the little whoosh thing, and leads Coronabeth to the bar. With our table facing the bartender, I can’t help staring as Corona gives him a knee-weakening smile. She orders a lavender Martini for herself and an iced water with a single lemon slice for Harrow.

Iced water. In a bar.

Why is she even here? Surely, she has water at home. Hell, she probably has a fancy smart fridge that can make ice and squeeze lemons.

But when they sit opposite each other a few tables over and don’t turn their heads in our direction, I force myself to breathe. So Harrow stole Coronabeth. Whatever. I might actually have more fun without my almost-ex around.

I drink and I eat and dance and I drink again. It’s not sexy dancing. I’m flailing like a drowning man and I hope I’m not tagged anywhere tomorrow, cause it will lose me all my ‘good at derby’ rizz. But tonight? I don’t give a damn.

Around ten, Palamedes drags his skinny ass in and orders an iced tea. He leans his sharp gray-eyed face against Camilla’s side, half-listening to our stories, half-reading his book. I watch Cam stir his ice and my fingers itch. Can’t believe I ever thought they were dating—what they have is not nearly as pedestrian as that. I bite my lip and look away. I’ve always wanted someone who gets me like that. I just hope it won’t be quite so… platonic.

Once, I thought that person might’ve been Coronabeth.

She’s so big and beautiful and has so much hair, sometimes it makes my brain short-circuit. For three years, I played every two-minute jam, hoping she was watching me. Hoping that this block or that point would make her press the back of her hand to her forehead and say, ‘Wow, Gideon. You’re so hot and so talented, I must have you, right now!’ And then we would’ve been girlfriends and she’d laugh at all my jokes and I’d sleep next to her and braid her golden mane.

That’s not what I got.

It was a few weeks at the end of junior year. A few weeks of sneaking around behind the backs of teammates and friends; making out in the changing room; in our own beds and once, in someone else’s. I wanted to tell the team, but when I pushed for it, Corona broke my heart.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Coronabeth doesn’t ‘date’ so much as she has hook-ups and flirtationships and people she’s stringing along. Maybe because we were friends first, I thought I was different. But no. Judith is the only person she seems to want like that.

It is what it is—time to move on.

I switch from beer to Corpse Revivers and somewhere between my fourth and sixth cocktail, I smell smoke.

It’s faint at first. For a few seconds, I think someone might have lit a cigarette inside. All I know is that one moment, I’m pulling a sober, reluctant Cam into a silly dance that will probably end up on TikTok tomorrow, and the next—a spark of fire licks the wooden counter. My mind fizzes cozily full of laziness and alcohol as I watch it grow tendrils enveloping the whole thing in seconds.

Someone yells “FIRE!”

That snaps me out of it.

People turn, shriek in panic. They push at each other to get to the only door. The room is sweltering, but I feel as if I’ve been doused by a bucket of cold water.

Nothing sobers you up like the imminent reality of your fast-approaching death.

“Go!” Judith barks. “Now!”

I act before I think. I wrap a protective arm around my captain, before she gets trampled by the crowd. Judith grumbles, but says nothing. Cam wrangles Palamedes and the junior girls wrangle the sophomores. By the time we’re out, the whole bar smells of smoldering wood, ash and smog. Gray smoke billows out of windows when the sprinkles finally turn on.

I do a headcount and breathe a sigh of relief—all my teammates are accounted for. Judith does an honest-to-god roll call and I allow myself to space out. I skim the crowd until I spot Coronabeth. Her glorious complexion has gone three shades paler.

Then it hits me—she’s alone.

Before I react, Corona pivots on her heels and pushes through the crowd. “Harrow? Harrow?” she yells, voice turning higher and screechier with each unanswered call. “C’mon, Nonagesimus. This isn’t funny!”

As if Harrowhark has ever been one for jokes.

Corona turns, her blue eyes lock on my golden ones, and widen.

Damn it. That asshole is still inside.

Corona’s face softens, filling with tears.

I groan. As much as I’ve amused myself with fantasies of pushing Harrow into a fiery pit, it turns out that in real life I’m actually a good person. In real life, I believe that even she doesn’t deserve to die in a fire. The next thing I know, I’m pulling the cotton of my t-shirt over my mouth.

“What are you doing, Nav?” Judith faces me, hands on her hips.

She’s using her Captain voice, but I don’t care. I can’t afford to.

“Nonagesimus is still inside,” is all I say and glance at Cam with what I hope is my most contrite look.

Cam rolls her eyes. “Fuck you, Nav,” she says, but she’s already wrapping her own shirt over her face. We don’t need to talk. We’ve been on the same team for three years and I know—when it comes down to it, it’ll be me and Cam.

Camilla grabs the nearest fire extinguisher outside of the building, and we rush back inside before anyone can stop us. The bar feels like walking through a field half-blind. The sprinklers have diminished the fire just enough that I don’t fear for my life, but my sinuses burn, my eyes desiccate and my skin feels like it’ll boil from my bones. I push through with Cam covering me, putting out persistent flames.

“Nonagesimus?” I yell. “Harrow?”

No answer. Not that I expected one—if Harrowhark was conscious, she’d already be outside. She may not be strong enough to break down a door, but she is ingenious.

God damn it, Nonagesimus! The one time you could show up to annoy me and you don’t.

Thankfully, it’s a long straight line to the back bathroom. I kick the wooden door, but it’s not as easy as the movies make it seem. I’ve been told before that I have thighs of steel though, so I kick again. And again. And again, before the lock breaks off. I cough, struggling for air from the effort and smoke and slam the door open with one shoulder.

The bathroom has been spared by the fire, thanks to the tiles and stone, but not by the fumes. At least I don’t need to kick down any stalls—Harrow is passed out by the sinks. I nearly breathe a sigh of relief.

It is Harrow though, and she’s not worth the oxygen.

The question now is how to get her out. I could swing her over one shoulder like a bag of potatoes, just because she’d hate that. But it’s probably not the best idea to put pressure on the stomach of a girl who’s consumed enough toxic fumes to throw up all over my back. How do firemen carry people? Screw it, no time. I scoop her in my arms, bridal style. She’s unsurprisingly light—just skin and bones and meanness.

“C’mon,” Camilla urges, coughing into her mouth-covering.

I let her lead the way. Sweat drips from my forehead and the skin on my biceps stings, nearly licked by the fire a few times. Halfway through, I stop. The world blurs and I don’t think it’s the alcohol. Fuck.

I try to take a breath but I just end up coughing dust.

“Gideon!” Camilla yells.

I suck in a final breath and instinctively follow her outline. There’s a click and the air clears.

It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to the reality of my body.

We’re outside.

I fall to my knees light-headed and take in grateful gulps of air. It’s as cold and fresh as ice, even though the temperature can’t be any lower than high fifties.

There are voices.

Shadows stalk over to me, trying to snatch Harrowhark’s unconscious body from me. Are they here to finish the job? I can’t do much more than squeeze her closer to my chest even as her head lolls dangerously.

Then my brain kicks in. Dark blue uniforms. Good, going, idiot! Those are firefighters and EMTs. So I let the emergency workers take Harrow and set her on a jacket on the ground. Someone presses a cold compress against my arms and the sting subsides. Someone else drags me forward, until behind me people in green and yellow douse the building with giant hoses.

Oh.

I let myself laugh, which comes more like a cough. But it doesn’t matter, because I made it, and Cam made it, and even Nonagesimus’s small chest rises and falls, and she made it, too.

We’re fine.

An EMT presses an oxygen mask to Harrow’s face and gives one to me. I breathe in, urgent like a jammer lapping each opposing blocker in the pack. Once the fog in my head clears, I turn to Camilla, who’s breathing from her own mask, wrapped in a trauma blanket. Palamedes is already checking her injuries, as if the EMTs aren’t right there. She smiles weakly and gives me the thumbs up. My heart leaps into my chest. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to Cam because of me—or worse, because of that dick, Harrow.

I poke the dick’s shoulder not too gently. “Wake up, asshole.”

Harrow stirs with a moan, eyes flickering open.

Since no time travelers have rushed to stop me from saving her, she probably won’t become the next world dictator. I’m forced to admit I probably did the right thing. I sit back and wipe my face with the hem of the trauma blanket.

“Well.” I grin down at her. “That was heated.”

Nonagesimus grimaces.

My face falls. “You okay?” God, I hope she doesn’t have brain damage—she’s very proud of her brain. Her stinking rich family would make it my fault somehow and sue me for all I’m worth. And all I’m worth is, like, a bed and a nice pair of roller skates.

She’s conscious enough to pull back her oxygen mask and say, “I’m fine. But your sense of humor hurts.”

I scoff. No brain damage then—just her sunshiny personality. “Go to hell, you ungrateful bitch.”

“See you there, Gideon.” She snaps and promptly loses consciousness again.

My jaw absolutely doesn’t drop that after three years, Harrowhark Nonagesimus finally used my name.

And all it took was saving her life.

Chapter Text

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I groan, waking up to the relentless vibrations of my phone, and rub my eyes.

My notifications are going wild. I wipe a bit of drool off my cheek and pick up the phone from the nightstand, opening… Instagram? Sure, I post the occasional thirst-trap—gym selfies with my biceps out—but mostly it’s my teammates and a few local queer girls that comment on those.

This isn’t normal.

I sit up, crossing my ankles and yawning. Pulling my black tank top over my boxer-briefs, I look at my Whip It (2009) and Britney Spears posters for courage. I’m particularly fond of that last one. It's from her Toxic era, way before my time, but Britney is a classic. I don't believe in God, but if I did, Toxic!Britney and Bliss Cavendar would be it.

Between the posters are nestled polaroids of my team in our P’wned uniforms, along with Dad and Palamedes. More photos cover the doors of the small white closet, except for one door. That I’m saving for a future girlfriend.

It used to be full of Coronabeth, until one night in July when I stared at her smiling face and her gorgeous hair for so long, bile rose in my throat. I called Cam and Pal, who came around with a lighter and a metal bin and we burned them all. Frankly, I’ve exercised great restraint in not scratching out her face in all the team photos, like a future serial killer. She’s still my friend, but it’s one thing to hang out together with the rest of the team, and another to have to look at her on my wall every day.

My room still smells like her, though—vanilla and a bowl of potpourri sitting on my cheap plastic desk, under a string of lights hanging from the ceiling. Those were supposed to be Christmas decorations four years ago, except Dad only found white ones and I never got around to taking them down.

My phone pings again, snapping me out of my reverie.

It's been consistently pinging for the last two minutes, which is ridiculous.

My Insta has gone from about 514 followers to 5,234 overnight, and all my posts and videos have hundreds of comments and likes. Trying to scroll through them is overwhelming, but patterns start to appear. Queer teens I’ve never met compliment me and talk about roller derby, or talking about how roller derby is apparently the ‘hot girl’ sport, second only to cheerleading. Finally, some recognition!

One comment catches my eye:

“Wow, you’re so my type! I can’t believe you’re taken! *sobbing emoji* Just my luck. *slight frown* ”

Well, I’m about to correct them! I try to type out how very untaken I am, but the notification gets lost in ten new ones and I give up.

TikTok is somehow worse.

My account is suddenly sporting about 7k new followers. The occasional homophobe and confused transphobe commenting how I’ll never be “a real woman” slip through the cracks, but most of the comments are heart eyes emojis or asking when’s my next bout.

Even my Twitter is spammed with a bunch of new followers and notifications.

What the hell is going on?

Searching through all of them, I notice that several are tagged with something called #DerbyGoth. I keep scrolling until I find the source—a tweet with a link to an article from a local newspaper.

LOCAL HERO SAVES GIRLFRIEND IN FIRE

Girlfriend?

GIRLFRIEND?????

I want to scream.

I can do so much better than that wet goblin-rat, Harrowhark.

I open the article to correct that ‘journalist’—

—and immediately deflate. Sitting back, I zoom in on the candid shot and, well.

…Yeah.

There I am, exiting the building with unruly hair, covered in ash, carrying Harrow gingerly in my arms. Her head is tucked against my chest and my chin is inclined toward her. From this distance, it looks like I’m looking at her with something like concern—probably true, but gross—and tenderness—not true, and much grosser.

I scroll down to the other pictures, and it gets way worse.

In them, I’m cradling Harrow’s unconscious body and not letting anyone touch her. Like Harrow is the most precious thing in the world. Like I’m afraid someone could take her from me. In reality, my brain was simply low on oxygen, high on fumes, and still hazy on alcohol. I was literally thinking ‘fire assassins’, for God’s sakes! Buuuuuut if I wasn’t literally one of the girls in these photos, I also might think they—we—were dating.

At least they don’t call us ‘gal pals’? Small victories.

I skim the actual article, but it’s pretty basic fluff. They praise my bravery and quick thinking and mention my high school (how do they know?), as well as me being on the roller derby team. They only call me by my derby name, which explains how everyone found my socials. It also talks about the fact that Harrow’s parents are rich assholes who gave the school a bunch of money (the article doesn’t call them ‘assholes’, obviously, that’s my reading.) No one even questions if any of us were drunk—it’s not like the bar and grill doesn’t allow minors, so it’s not suspicious we were there. It’s all just… weirdly positive.

Really, the only thing of note are those damn photos.

I really should be happier—this is cool! They're calling me a ‘hero’. My awesomeness is finally being recognized!

What I should be doing is screaming from the rooftops and shoving it in everyone’s faces. Especially at Coronabeth’s. See? You could’ve had this, if you weren’t such a bitch.

But the whole Harrow part really sours it. All I want is to ignore the whole thing.

I check Camilla’s Insta as she got a brief mention in the article. She too, has had a small influx of followers, though not half as much as me. Not even close to Harrowhark’s number, to my chagrin. Apparently, one is not that interesting unless they’re saving their sapphic lover from a scorching death.

For all I know, Harrow doesn’t even like girls, but whatever.

Cam wouldn’t mind. She’s never been one for the PR side of things.

I should correct this fake news—it’s the right thing to do. Not only morally, but factually. Buuut…. I sigh and rub my face. How would I even go about that? As a comment under the article? Who even reads those? Can they verify it’s me? My social media could work, though the story has already gone beyond me.

But also, as stupid as it is, this whole thing has made people care about roller derby. High school sports, except maybe tennis, are all about the boys already. We’re bottom-tier athletes, right next to cheerleaders. Which is so unfair because cheerleading requires far more finesse than running and tackling someone. And if you gave any football player a pair of roller skates, they’d literally die… but, sure. If people wanna waste their time with the most boring of sports, who am I to stop them?

Last year, P'wned didn’t even have enough money to travel to the semi-finals, so every bit helps.

Plus, I smirk. If I’m seething, how much must Nonagesimus be seething? Just the thought of that grisly grim witch trying to explain to the plebs that she’d never in a million-trillion years lower herself to date me, could propel me through the week. So maybe I should at least talk to Coach Dve before denying anything. Let’s be honest, Harrowhark will probably deny it herself the second she’s out of the hospital.

Because that happened. While Cam and I were cleared to go home with only an oxygen-level blood test and a cream, Harrow was inside for a few minutes, inhaling fumes. She lost consciousness twice and had to have a full check-up. If I’m lucky, she might even get some very nasty tubes stuck down her throat.

So, if it takes a few days for people to lose interest, I can live with that.

#

But five days later, no one has lost interest.

At school, people keep gathering in front of my locker. Popular kids pass me notes in class. Once, a group of sophomore girls with hair colors in various pastels and an array of LGBTQ+ pins accost me in front of the secondary gym—the one used for roller derby practice—to ask for my autograph, giggling.

Even my job isn't safe. A big, lumbering boy I recognize from woodshop last year—Ortus or something — drags his feet to the counter and orders a small cappuccino. With his drooping face he looks like his wife divorced him and moved to the East Coast, taking their three kids and his dog with her. He asks what it’s like to date Harrow. The only answer I can come up with is ‘vaguely terrifying,’ so instead I say:

“She's… you know, something.” Something that crawled out of a snake pit, probably.

He sighs deeply. “I was going to ask her to Homecoming. I had a whole plan.”

I barely suppress a snort. Him and his large, sensitive eyes? Nonagesimus would eat him alive.

He grabs his coffee and trudges away. As soon as he's out of ear shot, I groan so loudly the nearest customer jumps. Dropping my head in my hands, I prop my elbows on the counter. What I don’t get is that Harrowhark hates me. She’s hated me for years. She hasn’t even been to Thanks-A-Latte since the incident—probably to avoid thanking me for saving her worthless life—so why the hell hasn’t she denied the rumors?

I keep checking her socials obsessively. (No way I’d follow her and set up notifications, like some creepy stalker.) I’m sure that any second now, she’ll come out with a video, half of which she’d spend insulting me; and the other half insulting anyone stupid enough to think we’re dating.

And yet, nothing. She’s gone dark.

The last photo on her Instagram is still the one she posted before the fire. That high-angle, staring-at-the-camera ala 2010-emo-culture—dark purple lipstick and eyes so heavily outlined in black, it almost blends into her dark irises. The last tweet is her complaining about unsharpened pencils. Also before the fire.

She doesn’t have a TikTok.

I could ask Coronabeth, but it’ll be too messy. Hanging out with the team is fine. Talking about dating—real or imagined—is not.

I do have one silver lining, though: the amusement I get from retelling the story.

The first time I was asked, I simply reproduced the events as I remember them. By my twentieth retelling, I was hugging an unconsolable Coronabeth and rushing into the building all alone—ripping myself from the firefighters trying to stop me—and breathing the last air in my lungs into Harrow’s before carrying her outside through sheer force of will.

One time, I told someone I suffered third-degree burns, but I just had to save the love of my life. When they raised a skeptical eyebrow at the slightly bruised, but otherwise pretty healthy skin on my biceps, I covered my arms and added that the burns were only on my legs. I don’t think they bought that, but whatever. I don’t even know these people and in two months, they’ll forget all about me, too.

“That was shitty.” Cam bumps my shoulder the second time I tell that version of the story. “I was there too.”

“Sorry,” I hang my head. I mostly mean it.

The thing is, though, Cam didn’t really suffer any negative consequences from our daring rescue. Our extremely minor burns have stopped hurting and are well on their way to healing, and no one is coming to ask for her autograph. She was already very sporadic on social media, so the influx of followers didn’t affect her much. For her, life has gone on as normal.

Not even Harrowhark, who has finally returned from whatever Hellmouth she crawled out of, seems to have suffered consequences. People have always given her a wide berth — she may be small, but she’s mean and has murder in her eyes. And she’s only gotten meaner and more murdery since coming back to school.

I’ve got negative consequences in spades. Turns out that being a hero? Not as fun as I imagined. Mostly, you just lose any sense of privacy and the scrutiny turns up to eleven. So if I want to have fun with the one thing I can control? I deserve that.

When I told the team, they pretty much unanimously voted not to deny anything until Harrow does herself. All except Judith, who actually has scruples and common sense. Even Palamedes thinks I should lie, which, what the hell? He shouldn’t get a vote.

I can see why though. They’ve reaping the benefits of this… misunderstanding. For the first time, students are actually coming to watch us practice. We’ve also had a record number of tryouts. Including the baby butch Jeannemary—a stout Black girl with shoulder length Jumbo-sized locs and the cutest smile—who Coach is grooming for a jammer. She kept asking me to compare biceps and after fifteen minutes, I was ready to adopt her as a little sister.

And then we get the stupid email.

Chapter Text

After our Saturday practice, Coach Dve gathers the entire team—Palamedes included—on the bleachers of the secondary gym. She kicks out all the stragglers, hoping to talk to me or chat up one of my teammates. They skedaddle instantly, which, fair. Coach is kinda terrifying when she wants to be—a tall trans woman with a serious, handsomely square face and wide hips, her full mouth always coated in colorful lipstick. All Coach has to do is give you a hard look with those chocolate eyes of hers, to make you feel like a toddler breaking a rule.

I’m pretty sure half the teachers and at least a quarter of the student body have a crush on her. That includes freshman!Gideon, who was awe-struck to see an out-and-proud adult queer woman with her shit together. I used to be sooo jealous of her wife who’d come to our bouts and give out homemade cookies. Now, that I’m over this ridiculous crush, I can admit they’re an adorable couple.

It’s after dark. Without people’s laughter, the sound of roller skates on wood, or dull thuds of body against body, the whole gym feels empty and eerie. Just a high ceiling, painted hardwood floors, and descending blue bleachers. I pull my sleeves over my hands—now that I’m not skating, it’s a little chilly—and watch Coach read The Email.

From: ENERGY DRINK LLC

To: Coach Zara Dve; P'wned Team

“Dear Miss. Dve.” Coach, who I can’t imagine anyone seeing and deciding to call ‘miss’ — she’s not even a teacher. “Our company is fully dedicated to diversity in sports. Our mission is focused on finding the best representatives for our brand. Blah-blah-blah, corporate bullshit.

“After reading the local news, we have determined that Miss Kiriona Gaia—”

Coach rolls her eyes at my legal name and so do all the seniors, myself included. The rest of the team blinks and exchanges looks, no doubt wondering who the hell Kiriona Gaia is.

“—would be the perfect representative of our product. We are hoping to create some billboards with her likeness, but also for more subtle advertisements focused on social media, including posts with Miss Gaia and her teammates. Most of all, we’d like to see our product in social media posts featuring Miss Gaia and her partner..

“Further details will be provided should you, Miss Gaia, every P'wned member (and/or their legal guardians, if they are underage), as well as Miss Nonagesimus and her legal guardians, would like to proceed. All o you will, of course, be properly compensated for your participation in the campaign. Furthermore, should you agree to the contract, we will be more than happy to subsidize your team with renewed equipment, as well as the sum of—”

HOLY SHIT, that’s a lot of money!

“—which will be distributed to you over the next two years. We at ENERGY DRINK LLD are here to support women’s and people of various gender expressions in sports, blah-blah-blah.

We implore you to consider our offer and get in touch with us by the end of next week.”

“It’s all very woke.” Coach rolls her eyes again. “But the basics are clear: they want a butch athlete to represent their company, preferably one in a relationship. The buzz about #DerbyGoth makes Gideon the obvious choice.”

Everyone turns to stare at me.

I glance at Judith, who’s sitting in the row behind me with all the junior and sophomore girls. Then back to Coach in front of me and back again. I cannot believe this—these goddamn cowards!

“Y’all can’t be serious!”

Judith pokes my shoulder. “C’mon, Nav. An ad campaign showing the entire world how hot and cool you are? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

I shake my head, minutely. No, actually. What I’ve always wanted is to be recognized for my hotness and my abilities. “Look. We all know that if this was just about me or the team, I’d be signing anything you give me so fast, it’ll make your head spin.” I turned eighteen just before the start of the school year, so I’m not even worried about permission. Not that Dad wouldn’t have agreed to anything if I said 'pretty please'. He spoils me. “But they’re asking for Nonagesimus. I hate her, she hates me. How exactly do you propose I make that happen?”

Judith, who knows nothing of our sordid history, just shrugs. “You could ask?”

No one points out how laughable that is. Coronabeth is wringing her hands in her lap and very obviously not looking at me. The junior and sophomore girls whisper between themselves and the fresh meat look vaguely ill. I glance at Cam, who’s by my side with a ‘can you believe this bullshit?’ expression, but even she doesn’t say anything.

I throw up my hands. “Guys. We’re talking about Harrowhark Nonagesimus here. Even if I wanted to ask her out—which, I very much do not—she’ll bite my head off.” Or a finger, or something else I’d prefer attached to my body. “I don’t even think she’s queer.”

“No one said it had to be a real date,” says Cam, stretching out her legs and only glancing at me sideways. “People just have to believe it is.”

My ears are ringing. I know the team is having a hard time, but surely things aren’t bad enough to consider a PR stunt. “Are you seriously suggesting I fake-date my nemesis for money?”

“Yes,” Cam says, point-blank.

I’d respect that, if it wasn’t for the words coming out of her mouth.

Once again, no one says, ‘Hold on, that sounds like the worst idea anyone has ever had!’

“Seriously? Judith,” I halfway turn to look at my captain. “You were against this just yesterday.”

“That’s when I thought we were lying by omission and ignoring Harrowhark’s wishes. But if she’s okay with it, I don’t see a problem.”

I blink. I really thought starchy Judith would be lecturing us on how wrong lying is, but guess she has more layers than I assumed. “Really?”

“As long as everyone is on board?” She raises an eyebrow. “It’s a victimless crime. People get roller derby, we get sponsored, Nonagesimus gets… whatever she’s getting—everyone wins.”

“Wow.” I mock offense. “And I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m on the team’s side,” says Judith with a one-shoulder shrug.

“Well, I, for one, don’t think you should sacrifice your principles to our capitalist overlords, Gideon,” adds Coach, in her thoughtful alto.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Then again, it is a lot of money.”

I just flip her off.

The new recruits blanch, Jeannemary even gasps audibly.

“Gideon,” Coach says in her best ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ voice.

I slouch. “Sorry,” I mumble, chewing through a loose skin around my nail. 

“To be fair,” Palamedes starts, chin between his thumb and forefinger. I already hate where this is going. “All they ask for is a few Instagram posts. TikTok, maybe. What exactly would pretending to date Harrow—as we’re not suggesting you trick her into dating you—” he turns and everyone gives a somber nod. “—interfere with? It's not as if you have a real girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes so hard, I practically see my brain. I just hate how everyone assumes I’ll do anything for the team. I might do a lot, but I’m drawing the line here. I don’t even get why Palamedes of all people is so insistent on this. Is it part of his plan to beat Harrowhark for Valedictorian? Or is it that upper class rivalry again? Palamedes may say he’s ‘comfortably middle class’ all he wants, but I’ve seen his family’s penthouse and that shit’s fancy.

“I agree with Palamedes,” Cam says. “This could be a good thing. I think you should just… roll with it.”

I punch her hip. “You’re a traitor and I want a divorce.”

She shrugs and leans into Palamedes’s side. “You’ve always known where my true allegiances lie.”

Oh, screw literally all of them!

I face Coach. “Why can’t I fake-date Coro–” I clamp my mouth shut. That would be an unmitigated disaster. “Cam? Or, what about that hot girl who graduated last year? Cytherea? I could call her up. Hell, I’ll even take Judith.”

“I’m so flattered to be your third choice,” Judith deadpans.

“Seriously,” I continue, ignoring my captain. “I’ll even fake-date Pal, if that’ll help.” I turn to him. “You wanna go right now? I bet you’re a bottom.”

“I—” Palamedes flushes, dips his chin and takes off his glasses to clean them.

I cross my arms and stare ahead. I’m a little proud of embarrassing him, but mostly I’m just… tired. I sigh and chew on my nails again.

It’s not the fake-dating part I mind. Honestly, it’s high time gay people started pulling the kind of PR stunts straight people have pulled, since celebrities were invented. I don’t even care that I’ll have to do fake PDA—all my circles are queer, or at least queer-friendly, and I’ve looked gay all my life. If anything, holding hands with a girl would prove I have game. It's cool to act all flirty and confident, but I’ve never made the first step, ever—Coronabeth had to practically drag me by the shirt into making out with her. Which… kinda makes me feel like a terrible butch. So yeah, I need practice. I

It just… why does it have to be with Harrowhark of all people?

“I agree with Gideon,” Coronabeth finally cuts in with a soft smile, showing all perfect teeth. She glances sheepishly at Judith, then bats her long golden eyelashes at me. “It’s not fair to ask her to pretend to be in love with someone she hates. If she needs a girlfriend, I’ll gladly do it.”

I blink at her. Corona turns sideways and gives me a soft, secretive smile, lowering her blue eyes, and brushing a curl behind one ear and—nope, no. That’s a road I’m not going down again. Especially when she’s so clearly into someone else.

“Sweet of you to offer, Corona.” Coach smiles, drawing Coronabeth’s attention back to herself. I’m grateful for it—I don't know what that look meant and I don’t want to dig into it. “But people aren’t invested in you and Gideon, or Gideon and Camilla, or Judith, or Palamedes. They’re invested in Gideon and Harrowhark.”

“For the love of god!” I throw up my hands again. Nobody is listening. "Look, even if I conceded it was a good idea—and that’s a huge IF—Harrow would never agree to it.”

Palamedes leans in. “Like Judith said, you could ask. You don’t know her as well as you think.”

“And you do?” I snap. “Just because you’re in the same AP classes, doesn’t mean you know shit about her, so maybe shut your goddamn mouth, Sex Pal.”

Then the room erupts with everyone—besides the freshmen, who’re still kinda terrified of the rest of us, and an uncharacteristically silent Coronabeth—coming up with reasons why I should totally consider this. It ends with me storming off, flipping a bird in each hand.

Those selfish assholes!

They might be my second family, but right now I hate them all.

#

Dad finds me sprawled on the turquoise L-shaped couch of our tiny kitchen-living room, scratching our Pomsky mutt between his ears. I’m scooping ice cream directly from the box next to Ollie instead of doing my evening sit-ups, so he knows I’m really in it now.

“Hi, kiddo,” Dad says, loosening his tie. He checks on our plants scattered all around natural wood shelves in between books and trinkets, but they’re fine. I watered them before giving up on life.

I don’t even raise my head, responding with the flattest, “Hey.”

Ollie lifts his snout with a curious whimper. His spotty, black-and-white ears perk up.

“Hi, to you too, you lazy bastard.” Dad grins and leans over to scratch his chin. “Won’t even stand up to greet me now, huh?”

Ollie sighs and settles in for more scratches.

“He’s just comfy. Leave him alone.”

“And you? Wazzup?” Dad makes a face, with his tongue sticking out.

“Dad, it’s been, like, twenty-five years since Scary Movie. No my age even gets this joke.”

“You do.” He hangs his jacket on the coat stand with a wink in my direction. “And If you’re not laughing, something must be wrong.”

"Stupid, mean goth,” I mutter, shoving more ice cream into my mouth. “People want me to fake-date her for a stupid ad campaign. So stupid.”

“Well, that clears it all up.” Dad says, swatting my legs off and sitting with just enough space between us, should I decide to flail in frustration. “Do you maybe wanna elaborate?”

I take a deep breath and force myself to sit up. I explain everything—from the article to the email.

“Ah, the notorious Harrowhark.” Dad nods, with a knowing glint in his eyes. He’s all too familiar with the name after all the evenings I’ve spent venting to him about the goth pest. “So why did you save your nemesis from a fire, anyway?”

Of course Dad knows about the fire. Everyone in the tristate area and their mother, father, third cousin, and third cousin's goldfish knows about the fire. He was appropriately worried at first, and has since decided to treat it as a  charming anecdote. I suspect it's because he doesn't like thinking about what could've happened.

“It’s not like Harrow is Nazi or something—just an asshole. She deserves a backhanded slap to the face, not, like… suffocating death.”

“You don’t truly hate her, then?”

“Oh no, I do hate her. She’s just so… ugh!” I mimic a blow-up. “She’s a bully who’s never once called me by my name. Who does that?” I don’t mention the time Harrowhark did call me by my name—she was dizzy with fumes, so it doesn’t count.

“She sounds very annoying.” Dad nods seriously. “Would you like me to speak to her parents?”

I groan, sliding down the couch like a noodle. “You’re not helping.”

He opens his mouth, but blows up his cheeks instead, slowly releasing the air. “Sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you come up with a time machine, so I can stop the fire and never have to save her?”

Dad shakes his head. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m a biologist, not a physicist. Also, we’re not in a sci-fi movie.”

“Then, no.” I sigh. “This one I gotta figure out on my own.”

He nods, scratching his jaw. “Are you sharing that Häagen-Dazs or do you just plan to hog it?”

“Sure. Get your own spoon though, cause no way I’m sharing that.”

“Fair enough.” He circles the tiny ceramic island we use for eating instead of a table and comes back with a spoon, pulling my legs over his lap, so I can sit half-facing him. “Is this cookie dough?”

“Obviously.” I snort.

“I raised you right.” He brushes a fake tear of pride from his cheek. “Anyway, speaking of dating—”

“We weren’t.”

“Speaking of dating,” he reiterates. “You know how I've been seeing this couple?”

“Augustine and Mercymorn?”

“That’s right.”

I grin. “Ah, yes. You're the unicorn.”

“Sure am.” Dad chuckles. “But I think they’re a little too dysfunctional for me. How do you feel about meeting them for brunch? Once the teenage daughter thing is no longer hypothetical, we can figure out if we're a match.”

“Sounds fun.” I shrug, licking my spoon. “Saturday?”

“Sure.” He smiles back.

Maybe it’s weird to get excited about my dad’s dating life, but I want him to have someone next year. I don’t have plans for college, but who know if I’ll even be in San Francisco. Ever since Annabel broke up with him—around the same time Corona and I were dunzo—he’s been weirdly sad. They’ve been on and off for years and I hate her. So as long as he’s dating non-Annabels, I’ll be happy.

He pats my legs and I swing them off his lap so he can jump off. “Up for some Succession?”

“Always.” I can’t help a small smile creeping on my face. Dad always knows how to cheer me up. “I love making fun of the loser billionaires.”

#

By the time I’m in bed, I’ve calmed down.

If the whole situation wasn’t so annoying, I’d have to admit that it’s almost cool—in an ironic way—that my gender expression and sexuality are so mainstream now, they can be exploited for capitalistic gain. And…the energy drink people never technically said they must have Harrow, so maybe if I told them the truth, the deal would still go through?

Or, they could pack it all up and I’d lose a very cool opportunity for the team. Harrowhark would probably say ‘no’ and we’ll lose it anyway, but at least then my teammates could blame her, not me. It was shitty to put me in this position, but I have to admit the truth: the only thing I’ve ever cared about—besides Dad, my friends, sword lesbians, and Ruby and Sapphire’s wedding episode of Steven Universe, because Ruby was the first time I saw myself in a character—is roller derby. All I’ve ever wanted is for my team to succeed, and to leave high school knowing I’ve made a mark. I always imagined that mark would be a tiny trophy behind a glass case somewhere, but it could be this.

It could be the first year we wouldn’t have to worry about the next one.

So what if I have to hold Harrowhark’s hand or pretend to like her? Like Palamedes said, it’s only a few posts.

Crap, Pal. He was just looking out for the team, and I was such a brat. He was no worse than anyone else and I just took it out on him, because I knew he wouldn’t fight back. That’s such a dick move. I puff my cheeks and blow the air out.

Fiiine, I’ll apologize tomorrow.

As for the rest? I hate to admit it, but it’s time to grapple with my options. If I’m denied, at least my conscience will be clear.

Chapter Text

Two days later, I grow the balls to ask. I can barely stand in the same room with Harrowhark, but if anyone is gonna break my team’s hearts, it can’t be me.

The problem is, no opportunity to ask presents itself. Anytime I catch Harrow's eye in the hallway, the horrible little imp just hurries in the opposite direction. Even at Thanks-A-Latte, she always waits for my break to order and avoids my eyes. Which is so weird, because Harrow has never struck me as the conflict-avoidant type. All this careful planning seems… off.

When I come back from my lunch break and miss her order again, I nearly lose it. I puff up, ready to storm over and shake her… before I spot someone approaching the counter and deflate. “Hi,” I plaster on my best customer service smile. “Can I take your order?”

“Hey!” the person says. A grin of recognition I’ve become wretchedly familiar with spreads across their face. “Aren’t you that girl that saved the goth chick from the fire?”

“Yup. That’s me.”

“And isn’t that your girlfriend?” They point at Harrowhark.

“The love of my life,” I deadpan. “We have a strict no PDA rule at work though.”

“Right.”

“So. Your order?”

“Yes, sorry. Can I get a… white latte? Grande.”

“Coming right up.” I force myself to grin back and shift towards the espresso machine.

Cam, who’s cleaning used cups, bumps my hip with her own. “Go,” she whispers. “I’ve got this.”

“But I—”

“I’ve got it, Gideon. What if she says she needs time to consider?”

I sigh, but drop everything. As always, she’s right. Circling round the bar, I trudge towards Harrow’s booth at my slowest pace. The only good thing about my current predicament is that at least I can drop the customer service smile. My facial muscles hurt and there’s no need to pretend for Nonagesimus. 

“Hey,” I poke her in the shoulder.

Harrowhark lowers the noise-canceling headphones and just stares.

What the—I breathe. Bait. If I get angry now, I’ll never get through this. “Can I sit?”

“I would assume so, I’ve seen you do it before. The question is, may you.”

Oh, this won’t work. I will throttle her. Huffing, I collapse on the bench, leaving space between us for two Jesuses. “You know both are grammatically correct, right? I’ve checked.”

Harrow juts her chin. “What’s your source?”

“I swear to god, you haughty—” I take a deep breath. Bait, bait, bait. “I’m not getting into this. I need to ask you a question.”

She just gestures for me to go on, tapping her foot. God forbid I waste five minutes of her precious time.

“You know people think we’re dating, right?”

“I’m aware.”

I blink. “Then… why haven’t you denied it?”

“I thought about it.” She shrugs, a leather-jacket cloth shoulder. “But a denial would’ve never had as wide of a reach as the original article. And someone would’ve inevitably taken my words out of context and called me a homophobe, so why would I bother? It'd be easier to go dark and let it fade into obscurity.”

That… makes a depressing amount of sense. I wasn't sure what I expected. “Well, actually…” I take a deep breath. Time to get my emotional ass kicked. “You know how I’m on the roller derby team?”

“I think everyone knows that by now, Griddle.”

We’re back to the nickname, then. Joy. “Well, there’s this company who thinks that we’re dating, and they offered the team a bunch of really cool shit if we do an ad campaign for them. I don’t wanna bore you with the details, but the point is, the team needs what they’re offering. We—as in, me and the rest of P'wned—want to do it, but it kinda seems like you’re a part of the package. Specifically, as my girlfriend.”

Harrowhark, who hasn’t taken her eyes off me the entire time, doesn’t even blink. She simply asks, “And what exactly is your question?”

I blush and scratch the back of my neck. She’ll make me spell it out, won’t she? “Will you do it? Not the ‘being my girlfriend’ part—obviously. But maybe you can pretend you are? For the ad campaign. It doesn’t seem like they’re asking that much, just a few Insta posts or whatever.”

Harrow sighs. Here it comes…

“Have you considered that, if we’re never seen together outside of ‘some Insta posts or whatever,’ it would cast suspicion on our supposed relationship?”

“Yeah.” I lean back against the bench, throwing my head back and breathing out. Then I force myself to look at her. “Look, I don’t wanna do this any more than you, but my team is important to us and it’s not important to anyone else. We need this. You may not care, but I saved your miserable life—which you haven’t even thanked me for, by the way—”

“Thanks,” Harrow says, and it’s so empty, it just makes me seethe.

“Whatever. Point is, you owe me. Also…” I scratch the side of my jawline. I really should have thought this through a little better. Jotted a few drafts of what I want to say, ran through a few speeches with the team, instead of relying on my natural charm—as if Nonagesimus has ever been swayed by that. “I… don’t have another reason. But I stand by ‘you owe me.’”

Harrowhark is quiet for so long, I’m pretty sure the AI that controls her bodily functions has short-circuited. Then, finally, she turns halfway towards me and says, “Okay.”

I blanch. “What?”

“Do you have wax in your ears?” She barks in her annoying, high-pitched voice. “Should I speak in different tongues? ‘Okay’ is a pretty universal word, but I could try. D’accord. Va bene. Ceart go leor.”

“Alright, show off. I got—wait, what was that last one?”

“Gaelic,” she says like she’s speaking to a very stupid child. “My mother is Irish.”

“Huh.”to be honest, I’ve never taught too hard about who or what she spawned from. “What I meant to ask was—why would you agree?”

She raises one of her perfectly shaped black eyebrows. “Would you have preferred if I'd said ‘no’?”

Yes? Honestly, I was kind of counting on it. Then the team and I talk to the ad people and if they said ‘Nope, sorry. We wanted the lesbians. No lesbians, no dough’, it would suck that we got our hopes up, but it won’t be any different from every other year. “Of course not.” I wave my hand. “I just don’t get why you’re saying ‘yes’? ”

She gives a stare so deadly, I actually get chills. “Does it matter? All you need to know is that you’ll have to do something for me in return.”

“Was the whole ‘saving your life’ thing not enough?”

“Don’t worry, Griddle. It’ll fit perfectly with your fake-dating scheme, and I’m fairly certain it won’t be beyond even your abilities.” She pauses, fingers playing with the silver crucifix around her neck.

“Wait. So I can tell the energy drink dudes we’re in?”

“You may.” Harrow nods. “Once the contracts are ready, email them to me. I’ll have my family's lawyers read them over.”

I snort. “Of course your family has lawyers on retainer.”

Harrow ignores this. “We should probably exchange contacts too. Give me your phone.” She extends a hand.

“Okay, first. If this is gonna work, you can’t boss me around,” I say, but lift my hips to fish my phone out of my back pocket and hand it to her.

“I’ll do what I want, Griddle,” says Harrow, already typing her phone number and email into my contact list. “Last I checked, you’re the one who needs me, not the other way around.”

“Second.” I snatch my phone back, immediately changing Harrow’s contact to ‘Bitchy Baroness *skull emoji*’ “You can’t keep calling me that.”

“But it’s my pet name for you. Couples have those, do they not?”

I wouldn’t know. “Pick another pet name, then. I hate that one.”

The Bitchy Baroness just huffs in response and stands, shrugging on an elegant black trench coat. “Let’s meet here tomorrow after your shift to discuss details.”

“Details?” I frown.

“Yes, Griddle, details.” Harrow snaps her fingers. “Keep up, please.” She hauls her bag over one bony shoulder, and stomps away in heavy combat boots.

Well… at least the team will be happy.

Chapter Text

Harrow is punctual. The next day, she comes to Thanks-a-Latte holding a giant wine-colored notebook with a skull indented into the front cover. She does her homework, not touching the notebook, and I have the sinking suspicion that it’s intended for me.

My hands sweat anytime I glance over at Harrow and her Necronomicon. Time stretches. I dart my eyes toward the clock so often—first at five-minute intervals, then two, then one. Jesus, one? I’m sure it’s been more than one stupid minute. By the end of my shift I’m so jittery, it’s like I’ve had five cups of coffee. Except coffee never really works like that on me—it’s an ADHD thing.

Finally, finally my shift is over and I drag the apron over my head and haul myself to Harrow’s booth, heart sinking lower with every step. There’s always a lull around this time, so all I see are a few students typing on laptops; Cam, finishing up; the new shift at the counter; and Harrow, in her ripped jeans with a skull tank over a long-sleeved shirt. It looks way more put together on her than it has any right to. Possibly because she’s always layering with stocking, boots, and belts, jewelry and leather jackets. Might also have to do with her meticulously applied makeup and perfectly curled hair. How early must she wake up to make herself look like a Hot Topic catalog model?

I’m just wearing my usual outfit of high-tops, novelty t-shirt—this time with a rainbow heart and a print that says HOMO’S WHERE THE HEART IS—and boyfriend jeans ripped at the knees. I almost never wear makeup besides foundation on bad skin days and chapstick in the dry summer heat. I do spend time on my hair—getting that fade into place is not a simple task—but not nearly as much as girls like Coronabeth and Harrowhark. They always look like they’ve never even heard of ‘bad hair days’.

Harrow lifts her head, gives me a terse nod and finishes her chemical equation, then puts everything in her over-the shoulder bag methodically. Everything, except the goth notebook.“Let's start with the basics,” she says, when I sit next to her and unscrew the cap on my water bottle. There’s no one in the surrounding booths and the indie pop through the speakers makes this as private as it gets around here. “We’re not sleeping together, and I certainly hope you weren't imagining we would.”

I nearly spit out my water. “Jesus!” Wiping my mouth, I take a critical look at Nonagesimus’ skinny frame. My mind drifts to Corona and all that golden hair and tanned skin and soft thighs… “Obviously not. You're not even my type.”

The crease between Harrow’s brows furrows slightly, but she just says, “Good. You’re not mine, either.”

“Then we agree.”

“Yes.” She gives a brisk nod. “I'm also not kissing you in any way, shape or form.”

I roll my eyes—I’m a damn good kisser, so Harrowhark would be the one missing out. “I'm down for a ‘no Frenching' rule, but if we want to convince people we’re a couple, we might have to do some cheek or head kisses or something.”

“I can barely even reach the top of your head.”

“I suppose not.” I grimace, sipping. “I'd have to kiss yours, won't I?”

“I'd honestly prefer it if you didn't, but I'm… amenable to this in extreme circumstances.”

I desperately want to ask what Harrow considers ‘extreme circumstances’ in a fake-dating scenario, but I dare not. I just watch her scribble in her notebook in her small, cramped cursive, as if her hands can barely catch up to the speed her mind moves at. “We might have to do some PDA though, sooo what are you cool with? Is hand-holding okay?”

Harrow grimaces. “Are your hands sweaty?”

I shrug. “Not normally.” Maybe after practice.

The grimace doesn't disappear.

God, I hope my actual girlfriend won't be this high-maintenance. I sigh and straighten. “Okay, how about this? If we ever have to walk together in front of people, I'll put my hand around your waist or hip. Zero skin to skin contact.”

Harrow considers, drawing a sparkly black nail over her jawline. “I could live with that.”

“Face and neck touching?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I could live with that. What about hair?”

“Only if I have something sticking out or falling into my food.”

“Same. Hugs?”

“I’m inclined to say ‘no.’ In most situations, I prefer not to be touched.”

I scoff. Great, so we’ll look like strangers, who can’t stand each other. “This won't work if you think I’m disgusting.”

Harrowhark lowers her head, penciling skulls in her notebook. “It’s not a ‘you’ thing,” she mutters. “It’s an ‘everyone’ thing.”

I frown. If I’m honest with myself, I can’t exactly remember Harrow being touchy-feel-y with anyone. “Fair enough. I think those are all the PDA bases then?”

She simply scribbles something for a bit before turning to me again. “How much time do you expect me to dedicate to this endeavor? I have a lot of extracurriculars."

I have to physically stop myself from scoffing again. “What, do you expect me to give you hours per week?”

Harrow looks back at me with all the seriousness in her pointed face. “Ideally? Yes.”

“This isn't a part-time job, Twilight. It's dating.”

“Fake dating,” she corrects, sharp as the brand new pencil she’s holding.

I sigh. “Look, here's what I know—we need to be seen together often enough that people will believe we're actually a couple. One thing that's not negotiable is you having to come to my bouts. This all started with derby, so.”

I expect Harrow to roll her eyes, and explain to me in condescending detail how little she cares, but all she does is say, “Do I have to wear your jersey or letterman jacket or something?”

I blink a few times. “It's roller derby. Do you know anything about sports?”

“I'll take that as a ‘no.’” She continues scribbling.

“It’d be nice if you made a poster, though? That's what friends and family do.”

She humphs. “I'll consider it.”

“You could, erm…” I fold the cotton hem of my t-shirt between my fingers, staring at my lap. The next words get stuck in my throat and I shuffle my feet under the table. “You could come to my practice too?” I swallow. Something about mixing Harrow and roller derby makes me feel raw, exposed. Asking her to bouts isn’t a big deal, those don’t start until December and the whole point is that people see us together. But practice is, like, tomorrow. “Obviously, the team knows this is fake, and so does Coach, but the other girls’ partners come sometimes. These days there's usually a small crowd of randos. Plus, it’s… nice to have an audience. Gives the team an incentive to perform.” I’m babbling but I can't stop myself. “Aaaaand I could explain the basics before you see the first bout? That way you won’t look like you’ve never seen your girlfriend play.”

Harrow doesn’t immediately snap that Google exists already. She just asks, “How often do you practice?”

“Three times a week.”And now that we’re locally famous we actually bargained for good slots. “Mondays and Thursdays from 6:30 to 8:30 pm and Saturdays from 2:30 to 6:30.”

“Absolutely not on Thursdays—I have violin lessons. I could do Saturday, if I can move my Gaelic. I usually tutor for the SATs on Monday, but it depends. Can I read a book while I'm there?”

“It's a little loud, but I guess so.” I shrug. “If you can focus.”

She eyes the noise-canceling headphones, and I have to concede that’s a good point.

Harrow writes some more, black curls falling over the notebook, then turns to me. “You have a car, don't you?”

“Yup.”

“Is it reliable?”

“I wouldn't take it on a road trip to New York, but for driving around town? Sure.”

“Alright.” More scribbles follow. “Here's what we'll do: Monday through Friday you’ll collect me and we'll drive to school together. I’ll text you my address, you can put it in your GPS. I'm certain you’ll find my house easily.”

I furrow my brows. Who does she think I am, a lesser Kennedy? “My car doesn’t have a GPS.”

“Then enter it in Google Maps, idiot.” Harrow shakes her head. “All I ask is that you're on time.”

“And that is?”

“Seven a.m.”

“Jesus.” I’m usually finishing at the gym at seven-fifteen so I can get to school on time. Guess I’ll have to get up at five, so I can do a 5:30 to 6:30 session and skip the shower to get to Harrow's place in time—which would be disgusting. Or move gym sessions to the nights I don't have roller derby practice and I’m not working. Or Sundays. Ugh—Sundays are my one day off. “Do I have to?”

“Do you want this to work or not?”

“Fine, fine.” I rub my face. “Seven it is.” I’m going to regret this. 

“On Mondays—if I can change my schedule—I’ll wait for you to finish your shift and we’ll drive to your practice. You’ll drive me back after. It probably won’t be every Monday, though. And I will have to catch up on my studies while you practice.”

I furrow my brows. “Does this fake relationship mostly consist of me driving you around?”

“I’ll pay for your gas. Driving together would ensure that most people see us, which is the whole point, no?"

When she puts it like that… Admittedly, it’s been hard to explain why my supposed girlfriend would storm off anytime I’ve caught her eye in the hallways this week. I was hoping it would all just be some Instagram posts, but… fine. This is fine. It’s temporary and it’ll be worth it in the end.

“Guess so,” I say finally. "What about Sunday?”

“Sunday is our mutual vacation from each other.”

I do the half-impressed Obama frown. I’ll no doubt need one.

“When did this relationship supposedly start?” Harrow says, writing again. “Research says we should stick as close to the truth as possible, so we don’t tangle ourselves in a web of lies and get caught.”

“That makes sense.” I scratch my cheek, choosing to ignore the fact that Harrow has researched how to fake date someone. “How about this? We’ve known each other for years, but something sparked during that uhhh, oh—Around the World Day, in May. We bonded over… I don’t know, Māori tattoos, and spent the summer texting. We’ve been going steady for a couple of weeks, but decided not to tell anyone because of how new it all was. That would explain why I’m driving you everywhere, all of a sudden.”

Harrow chews on the edge of her pencil, looking even younger and more vulnerable despite the black lipstick. “That… could work. I was at a Med Camp during the summer, so it’s believable that we were apart and only recently made it official. It’s also short enough that we can excuse potential awkwardness with growing couple pains.”

“Yop.” I grin, like: see? I’m totally not stupid, despite what you may think.

“Can we not mention the Māori part? I don't normally discuss my family with strangers. I’m very unlikely to have bonded with you over it.”

That’s… yeah. A pang hits my chest—I think about the only picture I have of my mother and how little I want anyone but Cam and maybe Pal to know about all that. “Sure.” I nod, with what I hope is a reassuring smile. “People probably won’t ask for details, but if they do—we can say we bonded over... What's your favorite movie?”

“The Haunting of Hill House, 1963.” Harrow answers, without missing a beat. Damn, most people need to think about that—me included. “Incidentally, the 2018 Netflix version is also my favorite mini-series.”

“Horror fan, huh?”

“Feminist horror, specifically.”

“Right. Well, that won’t work.” Horror scares the shit out of me—I’ll take a fun action flick or a romcom any day. “You know what? We can figure it out later.”

“Fine with me. When is this arrangement’s expiration date, anyway?”

I scratch my chin. “Well… competitive derby season is from December to June and the ad campaign lasts throughout, but it’s not like we have to ‘date’ forever. I figure people will probably lose interest around the winter holidays, anyway.” They’ll be too tired from cramming for exams to care about anyone’s romantic drama. “So maybe we can ‘break up’ some tie near MLK day?” I figure that will free me up to get a date for Valentine’s — there’s nothing queer girls love more than a hot lesbian with a broken heart — and it’ll free Harrow to roam the depths of purgatory for lost souls, or whatever her kind does in late winter.

“Perfect. I’ll schedule my passive-aggressive Instagram post right now,” she says, and writes ‘Jan 15^th’ on half the page, then underlines and circles it.

“Cool. Just show it to me for approval first.” I shrug with another sip of water. “Now. You still haven’t told me why you need me.”

“Oh.” Harrow straightens her shoulders, leaning back. “That.”

As if she'd forget. Harrow probably still holds on to her kindergarten nemesis’ name, who they broke a toy her parents replaced immediately.

“Yes, that.”

She fiddles with her crucifix again. “My parents have their 25th anniversary in November and I need a date.”

I frown. “Why?” It doesn’t strike me as a couples-only event, nor does Harrow seem like someone particularly fussed about romance.

“Because, Bonehead.” She spits, even sharper than usual. “If I go alone, my parents will keep trying to match me with all these ‘nice boys from church’ and I don’t want to deal with that. Telling them I don't want a boyfriend is clearly not working, so perhaps introducing them to my girlfriend will do the trick.”

So she isn’t straight then? Or is she just really okay with pretending? Gah!

I want to ask, but she’ll just chew me out. At least it’s nice to know she’s not some mysterious eldritch horror with motivations incomprehensible by mere mortals. She’s just a rich girl who wants to piss off her parents. I can live with that.

“Why me? Why not take Coronabeth?”

“She’s not…” Harrow winces. “It wouldn’t be believable.”

I have no idea what that means and how it would be more believable with me, but I just shrug. If Harrow is willing to fake-date me for four months, I can spare one night to indulge her.

“Will you do it?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly. “It falls on a Saturday and it'll be in Ireland. There’s a ten and half hour flight in each direction and we need to leave on Friday and return on Sunday.”

“The flight is fine,” I say as if I’ve ever flown anywhere before. “I’m more worried about missing practice so close to bout season… but I’m sure Coach will be amenable to your condition. Plus, we can produce content. Bet they have that energy drink in Ireland, too.”

“I believe so. But don’t underestimate my stipulation—you’re not prepared for my family.”

I just shrug, sloshing water in my mouth. Whatever. If Harrow sprung from them, I already know I’m in for hellhounds. “Wait.” I frown. “Please don’t tell me there’s only going to be one bed?”

She frowns harder. “What?”

“You know, we’re pretending to date, so naturally we get room with only one bed—classic rom-com trope.”

“My family is extremely Catholic, so I sincerely doubt they’d place any unmarried couple in a room with a single bed. Especially a queer one, and especially one in high school.”

I grimace, because yikes. But then again, I don’t want to share a bed with Harrow, so. Cool. “Then I’m game.”

“Good.” She doesn’t so much smile, as slightly lifts the corner of her mouth.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harrow smile with her entire face. Not since… no. I shove that thought in a drawer in the back of my mind along with my memories of her from early freshman year, where they belong.

“In that case, we’re done. Sign here.” She turns the notebook around and hands me a pencil decorated with little skulls on the side.

I roll my eyes, but I sign anyway. It’s degrading, but I’m already in it. Might as well go all the way.

Chapter Text

I love my car. Stereotypically, I should be driving a four-wheeler that can scale mountains, or at least a Subaru minivan. What I actually drive is a black Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible with a round trunk. It’s as old as I am and a very thirsty boi, but there’s absolutely nothing better in the world than cruising through the windy San Francisco urban canyons with an open roof and a pair of sunglasses, blasting early-2000s pop.

I type in Harrowhark’s address in Google Maps and text her:

Gideon: send me a pic of ur house?

Bitchy Baroness *skull emoji*: Trust me. You’ll recognize it when you get there.

I roll my eyes, head out, singing along with Mary J. Blige, when the GPS takes me out of town, almost to Atherton. I speed down the highway for about five minutes before Google makes me swerve down a side road, and says, “You have arrived at your destination.”

“There’s nothing here, you piece of trash.” I frown at my phone.

Except there is. Beyond the heavy steel gates there is one house in sight. But that couldn’t possibly—

No.

Noooo.

She was right—her house is easy to find. But what the hideous witch from hell didn’t say is that she lives in a goddamn mansion. Like, one of those ridiculous white-walled Federal houses with columns and sloped roofs and way too many windows. It looks like it should be on the National Register of Historic Places. It has actual grounds, with sprawling lawns and trees. There’s a front marble mini-fountain with a freaking angel statue. I’ve always just pictured her coming out of a fire pit every morning and shedding two layers of snake skin for something that resembles a human girl. But even knowing she’s rich, this manor is too much.

A small camera over the front gates zooms in on me and the steel gates creak open. I swivel up the driveway just to see an old white man in a goddamn frock coat, whose gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. His skin is so wrinkled and sunken, I get the sense he should’ve died ten years ago and is now propelled through sheer spite.

The butler, I assume. He narrows his beady eyes at me.

I narrow mine back, and park the car a few feet from him, checking my phone. It’s 6:58, but Harrow strikes me as the ‘early is on time’ type. Where the hell is she?

“Nonagesimus!” I yell. “There’s a creepy guy staring at me!” I’m loud enough to wake the whole house, but whatever. If Harrow didn’t want her family to know about me, she wouldn’t have asked me to pick her up.

“The name is Mr. Crux,” Scarecrow Butler says calmly. “And you talk so loudly for a rabble.”

‘Wow,’ I mouth. I slide my aviators down my nose and turn up the radio. It’s currently playing Sexy Back by Justin Timberlake, which is literally perfect. I sing along as loud as I can, hand tapping on my car door:

‘You see these shackles baby, I'm your slaaaaave

I'll let you whip me, if I misbehaaaaave’

That gets Harrow’s attention.

She rushes out the front door and slams it, breathing like she ran a marathon. “For the love of all that’s holy, Nav, turn that down!”

I grin and snap my fingers. “You got it, Shadow Boss,” I say and roll the nub.

Harrow seems to take a genuine breath of relief. The expansion of her chest draws my eyes to the bone corset (fake. Fake bone. Even she’s not that creepy) over her tight black top. It frames her boobs and… well, she certainly has those.

Nope!

I’m absolutely not staring at Harrowhark’s chest. Even if she had the best boobs in the world (and she doesn’t, they’re a 7/10 at most), they still belonged to the worst person ever, making them garbage boobs by association.

She jogs up to the scarecrow butler and actually squeezes his wrist. He seems to hold her hands between his for a couple seconds. Ew. If I ever touched him, I’d need a shower. He probably smells like death. Still jogging, possibly out of fear that I’ll turn up the radio again—and to be fair, I briefly consider it—she opens the passenger seat and drags herself inside, slamming it shut.

“Careful with the doors.” I scowl. “Nathan’s a sensitive boy.”

Harrowhark looks up and blinks a few times, then grimaces like she’s tasted a particularly sour lemon. “You named your car Nathan?”

“Yup.”

She opens her mouth, “I—leaving aside the fact that naming cars is unhinged, don’t most people think cars are women?”

“That’s just the patriarchy. Nathan’s definitely a guy—and he’s a twink.”

I can’t be completely certain, but behind Harrow’s eye roll I can almost detect the ghost of a smile.

When she leans into me to buckle her seatbelt, I find out that she does not smell like death. I’ve never noticed before, but she smells good. Not the way Coronabeth smells—vanilla and musk. It’s not Cam’s familiar scent of coffee and pastries either, but her own. New books and sandalwood. It suits her perfectly. So perfectly, I wish I didn’t know. There’s now one thing about my nemesis I like, and that wasn’t the plan.

I drive out in reverse. The gates creak closed behind us and almost scratch Nathan. It must be Crux’s doing, but I don’t want Harrow to accuse me of being paranoid, so I say nothing. Instead, I push the sunglasses up my nose. “We have forty-five minutes of commute, accounting for traffic. Should we get to know each other? For the fake dating thing, I mean. It’d be pretty embarrassing if I mess up basic shit about my ‘girlfriend.’ Not very OTP of us.”

Harrow nods. “I suppose.”

I’m taken aback because she doesn’t even ask what an OTP is. She either has a secret fandom-geek side or she’s done research. I can’t decide which is nerdier. “Let’s start with something simple. Are you related to Valentine Nonagesimus?”

“What?” Harrow turns to me.

“It’s a fair question.” I shrug. I’ve always wondered. “Your last name is Nonagesimus, and you’re Irish.”

“No, and if my family hears you say that, there would be pearl-clutching. We’re old money—Nonagesimus was a nouveau riche. Also, I’m only part Irish.”

“Oooh, you’re the worst type of rich. Classist assholes.”

“You’re not wrong.” She agrees with a small shug. “Anything else?”

“Sure. What do you plan to major in in college?”

“Pre-med.”

“What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

“Orthopaedic surgeon.”

“Really?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know, it just feels very normal. I thought you’d go for somethng more morose. Like the morgue, maybe.”

She shrugged. “I like bones.”

“Aaaaand now you’ve made it creepy.”

“There’s nothing creepy about bones! They are a major part of our anatomy.” But when Harrow looked over at me, she saw that I was grinning and her ears flushed. “Oh. You’re making fun of me.” She shook her head. “What do you want to do then?”

I scratch my jaw. “Honestly? I don’t know that I'm college material.”

I haven’t told many people that—I was worried Dad might judge me, being a scientist and all, but he’s been surprisingly chill about the whole thing. Cam and Pal are too, despite being my utter opposites. No one else knows. “If I go, maybe social work? I kind of feel bad about all those kids stuck in the system.” I don’t elaborate on why. Harrow doesn’t need to know about my mommy issues. “What I really want, is to be a pro-derby player. When I age out, which hopefully won’t be until my late thirties, I can be an Olympics coach. Or college one. Maybe I could set up one of those charity funds for low-income and homeless teens, but less competitive and dangerous.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see Harrow stilling. “That’s… nice of you.”

“Thanks.”

“Why are you so obsessed with roller derby, anyway?”

“Are you kidding?” I snort. “It’s a fun contact sport played by hot women in fishnets. What’s not to love?” That’s been my off-hand answer for years—it’s why I got into it, at least. Since then, it’s grown into so much more. As ridiculous as it sounds considering how physically dangerous it is, roller derby is my safe space. Not only are most of the players queer, but there’s… freedom in derby. When I play, I don’t have to worry about anything else. I can just be. It’s made me confident in my skin even beyond the track.

Harrow drags one black nail over her jawline, then nods. “Since you’re always surrounded by ‘hot women in fishnets,’ have you ever dated a teammate?”

I freeze for a second, squeezing the wheel. Is that a trick question? “Pass.”

Harrow turns to me, and from the periphery I can see her big, dark eyes blinking. “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve, Griddle.”

The tension in my shoulders eases. If Coronabeth hasn’t told her, I certainly don’t want to talk about our history with Harrow of all people. It’s private and I’m in no mood for her to play the devil’s advocate for Corona. “You didn’t,” I lie, blatantly. I don’t doubt Harrow can see right through it. “It’s just complicated.”

She brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear and stares ahead, eyes narrowing in the windshield reflection. “I hate to ask, but am I the complication?”

I almost laugh—would it be so easy as to pin that one on her. “No. This was way before the fire.”

She nods and thankfully, lets it drop. We’ve stopped at a red light, when Harrow frowns at the radio, which is currently playing Toxic by Britney Spears. “Nav.”

“Yes?”

“What kind of music is this?

“Erm, the fun kind?”

“This is making my ears bleed. Do you have Bluetooth? Can I turn on my Spotify?”

I laugh. “Sorry, Eventide Empress, that’s not happening—this car is from 2001. If you have a CD, I could play it. Other than that, you’re shit out of luck, I’m afraid. Also, I’m gonna need to see your Top 100 songs from last year.”

Harrow fishes out her phone, swipes through and hands it over at the next red light.

I scroll through her Spotify. “No. No. Definitely not. Jesus, I knew it’s all emo and indie and goth, but The National? Really? I figured they’d be too insufferable even for you.”

“You listen to Britney Spears. You don’t get to judge my taste.” Harrow says, putting her phone away.

“Okay, first of all, Britney Spears is hot. Second, the music is good.” The light changes and I start after the car in front. “Except maybe the Blackout era. At least my music taste has a personality.”

“And that personality is clearly ‘obnoxious’.” Harrow rolls her eyes.

“Whereas yours screams ‘I’m not like the other girls.’” I pitch my voice higher and flip imaginary hair. “Which, by the way—cringe.”

“I’m going to buy CDs and you will play them.”

“Not with that music taste, I won’t.”

“If you’re driving me, I shouldn’t have to suffer.”

“You asked me to drive you. You can’t make me your chauffeur and commandeer my radio. It’s my car!”

“They’re my ears.”

“Listen, you pretentious snob. If you want to play your shitty music, bring headphones.”

“I will not—” Harrow starts, but clamps down. The silence stretches between us for several minutes until she sighs. “We could alternate. You could play your music on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and I’ll play mine on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.”

“Or I could play my music all the time and you could play yours never.”

“I’m trying to compromise. Do you want me to always be irascible?”

I scoff. “How would I tell the difference?”

“Fine. But when my mood reflects poorly on this charade, you can’t blame me.”

Well… crap. We have to at least look like we get along, right? “Ughhh, alright, whatever. You’re still paying for gas.”

“I never said I wouldn’t,” she whispers, softly.

Then we’re both quiet, only the radio stretching between us

“Why were you late?” I ask, when I can’t stand it any longer.

She rolls her eyes. “It was a couple of minutes. I’m sure you were just fine.”

“Well, yeah, but it doesn’t strike me as your style ’s all.”

She shrugs. “I told my parents I wouldn’t need the driver last night and they had some… questions. Then I had to do my homework and I didn’t fall asleep until far too late, so I slept through my alarm. Are you happy?”

I shrug. It sounds like her parents had more than questions, but doesn’t seem like my place to comment on it. So I don’t.

When we reach the school’s parking lot, heads turn in our direction. I parallel park like a pro and walk out, propping back on Nathan’s trunk. I people-watch over the rim of my sunglasses, winking at a girl staring a second too long. She blushes and hurries to catch up with her friends.

Harrowhark comes out a second later and shoves me in the ribs. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

“You’ve no idea.” I grin and throw one arm over her narrow shoulder, pushing the aviators up my nose. Harrow grimaces, but schools her features into her usual resting bitch face. As we walk toward the entrance, people actually lean towards their friends to whisper. I can’t tell if they’re jealous, or just trying to figure out how I got the meanest girl in school to date me, but I still grin. I feel like a lesbian!Edward in that classic Twilight scene, when he drives Bella to school for the first time.

And that's pretty damn radical of me.

Chapter Text

Taking Harrowhark from Thanks-A-Latte to the secondary gym where P'wned practices takes about five minutes. We don’t talk—Harrow just frowns at the two songs I play during the ride over and the time it takes me to find a parking spot.

I wait until we’re right in front of the gym’s door to put my hand on Harrow's waist. She just… dangles her arms in front of her like a damn T-Rex. In the morning she had the messenger bag to occupy her, but now? It’s just walking thirty feet with a hand on one’s waist. How hard could it be?

Too hard for Miss Never Dated Anyone, apparently. Not that I can throw stones, seeing as my own house is made from such fine glass. But goddamn it, at least I know how to act. Why didn’t we practice? Anyone who sees us is going to immediately pick us out as frauds.

Once inside though, the few stragglers' eyes go as wide as saucers. I sigh in relief and leave Harrow on the bleachers with what looks like a head kiss, except my lips never actually touch her, then make for the locker room.

For practice we just wear our own blues. Coronabeth is in fishnets, booty shorts and a halter top; I’m more androgynous in a tight sports top with a boat line neck, and mid-thigh shorts. Cam is in something similar, minus the slutty, slutty bared midriff. Judith has the most conservative uniform of all—button-up halter-top with a collar to her neck and loose shorts.

After we stretch, I head for the bleachers, climbing a few steps at a time, and flop beside Harrow. Despite her friendship with Coronabeth, she’s never been to a bout. And considering that stupid letterman jacket question? I’d have to teach her everything from scratch.

“Hey,” I say, leaning into her space.

She cringes away, which looks pretty bad for the success of our charade. “You stink, Griddle.”

“Oh.” I laugh somewhat relieved. At least I know it’s not me. “That’s just the gear. I wash it frequently, but the smell never goes away—you’ll get used to it.”

“I certainly hope not.”

I roll my eyes. “Anyway. Do you see Coronabeth?”

“Do you mean The Crowned Assassin?”

I blink. “You know our derby names?”

“Of course, I want to learn the game. Camilla is Calamity Hurtz, Judith is Captain Clock Her and… what was yours, again, Bonehead?”

I hang my head. “... Violet Painbow.”

“Brilliant.” Harrow does the self-satisfied sneer. “Simply outstanding.”

“I hate you.”

“Same. Explain the game now.”

Be a bigger bitch, why don't you? I swallow my resentment. “You see the star on Coronabeth’s helmet?”

She nods.

“That’s the panty. Whoever’s wearing it, is the jammer. She’s the one who scores, so watch out for her.”

“And what are you?”

“I'm the pivot—usually a blocker, but I can play as a jammer, if I’m passed the panty. I’m tall and buff but also fast, so that makes the most sense. Blockers are the main guys. They form the ‘pack’—biggest group of skaters together.”

“I think I figured out what a pack is on my own, thank you.”

I roll my eyes again. “Anyways. The game is played in two half hour periods called a bout, in a series of two-minute jams. The lead jammer can call off a jam at any time—” I shake my head. I need to stop before I start listing off all the reasons a player can get a penalty. “Basically, there are five players on the track—one jammer, four blockers, one of which may be a pivot. For every opposing player the jammer passes, she gets a point. The goal is to get as many points as possible while preventing the opposing team’s jammer from doing the same.”

“I’m also familiar with the concept of a scoring system,” Nonagesimus says with another sneer.

I’m starting to wonder if murder eyes and sneering are her only facial expressions.

“Is that what you’ll do now? You’ll play a bout?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head, laughing. “No scrimmaging until the last half an hour, at least. Half the fresh meet hasn’t even made the team yet. Coach is still running them through the minimum requirements. Most get the basics, so today we’re focusing on 27/5—that’s where we do twenty-seven laps in five minutes.” 27/5 is no longer required by WFTDA, but Coach is old-school and she still thinks it’s a good drill. I agree. “After, the more advanced newbies will play against the upperclasswomen.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

We watch as the fresh meat push themselves. Fresh meat hate 27/5, because ‘no one skates for five uninterrupted minutes.’ It’s my favorite drill and my knee starts bouncing. How do people just watch sports? I’m trembling with the urge to jump on the track and do it better.

“Later, Morbid Mistress.” I grin at Harrow, sending her a mock air-kiss. “Mama’s gotta show these rookies how it’s done.”

Harrow rolls her eyes. “Please never refer to yourself as ‘mama’ again.”

And…fair. I’m not proud of that one, but I can’t let Harrowhark know.

The track smells like sweat, the bruises from the last practice are gaining neighbors, but for five uninterrupted minutes, I’m flying. As the air whooshes around me, it feels like reprieve. My only focus is the track, the girls around me, the squeaks my skates make when I turn.

I finish second with a grin—only three seconds after The Crowned Assassin and half a second before Calamity Hurtz. The practice stretches on and I watch out for the girls on the track as much as skating by their side.

Finally, it’s time for scrimmage.

I sit out the first jam by Harrow’s side, who’s switched from drab book to another. It’s fine—the scrimmage is pretty anticlimactic. Calamity Hurtz and Captain Clock Her take mere seconds, goading the new girls in the perfect formation, so they can’t skate forward and block The Crowned Assassin. With the fresh meat too afraid to hit, all Corona has to do is roll around in a perfect circle. Then she’s skating in front of the pack and scores a grand slam.

They keep going until Coach blows her whistle, ending the jam.

“Kitties,” Coach shakes her head at the red-faced girls. “Roller derby is a contact sport. If you don’t want to get smoked, make contact.”

I grin—she’s seen Whip It too.

The line up of freshmen stare at their skates, making themselves as small as possible. Jeannemary is the only one whose dark eyes sparkle in defiance. I love her.

I play in the next jam, lining up at the pivot line with a freshie. The second Coach blows the whistle, my future, the teams’, the upcoming months with Harrowhark—all of it stops mattering.That stuff belongs to Gideon Nav and right now, I’m Violet Painbow.

My friends wall up like a perfectly synced clock, all its little cogs working in synchrony. Jeannemary shoves through the wall, but can’t pass. She tries to juke left then right, but that’s the first trick I learned and I block her with ease, skating faster. The fresh meat know a thing or two by know, though. They screen us, letting Jeannemary push and zoom through the pack. Have to admit, that’s pretty fast learning for a kitty.

She hip-checks the girl in front of her, who falls to one knee, quick to draw her arms in—good. Derby is a team sport—the smaller you fall, the easier it’ll be to get up again, and the less likely to drag your teammates with you.

I jut past the freshies and reach for The Crowned Assassin. She grabs my hand with both of hers, blue eyes staring right into mine. Right now, she's not the girl who broke my heart, she’s just a teammate who needs me. I pull and she latches onto me, both our biceps tauten as I propel her through the pack in a perfect whip—a motion we’ve practiced a million times. She skates sideways, catching up to Jeannemary. Jeanne tries to step aside, but The Crowned Assassin hip checks her, forcing her to stumble out of bounds. She slides forward, passes the last blocker, and scores.

Coach blows her whistle—it’s over.

Jeannemary staggers and falls on her butt. Now that the adrenaline rush is wearing off, I’m back to being Gideon. I skate to an easy stop in front of Jeannemary, holding out my hand.

“That was unfair,” she whines, but grabs onto me and pulls herself up.

“Nah.” I grin. We were better, but that’s to be expected with three years of seniority. These jams are mostly for the freshies to learn by watching. “You were close, though—you’ll get her next time.”

She gives a little flattered smile and I wink.

I look up to the bleachers and see Harrow’ big dark eyes intently staring at me, which… is weird as hell. I expected her to have her nose in a book, as she’s had for the last hour. My skin prickles and I pull down my crop top, wishing it was longer for the first time ever.

I only break eye-contact when Coach skates over to us.

“Impressive, little one,” she says to Jeannemary. “I’ve never seen anyone come so close to wrecking The Crowned Assassin. And in your third week, no less.”

Jeannemary blushes all over. “But it was so embarrassing! I was too slow to avoid the hip check, and I flailed.”

“That happens,” says Coronabeth, skidding to a stop by Coach’s side. She squeezes Jeannemary's shoulder. “You won’t always be the fastest jammer. Seriously, sugar pie, congrats. You gave me one hell of a fight."

“We have to work on your falls,” Coach stresses. “But I think you just earned your derby name.”

Jeannemary presses her hands over her mouth. “For real?”

“Yes, kitty.” Coach smiles her softest and most rewarding smile. “For real. Do you have any ideas?”

Jeannemary gives a soundless scream. I snort, remembering the squealing and hugging when Cam and were told to pick ours.

Jeannemary sobers. “I’m… not sure? I didn’t think it would happen so fast.”

“You’ve got time until Saturday. We're going out for ice cream after practice—it's our tradition when a teammate earns her name.”

Wait. Jeannemary… wrecking… I’m having a lightbulb moment. “How about J Wrecks?”

Jeannemary gives a very emasculating squeal, adorably unlike her baby butch aesthetic and blows a beaded braid out of her face. “I love it!” she says and wraps her arms around me.

The air is knocked from my chest, but I grin. Moments like these are why I love derby.

Jeannemary hugs Coach and Coronabeth just as hard, waves goodbye, and skates toward her friends, grinning. She leans towards them whispering. They all squeal and fall on top of each other in a group hug.

Kitties, indeed.

“I should probably go too,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Now that I’m on Nonagesimus’ time.”

Coach nods, expression back to neutral. “How’s that going, by the way?”

“It’s been an entire day and we haven’t killed each other, yet, so—promising?” I fake-smile, but tap Coach Pyrrha’s shoulder without malice. “I’m gonna say ‘bye’ to Cam and the others. Catch up on Saturday, Coach?”

“Sure.” She nods. I pivot away, when Coach calls back. “Violet?”

“Yeah?” I turn over my shoulder.

“Thank you for doing this.”

I face to my right, watching Jeannemary be raised on the shoulders of the rest of the team.

“J WRECKS! J WRECKS! J WRECKS!,” they chant.

A smile creeps into my face. “It’s worth it.”

***

When practice is over, I’m still amped up. I want to do pull-ups or push-ups or something. Instead, I’m accosted by a bright-faced Harrow. It’s hard to tell because her irises are so dark already, but I think her pupils are dilated.

“You’re very good at this game, Bonehead!”

I freeze. “Sorry?”

“You’re fast and you use your strength impressively well. That sophomore girl is as big as you, but you move with so much more… purpose.”

Okay, that just sounds wrong coming out of her mouth. I lean in, widening my eyes dramatically and almost grab her cheeks before I remember our no-touching rule.  “Okay, you little imposter,” I whisper. “Release the real Harrowhark and I won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, ha-ha.” The real Harrowhark rolls her eyes, deadpan. “All I said is that you’re good at derby. Don’t let it go to your head.” She doesn’t even bother keeping quiet. “And your tactics! I never would’ve assumed you knew what you were doing.”

“Okay.” I nod, biting my mouth. “The backhanded compliment sold it. Now, I believe it’s you. I’m gonna shower. See you soon?”

“Shower at home,” Harrow says and waves me over. “We need to go. Vinyl Groove closes at eight-thirty and you’re taking me to buy CDs. I’d prefer having more than five minutes in the store at my disposal as it’s my turn to choose the music tomorrow.” She turns around and heads off without waiting for my response. I give her the middle finger, but follow behind.

#

Vinyl Groove is this weird indie place that smells of heated plastic, with ceilings of exposed pipes. Both vinyls and CDs are stacked horizontally on every available surface and its cramped feeling gives me a headache. The second I spot the fake skeleton with headphones though, I know why Nonagesimus insisted we come here.

She strides with purpose, circling stacks and avoiding obstacles masterfully, clearly familiar with the layout. I follow right behind, half because my phone is too low on battery to just play on it and ignore her; and half because I’m afraid that if we don’t stick together, I’ll get lost in the stacks.

Once I get used to the air though, I have to admit the place has a certain charm. It’s not the clean corporate look of franchise stores, but a niche, friendlier and more… animated appearance, like the owners actually care about the music, not just a paycheck.

Harrow picks out enough albums to make up my monthly budget. Aside from the obvious choices—Bon Iver, Linkin Park, Girl in Red, Joy Division, The Cure, Muse, Dead Cab for Cutie—there's some Scandinavian rocker band called Sunrise Avenue; and, to my greatest delight, Billie Eilish. Maybe she is a basic bitch, after all.

A pimply mid-teen boy rings everything up at the checkout desk.

“Where’s Rob?” Harrow asks, approaching, flanked by me. Apparently, she’s on a first-name basis with the owner.

“Had a little work,” the teen says, smiling awkwardly. “I’m substituting tonight. And, uh.” He leans in, whispering: “I like your style.”

Harrow narrows her eyes at him so hard, he blanches, then turns strawberry red. Either he just discovered a proclivity for mean goth girls or decided never to speak to a woman again. Possibly both. She opens her wallet and grabs her debit card, accidentally brushing her thumb against her ID. It slips out and drops to the ground.

“Got it.” I bend over to pick it up. But I only glance at it for a second, before Harrow wrangles it out of my hands. “What was that for?” I frown as Checkout Boy wraps her CDs in a paper bag.

“What was what for?” Her voice has gone full soprano. She shuffles her ID inside her wallet, and the wallet in her bag.

“I was gonna give it back, you didn't have to wrestle me for it.” I narrow my eyes, propping one palm on the cheek out. “Unless there was something you didn't want me to see…” I snap my fingers. “Birthday. It's coming up, isn't it?”

Harrowhark's shoulders slope as she gathers her CDs. “Don’t make a fuss about this, Griddle.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t make a fuss?’ You're turning eighteen, that's a big deal! You can vote and drink…. in Europe."

“Seventeen,” she corrects.

“What?”

"I'm turning seventeen, not eighteen."

“I got that, but I'm eighteen. How can you just now be turning seventeen?"

She shrugs. “I skipped grade eight.”

Ughhh, of course she did. Smartass. “How come you never mentioned your birthday?”

“Why would I mention it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about that not knowing it will make me look like a shitty girlfriend?” I rub my forehead. “When is it? C’mon, don’t be shy now — the cat’s out of the bag.”

She heaves a deep sigh. “October the 24th.”

I blink. “That’s in less than a month.”

“I’m aware. You don't have to buy me a present. I don’t celebrate.”

“But… it’s your birthday.” I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but I love my birthdays. One day, I’ll become a world-famous athlete and make my birthday a national holiday, so I won’t ever have to work on it. “It’s the most important day of the year.”

“Is it? I would consider that to be Christmas Day. Or St. Patrick’s. Perhaps the Holy Saturday, or Epiphany, or All Souls’ Day. I’m also quite fond of Halloween, even though it’s hardly a religious holiday. But my birthday?”

“It’s the most important day to you, you weirdo.” I massage my temples with two fingers, trying to think. “You know what? It’s fine. I have just enough time to throw you a party.”

“Do not throw me a party, Nav.” Her dark eyes darken further, as her face turns into a grimace mask. “I swear to God, I will destroy you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand. “Heard that one before.”

“Hey, guys,” the pimply teenager pipes up. I’d nearly forgotten he was there. “We need to close soon…”

Harrowhark gives him the murder eyes again, but I grab her shoulder. “Sorry, dude. We'll get out of your hair.” I tug on her sleeve with a pointed look.

She pivots on her heels and I follow.

“I wouldn’t even know what to do with a birthday party,” Harrow says, when we reach the win parking lot, adjusting the paper bag with her CDs. In this dark, empty space she looks even smaller than usual. “I’ve never had one.”

I halt halfway and turn to her, narrowing my eyes. “Never?”

She shrugs. “I’ve always had more important things to do. Lessons, tutoring, studies.”

“Even when you were in kindergarten?” My own voice is pitching higher now. “Did you have lessons, then?”

“I’ve been able to read since I was three, so yes. I suppose my parents could’ve thrown me a party when I was a toddler?” She shrugs, but the slope of her shoulders says she doesn’t believe it. “As far back as I can remember, they’d ask what I wanted in advance, and then Seamus—our butler—would bring me my present with a card from them. In the afternoon, all my lessons would be rescheduled, so I’d have a few leisure hours to myself. Last year, I watched Lion King for the first time.” Her eyes flash as if she thinks that’s actually a fun birthday.

I shake my head. I never thought I’d get there, but I feel bad for her. “Even though that sentence unironically contained the words ‘our butler’, that’s still the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. Your parents don’t even wish you Happy Birthday themselves?”

“I did say they write me a card. Although…” She hesitates, and I know she’s about to make this worse. “Normally the card already has a printed wish inside and they only sign it.”

“Oh, my god.” I close my eyes and rub the fleshy part of my palm over her forehead. “Now I definitely need to throw you a party.”

“I swear, Nav. If you throw me a party, I’ll make your existence on this melting planet absolutely miserable.” She stomps her foot, and it’s almost adorable. “You’d wish you never met me.”

I grin. “Sweetheart, threats only work if you have something new to threaten with.”

Chapter Text

This becomes our new routine.

Every day, I pick up Harrowhark from her mansion and we talk about something innocuous to pass the time. After that ex-question, we stick to surface level stuff. Favorite band or artist? (The Cure and Death Cab for Cutie for Harrow, Queen and Britney for me.) Coffee or tea? (Coffee for me. Harrow says coffee for the energy, water if she has the choice.) Cat person or dog person? (I say ‘dogs’ with no hesitation and Harrow says she doesn’t like either. I can’t imagine that even she can be that heartless and I’m already planning to take her to a cat café for our next “date”.)

After my Saturday practice though, something feels off.

“Where to?” I ask, putting the car in reverse. This time Harrow actually let me shower first.

“My house,” she says, as if she can read my mind. “I have to study.”

I frown. I thought Saturday was date night. “You know, I think we should go on dates. For the tenability.”

“Tenability, huh?” Harrow says, without raising her head from her phone screen. “Word of the Day Calendar?”

I scoff. “Screw you, bitch. I know SAT words.” I was in the top twenty percentile, in fact. I’m sure Harrow was in the top one, but whatever. “Seriously though, I really think we should.” This was all her idea, after all. Now she’s the one bailing on me?

“Next week. We can see a movie—I’ll even assure that my study group sees us. No one gossips more than nerds.”

I click my tongue, slowing in traffic. The car horns sound in the distance and I turn up the music. “Why not today?”

“I’m tired. Is that not good enough?”

Not really, but she’s clearly determined to be all up in her feelings and it’s not like I’m desperate to spend my Saturday evening entertaining her. “We should probably practice looking couple-y first,” I say, wincing at the thought. “We’re shit at it and it’ll get us caught. If someone blows this thing wide open… I don’t wanna be canceled over faking a relationship for money—it’ll mess up my brand as a pro athlete.”

“I’m aware of the stakes, thank you.” Harrowhark rolls her eyes. “What makes you think one of your friends won’t out us?”

“Because all my friends have just as much to gain or lose as I do. And anyway, I trust Camilla with my life—she’s my wifey.”

“Your what?”

“Derby wife.” I sigh. Sometimes I forget that normies don’t know all our lingo. “Person on the track I’m closest to. We’ll be together until the end—and nearly were, when we saved your ass. I feel almost the same about Palamedes, believe it or not.”

“Good for you.” Harrow draws her knees up to her chin—ill-advisable in a moving car—and pulls the silver chain of her crucifix necklace between her lips. She stares out the window and I know we’re done talking.

I take one sidelong glance at her. She looks so… far away. Who would Harrowhark trust with her life? Coronabeth? They’ve known each other for a long time, but barely seem to interact at school, so maybe not. There’s Mr. Crux, but he seems more like a father or even a grandfather figure to her.

I don’t ask. What would I say to her, anyway? You can trust me? Cheesy and probably bullshit. The only reason I’m doing this is because I need her.

When we get back to the mansion, I leave Harrow at the gate—I won’t be going into that creepy castle, if I can help it. At night it looks like the establishing shot of a gothic horror movie. “See you on Monday?” I prompt, as Harrow unbuckles her seatbelt.

She only huffs in response. But if she’s still annoyed, it doesn’t show in the gentle way she clicks the car door closed. She’s been doing a lot of that since I warned her about Nathan. Which seems out of character. I watch long enough to see the petite black smudge walk through the gates, then back out…

At least I can change the music now.

#

On Monday, Harrow’s posture seems stiffer than usual. She grates her gel pen over the fancy paper, lips pursed so tightly, they practically disappear. When I get tired watching her drive off the clientele with her just-went-to-a-funeral vibes, I hop on her table, feet dangling. It’s not the most hygienic, but I’ll be wiping everything down in a few minutes, anyway.

I poke her side with the tip of my white top-sneakers. “Hey, Nonagesimus.” I grin. “What does a sad person order in a coffee shop?”

She sighs. “This is going to be something stupid, isn't it?”

“A depresso.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Eh?”

“You know, Griddle.” Harrowhark rubs her temples, as if she can feel a migraine coming on. When she looks at me, the spots behind her eyes look extra shadow-y. “Somewhere out there, there's a kindergarten teacher who’s regretting teaching you how to speak.”

I roll my eyes. “Oooh, we’re extra cranky today. Fine, be a miserable bitch, if you want. Now I’m not telling you about your surprise birthday party.” I sing-song with a meaningful look.

Harrow slams her book closed and does her whole scary goth routine, eyes narrowing at me. “I told you not to throw me a birthday party.”

“And I didn’t listen.” I shrug. “What’s new?”

She grits her teeth. “Why would you call it a ‘surprise’ party, if you’re telling me about it?”

“Because you hate surprises and if I sprung this on you, you’d pulverize me.”

She furrows her dainty brows, which makes her sharp face even more triangular. “How do you know I hate surprises?”

“Because, numbnuts.” I chuckle. I don’t mean to, but it’s so adorable that Harrow thinks she’s soooo mysterious. “You’ve been coming to the same coffee shop at the exact same time, ordering the exact same thing for three years. I’ve extrapolated a few things about your personality.”

She huffs. “Fine, I do hate surprises. So what is this grand plan of yours?”

“Well, for your surprise birthday party on Friday, two weeks from now—which I’m throwing you, because I’m an awesome fake girlfriend—I was thinking eighties monster mash? Fits with your goth aesthetic and I like disco. Thirty or so people?”

“Brilliant, Griddle. Except for the fact that—” she holds out her hand. “I hate the eighties.” Harrow extends one finger, enumerating. “I hate costume parties. I hate most of our classmates. I hate large gatherings and socializing in general. So far—0/10. And how did you plan to explain it when I show up in perfect eighties gear?”

I shrug. “You’re already a goth. I’m sure Coronabeth has a pair of shoulder pads you could borrow. And what do you mean, you ‘hate large gatherings and socializing’? Your parents have been hosting parties since you could walk—Corona told me about it.”

“And did she mention that I’ve always despised those parties? ”

“Well—” She didn’t, actually. “Aren’t you also in the Mathletes and Chess club and the head of the Debate club?”

“That’s different.” Harrow pauses and hunches in on herself, sucking in the edge of her crucifix. “No.”

Is she actually… nervous? Holy shit. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, bookworm extraordinaire, fancy upper-cruster is bad at social interactions that don’t involve a strict set of rules.

I bite off a self-satisfied smile, having added another piece to her puzzle, and change tracks. “Okay. How about this: fifteen or twenty people for a potluck and board games night. In your garden maybe? Just my team, their SOs, and… I don’t know, whoever you want to invite. We’ll play some music and everyone will have a choice to dance or game. No costumes, no pressure, no rowdy parties.”

Harrow looks up. “No alcohol?”

I shake my head. What, like it’s Prohibition? “I don’t think I can make teenagers come to a party with no alcohol. But the alcohol won’t be the point. So no one will get drunk enough to throw up in your rose bushes or break a priceless vase or whatever.”

She bites onto her pen, staring off into space. “That’s… not the worst idea you’ve had.”

“Wow.” I place a hand over my chest and fall back dramatically. “Did you just call me smart?”

“Let’s not go quite that far. But… thank you, Griddle.”

And despite the shitty nickname, I beam. “No problem, Boblem.” I say, shooting her with finger guns.

Harrowhark just shakes her head, with her classic ‘why am I even here?’ look. But when she turns to her notebook, a ghost of a smile  plays on her lips. I hop off and return to wiping the counters with a grin of my own.

#

“So what do you want for your birthday?” I ask the next morning, as Harrow buttons her seatbelt. I don’t have the budget for anything fancy—but gift-giving is what girlfriends do.

I can practically see her grind her teeth in the rearview mirror. “I told you I don’t want presents.”

“People always say that.” I reverse, sliding out of the front gates. “And they always want presents. If everyone brings one and I don’t, I’ll look like a jackass.”

Her tiny nose wrinkles. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

“Jesus.” I slam my hand against the steering wheel. “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

She just shrugs, annoyingly. “Perhaps we’re not the kind of couple who gives each other birthday presents.”

I actually groan through my teeth. Really? Really, now? “We’re also apparently not the kind of couple who goes on dates, kisses or holds hands, so what the hell kind of couple are we?”

“The fake kind,” Harrowhark spits, eyes focused on the road.

“The whole point,” I enunciate, trying to keep my tone in check. I’m already trembling. Around Harrow I feel like everything ugly inside me has been pulled out and hung for the whole world to see. “Of being in a fake relationship, is that no one knows you’re in a fake relationship.” I wipe my face with one hand. I don’t understand her. I’m trying to and I don’t. “I don’t even know why you agreed to this—you find me barely tolerable, at best. Do you even like girls? Or is it just boys you find repulsive? Or Catholic boys, specifically?”

“Not everyone knows they’re gay from the moment they were born, Griddle.” Harrowhark’s tone is biting as ever, but when I glance to my right, her eyes are a little too shiny.

Shit. I didn’t mean to hit below the belt.

Also, if Harrow isn’t straight, does that mean that freshman year... no, no. She may know she’s queer now, but she couldn’t have back then. Nor does it change anything. It makes what she did crueler, in fact. We’ve been skirting around our history since we started this ‘relationship’, and it feels like a dull weight at the bottom of my stomach. But now’s not the time to hash that out. What happened back then, happened—this is just business.

“I didn’t know from the moment I was born.” It comes out more defensive than I want. She’s right that I was never in the closet. If people can’t tell who I am just by looking at me, or speaking to me, or glancing at my novelty t-shirts, they don’t deserve to know me like that.

“When did you know then?”

“Kindergarten maybe?”

Harrow scoffs.

“What? It’s not my fault! People just assumed, cause I was always a tomboy and I never had a girly phase or a straight phase, or even a trying-to-convince-myself-I’m-straight out-of-a-misguided-desire-to-be-normal phase.”

“Never?” She blinks, oil-spill eyes widening.

“I grew up in San Francisco.” I shrug. “Dad’s been making jokes about this boybander or that actress for as long as I can remember and taking me to Pride since I was a baby. Seriously—I can show you pictures of him carrying me in a basket with the bi flag cape over his shoulders.”

She frowns. “Your dad is queer?”

“As a weather vane.”

Her eyebrows furrow.

“You know, they go any which way….”

Harrow just continues staring at me, unblinking.

“Ugh, you’re hopeless.” I wave my hand. “Point is, I grew up knowing it’s okay to like whoever you like. I told him that I wanted to marry my best friend when I was four, and he said, ‘I hope one day you can.’ Never had to come out after that.”

“Huh,” is all Harrow says, staring out the window on her side.

The pause stretches longer than I’m comfortable with. “It wasn’t always rainbows and unicorns,” I add—ironing out the worst parts of my experiences isn’t doing either of us a favor. “I’ve been clocked as queer since primary school. Most people were chill about it, but once I befriended this girl who moved here from the Bible Belt. Her parents took one look at me and forbade us from having sleepovers. We were eight. What did they think was going to happen?” I shake my head, trying to keep my teeth from grinding. Even a decade later, it stings.

“That’s so... Who would do that?” Then she laughs ruefully and shakes her head. “Who am I kidding? My parents would’ve done that.”

I shrug, though it doesn’t feel like shruggable offense. “It is what it is. I looked her up recently and I’m pretty sure she’s straight, but it’s the principle of it.”

Harrow nods. “Were you ever bullied?”

“Oh, yeah. Middle school was the worst.” I laugh humorlessly. I’ve been trying to erase those years from my mind. “Hormones hit hard, and I went from tomboy to masculine within months. Teachers kept calling me ‘he’ and other kids too..’” I sigh. The transphobia years. “There were nice teachers though and getting boobs helped. Joining the GSA in high-school was cool, but even in sapphic spaces aren’t perfect. There’s usually some fem girl who’s a bitch about how gross she thinks mascs are. If not that, it’s this thing where… they kinda just, don’t see you as human? Like, golden retriever girl-boifriend or ‘strap me, daddy’ but never just… me. Actually, roller derby was a real life-saver. On the track all the girls are expected to be tough, so no one bats an eye if you’re masc-of-center. Plus, most of us are queer so…” I’m info-dumping again. I glance at Harrow, whose eyes are still a little shiny. “How about you? Were you ever bullied?”

“Yes,” she says, staring ahead wistfully.

“And?”

“I didn’t have your upbringing.”

“I got that.” I snort. “I meant, when did you know you were…” I gesture vaguely.

“It’s complicated.” She sighs.

I bite my tongue to prevent myself from groaning. Sometimes talking to Harrow is like a brick wall you keep crashing into, over and over. “Uncomplicate it for me. We have the time.”

She purses her lips, but she’s clearly considering. I keep quiet.

“I’m… on the a-spectrum.”

I frown. “Like… autistic?”

“No, you moron,” she snaps. Then she takes a deep breath. “I am that too, but it’s called ‘on the spectrum.’ I mean the A in LGBTQIA+?”

“Oh. Ooooooh.” It finally clicks. How could I not think of that, when my best friend is literally aroace. And, wait, she’s autistic? That explains a lot. I never considered she might be, but in my defense, I’ve never met an autistic person before. Not that I know of, anyway.

Harrow scoffs. “What, are you surprised?”

“I mean, kinda? I assumed you weren’t dating because you’re the megabitch no one dares to ask out.” I smirk, then glance at Nonagesimus, whose expression hasn’t shifted from a frown. “So you’re just not interested in dating, ever?”

She pulls her legs up. “I didn’t use to be. I used to identify as aromantic and asexual.” She shakes her head, as if there’s something she wants to keep in there, keep away from me. “But there was a girl—just a crush, nothing happened. I think that makes me demi.”

My face scrunches as I mentally scroll through tumblr posts. “That’s the one you needed emotional attachment for, right?”

She nods. “Although in my case, the attachment was rather one-sided. I thought… well. It doesn’t matter—I was wrong.”

“Do you…” I pause, tapping on the steering wheel. I don’t know if this is going to sound dismissive, but I’m genuinely curious. “Want to be in a relationship? A real one, I mean.”

“Not particularly.” She shrugs. “Sometimes I think I’m missing out—everyone else is getting their first everything-s. But it’s different when you’re queer. High school feels so… small. Perhaps I’ll have another crush in college—there must be queer girls at Harvard.”

I roll my eyes. Of course Harrow’s top choice is freaking Harvard. Then again, that’s the longest she’s spoken without snapping at me, so I let it slide. For now. “Definitely girls, then?”

She nods, chewing on her cheek. “I know it sounds strange with my pool of one, but… I tried being straight already. When I still wanted to make my parents happy. None of those ‘nice church boys’ sparked anything, so I think I’m gay. Mostly demi, but also gay.” She fixes me with her dark eyes. “Can I do that?”

“Why are you asking me?” I snort. “I’m not the lesbian police. If you want to be gay, be gay.”

“It’s that simple, huh?” Nonagesimus smirks, pulling the crucifix in her mouth again.

“I mean, in my experience, the only people who want to be lesbians—like, actually be lesbians, not the cutesy ‘OMG if only I could marry my gal pal!’ thing straight girls do when they’re fed up with shitty men—are lesbians. So, yeah. It’s that simple.”

Harrow doesn’t say anything, but for once the silence feels mild.

Except… did she say she’s only liked one girl? And she got real weird when I asked why she didn’t invite Coronabeth to Ireland? The thought twists in my stomach like gas station sushi and I can’t help but open my mouth, “Soooo you don’t have to answer, but the girl you were in love with…” I cringe, but take a deep breath. “It wasn’t Coronabeth, was it?”

I’m over Corona, really. But something about Harrowhark pining after her…

“What?” Harrow looks at me, and blinks. “No.” She chuckles listlessly, shaking her head. “Definitely not Coronabeth, she may as well be my cousin. It… doesn’t matter who it was. She unambiguously conveyed to me that the feeling was not mutual.” She sighs and presses her forehead against the window. “And it was a long time ago.”

I let out the air stuck in my lungs. It feels like a release of something I’d held for a long time. But when I think about freshman year; about Harrow and I on our way to becoming friends and the stupid, cruel joke that soured all that, other feelings bubble in my chest, squeezing it tightly—namely bitterness and indignation. Whoever her mystery girl was, she was right on the money about Harrowhark.

Still, glancing at the little weirdo beside me, shrunken into a tiny black ball, crucifix between her lips… maybe Harrow got more than a bruise on her cathedral-sized ego. I’ve been on the other side of rejection and it sucks. Despite my attempts to see her as nothing but a goth Regina George, I can’t help feeling a little sorry for her.

Oh, god. We aren’t bonding, are we? We agreed to keep up the charade for about four months. There was no bonding involved in the package!

I shake it off, slowing to avoid bumping into the car in front. “What I don’t get is, why do you need anyone at all? For the anniversary party, I mean. Just tell your family you’re not interested in dating or whatever.”

“I told you—I tried that already.” Harrow laughs bitterly. “I’ve explained it every which way, but they refuse to hear me. Once, my mother even put me in therapy to fix ‘whatever is wrong with me’.”

It takes me several seconds to process her words.

Heat bubbles in my stomach, scorches my guts and flares in my face, my breath, my nostrils. “Your mother,” I grit out, hands tightening around the wheel. My jaw and neck hurt. If I don’t speak slowly, I might cause a road rage accident. “Put. You. In. CONVERSION THERAPY?”

Harrow looks like she’s been slapped. Then her shoulders slump and she shifts away, like I’ve slashed open a chasm between us. “I don’t think she saw it that way.”

“Yeah, I bet she thinks she was exorcizing the devil from you. Give me a fucking break.” I roll my eyes. If I pretend this is funny, maybe the fury in my stomach will quiet. I’ve never wanted to punch anyone I’ve never met before.

“It didn’t last, anyway. I’m queer and autistic, so there’s always going to be something wrong with me, in my parents’ eyes. I was their genius little girl. These days, I’m nothing but a disappointment.” She doesn’t even sound mad, just resigned.

I bite my tongue, not sure what to say to that. I’ve no idea what it’s like to be a gifted child whose parents are counting on you to be the next President or come up with a cure for cancer. In a way, I’m lucky. You can’t disappoint people, if they have no expectations.

We’re quiet for a while. The early October wind blows through my hair, and I let it cool me down.

Harrow turns a little, forcing a half-smile. “Perhaps that was a lot for a Monday morning.”

“Nah.” I grin. It was, but I don’t exactly mind. “Kinda felt like you needed to vent. If it helps, I’m ADHD. Obviously not the same, but I got you.”

“Nooo, really? ADHD? But you hide it so well,” she deadpans.

“Screw you, asshole.” I roll my eyes, but keep grinning.

Oh, god. I’m not relating to the worst person I know, am I? That’s worse than bonding!

Chapter Text

My part of the sponsorship starts strong. I take some group photos with P’wned, all of us wearing brand name t-shirts; some shots of us opening cans while laughing over a table at the school cafeteria (had to before Saturday practice to set those up). I even spend an entire weekend posing for Billboards, which, thankfully, won’t be displayed near my school.

The photographer kept telling me how to turn and where to put my arms, and I had a half an hour’s course on ‘smising.’ Apparently, my hotness does not translate into modeling prowess. I thought it would be easier—I’ve never struggled with pics for Insta, but it’s the whole ‘face of the brand’ that trips me up. It feels like I’m playing a character.

Still, after all that, I thought the photoshoot with Nonagesimus would be easy. All we’d have to do is stay in frame, smile and hold a can with a visible label. Then I’d add a filter and a cheesy caption like “nothing like my favorite energy drink to pump me up for a date with the gf” and we’d be done.

We didn’t even have to touch, and still, we manage to screw it up.

We’re like two magnets that keep repulsing each other. At the end, the best picture we get is her in her ruffled long-sleeved shirt, looking like she’s just failed all her exams and is about to drink away her sorrows; and me, looking like I just got bodyslammed and trying to smile through the pain. But we sure got the no-touching part down.

One of the reps even messages me with a raised eyebrow emoji, asking if that’s really the best photo we had. I lie through my teeth that we’re both tired from entry exams. If we’re lucky, everyone else will think the same. But that’s a big if.

That’s why PDA practice happens.

It’s the worst idea I’ve had. And I once took on a dare to jump into Coronabeth’s pool from the second story balcony after three rounds of beer pong, all of which I lost.

“If you kiss me,” Harrowhark warns. “I will strangle you.”

With all the might of your like, three muscles?, I want to snark, but the sharp black nails are waaaay too close to my carotid artery—a word that I know, thanks to testing Harrow while we were prepping for our ‘photoshoot.’

We’re sitting on the backless benches in the girls’ locker room, half an hour before anyone else shows up, with our foreheads together. We’re practicing the ‘before the kiss’ pose. It’s not the most romantic place—dim, and dingy, walls covered by rows of lockers with long. It still smells of months old mold and industrial floor cleaner, just a little too chilly to be comfortable. But we aren’t going for romance. We just need to stop looking like we’re three seconds away from murdering each other.

What I’ve learned in the last five minutes is that Harrow’s forehead is incredibly bony, she still smells of books and sandalwood even after a long day, and she has absolutely no clue what to do with her hands.

“You need to hold my neck,” I say, after several of the most awkward seconds in my life.

“We said no neck and face touching.” Harrow’s shrill voice has gone one note higher. She must be even more frustrated than I am.

I want to rub my forehead, but I’m afraid to move. We might knock heads, or my lips might brush against Harrow’s, or any number of terrifying possibilities. I groan. “I won’t touch yours okay? Just do something.”

“No.”

“You’re not even trying! Maybe if I—” I ghost my fingers over the open back collar of Harrow’s dress. They tingle unpleasantly, but I ignore it. From afar it might look we’re touching, if—

She cringes, a with a full-body shiver, then slaps me.

“Ouch!” I pull away, hand on my cheek. It wasn’t a hard slap, but it was definitely, identifiably a slap. “What was that for?” When I look up, Harrow is looking at me with a storm brewing in those night sky eyes.

“Don’t ever do that to me!”

“Wha-?” I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. “What are you talking about?”

“The skin ghosting thing, I hate that.” She winces again. “The sensation of it, I can’t—” Harrow pulls back and squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing hard, like she might be sick.

“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up. Harrow is autistic, so her sensory input must be off the charts. There are sensations and sounds that bother me too—not enough to slap anyone, but I get it…. kind of. “You said you don’t want to be touched, so I thought—”

“I would rather you touch me than that.” Her black eyes go blacker in the faint LED light, hands pressed against the wood of the bench.

That’s how I know she’s dead serious. “Sorry,” I repeat. “I won’t do it again, promise.”

Harrow chews on her lip, staring at her hands. “I shouldn’t have slapped you.” She says it so fast, it comes out more like ‘shoulntveslappedu.’ It’s not quite an apology, but I’ll take it.

“It’s cool. It wasn’t even that hard.”

Harrow turns her head and huffs, but it sounds like half a chuckle.

“C’mon, let’s try again. You still look like you’re on the verge of stabbing me. We’re teenage lesbians in our honeymoon phase—we should look cute.”

“I suppose.” Harrow nods and stands on her knees again. “Do you still want me to touch your neck?”

“Or my shoulders. Or you can put your hands in my hair? Just do something with them.”

She sighs, examining her long fingers. “Alright.” Then presses the fleshy part of her palms against my collarbones.

I’ve always pictured her hands vampire-cold. Instead, her skin is torrid. Well, you couldn’t think that amount of ghastly thoughts without generating energy.

Her eyes are focused on me, but they don’t look nearly as stabby. I take a deep breath and lean in until my forehead touches hers. We breathe each other’s air and it comes out in heavy pants. This time, she moves first, shifting her palms to my neck and I can’t help a small shudder. It’s not unpleasant… which is what bothers me. I should be hating this, but at most, it’s a little awkward. Like a first kiss, when you don’t know if you should lean to the left or the right.

Harrowhark’s thumbs shift, until they’re stroking my jaw and for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s plotting to press them against the hollow of my neck and restrain my air flow.

I take a deep breath and grasp her slender hips, clothed in the black cotton of her skirt. Harrow’s knees slide over the bench until she’s half in my lap and the sound she makes embarrasses us both.

I should be laughing. Instead, a pull below my belly button sharpens my senses. For the first time, I notice the way the garnet lipstick accentuates the shape of her lips, which form a thin bow. I tangle my hand in the velvety curls, barely restraining a gasp of my own.

A desperate impulse overtakes me: Kiss her.

Thankfully, it only lasts half a second, because what the hell?

I don’t want to kiss Harrowhark Nonagesimus! I don’t like her, I don’t even find her all that attractive.

The only thing happening here is that I’m so touch-deprived, I’m projecting my frustration onto the only girl I’ve been this close to, in recent months.  If I was doing this with Camilla I’d feel the same—and she may as well be my sister, for the amount of sexual tension between us.

The moment passes.

The back of my neck is sweating and my skin prickles in a way that makes me want to scratch it. I’m starting to feel crowded. “Anyway,” I say, pulling back in a swift motion and wipe my mouth, even though it didn’t touch anything but air. “I think we got that part.”

“I certainly hope so. I’m never doing this again,” Harrow says.

It comes out vicious and it’s like a bucket of ice dumped over my wayward libido. All the heady feelings are gone. Still... I rub the back of my neck, shaking my head. If Harrow is so unaffected, could I have imagined that little sound? Or maybe it was a gasp of surprise and I gave it another meaning?

“We should try walking together.” I need to get on my feet, anyway. Change. Change is good.

“Is it my arms again?”

I shrug—I wasn’t gonna say it.

“What am I supposed to do? If I try holding on to you, we’ll just sway from side to side as if we’re drunk.”

“Or we could try holding hands like a normal couple?”

“I told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know. No touching rule.” I straighten and stretch, cracking my bones to get rid of the cramped feeling. I grab a small bottle of hand-sanitizer from my locker, spreading it evenly over my hands. “C’mon, just try it.” I hold out one palm.

Harrow surveys my hand, then my face. “Did you just rub hand-sanitizer?”

“Yeah? You’re a bit of a germaphobe and you hate sweaty palms, so—”

Before I’ve even finished my sentence the germaphobe’s hand is in mine—and, yep. Still warm. I smile and trail my fingers between hers, watching her furrowed brows soften. This isn’t… terrible. And it’s far less awkward than the almost-kissing crap.

The door bursts open and Camilla and Coronabeth walk in, laughing. Their eyes land on us and they halt, expressions sobering.

Cam’s brow furrows. “Are we… interrupting something?”

“No.” Harrow slips her hand from mine and snatching all the warmth away.

I almost reach for her, before remembering myself. 

“We’re done here. Have a nice practice.” She nods at the three of us, then she’s out, skirts billowing behind her. I wonder if she practices dramatic exits.

Then I shake my head at myself—this is stupid, we weren’t doing anything wrong. Besides, Cam and Corona already know what this is. So why, when I lift my chin to look at Coronabeth, is she biting her lip and giving me a concerned look? My heart skips a beat at the possibilities—is she jealous? Warning me not to get carried away?

But before I can figure it out, Corona veers toward her locker and this moment is over too.

Chapter Text

I’m not afraid of ghosts.

It’s just that the stupid movie Nonagesimus took me to just had so many jump scares. She called it ‘a pedestrian cliché, employing far too many tired tropes and cheap tricks.’ I was too busy keeping my eyes shut to pay attention to the tired tropes. The cheap tricks did me in.

I spend the drive back jumping at every noise and turning over every shadow, making sure it’s not the ghost of my mom, coming back to haunt me. The woman hasn’t contacted me in eighteen years—for all I know, she’s as dead as the main character’s ditzy best friend. It was worth it, though. The second we showed up holding hands, a small group of AP students crowded together and started whispering.

“You don’t have to drive me the rest of the way,” Harrowhark says. “I’ll call an Uber.”

“Yeah, sure.” There’s a weird dark shape on the side of the road and I reaaaaally hope it’s a raccoon, not a possessed doll.

“Sometimes they take a while, so I could wait upstairs? I’ve never seen where you live.”

“Yeah, I… wait, what?” I whip my head around. Thankfully, we’re at a stoplight. “You want to come up to my apartment?”

Harrow shrugs one slender shoulder. “We could take pictures. For Instagram.”

“I… guess? Dad did buy a six-pack of our energy drinks a while back. I never actually drink them, they’re disgusting.”

“Oh, now they’re disgusting.” She scoffs. “But last week you called me an idiot for expressing that exact sentiment.”

“I can’t trust your judgment. You think unsweetened tea is too sweet. But… that energy drink is too much, even for me.”

“So you did sell your soul to the devil?”

“The devil is paying good money.” I shrug. “Speaking of, no one will believe that we’re drinking an energy drink at,” I check the dashboard clock. “9:30 p.m.”

“We’ll schedule them for the morning, moron. We just have to make sure there are no windows in sight.”

“Right.”

“However, perhaps we should take pictures without the energy drink? It would be strange if all our ‘couple pics’ are product-placements, wouldn’t it?”

Shit, that’s a good point. I sigh and rub my forehead. “Yeah. Guess you’re coming upstairs. You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”

“Not as far as I know.”

We stay in cordial silence for the rest of the ride, pop music soothing my nerves with its cheery, over-the-top refrains. Wait. It was Harrowhark’s turn tonight, wasn’t it? She can’t have forgotten, so my only explanation is that she’s letting me have this one. She must know her sad girl music would only exacerbate the condition of my frail psyche. And that makes all kinds of weird feelings jumble in my stomach.

When we reach my apartment building, I try to see it through Harrow’s eyes.

It’s one of those unremarkable brownstone places—not new enough to be modern, not old enough to be antique. While I’ve never been inside the Nonagesimus’ mansion, I’m pretty sure it looks like something straight out of an Edgar Allen Poe short story. Mine looks more like a decrepit condo the protagonist of a romcom looks at, before she finds her dream apartment. It may be small and cute—in eclectic style with potted plants giving it a liveliness that the ‘an-old-cat-lady-died-here’ vibe doesn’t—but to Harrowhark? It might as well be a flophouse.

As soon as I unlock the door, Oliver rushes to bark and sniff at my hands. I beam and crouch to scratch his ears and kiss his little doggy face. “Who’s a good boy?” I say, as he licks my hands.

When he turns to Harrow, I expect him to smell the hell demon and start growling, but he just sniffs at her feet, wagging his tail. Then he rubs against her ankle—like a damn cat—and remains there.

“Erm.” She turns to me, eyes wide. “What am I supposed to do?”

“He’s a dog, weirdo.” I laugh, closing the door behind us. “You rub his belly and he’ll love you forever.”

The weirdo just keeps staring at me.

I snort and wrap the dog in my arms, turning him on his back like a furry baby. “C’mon, bud. Leave the hell demon alone.” A strange shape catches in my periphery and I jump.

Oliver’s ears perk up. Harrow gets the lights in the living room, which reveals that… the shape is just yesterday’s jacket, haphazardly thrown over a chair. I force myself to breathe, my heart slowing down. “Sorry, I thought it was a… burglar.” Ghost burglar, maybe.

“Nav.” Harrow speaks very slowly, striding inside. “You do realize ghosts aren’t real, yes?”

My head snaps back to her. “Maybe you aren’t real! Maybe you died in that fire and I’ve been hallucinating you ever since because of survivor’s guilt.” It would explain why she agreed to fake-date me. “I’ve only ever seen you interact with that butler guy and he looks dead too.” I turn to the dog, scratching his neck and belly. “Doesn’t he, Ollie? Yes, he does! Yes, he does!” Ollie’s eyes lighten up and he kicks his leg out in pleasure.

“You’ve read the article. You saw the pictures and the email from the energy drink people. I think they would’ve mentioned it, if I’d died.” Now that I’m holding him, Harrow’s hand stretches to actually scratch the dog’s ears. And that damn traitor just moans happily.

“...That’s a good point.”

“I’ve also interacted with Coronabeth and Camilla, right in front of you. And the EMTs…”

“Okay, there are some holes in this theory, but—”

Harrow slaps the back of my neck. “Ghosts. Are not. Real. I’m flesh and blood, see?”

“You’re also a jackass.” I shake my head, letting go of Ollie, who sprints for his water bowl. I rub the back of my neck, cracking it. Getting real tired of the physical violence exerted upon me in this fake relationship. But… I know what Harrowhark was doing and I have to give it to her—it worked.

“At least your sprightly personality hasn’t been affected.” She rolls her eyes. “Where is the bathroom? I need to fix my makeup if I’m to be photographed.”

“Second door to the left. And the photographing was your idea!” I call after her.

#

We take several sets of photos with enough outfit and hair changes to pass them off as different days. Harrowhark leans into my shoulder on the couch. Long black hairs tickle my cheek and I refuse to think about how her shampoo smells of berries.

When it’s done, she yawns. “I’m sorry. I’m usually asleep by now.”

“At,” I check the screen on my phone. “Ten? Do you live in a retiring home?”

“I wake up at five.”

“Jesus.” I get up at six and that’s with having to pick up Harrow at seven. “Even on weekends?”

“No, I sleep until seven on weekends.”

“Wow, you slacker.” I roll my eyes and get up to stretch, popping each joint of my shoulders. “I didn’t even wake up at five when I used to hit the gym before school.”

Her eyes brighten at that. “Why did you stop?”

“Probably because there was a goth pest I had to drive everywhere, all of a sudden.” I turn back and wink. “Anyway, it’s cool—I just go in the afternoon or train in my room now.” I saunter over to the kitchen. Another shadow catches my eye and I jump… before I realize it’s just my own shoes. I take a deep breath, busying myself with washing our glasses, even though Nonagesimus only had water. “I guess you should get going then, huh? Unless you wanna… stay for a cup of tea or something?” God, I’m pathetic. I’m supposed to be a tough butch athlete and I’m asking Harrowhark to stay because I watched a scary movie and I don’t want to be alone. What is she going to do with a ghost, anyway? Be a bitch to them until they get annoyed and leave?

Childish.

“You know,” Harrow says thoughtfully. “If there was a ghost, Oliver would probably protect you.”

I scoff, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, and turn back to face her. “Please. I love that little guy, but he’ll just pee in my shoes and cower in the corner.” I squat and scratch the dog’s ears. “Won’t you, you big baby?” He keeps wagging his tail, too stupid to realize he’s being insulted.

“Your father then?”

“Nah.” I shrug, eyes on the dog. “He’s in research mode. Texted he won’t be back for dinner, which actually means he won’t be back before two a.m. Sometimes he just sleeps in the lab and picks it back up in the morning.”

“Does he do that often?” I know she doesn’t mean to, but her tone sounds accusatory.

This time, I turn to her and stand, leaning against the counter. “It’s not what you think. He’s a good dad, but he hyperfixates on work like I do with derby. ADHD is genetic and let’s just say, I didn’t get it from my mom.”

Harrow nods. “What about inviting a friend over? Or staying with them?”

I’ve considered that. Harrowhark certainly wasn’t my first choice. But while the derby girls are my family, most aren’t quite the call-at-ten-p.m.-for-an-impromptu-sleepover material, unless the situation was dire. And ‘watched a scary movie, don’t want to be alone’ doesn’t cut it.

With Coronabeth, I could’ve passed it off as a one-off booty call, but that’s a rabbit hole I’m not going down again. Camilla and Palamedes would pack an overnight bag and be here in twenty minutes—or they’ll tell me to haul my ass to one of their places. But tonight Palamedes is volunteering at a homeless shelter, and Cam is babysitting her siblings, so I’d feel like a jackass to make that about me.

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

It’s only for a second, but Harrow’s features darken. Then she yawns. “It is getting rather late. I’m tired enough that I could fall asleep in the Uber.”

“That’d be dumb.” I fold my arms. “You can’t trust those drivers.”

“I cannot, can I? Perhaps you have extra sheets.” She raises an eyebrow.

I frown. Why would she need—oh. This is a thing. She’s doing a thing. I play along, determined not to mess with this precious equilibrium. “Probably. I’ll go find them.”

“I’m not sleeping on the couch,” she warns, face scrunched up like an angry kitten.

I snort. “I wouldn’t dream of it. You can sleep in my bed.”

“Not with you.”

“What?” I shudder. “God, no! It’s a twin and we’re not that close.” The only reason it fit both me and Corona is because we were half entangled in each other already. And she never stayed the night. “I have an inflatable mattress. You take my bed, I’ll sleep on that.”

She exhales. “Fine.”

And weirdly? The pressure in my chest releases.

Chapter Text

I’m lying on top of my mattress on the ground, parallel to Harrow, who has rolled on one side in my old t-shirt. It says HOMOSEXU-WHALE with a rainbow whale—the one that started my love for ridiculous novelty tees with queer puns. It covers her fully, hanging like a tent all the way to her mid-thighs. I only had a brief glimpse of her legs, before she slipped under the sheets, which made me flush and turn away.

So stupid. It’s not like I haven’t seen legs before. I’m on the roller derby team for god’s sakes! Harrow’s legs aren’t even that impressive—they’re scrawny and look like they haven’t seen the sun in years.

More importantly, it’s my first time taking in her bare face. It’s sharp, like an arrow—high cheekbones, thick eyelashes and a peculiar cupid’s bow mouth. Her charcoal eyes are just as big without the heavy eyeliner, but she looks… not younger exactly, but naked. Softer, without all the makeup tapering her angles like the edges of a broken glass.

Harrow flips on her back, texting.

“Are your parents mad that you’re breaking curfew?” I tease, smiling off the side of my mouth.

Harrow rolls her eyes, without glancing at me. “Not your best work, Griddle. If you must know—” She puts the phone on the nightstand and rolls on her side, facing me. “I was texting Seamus. I never stay out overnight, he’d worry.”

“You… text your butler and not your parents?” Jesus Christ, that’s sad.

“They’re out of state, they don’t know I’m not home.” She sighs.

Before I can respond with something more than mouthing an ‘ouch’, Harrow changes the subject. “Speaking of parents, are you certain your father would approve of me staying overnight?”

I grin. “Yeaaaah, you’re fine. I think he’s more worried about the lack of girls in my room than the presence of one. And Cam doesn’t count.”

Harrow’s face draws itself to the wrinkle between her eyebrows. “You and Camilla, you never…”

“No.” I laugh. “She’s aroace. And we don’t have that kind of a relationship.”

“You’ve never wanted to?”

“Nope. I mean, she’s objectively very hot,” I say, because it’s true. Not so much in the way she looks, though she is pretty in a ‘sturdy little bullet’ kind of way—but in the way she moves on the track, the way she holds herself, the confidence that she’s always right. “But I don’t think of her like that. She’s just… Cam.” I nudge Harrow, grinning. “Just because I’m a lesbian doesn’t mean I like every girl, you know. That’s homophobic.”

“No, but you’re very close and I thought… I suppose that’s fair.” She shifts to her side. “Your father sounds very liberal.”

“He’s pretty chill.” I smile more to myself than her, then look up. “He’ll probably be around for breakfast, if you wanna meet him?”

“As your girlfriend?” She raises a brow. I can almost see the large sweat dropping off it, if she was a character in one of my Yuri mangas.

“Naaah, he knows this isn’t real. You don’t have to lie to him.”

“In that case, I’d love to.” The corner of her mouth lifts into the ghost of a smile. Maybe ghosts aren’t the worst thing in the world, after all.

I roll on my side too and my eyes catch Harrow’s. “So.” I swallow. “You shared something personal with me a few days ago. I’m gonna give you one too.”

“You don’t have to,” she says very reasonably. “I don’t expect a tit-for-tat.”

I laugh.

“What?”

“You said ‘tit.’”

“Oh, grow up, Griddle.” Harrow rolls her eyes.

I wink, but scold my grin into my game face. I want to be serious about this. I know now that this Harrow is a different person from the one she was in freshman year. She never had to come upstairs or offer to stay, but she did. Freshman!Harrow would never.

“I know I don’t have to—I want to.”

“Alright.” Harrow nods, and settles in to listen.

“You asked if I’ve dated a teammate once. Well, I have. Although ‘dating’ might be a strong word for it. Last May, Coronabeth and I… we started hooking up. We aren’t anymore,” I add quickly, seeing her frown. “I just didn’t wanna tell you ‘cause it’s still a little raw. No one knows except for Dad and Cam and Pal, and honestly? I didn’t trust you not to use it against me.”

The frown doesn’t go away. “Why would I do that?”

I scoff—as if she doesn’t know.

“Do you trust me now?”

“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the lack of hesitation in my voice. We’re charting a brand new territory and trust needs to be a part of it.

“Good. And for the record, I wouldn’t have automatically taken her side. Coronabeth and I are… not that close. ”

I can’t help my snort. “What, not since freshman year?” Like Coronabeth isn’t the only person Harrow hangs out with—besides me, now.

She purses her lips and looks away, considering her next words. When she faces me, her face is somber. “We grew up together. Our families are similar—”

“Rich, you mean.”

“Yes. I suppose you’ve noticed I’m not exactly the most sociable person? It was worse when I was younger. Coronabeth… tolerated me. We don’t have much in common and we’ve never had the kind of friendship where we would braid each others’ hair and share our deepest, darkest secrets—”

Nothing but sharing cruel and vaguely homophobic pranks, apparently. But we’re having a moment, so I bite my tongue. Literally.

“—but we understand each other. We understand what it’s like to be from a family like ours and not meet expectations. That’s why we’re still friends. But she’s never talked about you. And she’s not exactly shy with those details. Trust me, I wish she was shier.”

“I figured.” I shrug. It stings to have it confirmed, but what did I expect? Corona didn’t even want to tell the team, why would she tell Harrow? “It wasn’t that serious for her. I wanted us to be more and she dumped me over it.”

Harrow furrows her black brows. “Why would she do that?”

“Okay, you’re bad at this. You’re supposed to say ‘That’s terrible, Gideon. I’m so sorry!’ and I’d say ‘Don’t apologize, you did nothing wrong.’ and then you’d offer to make out with me to make me feel better.”

She scoffs. “I would never offer to make out with you, Griddle.”

“Neither would I accept it! It’s about the ego boost.”

“Your ego will make it through, somehow.” She pauses, then gnaws on her lip. “I could be wrong, but you didn’t look like you hated her at practice?”

“You can’t hate your teammates on the track.” I shrug. “That’s what makes shitty teams. When I go out there, I’m not Gideon Nav and she isn’t Coronabeth Tridentarius—we’re Violet Painbow and The Crowned Assassin. They only exist for two minutes at a time and don’t have any messy history.”

She furrows her brows. “You’re pretending then?”

“Nooo, it’s…” I sigh. ‘More complicated than that’ sounds like a cliché. “Truth? I want to hate her, sometimes. I think I did, during the summer.” I shift on my back, not quite wanting to look Harrow in the eyes, in case my voice breaks. “But it’s not fair to blame it all on her. She was always honest about what we were—friends with benefits, a way to blow off steam, need for physical contact beyond a hip check. I was just… way more into her than she was into me. I’d been crushing on her for so long that when she started flirting with me, it felt like all my dreams were coming true.” I laugh humorlessly. “So I started getting ideas.”

“Oh, no.” Harrow mock-gasps. “Not ideas.”

“Mhm. Thoughts, even.”

“Ghastly, Griddle. You should never have those.”

I half-smile. Despite Harrow playing along—even with her deadpan sarcasm—there’s satisfaction in confiding in her. I thought she only sees me the class clown; the shallow ‘fun’ friend—not someone whose feelings are worth taking seriously. Now her pointy face is earnest, her pitch-black eyes full of something that looks dangerously like compassion.

It was Camilla and Palamedes who dragged me out of my funk, post break-up. Camilla by bringing me camomile tea, rubbing my shoulders, draping herself over me like a weighted blanket. Palamedes by talking me through it with the unshakable confidence that only cold, hard logic can help me process and move on. But they both did so indulgently, patience thinning fast. The way you handle a tantruming child, or a friend with a penchant for dramatics.

It didn’t bother me. They did their damndest not to show annoyance and I was, in retrospect, quite annoying. But it’s also gratifying t be met with the sober validation that I went through something shitty—even if it was my own damn fault— that it sucked, and that I’m allowed to be hurt by it.

I turn on my side to face Harrow. “So that’s my trauma. First girl I ever loved and she never loved me back.”

Something weird happens then. Harrow’s nose scrunches up and she reaches out, tapping my shoulder. It’s the lightest tap in the history of shoulder taps.

I scowl, looking from my shoulder back to her. “What the fuck was that, you absolute weirdo?”

“A comforting touch.” The absolute weirdo frowns, as if not sure which part is unclear. “That’s what people do when someone is upset.”

“Not like that, it isn’t.” I laugh. “Anyway, it’s cool. You don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to. Thanks for listening.”

“You’re welcome.” Harrow nods, and almost, almost smiles.

I’ll get her there one day.

Chapter Text

“Forty-nine,” I whisper under my breath, pulling myself on the bar above my door frame. I try to keep it down, but chin ups always make me pant like a dog on a hot day.

The back of my neck prickles, which could only mean one of two things—a spider has crawled under my tank top or Nonagesimus is awake and watching me. I feel, more than see her, stir in bed.

“Fifty.” I drop to my feet and stretch, gripping the back of my neck.

My favorite feeling—sore muscles and the rush of endorphins from a good workout. I grin and turn around. Harrow has swung her legs down the bed and is just sitting there, dwarfed in my t-shirt. Black tendrils of hair frame her jagged little face and she’s just staring, unblinking. That’s… disconcerting.

I glance at myself—my biceps glisten with sweat and my collar and pits are stained. My hair is also damp, sticking to my face. Ugh. Not my hottest moment—I hate people knowing that looking like this takes work.

We’ve been quiet for a solid minute now. “Morning,” I say.

Harrowhark only narrows her eyes and clears her throat. “Did you have to wake me up at,” she checks the time on her phone on the nightstand, “six for pull-ups?” Her voice is still rough with sleep, which offsets the meanness.

“First of all, those were chin ups—for pull ups you have grab the bar with your palms out and they don’t engage your biceps—”

“Oh my god, Birdbrain.” She rolls her eyes. “Do I look like I care?”

My own gaze flickers upward. Apparently one night hasn’t managed to turn her into any less of a bitch. “Second,” I continue. “This is your own damn fault. Driving you around all the time messed up my workout schedule. And would you stop staring at me? It’s creepy.”

“I’m only staring because you’re a sweaty hog.” Harrow says, but does turn her head away.

I swear the slightest of flushes colors her cheeks.

Which, what? Harrowhark doesn’t get embarrassed. Unless…

Oooh.

I grin, draping a towel over my neck. “I’m about to take a shower. You can go next, I’ve left a clean towel for you.” I nod at the towel folded over a chair. “Unless you’d rather join me—”

Her flush deepens and she throws a pillow at me. I just laugh throatily.

#

Harrowhark has a whole morning routine. She wears different layers—fishnet tights; ripped pants with a shirt and a corset (not the bone one this time), along with her creepy necklaces and bracelets. She dresses and bejewels herself so painstakingly slowly, it makes my head hurt. I’ve only had the attention span for boxers, sports bra, jeans and a t-shirt. Maybe socks, if I’m feeling fancy.

Once dressed, she digs a hand-held mirror from her bag along with a black case and sits at my desk to do her makeup, which has so many steps, she could be a beauty YouTuber. Except that she hates explaining herself.

“Now you’re staring at me,” Harrow says, without turning. She’s rubbing something on her already pasty skin to make herself as white as a vampire.

My stomach growls. “Fine,” I say, closing my manga about a girl falling for a femdroid—classic stuff. My skin feels clammy though I’ve just showered. “I’ll make breakfast.”

I’m out the door before she can say anything else.

In the kitchen, I’m greeted by Dad. “Morning, kiddo,” he yawns. Dad is in his nice sweat pants and Iron Man t-shirt, that normally shave off five years off him, but the skin around his eyes is worn and droopy. “Girlfriend stayed the night, huh?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I slide the pancake mix bowl over to me and start whisking.

“I don’t knooow,” he sing-songs, glancing in my direction with a little smirk. “You’re going on dates, you’re having sleepovers…”

“Fake dates.”

“Real sleepovers.”

“In different beds—we didn’t even kiss.” Although there was that moment… though that didn’t mean anything. “Anyway. She’ll show up any second and I don’t want her to think we’re gossiping about her.”

“But we are gossiping about her.”

“I said I don’t want her to think that. Tell me about work?”

So he does. It’s a welcome distraction and by the time Harrowhark appears at the archway, we’ve finished the first batch of pancakes with Dad still chattering about his colleagues.

Her usually perfect tube curls have loosened, but she’s pulled her hair into an updo so elaborate, it could be in a hair magazine.

“Good morning, Mr. Gaius.” Harrow smiles and extends her hand to Dad. It’s not a real smile—her eyes remain cautious.

Dad doesn’t seem to notice or care. He dusts his hands on his ‘Please Romaine Calm and Lettuce Carrot On’ apron (I don’t know if pun-loving is genetic, but neither of us has seen one we didn’t instantly take to) and grins. “Hi! You must be Harrowhark.” He shakes her hand so enthusiastically, I think one of her skull earrings might fall. “Please, call me John.”

Redness creeps along Harrow’s diamond-sharp cheekbones. “Oh-alright.”

Dad circles behind the kitchen island. “We’re making pancakes. What do you want—sweet or sour or both? This hooligan,” he nods at me, “eats them with chocolate and bacon.”

“Oh my god.” Harrow presses her hand to her mouth with a retching motion.

“That was my reaction.” Dad says, leaning toward her almost conspiratorially.

I roll my eyes and hop on the bar chair on Harrow’s left. “You’re just traditionalists. I am a revolutionary.”

Harrow raises an eyebrow at me, but sits.

“So,” Dad prompts again. “Flavor of choice?”

“Can I have cream cheese?” Her voice trembles, but it has a bright note to it.

“Ooh, that’s a good one! It’s goat, you’ll like it.”

I doubt that. Harrow doesn’t like… food, but I’m not dampening Dad’s enthusiasm. I still drag two pancakes in her plate and splatter a generous dollop of cream cheese on the side.

“Since we’ve got that sorted—” Dad heads for the coffee machine. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” she and I say in unison.

Harrow glances at me with an unreadable expression, then turns back to her plate. She side-eyes the cheese, as if an actual goat is about to jump out and poke her butt, but starts picking at pancakes’ corners. Dad busies himself with the coffee. I’m already on my second pancake, a mouth full of chocolate and bacon, when Harrow pipes: “Do you often have big breakfasts?” She blushes. “I mean—that seems like a lot of food for two people.”

I’m not sure that makes it better, but I laugh and tap her knee.

“I try to eat with Gideon every Sunday, as I’m not always around the rest of the week.” Dad looks over his shoulder with a sheepish smile. “Never miss a Sunday breakfast—that’s the rule in this household.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say, waving my fork around. I brush the corners of my mouth in a napkin and swallow. “Harrow invited me to her parents’ anniversary party in November. It’s in Ireland, so we’re leaving on Thursday night and coming back late Sunday. Meaning, I’m gonna miss one Sunday breakfast. And I’ll need a day off school.”

Dad frowns. “Do you have a ticket or…?”

“All expenses covered,” Harrow says evenly. “It’s my invitation, therefore my treat. My parents’ technically.”

Dad doesn’t seem fully satisfied by that. “Do you have anything to wear?”

I shrug. “I dunno. How fancy is it?”

“It’s black tie,” Nonagesimus says indignantly, as if that’s supposed to mean anything to me. Does she expect me to have studied a dress code guide? She sighs and rubs her temples. “I’ll make an appointment with my tailor for Tuesday. You’re a tux girl, right?”

“That’s what I wore to junior prom.” It was too official to go with Coronabeth, so I went in with Cam, Judith, and Pal—all of us perpetually single—and had a blast. Harrow wasn’t there. “Dad? This is my part of the arrangement.”

“Right.” He drops the frowny face and grins. “Have fun!”

Harrow’s brows furrow ever so slightly. It means ‘we’ll be with my family, so I doubt it, but she says nothing. Neither do I.

“To answer your original question,” Dad serves two cups of coffee—black for Harrow, milk and whipped cream for me. “I used to cook for five, that’s why we have so much food.”

Harrow scowls as if trying to puzzle out an equation.

I take pity on her. “Dad’s newest polycule broke up with him a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“I saw it coming.” He sighs, staring at his own pancakes—a classic choice of whipped cream and strawberries. “Justin and Carrie are newly-weds and decided to ‘go in a different direction’. I think getting involved with a middle-aged man with a teenage daughter wasn’t exactly their poly fantasy. And Amanda—”

“Was a bitch,” I finish. I can’t believe they got back together. For two weeks, but still.

“Gideon didn’t like her.” Dad smiles almost nostalgically.

I snort. “Understatement of the century. She wanted to send me to military school. I’m eighteen, I’m too old for an evil step mom.”

Harrow does one of her little half-smiles in between bites.

“But enough about my love life.” He waves a hand and oh boy, do I not trust that Cheshire Cat grin. “Let’s talk about yours.”

I choke on my bite, coughing out, “Dad, we don’t have one.”

“But that’s not all there is to it, is it? My question is for young Harrowhark. I understand this relationship is fake, but you are a real lesbian, are you not?”

I slap a hand against my mouth, but she only nods calmly.

“I am.”

“So why don’t you actually date my daughter? What’s wrong with her?”

“Daaaad.” I shake my head, flushing red as the strawberries on his plate. Cringe behavior. Nonagesimus barely likes me as a friend.

“What? I’m just asking a question, am I not allowed to?”

I sigh and bury my face in my palms. Now would be when Harrowhark lists everything that’s wrong with me. Or perhaps, remembering she’s speaking to my dad, only mention two or three things.

What happens instead, is that she leaves her cutlery on the sides of her plate and straightens. “It’s not about Gideon.” She clears her throat. “I suppose… I don’t date in general. A fake relationship perfectly suits my needs.”

“Such as?” Dad leans his elbows over the counter.

“Pancakes, clearly.” She raises the piece on her fork to demonstrate, the corner of her lip lifting ever so slightly.

“Oh, my, god.” I grin and it quickly turns into soundless laughter. “Did you just make a joke?”

Harrow shrugs one slender shoulder. Her expression would be indistinguishable from her usual resting bitch face to anyone else, but I see the hint of a satisfied smirk.

Chapter Text

With Harrowhark’s parents out of the country, I rope up my entire team into helping prep her birthday party. Seamus Crux—the creepy butler—watches with narrowed eyes as fourteen rowdy girls roll out through the front door of the Fitzgeralds’ mansion and warns us about Persian carpets and precious blown glass. I nod, wait five seconds for everyone to come through, then flip him off—if he has a problem, he can take it up with the elder Nonagesimus. But somehow, I doubt he will.

Then I face the inside of the house and hooo boy, do I hate it!

I’ve always pictured Harrow lounging  on an old Victorian couch, in some gothic mansion Wednesday Addams style, sipping blood-red wine from a fake skull. What I get instead, is White House Chic.

The entrance is a fancy double staircase with spiraling stairs engulfed in marble and sandstone. A chandelier so ridiculously huge and ornate, someone has undoubtedly described it as ‘six hundred individual glass pieces’, hangs from the ceiling. Everything looks so drab and stuffy and vanilla. Harrow with her black eyeliner and her bone corsets would be like an alien in this empty, sterile place.

Thankfully, it’s still California, so we can have the party in the patio corner of the back garden. We drag a long folding table over the wooden floor; I hang waterfall lights over the pergola ceiling with it sprawling ivy and all kinds of way too shapely bushes; Camilla gets the fresh meat to haul chairs from Palamedes’s Cadillac SUV; Coronabeth sets up her surround system to play pop you can actually dance to; Judith has wrangled a karaoke machine from somewhere, and Palamedes has brought ten different board games.

We pile chips, nuts, popcorn and pizza into bowls and plates; bring out soda and alcohol and stack them next to red solo cups. The only thing left is to hang the birthday poster. Mr. Crux—still frowning—finds one ladder, while Judith has borrowed the other from Coach, so Cam and I climb on top. One precariously placed end is supported by Palamedes, the other by Judith. She may be skinny, but she has arms of steel.

At the top, Camilla wriggles her eyebrows at me.

I sigh, already tired. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your eyebrows spoke enough for all three of you.”

“Look, all I mean is—”

“—and now you’re definitely saying stuff.”

“Gideon. I may be your wife, but you’re allowed to have a girlfriend. You know that, right?” She speaks so calmly as if this has never occurred to me. “I love you, but I’ll never take you on a candlelight dinner date.”

I nearly drop the poster so it swings in Camilla’s stupid, wonderful face. “Neither will Harrowhark.” This is just Cam’s wish fulfillment fanfic.

“I don’t know about that.” Shr shrugs, busying herself with her side of the poster. “She might put the candles in little skulls, but she’ll do it.”

“For the record,” Pal yells from the bottom of her ladder. “I agree with Camilla!”

“You’re not even a part of this conversation!” I yell back. At least Judith remains quiet. “Seriously.” I turn back to my best friend. “It’s not like that. I don’t even like her.”

“You sure are going through a lot of trouble organizing a birthday party for someone you don’t like.”

“Nope, this is literally a pity party. I feel bad that she’s never had a real birthday. Organizing it hasn’t even been fun—she keeps fighting me at every step. You’re lucky I convinced her to let us get alcohol. At one point, we were about to have a very polite dinner.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” say Judith and Palamedes at the same time. They look at each other and share a smile, before Palamedes pushes his glasses back and looks away.

I shake my head. “You two are a lost cause.” I finish my taping and slap my hand against the poster for good measure. “I’m getting down.”

#

When Harrowhark comes home after her debate club, no one blows whistles or screams ‘Happy Birthday!’ I told them not to, as she’d be too overwhelmed. All they do is smile and wave.

I place a plastic skeleton crown on her head, grinning. “Happy Birthday, asshole.”

“I hate you,” Harrow says evenly and grabs a cup, filling it with… sugar-free ice tea. Amazing.

“Woooow. Slow down there, party animal!”

She just gives me one of her, ‘if I could incinerate you on the spot, I would’ looks, but I’m practically immune to those by now. I just smirk. “I’ll see you in a bit?” I turn on my heels, when a hand clutches my wrist.

“Gideon,” she says, dropping my arm almost as soon as she’d grabbed it.

I turn with one raised eyebrow. When Harrow says my actual name, I always know it’s important.

“I do hate this,” she reiterates. I’m about to roll my eyes, when she adds, “But no one has ever done anything like it for me. Thank you.”

I wink. “Don’t mention it.”

Chapter Text

The party rages on. I drink rum and Coke and drag a disgruntled Cam into a dance. Her eyebrows were knitted and she’s leaning her head against Palamedes’s, but I won’t have any of that. “It’s a party,” I urge, pulling her wrists. “C’mon.”

Cam sighs, but slips out of her seat and we flail awkwardly while a sophomore girl does a terrible rendition of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.” After another rum and Coke, I find myself in the middle of a roller derby group pic taken by a junior girl’s boyfriend. Palamedes presses a very startled Harrowhark next to me me. Her eyes widen like a deer in headlights and she hides her head in her hair and my shoulder. I roll my eyes, because I know it’s going to come out adorable.

Then there are the games.

The classics, of course—Monopoly, Clue, something with trains. Palamedes is even holding a mini D&D campaign with Judith and Jeannemary and a few other people. I find myself playing Never Have I Ever with Harrowhark, Coronabeth, two juniors who I’m pretty sure are dating, and a sophomore and her boyfriend over a picnic blanket.

Never have I ever tried pot—everyone but Harrow drinks.

Never have I ever had a smoke—no one but Coronabeth and the boyfriend.

Never have I ever had sex in a weird place—the two juniors drink, giving each other a look and bursting into giggles. So do I, wiggling my eyebrows at Coronabeth—I vividly remember a particular moment in the biography section in our school library. Corona sighs and drinks, too.

Harrow looks between us and frowns, free hand clenching in a fist. My stomach drops. I set my drink down and wish I could go back to thirty seconds ago and ignore the question, even if it’s not how you’re supposed to play.

A few more turns, and it’s Boyfriend’s turn.

“Never have I ever… had an embarrassing Mom moment.” He winks and takes a huge gulp from his drink.

His girlfriend grins and shoves him. “I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”

He shrugs. “Oh, well.”

Everyone groans, but they take a sip—everyone, but me.

“It was middle school,” he says. “Mom and I were at the mall and there was this girl I liked. She worked behind the counter at Target. She was already in high school, so I was super intimidated. I just loitered until she caught me and we started chatting. Then Mom says, in her loudest voice, ‘Hey, baby, isn’t that the cream your doctor recommended to clean up your butt rash?’” A pause. The whole circle laughs—I don’t bother and neither does Harrow. “I still haven’t come back to that store.”

Everyone shares a story, each one just as adorable as it is mortifying (except for Harrow, who depresses everyone with an anecdote about her mother forgetting her in their Country Club when she was six, and returning three hours later, after a call from one of the employees). My heart sinks further and further, until it feels like lead buried at the bottom of my gut.

“Violet,” Boyfriend prompts, nudging me with his elbow. “Your turn.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. Got nothing.”

“C’mooon,” His grin widens. “Everyone has embarrassing Mom moment. It could be something little.” He laughs, and oh my god, I hate him.

Just drop it, dude.

“Not me. Lucky, I guess.” I almost choke on bile as I say it, but raise my glass in a toast. I take a sip, hoping that’ll be the end of that.

Boyfriend laughs again and taps me on the shoulder. “Oh, G—”

Harrow’s eyes darken—which isn’t easy, as they’re already ink-black. "Ben, is it?” She speaks, slowly, enunciating each word. “Learn to read the room, Ben. Gideon was trying to be nice, but what she actually meant was fuck off.”

He blushes deep as a tomato, and gestures for the next person’s prompt.

I don't hear it, because my ears are ringing. I’ve never been on this end of a classic Nonagesimus takedown and it makes my stomach flutter.

Something horrible is happening. This is the second time Harrow has done something nice for me and I’m starting to think that she may not be a screeching harpy from the depths of the Underworld.

How vile.

More alcohol. That’s the solution here.

#

I’m drunk. I’m very, very drunk and I don't care. The only thing that matters is reaching that stupid karaoke mic. Not to sing—I don’t have the voice for that. But for something far more important. I urge the freshie girl off stage and wave a hand at Coronabeth to turn off the music.

“I wanna give a toast,” I say once the speakers stop blaring and raise my whiskey glass. “For my girlfriend, Harrowhark. Haaaaarrow. Harrow. Harrow. Harrow. Harry. Harrison. Horatio.” I giggle.

Harrow—who’s in the middle of the table, chatting with Camilla and Palamedes with a glass of water in her hands—turns slowly and looks straight at me. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows furrow and she whispers something to Cam, who nods and stands, slipping past everyone's knees.

The world tips sideways and I have to prop my hip on the karaoke machine to keep steady. Then I laugh, because obviously it’s not the world. The world doesn’t do that. I’m just wobbling.

Steps patter behind me and a familiar hand taps my shoulder. “Gideon, you’re drunk,” Cam’s voice whispers in my ear.

“No, no I’m good.” I adjust and clears my throat. “Anyway, Harrow. She’s so… small. And mean. Why is she so mean? Tiny girls should be cute, like yorkies. But Harrow is like a pinscher that’s always trying to bite your finger off. I mean, look at her. She’s like, five-feet-flat of skin and bones. Where does all the meanness even go?”

“I’m five-two, thank you,” I hear Harrow’s shrill voice and can’t help a smile.

“Gideon,” Camilla says behind me, in her stern yet comforting voice. She smells of coffee. “You should stop now—” She grabs my shoulder.

“Get off me, I’m not done.” I wrench myself away, but tilt and stagger dangerously. Grabbing for the karaoke machine again, I just manage to stand upright. “Where was I? Oh, right. Harrow. She's also very rude. And she never laughs at my jokes. ’m pretty sure she doesn’t have a sense of humor, because I’ve never seen her laugh. How is it even possible for someone to never ever ever evv-er- laugh?” I hiccup and shake my head. “Also, her taste in music sucks. I’m talking, atrocious! You wouldn't believe the kind of self-indulgent emo crap I’ve been exposed to, thanks to her.”

“This toast is sounding more like a roast,” someone cries. A few awkward chuckles echo.

I frown, because th at’s not my point at all. Okay, maybe a little, but it’s not the main takeaway. My eyes land on Harrow, whose cheeks are red as maple leaves, but her dark eyes spell fury.

“Gideon,” Cam whispers.

“BUT,” I continue, louder to drown out Camilla and the laughing audience. “She’s also really smart. She’s the kind of smart, where she might secretly be a super villain planning to overthrow the government. Maybe we’re all just pawns in her scheme to become the new world dictator. Although, she’s too much of a bitch for it to be a good secret, huh?”

A few people chuckle and this time I’m pretty sure they are laughing with me.

“More importantly, I don’t think she wants anyone to know this, but Harrow cares. She cares so deeply about a few specific things and people, and I’m so goddamned privileged to be one of them,” the words feel warm like honey in my chest, a welcome pressure against my skin and I know I mean them. “And I think, secretly? She’s not mean at all. I think she’s just…” hurt. But I can’t tell people that. That’s our secret. “She’s just… Harrow. And I like her so much! Happy birthday, loser.”

Then the world goes black.

Chapter Text

“You literally passed out,” Camilla says, arms crossed over her chest. The skin around her eyes droops.

“For like, thirty seconds.” I roll my eyes, but pull the blanket tighter around me.

I’m in the deadly cold dining room—not just because of the temperature, but the lack of passion too. It’s more marble and sandstone and glass, in cold neutral colors. Even the art on the walls is remote and uninspired. It says so little about the people living here, I may as well be in a museum. I’d much rather be back in the garden, but I did throw up all over Camilla’s shoes.

Never. Drinking. Again.

Here it’s colder and quieter and it smells… less. Hopefully it will taper my queasy stomach and clear the fog in my brain. God, that speech! What even came over me? Harrow must be fuming.

“Drink this,” Cam pushes a cup of steaming hot coffee on the glass table before me.

It smells so good, I could kiss her. I won’t of course, but I could.

I look up. “Is she mad at me?”

Cam rolls her shoulders. “She was a little mad, but mostly concerned. And if you ask me, a little flattered.”

“Yeah?” I grin. This definitely doesn’t make me feel all cozy and warm inside, psssht.

“Don’t let it get to your head—she will kill you if you try to pull something like that again. And I’ll help.”

I purse my lips and nod. “That’s fair.”

“When you’re steady on your feet, you can rejoin us.”

“But I’m gonna miss cake and presents!” I’m whining, but I don’t care—the cake is my favorite part of any birthday party. Plus, I’m morbidly curious about what people got the rich girl who hates everything.

“Sucks to be you, I guess,” says Cam, because she’s a pill. “Coffee, then one more glass of water. Actually, make that two glasses—slow sips. I’ll come to check on you in twenty. Don’t go anywhere.”

Where would I go? My current level of function extends to crawling to the sink to throw up. “Right. I was just planning to slip out for the five mile marathon.”

Cam huffs, like the beginning of a laugh. Then she yawns, rubbing her eyes.

I frown. “Did you drink anything?”

“No, just didn’t sleep well. Had to close last night and you know how it is, with little kids.”

I don’t know, but I nod anyway. “You've been taking on a lot of extra shifts lately.”

“Family stuff.” She shrugs, but her shoulders tense.

“You gonna tell me about it, or…?”

“Now?”

“Sure. I feel like shit,” I say, and rub my forehead, hoping it will ease my splitting headache. “Distract me, please.”

She sighs and collapses by my side. “It’s been tough. Dad lost his job a couple weeks ago, so it’s all on me and Papa to keep us fed. They’re also counting on me to take care of the little kids.”

“Shit. Is that why you keep missing practice on Saturdays?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “I love derby and the team and all of it—I’m not quitting or anything, but I can’t put in the extra time, either. It’s a little much. I only came tonight because Dad got a temporary gig at a construction site.”

I bite my lip. I feel like such a dumbass for not noticing before.

Cam shuffles her feet. “I feel like I'm still disappointing y’all.”

“Hey, no, never! It's not like you're a freshie, you don't need to put in the extra hours.”

Camilla smiles faintly. “Thanks.”

“Can I… help with anything?” She’s my best friend and I’m supposed to be her support system.

“Nah. But thanks for listening. I’d hug you if I didn’t think you’d throw up on me again.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t take that chance,” I say, even though I miss her wonderful hugs.

Camilla grins, squeezes my shoulder and stands. “Coffee, two glasses of water. Don’t come back until you can walk in a straight line.” She turns on her heels, leaving me by myself.

It takes about an hour and a half and several glasses of water to feel human again—Cam comes back to check on me in the meantime and so does Palamedes. No Harrowhark, but that’s to be expected. Actually, I’m kind of glad—I don’t want her to see me like this.

When I return to the party, I’ve missed cake and presents, and about half the guests leaving. I head for the piece Camilla has saved me (maybe she’s not a total pill), when someone tugs at my sleeve. I look over my shoulder to see Harrow.

She scowls with less in annoyance and more so embarrassed concentration. “Dance with me?”

“Erm. I—cake?” I point at my plate.

“You can have cake later. Hell, you may have my piece too—it’s too sweet. It’ll seem strange if we haven’t danced all night.”

“Oh, right.” Fake dating.

Thankfully it’s a slow song. I still don’t trust my stomach to handle jumping around—nor can I picture Harrow dancing to something upbeat. We sway to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” in the middle of the garden, one of three other couples—the junior girls; the sophomore and her boyfriend; and weirdly, Judith and a junior girl. Marta, I think. Corona glares at them from the table, which makes me want to sneer with schadenfreude. Karma is a bitch, bitch.

I don’t, though. I scrub it all from view and focus on Harrow. A full foot stretches between us, like an old-timey waltzing couple, but when Harrow puts hands on my shoulders and I place mine on her waist, it feels intimate.

Then I frown, because it dawns on me what is off. “Why aren’t you chewing me out?”

“Why would I? You made a fool of yourself, I think that’s punishment enough.”

“Nope. Not buying it. That’s not you.”

“Griddle, you embarrassing both of us was a possibility I was always prepared for. I’m just glad it happened now and not at my parents' anniversary party.” She flicks the side of my head. “Don’t drink in front of my parents.”

That feels more like the Harrowhark I know. I can’t help my smile. If all the retribution I get is a little flick, she must’ve indeed been flattered. “And um,” I flush, itching to scratch the back of my neck. “Thanks for earlier. Saving me from that mom question.”

Harrow rolls her eyes, and for once, I don’t think it’s about me. “The question was galling and extremely rude.”

“It was shit, but you were my mean knight. It was” kinda hot, “cool of you. I probably could’ve made up something or told him I have gay dads. But I got so caught up in listening to everyone else’s stories and so bitter about how all your lives sound like an episode of Malcolm in the Middle, I just. I drew a blank.”

“You don’t owe anyone anecdotes.” She shakes her head. “Being a child of divorced parents must be difficult enough.”

I snort. “I wish my parents were divorced.”

“Are they n—nevermind, that’s inappropriate. You don’t have to talk about it.”

I bite my lip. Do I want to talk about it? Yes. Yes, I do. I need to get this off my chest. I wouldn’t do it for Ben’s benefit, but if anyone would understand, it would be Harrow.

“I want to.”

Her expression is somber. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t have an embarrassing mom story because…” I take a deep breath. Just spit it out, Gideon. “I don’t have a mom. I mean, there’s a woman who gave birth to me,” I elaborate seeing that wonderful goblin’s frown. “But she’s not my mother and never was. Dad met her in a bar, they spent one night together and nine months later—there was I. She didn’t care. She just handed Dad my basket and ran off.”

“That bitch.” Harrow’s eyes flash with something I find immensely satisfying.

“Right? And I’ve tried to see it from her point of view. I’m a feminist and pro-choice. I’m not saying I want a mom who doesn’t want to be a mother, but why would you bring a person into this world and never even bother to check on them? Dad’s great and I’m so lucky to have him, but what if he wasn’t? What if he was an abusive dickhead?” I pause, licking my lips. “You know what the worst part is?” Voicing this might make me sound like one of those AITA posts on Reddit, but screw it. “It’s not like she was a drug addict or a teen mom or something. She was a goddamn Air Force pilot. She had the means, a willing co-parent, and she could’ve been given the time—she just didn’t want me.” A tear spills down my cheek and I brush it with the inside of my wrist. “Why didn’t she want me?”

Harrow doesn’t say anything. She only wraps her arms around my neck and presses her bony body into mine and… oh, crap. We’re hugging. The smell of sandalwood and berry shampoo and warmth envelops me. My head grows foggy again, though I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since I sobered up.

“I thought hugging was against the rules.” I sniff into her hair.

“Would you like to stop?” she asks genuinely, voice muffled by my jacket.

Yes. No? I need to break this up.

“Hey.” I pull away and smooth my hair back. “I got you something.”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, no gifts. I didn’t buy it or anything. It’s really shitty and you’ll probably throw it away, so it’s almost like no gift.”

She folds her arms. “What is it?”

I grin. “Remember back in freshman year when we had that art class and had to draw portraits of one another?”

“Yes…”

It was the only time we were in danger of becoming friends. We might have never even met, if it hadn’t been for Harrow’s first partner growing increasingly frustrated at her and asking to switch. “I found the one I did of you. It’s shit, but I’m not doing anything with it. If you throw it out, I won’t be offended.”

I expect Harrowhark to scoff and ask why she would care about a crappy portrait from three years ago, but she just says, “Can I see it?”

“Duh.” I smile, placing the tips of my fingers on the small of Harrow’s back. I lead her over to the pile of presents in the corner by the karaoke machine.

Harrow unpacks mine with surprising care, considering how torn the rest are. I had to get a frame, in case she decided she likes it. That’s the only money I spent, minus wrapping.

Harrowhark holds it out and we both stare at it.

Art may be subjective, but there’s nothing subjective about how bad this is. The style is so awkward and rudimentary, I’m sure primary school kids can do better, but it captures something anyway. A time before roller derby, when I knew a just-shy-of-fourteen Harrow, back when her style wasn’t so refined. In the portrait, she’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with a white Peter Pan collar and a single piece of jewelry—the silver crucifix hanging from her neck. She hadn’t figured out the ideal number of accessories, so they were always too many or too few. There are breakouts around her chin that her makeup can’t fully hide. Her hair is shorter, wilder, more unruly. Even her eyes are softer—a starless night, instead of a black hole—and her eyeliner is a little wobbly.

Basically, she hadn’t yet completed her transformation into Megabitch Supreme.

Present-day Harrow’s eyes flash a little brighter and I swear her lip trembles, but it’s so fast that when she schools her face, I’m left blinking. Did I imagine it? Perhaps it’s a drinking side-effect.

“Thank you,” she nods, and holds the portrait to her chest. “I should… find a place for this.”

“At the bottom of a drawer, right?” I laugh awkwardly.

“Probably.”

“Did you…” I scratch the back of my neck. “Did you keep mine? I don’t think I ever saw it.”

Harrow slowly shakes her head. “No. I disposed of it years ago, after I no longer needed a portfolio for my final grade.”

Damn. “Not even a picture or something?”

“I’ve switched my phone twice.” She shrugs, tension running through her shoulders. “Even if I had a picture, I don’t anymore. ”

“Right.” My heart sinks, but what did I expect?

Chapter Text

Over the next couple of hours, I try my best to nurse some iced tea and avoid alcohol. Finally, we kick out everyone. Only Harrow, Pal, Cam, Corona, Judith, and I remain to clean up the worst of it. We gather some paper plates, a few red solo cups, and mix similar snacks to take them home.

Eventually, Harrowhark waves her hand and says, “The domestics will take care of the rest.”

My mind reels for the next twenty minutes at her having ‘domestics’, plural.

The others say their goodbyes, hugging me and waving to Harrow, who is still anti-hug with one exception. After they’re gone, she says, matter-of-factly, “You are in no condition to drive.”

“No shit.” I snort. “I was hoping you’d call me an Uber? Cam or Pal can drive me tomorrow to pick up my car.”

“Or.” Harrow runs a finger over her thin lip, where the deep purple of her lipstick faded into a dark red. “You could stay overnight and leave tomorrow? I don’t want to inconvenience Camilla and it’s only fair, after I stayed with you. I can provide a towel and a toothbrush and there are several unoccupied bedrooms—”

“Can I see yours?” The thought of sleeping in one of the cold, impersonal rooms makes my skin crawl almost as much as creepy ghosts. I’m also realizing that Harrow is far too eloquent to have had any alcohol tonight, which is…annoyingly in-character for her.

She winces. “You want to come inside my bedroom?”

“Oh, god.” I slap a hand over my face. Not like that. “I’m not… propositioning you or anything. I just wanna see it. We’ve supposedly been dating for a couple of months and I never have. Isn’t that weird?”

“How would anyone know? That’s far too specific of a question and frankly, it’s none of their business. If they ask, our story would be that I’m always staying with you—”

“Shut up, loser. Just show me.”

Harrow scowls, but beckons me over. “Come on, Griddle.” She spins on her heels and strides into the house.

I’m struggling to keep up thanks to the alcohol still lingering in my system, but Harrow seems to have no intention of slowing down. At least I don’t lose her over the spiral staircase, a long hallway, and several turns. We stop at a wooden door with a black heart-shaped sign that says, ‘Welcome! No one has died here (recently)’ and a rubber spider dangling beside it. I smile, imagining thirteen-year old Harrow hanging it up and never bothering to take it down.

She opens the door and switches on the lights.

Inside is horridly morbid. Everything is in black, gray and dark purple. There’s a huge four-poster in the middle and a gothic vanity in black with a sharp-edged mirror, with number of dark cosmetic products. Black furniture—a cupboard, a Victorian writing desk below the window, a walk-in closet and two bookshelves covering an entire wall.

I point to her creepy decorations—a desk lamp muted by a fake spider-web, a skeleton painting, a vertical line of stuffed butterflies on the wall. Not stuffed toys, but the dead insects. “What’s that for?”

“Ambiance.”

I grin ear to ear. Now, that’s how you do personality.

I walk up to the bookshelves first. There’s a large collection of medical school books, feminist non-fiction, and a splattering of lit fic and Agatha Christie-type crime novels, none of which surprises me. I am however surprised at the very large and well-maintained collection of lesbian pulp fiction. The Price of Salt I get but, uh…

“Satan Was a Lesbian, huh?” I raise an eyebrow holding up a very cheesy cover with a red faced devil, a woman with a riding crop, and another woman in her lingerie.

Harrowhark shrugs, but it seems a little forced. “It’s a special interest.”

“Oh?” I put the book back. “That’s an autistic thing, right?”

She nods tersely.

“You’ve never mentioned it before.”

She sighs, leaning slightly on the doorframe. “That’s because it was drilled into me from an early age that my special interests are tedious to most people. Now I only talk about them on Tumblr or closed Discord groups.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s tedious.” I saunter to the end of the bed and collapse on my back, twining fingers over my stomach. “Tell me more.”

She walks in, finally, sitting at the other edge of the king-sized bed. “Do you really want to know?”

I tilt my head, facing her and blink, expectantly.

Harrow examines her nails. “Well… everyone knows about Mary Shelly inventing sci-fi with Frankenstein, but did you know that the lesbian pulp genre was launched by Marijane Meaker?” She says stiffly.

“Yeah?” I sit too. “Who is she?”

“She wrote under the name Vin Packer and she was prolific,” Harrow’s eyes shine. “She… passed away a few years ago. I read this on tumblr first, so you can thank moon-crator, but the story goes that her publisher asked what she wanted to write about, and, being a lesbian, she wanted to write a book about women loving women. But the only way the censors would allow that, was if she made it a tragedy. That's how Spring Fire came to be. In it, one woman ends up in an insane asylum and the other realizes she never loved her at all.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It wasn't meant to be. Many women saw themselves in that book—tragedy or not. Those books gained lesbians visibility and helped them organize.”

I yawn, although I don’t mean to. “Fascinating.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re literally yawning.”

“It’s been a long day.” I flop down and spread both arms and still barely reach the bed’s middle. “Hey, this bed is big enough for both of us and… I like it here. It’s warm and smells nice. Can I stay? If you wake up before me, I might get lost trying to find you. And you probably will wake up first—taller people sleep longer in bed.”

Harrow’s jaw drops. “I should throw you out for that joke alone.”

“Screw you.” I snort. “My jokes are hilarious.”

She sighs and drops her hands by her sides. “Are you going to throw up again?”

I shrug. “Probably not.” My stomach hasn’t been feeling queasy for a while, but I don’t want to make hard promises.

“Fine then. Let me find you something to sleep in.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I’m already kicking off my shoes, jeans and t-shirt; until I’m only in boxer briefs and a sports bra. I yawn with a stretch, scratching my abs.

Harrow just blinks, slowly.

“Good night,” I say and snuggle under the covers.

My eyes flutter closed, though I can hear bustling around the room. Then it grows darker and the bed dips and rustles as she slips in on the other end.

“Good night, Griddle.”

I don’t even have the energy to flip her the bird.

Chapter Text

I’m stirred by a soft whine and it takes a moment for my brain to defog.

The whine… comes from Harrow? Her face is hidden in pillows and locks of shiny, black hair. She shivers, burying herself even further in the sheets and whines again. Is she crying? Having a nightmare?

I reach to shake her awake, when she gasps, followed by a quiet “Gideon,” and a little moan.

My eyes snap open.

Oh, fuck.

I grab the towel she left for me last night and slip out of bed. There's no way in Dante's nine circles of Hell that I can be here when she wakes up. I can never admit I heard Harrow having a sex dream about me.

I rush into fancy bathroom in white and red limestone tiles and hanging lights and slip inside the shower cabin, big enough for three Gideons to comfortably wash. There are even plants in the wall, cause why not? When I turn on the shower head, water falls from above like celestial rain.

I wash my face, rubbing my palms into it. Breathe. This means nothing. In sophomore year, Coronabeth got really into the semiology of dreams, so Palamedes gave the whole team a lecture about how Freud was a hack and dreams can’t be used for psychoanalysis. H was ranting for about fifteen minutes, before Camilla poked him in the ribs and grinningly told him he was mansplaining, at which point he adjusted his glasses with a fake cough and pretended he had somewhere urgent to be.

Hell, I’ve had weird (and vaguely off-putting) sex dreams about Palamedes and I’m very much a lesbian. Dreams are just thoughts your brain transforms into weird stuff. Perhaps Harrow’s brain was doing that with our budding friendship. And even if it was a sexy dream, just because she’d said ‘Gideon’ doesn’t prove she meant me. Perhaps she meant Moff Gideon. Or Gideon from Zootopia.

She has to have, because Harrow doesn’t see me like that. That I’m sure of.

It’s how this whole thing between us started, back in freshman year. We had art class together, both equally terrible at it. Harrow said something mean about the teacher and I laughed. I hated how loud and grating it sounded, even to my ears. But Harrow’s cheeks just durned darker and she shut her mouth. I winked at her and she blushed even more furiously, turning away in a huff. Then we had to do each other’s portraits, and she sometimes chuckled at my stupid jokes and I thought her meanness was adorable—possibly because it was never pointed at me. Then, I found out about the prank.

Harrow was planning on asking me out just to humiliate me.

The whole thing was so childish, so middle school, it could’ve only been contrived by a spoiled teenage girl. It was so childish in fact, I probably wouldn’t have believed it, if Coronabeth hadn’t warned me. She was Harrow’s friend, her only friend. Of course Harrow had told her.

To this day, I’m not sure what the end game was. I’d say ‘yes’, and Harrow would laugh and tell me she’s straight and mock me for being so gullible in front of everyone? Film it and spread it on social media as a meme? Just… ghost me and pretend none of it happened to gaslight me and make fun of me? Obviously the bumbling himbo lesbian could never get the dainty rich girl.

Instead, what happened was that she came up to my locker, tapped my arm and asked if I’m free for dinner and a movie—all stiff and awkward, like it was the 1950s. I saw red. I don’t remember what I said (although it wasn’t PG 13), but I remember the look on Harrow’s face. I remember it turning scarlet as a bloodied bruise; the way her throat bobbed, as she struggled to form a response. Also, I could’ve imagined it because my eyes were welling up in anger, but I remember Harrow’s own eyes being a little wet too. She stalked away, and all the while I thought, ‘She deserved it.’

After that day, nothing was ever the same.

Neither of us apologized. For the rest of the term we sat in different corners in the room. A week later, I made the roller derby team and Harrow remained in the periphery of my life. We shared one other class in sophomore year and it was always mean nicknames, hurled insults, and a few rounds of genuine venom.

Until last month, I suppose.

It's why I can’t ask a girl out. Logically, I know not every girl is out to get me, but any girl could be. And like, I know hat’s some incel shit. But knowing it my head and believing it in my soul are two very different skillsets and thanks to a certain Air Force pilot, Harrow just managed to hit me right in the abandonment issues.

I don’t know, maybe I’m not being fair. It’s been three years. Maybe she was working through her own internalized homophobia. Doesn’t excuse what she did, obviously, but she’s not the same person she was back then. That has to be enough—because I like being her friend.

#

When I go back to the room wrapped in a towel, Harrow shifts.“When did you wake up?” she asks, her voice groggy. She’s tucked in between the sheets and it's… soft. Without the perpetual bitch face and thick eyeliner she just looks like a normal girl.

My cheeks heat, as I remember what caused my bathroom crisis. “A long time ago. Really, really long time ago. I was showering.”

She yawns, followed by a groan. “Fine, you don't have to beat me over the head. I'm not that bad at social cues.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline, heart pummeling against my ribcage. No, she couldn't have… could she? “I—I didn’t mean—”

“You want to leave,” Harrow says, hardly hearing me. “I understand.”

The relief that washes over me makes me dizzy. “Yup. That's it. I should go.” I sit on my side of the bed, my back to her pulling on socks and jeans.

There’s movement behind me and I glance over my shoulder. Harrow sits up. A lock of hair falls over her face and I cringe. I want to tuck it behind her ear, but I absolutely won’t, because A) it’s stupid and B) if I did, I might do something even stupider like trace the edge of her jawline with my thumb.

I pick up my t-shirt and, welp. It smells of puke and has a smearing of what I really hope is chocolate cake. I sigh and rub my face. “I can’t wear this.”

Harrow catches my eye and glances at the shirt. “Give me five minutes to shower  and I’ll find you something else.” She slips out of bed and stretches.

I grin. She’s in shorts and an old, worn Evanescence t-shirt and it’s the most adorably casual I’ve seen her.

She glances down at herself, then narrows her eyes at me. “What?”

“Nothing.” I snort, but look away. It’s also cold, and I can see… things, but I’m not telling her that. “Take your time.”

Five minutes turn into twenty-five, but I don’t mind. I settle on top of Harrow’s bed in jeans and a sports bra with Satan Was a Lesbian. Its writing is about as ridiculous as its cover, but it’s a fun read if you turn your brain off. Harrow finally comes back through the main door, fully dressed in ripped black jeans and an MCR t-shirt—no elaborate layers—holding a light blue button-up in one hand.

“It’s my father’s, but you can keep it,” she says, throwing it to me.

“Are you sure?” I raise my head, slipping on the shirt. The silk is smooth—it looks expensive. “Wouldn't your father notice it missing?”

“My father would barely notice me missing. It looks better on you, anyway.”

My ears flush. I can’t help my vanity, so I check myself out in Harrow’s full-sized mirror. The shirt is tight around my chest—clearly not made to accommodate boobs—but otherwise, it fits pretty well, even makes my biceps stand out. It’s kind of… hot, honestly.

Harrow’s eyes don’t leave my reflection’s. Blood rushes to my cheeks when she adjusts my cuffs. It’s so domestic.

“Cool, thanks. Well… happy birthday!” I smile awkwardly and nearly trip over my feet to get out, before doing something stupid like hugging her in the light of day and not even alcohol to use as an excuse.

Chapter Text

The closer we get to competitive season, the harder and more frequent roller derby practice becomes. Coach adds another day of the week which isn’t mandatory for anyone but the freshies, but we still make it—everyone but Camilla, who picks up extra shifts around that time.

Despite our punishing schedule, we manage to get together for Halloween. Unlike previous years though, I spend the entire night on the corner of Coronabeth’s couch—in the middle of a living room big enough to fit my entire apartment—taking selfies of my Weird Barbie costume for Instagram and texting Harrow. If she was here, she’d probably come up with some dramatic costume… But it’s midterms, so she’s busy. And probably, physically incapable of attending a party two weekends in a row.

Morbid Mistress: That’s not even what Weird Barbie is supposed to look like.

Gideon: the whole point of weird barbie is

Gideon: that u get to make her weird in ur own way !!

Gideon: u asshole

Harrow sends an eye-rolling emoji, but I ignore her, returning to my texts with Cam.

Gideon: do u not get out of the house now or ??

I sent this fifteen minutes ago and she finally responded:

Wifey <3: would that I could. have to take the bebés trick-or-treating

Oh. Ooooh.

Gideon: can i help ?

Gideon: this party is boring af anywayz

Gideon: u knoooow im good w little kiiiids

Wifey <3: you’re terrible with little kids, but I could use the company ;)

“Gideon,” Coronabeth stops me at the door. She’s dressed like Catwoman, the leather clinging to all her curves, and I mentally high-five myself for not even blushing. “You’re leaving already? We’re just about to start dancing.”

“Sorry.” I say, even though I’m not. “Cam needs me.”

I rush out the door. I should feel guilty—Coronabeth has been throwing a Halloween party for the team since freshman year, it’s a tradition. But I don’t. Maybe I would have, if she was my girlfriend? She made her decision though.

Trick-or-treating with little kids is very loud and very annoying, and Camilla has to call after me every thirty seconds because I keep being lagging behind, texting Harrow. Cam and I catch up though, even if we mostly talk about nothing. Once back at her pace, she insists we hide all the candy before the kids poison themselves with sugar and rewards me with a Twix for my efforts.

We stack on the turquoise two-seater with her younger siblings sitting at our feet—or in the case of Val, prostrating herself between Cam’s and my lap to get head scratches from Cam, while I tickle her—and end up watching Frankenweenie. The littlies fall asleep halfway through, so Camilla and I carry them to their bedrooms. Eventually, even she falls asleep against my shoulder. I smile, extract myself carefully, take her shoes off and draw the afghan over her before driving home. I text Harrowhark “good night” way past midnight. I don’t expect her to acknowledge me, but I get a kitschy good night gif in return.

#

Harrow has limited her attendance at derby practice to once a week. Which should’ve been fine, except I keep glancing at the bleachers every time I do a particularly cool trick, searching for her approving nod before I remember she won’t be there.

Which is stupid. I’m like a puppy, starved for attention. I need to cut it off. We agreed that this whole thing has an expiration date and after that, she won’t have a reason to watch me play. I tell her so, when I’m driving her back home.

“I think you should stop coming to derby practice.”

Harrowhark lifts her head from her phone screen slowly, blinking. “Should I?”

My stomach churns. No. But it’ll be so much harder to go cold turkey in January. “Just for two more weeks. No one’s really doubting the validity of our relationship anymore and I think I’m a little distracted when you’re there—always just wondering what you’re doing, if you're bored. Plus, I know you have a lot going on and I don’t want to take up your time.”

She nods simply. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

She doesn’t even argue. My jaw tightens and skin prickles. Why isn’t she arguing? She’s always arguing.

“I never am, for the record. Bored, that is.”

“It’s for the best,” I say, but wince. God, it sounds so weak even to my ears. “Just until competitive season starts. I obviously want you at bouts.”

“I know.”

And the conversation is over.

I breathe a sigh, even though my stomach is still tied up in knots. It must just be the anxiety of giving lousy news. I grip the steering wheel, refocusing on the road.

Harrow turns to me, straightening. For a second, I think she’ll call me a dumbass for not wanting her at practice and electricity zaps through me, but she just asks,

“Have you started packing? Don’t forget we’re leaving on Thursday.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m glad for the change of topic. I think. “How can I forget when you keep texting me every hour on the hour and you’ve sent me a checklist in three different formats?” I have a PDF, Google spreadsheet, and a link to a website.

“And considering I’ve done all I can, short of packing your luggage myself? If you forget anything, I will murder you.” Murder threats sound a little less threatening when she sags against her seat, nibbling on her crucifix. “You still have to see my tailor.”

“I did,” I say in my softest voice. “I’m picking up my tux tomorrow. Relax, I’ve got this,” I say, though I’m well aware there’s no version of Harrowhark that’s relaxed. The closest was that morning at my apartment, eating pancakes and cracking her very first joke.

I bite off my smile.

Chapter Text

SFO Airport is sprawling and glassy, like a modern art museum. I might’ve been impressed, if I wasn’t so focused on chewing my nail. I’m the first one here. It’s shortly after midnight and I’m dressed in a long-sleeved t-shirt and a bomber jacket—I’ve never been on a plane, but I know it gets cold. I keep checking the team group chat, where experienced flyers assure me it’s safe.

Honestly, I’m not even that worried about flying. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to, while waiting for Harrow, whose absence is why my stomach is all fluttery and weird. I’m just starting to think I got the time wrong, when she appears, wearing only black jeans, combat boots, and a black-button up with a leather bustier. The usual messenger bag is hauled over one shoulder and her long hair pulled back into a ponytail, which makes her cheekbones more pronounced. Though that might because her face looks sunken. Actually, all of her looks a little… less.

“Hey, weirdo.” I poke her in the ribs with a grin. “How long since you last ate?”

“I’ll eat on the plane,” she snaps, but it comes out agitated. “Let’s go. It’s a ten hour flight to Dublin and I want to get it over with.”

Only ten hours, Because of course Harrow’s richass parents had bought us the shortest non-stop flight with business class seats.

“Tell me you brought your passport?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” Harrowhark says, and strides toward the check-in desk, rolling her suitcase behind.

Jesus. I get her family is shit, but why is that my fault? I’m too tired to think of a better comeback than ‘so’s your face’ and once we’re past check-in, I get distracted, anyway. Business class is ridiculously cool. We get comfortable beige armchairs and there’s a whole-ass bar. It’s objectively cool even though we’re too young to order anything besides a Coke. Everything is priority here, including boarding.

Inside the plane, we’re sectioned off in this little square side by side, like a squiggly corner-office in gray. I’m busy admiring the velvet carpet, but Harrow buckles her belt early and staring ahead. Her foot hasn’t stopped tapping.

I frown. “Are you afraid of planes or something?” I got the impression she flies to Ireland three times a year, at least.

“No,” Harrow says matter-of-factly and does not elaborate.

“Coooool.”

Well, if she won’t talk… I settle my seat and crack one of my Yuri mangas open.

Harrow continues to jump any time a stewardess or a passenger walks by. Her furrowed expression doesn’t change during take-off, although her hand grips the seat holder. It doesn’t even change when the plane levels out. She just fishes her iPad out of her bag, which was secured safely beneath her seat, along with her AirPods.

I want to lower my seat into a bed—business class can actually do that—and nod off with music in my ears, but the sheer dread on Harrow’s face agitates me. I shove the goth weirdo in the ribs until she takes the bud out of her ear.

“Are blueberries a goth fruit?” I ask, grinning.

Harrow tilts her head. “What?”

“Think about it. They’re dark purple and they taste sweet and sour—that’s pretty goth.”

“If any fruit is goth, it would be blackberries. They have ‘black’ in the name, they’re darker and sourer than blueberries, which are mostly sweet.”

I smirk—I have her exactly where I want her. “Are you saying that blueberries are like blackberries’ emo cousins?”

“I…” Harrow shakes her head, a dark curl spilling over her forehead. “Why am I debating this? There’s no such thing as goth fruit or emo fruit. Fruit is fruit.”

“Says the fruitiest goth I know.”

She blinks for three seconds straight. “For the love of god, Griddle. Can you turn anything into a pun?”

“I can certainly try.” I bump her shoulder. “What are you watching, anyway?”

Flush colors Harrow’s cheeks. “I… prefer not to say.”

“Well, now I want to know even more.” I grin, full of mischief. “Is it porn?”

Her jaw actually drops. “Of course it’s not porn. Who would watch porn on a crowded plane?”

“You might be surprised. C’mooon tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“I said ‘no’, pest.”

“Fine. I’ll find out for myself.” I reach for Harrow’s iPad, but she yanks it out of my grasp. I stretch and this time, the weirdo actually shoves it under her ass and sits on top. Which would be an issue if she wasn’t a twig with like, three muscles. “What the hell, asshole?” I reach again, and Harrow scratches me. Oh, now it’s on! Wrapping an arm around her waist, I pull her into my lap and snatch the iPad with my free hand. She tries to rip it from me, but all I do is lightly swat her wrists.

“Stop fighting, bitch. You lost.” I grin. “Unlock it.”

“I will not.” Harrowhark crosses her arms.

I just lunge for her shoulder, blowing a raspberry against her shirt.

She squeals. “Fine, fine. Just stop.”

I’m more than happy to oblige, laughing, but I don’t let go of Harrow until she unlocks the screen.

“Holy shit! Is that—”

I meet her eyes and we’re both hit with the same realization—she’s sitting in my lap and our mouths are mere inches apart. I can breathe in her mint toothpaste. Harrow stiffens. I can feel the redness in my cheeks and neck. Clearing my throat, I let go and she takes her own seat back. “That was dumb,” I say, trying to pull myself together. Deep breaths, look away. “Sitting on your iPad? You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

“I panicked.” She says, rubbing her face. I wonder if her cheeks were red too. “I didn’t want you to see.”

“What, that you’re watching The Bachelor?”

“Don’t mock me.” She shakes her head, but takes a deep breath. “Sometimes when my brain is overworked this sort of drivel helps… distract me. But it’s embarrassing. I have to watch it in secret because my parents say it’s killing my brain cells and they’re probably right.”

I do not let myself think about little Harrow obsessively researching random topics just to have her family dismiss her or laugh her off. This absolutely is teasing ammo, but… “First off, do I seem like the judgey type?”

“Yes,” Harrow replies, without missing a beat.

I think about that. “Alright, fair.” I nod. “But not about this. I love dating shows—heterosexual cringe is my crack. Dad and I watch them ironically all the time.” I let my voice soften. “You have Bluetooth sharing, right? Let’s watch together.”

She blinks. “Are… are you sure?”

“Definitely.” I grin. I can’t think of anything I’d like more.

We watch a few episodes, until a massive cliffhanger where I’m forced to take out an earbud. “That bitch!”

Harrowhark scoffs. “How is what Amanda is doing any worse than what Meg did?”

“Meg only put sunscreen on Ari—you can’t blame my girl for being a tactile person. Amanda already had the rose and she interrupted Jessie, even though it was her turn with Ari. But of course you relate to the scheming demon woman.”

Harrow shakes her head. “You just think Meg is hot.”

“Obviously.” I snort. It was literally the first thing I said when Meg was introduced. She has that dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin look and she’s kind of mean. What can I say? It’s working for me. I smile off the side of my mouth. “Is that why you’re angry?”

Harrow sighs and looks away. “No.”

“Do you… wanna talk about it?” I shrug a shoulder. I’m trying to be nonchalant, but distraction only goes so far. “Or we could totally watch a few more episodes and pretend you’re being so skittish because of your massive aerophobia.”

Harrow takes a deep breath and pulls her legs up, wrapping an arm around her knees. “It’s… my family.”

“Nooo. Are you sure? I was so betting on the planes.”

She swats my shoulder, but I smile back.

“Everyone except my cousins will have opinions about us. They all know I’m gay, but I think they expected it to be a phase. That I’d find the perfect guy and change my mind. Even though we’re not really dating—”

“Dude, I told you—whatever you need, I’ll back you up.” I nod honestly. That’s the one thing that was never in question. Even before Harrow was my friend, I never liked homophobes.

She pulls the crucifix in her mouth again, slumping in her seat. “What if it’s too much for you? You don’t know them like I do.”

I seethe. We’re not even in Ireland and she’s already making herself small.

I give her a wry smile. “Yo, look me in the eyes right now and tell me you think I’ve been walking around, looking like this all my life and I haven’t faced my fair share of misogyny and homophobia?”

Harrow says nothing, just blinks.

I chew on my lip, wondering if I should share this. But I know she needs to hear it. “Last year, we went to this competition in Idaho and had to use the ladies’ in the school. You know how they have those shitty trans bathroom bills? There was a girl who was real anal about that stuff. Coach wasn’t stopped once. Guess who was, though? This gal!” I point to myself with both thumbs, with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “But they can always tell, right?” I roll my eyes. Not that there’s anything wrong with being seen as a trans woman, but the whole thing was so dehumanizing. It makes my skin crawl just remembering it. Who needs to know what’s in anyone’s pants to let them use a closed stall? Bathrooms aren’t some magical bonding space for women. You know who I hope to see when going to the bathroom? No one.

“Gideon, that’s horrible!” She stretches her hand as if to touch me, then retrieves it.

It’s so Harrow I can’t help chuckle.

“It was shit.” I shrug. “But whatever. The team backed me up, so.”

“Has this kind of thing happened to you in San Francisco?”

I wave my hand. The gayest city in the US? Hardly. “I’ve gotten weird looks from straight women once or twice, but people here are chill. Anyway, my point was that I’ve been through the wringer before. I knew what I was getting into when you mentioned the Catholic family. You’re doing me a huge favor and need me for one night in return. I’ve got you, Raven Lady.”

Harrow half-smiles. “Thanks.”

I rub hand-sanitizer into my skin—and offer my hand, palm up. Harrow actually takes it, twisting her fingers in mine. I grin. “I’m so glad I kept this hand-y.”

She elbows me in the ribs, and I nearly choke on silent laughter.

Chapter Text

Unlike San Francisco with its mismatched sky-scrapers and city canyons, Dublin is a level city with a river—Liffey, according to Google—running through its center. It exists in a mosaic of buildings all the way from the Middle Ages to modern times. The squiggly streets with large sidewalks, which almost empty at this time of the night, remind me of California, of playing ill-advised tag and running after cable cars to see how long I could keep up.

As soon as we step out of the airport though, I know we’re not on home soil. November is hitting Europe hard. I wrap my bomber jacket tighter around myself, wishing I’d packed a sweater in my carry on for easier access. At least it isn’t raining. Harrowhark’s thumb is brushing along the side of her crucifix on the other side of the backseat. I squeeze her wrist, but only get a glance in turn.

We arrive at a little two-story red brick B&B, way off the town center. I pull our bags out from the black taxi—Ireland has apparently not replaced those with the much worse Lyft and Uber—and hand Harrow her carry-on. She stands in front, squeezing the strap of her bag, twitching.

“It’ll be okay, you know,” I whisper. I’m tempted to put a hand on her waist or hip, just to let her feel my presence. But that’s the kind of thing real girlfriends do, so I don’t.

A valet comes to grab our bags. I pull mine and nearly get into a squabble with him, before Harrow waves her hand. “Just… let him.”

I lean toward her again and whisper, “You know you’ve got to tip him, right? I can just take them.”

“I’m aware of how valets work, Bonehead.” Harrowhark rolls her eyes. “You’re my girlfriend. You can’t be carrying our bags like you’re—” she clamps her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

“The help?” I raise an eyebrow. I feel like I should be offended, but I don’t know on whose behalf.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, my family—”

But she has no chance to finish that sentence, because her attention is drawn by movement at the front door. I follow her line of sight to a man and a woman dressed in a long dress and khaki-shirt combo, accordingly. Cold distance spreades between them. They’re followed by a slightly more affectionate older couple.

“Mother, father.” Harrow nods at the first pair.

My brain rebuffs the idea that these are Harrow’s parents off-hand. Even after seeing the inside of their house, I was expecting Morticia and Gomez. Instead, I’m confronted with two people who only look like Harrow in the way that roller blades resemble roller skates.

Harrowhark’s mother is tall and slender with the pose of an aging aristocrat. She has Harrow’s dark hair, her thin lips, her sharp chin, but there’s nothing of Harrow in her. Her face is long and narrow, instead of honed and pointy and Harrow’s sharp spite has melted into something like a haughty distaste, like she just opened a $500 wine bottle and it tasted watery. Her father is even worse—a frumpy, aging man with a receding hairline and no other distinguishing features, besides Harrow’s black eyes. But whereas hers are always alight, his look dull and lifeless.

There’s a moment when I think her mother must be taller than her father, but when they stand beside each other, I realize that’s bullshit. Harrow’s mother is wearing heels and he’s still a couple of inches taller, it’s just that she carries herself like a tigress on the prowl, and he carries himself like he hasn’t had his morning cup of coffee.

“Harrow, how lovely to see you,” says her mother, with no inflection. She gives Harrow a one-armed hug so short and awkward, it makes me physically wince. No wonder Harrow had no idea how to hug if that’s the amount of affection she gets at home.

Her father doesn’t even bother. “Pleased to see you, Harrowhark.” He sounds about as pleased as I am, when I promise to do laundry.

“Yes, very.” Harrow nods. “Hi, auntie, uncle.” She waves and lets the elderly couple give her sloppy cheek kisses, making her practically vibrate with the need to wipe her face. “Erm, everyone,” she says, looking from her parents to her aunt and uncle. “This is my girlfriend, Kiriona.”

I blink. It takes me four whole seconds to process that Harrow has just introduced me with my legal name. “Hi, Mr. And Mrs. Novenarius. I… go by Gideon, actually,” I extend a hand to Harrow’s father.

“Priamhark Noniusvianus.” He shakes said hand. “But you may call me Mr. Novenarius.” And that’s about the extent of our interaction.

Then it’s her mother’s turn. “Pelleamena Novenarius,” she says, raising one painted eyebrow, giving me a full once-over. “But Mrs. Novenarius is fine. I see you did come straight from the airport.”

I flush under her appraising gaze. I swear, I definitely combed through my hair in the car. Are there stains on my clothes? Holy shit, do I smell? I turn to Harrow for help.

The horror must be readable on my face, because she steps in. “We did, actually. And I think we’re quite presentable, considering we’ve had a ten hour flight, plus one hour at the airport and the drive over.”

“I think you look nice, sweetheart,” says the auntie and squeezes my cheek. “Built like a boy. I’m Lacramorta.”

I think that’s a compliment? If tinted with a shade of homophobia.

“Well,” Mrs. Novenarius says, not perturbed. “You’ll have time to freshen up tomorrow. You already have a room. Just tell the innkeeper your name.” Her skirts whoosh in a pivot as she heads back inside without so much as a goodnight.

A room? Based on everything Harrow has told me, I was honestly expecting two. Not that I mind. We’ve already slept in the same bed, so this will be no different.

Mr. Novenarius nods goodbye. Uncle Nonagesimus wishes us goodnight and Lacramorta squeezes our cheeks again.

“Gross,” I say, rubbing feeling back into my skin when she’s out of earshot.

Harrowhark shakes her head, but leads us forward. We walk through a narrow hallway into what I assume to be the sitting room. The whole place is very grandma-chic with soft patterned carpets, natural wood and little embroidered handkerchiefs. It smells of green tea and lemon wood cleaner. The innkeeper—a plump elderly woman with brown hair, smiling wrinkles around her eyes and a huge golden crucifix around her neck—meets us, beaming. “Hey, there, loves.”

“Erm, hi,” Harrow says, unconsciously curving into my side.

Suddenly, my arms feel awkward hanging around my body. I wish I had the luggage to busy myself with, but the valet took even the damn carry-on. I fiddle with the strap of Harrow’s bag and warm myself with her body heat.

“I’m Harrowhark Nonagesimus. My parents should’ve arranged a room for me, plus one?”

“Aye, wean.” Nods the woman. “Aoife Murphy, owner.”

For a second, I’m not sure if she spoke English. Then I realize Ee-fa must be her name.

Harrow doesn’t seem to have the same issue.

Mrs. Murphy grabs a key from a bowl on the mantle. She narrows her eyes at us, then the key, then us again. “Is that your girlfriend, wean?”

Harrow winces.

“Yup.” I pull her even tighter into myself. Fuck Irish Catholics and their ‘right in front of my salad’ homophobia. “Love of my life, this one.”

“Sorry, loves.” Mrs. Murphy smiles again. “I think there was a booking mistake—you’ve been assigned a room with twin beds. Give me two minutes to check again, will ya?”

“No need.” Harrow sighs and holds her hand out f or the key. “That sounds about right.”

#

The next morning we wake up just in time to catch the end of breakfast—bread with jam, weak but hot coffee, and out-of-season fruit. We’re too worn out to talk about last night, but Harrow manages a little ‘thanks’, when we pass Mrs. Murphy.

Near ten-thirty, two rowdy Irish guys in oversized soccer t-shirts barge in. One hops on the breakfast table, the other squeezes in the chair next to Harrow, throwing his large arm over her fine shoulders. Their accents are so thick, I can only catch the occasional word. I pick up that they’re her older cousins—Niall and Cillian. In ten minutes, they’ve wrangled Harrow into ‘seeing the ponies’ with them.

“She doesn’t bet,” Cillian explains, seeing my furrowed brows. “But somehow she always guesses which one’s gonna win.”

Harrow practically preens at the compliment. “It’s basic math. I could teach you, if—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Niall waves his hand. “Not everyone’s a math genius, wean. You coming, Gideon?”

As riveting as all that sounds, I won’t exactly have an opportunity to go sightseeing in Europe any time soon. “Nah. Horse-racing’s not my thing. I’m gonna check out Dublin.” I kiss Harrow’s head and she gives a little yelp of surprise, which would’ve made me flush if I wasn’t laughing so hard.

When I pull away, her whole face is red. “Meet here at six for the party?”

“Duh.” I salute mockingly. “Have fun at the ponies, my Ghoulish Sovereign. I’ll text you.”

Harrow gave me a temporary Irish SIM so I can still use data without the roaming costs claiming my kidney. As I walk back to our room I catch Cillian punching her shoulder and Niall saying something about a “fit lass”, followed by roaring laughter. It must be a compliment though, because there’s only a pleased whisper from Harrow in return.

I spend the day walking through Drimnagh Castle; taking pictures at the National Cemetery, doing the peace sign next to my sunglasses-clad face and texting them to Harrow, then the derby group chat. For lunch I have chips and a pint at Burdock’s. I love being of legal drinking age here. I even find my energy drink in a bodega and take a selfie with the can against Ha’penny Bridge and the description #Dublin trip with my girlfriend. I tag the company name and Harrow. Oversees trips are always romantic, but there’s been a steady decline in my notifications. Even the kids at our school are kinda over us. Well, we’ll have more pictures from the ceremony and derby season starts. Hopefully, things will pick up again.

#

At 18:03 I’m back at the B&B. Harrow is already wrapped in a towel, curling her hair in front of the only mirror in our room.

“You’re late,” she grumbles without turning.

“We don’t leave for an hour. I have time.”

“Fifty-seven minutes.” Harrow lowers her eyesight to her screen. “Fifty-six now.”

I scoff—like I need more than twenty. “Okay, creep. I’m taking a shower.”

I come out drying my hair with a towel. “How were the pon—” holy shit. I stop dead in my tracks, hand frozen.

Harrow is wearing a ridiculous black ball gown with a skirt made of layers of tulle. The top is lacy with a see-through slit in the middle, all the way to her navel. It might’ve looked scandalous on someone like Coronabeth and her fantastic boobs, but on Harrow’s slim figure there’s not cleavage so much as sternum with a hint of sideboob. It’s the perfect combination of classy with just a touch of slutty. Unfair.

“Zip me up?” She asks and raises one arm to give me an unobstructed view of her perfectly smooth armpit.

I squirm, but rush forward before my reaction is too obvious. Helping each other dress is something friends do all the time, something I’ve done for my teammates. This is not at all weird or intimate.

My only consolation is when I put on my tux and smooth my dirty blond hair to one side, Harrow’s eyes go wide. For a good reason too—this cut accentuates my chest and hips, while keeping the masc outline. I look hot. I’m wearing silver to match the theme, but my shoes, bowtie, lapels and the black rose corsage pinned at my breast pocket, match Harrow. On her the silver is an accent—her makeup, her crucifix, the clips in her hair.

We look like a legit couple and it almost feels kind of nice.

Chapter Text

The ceremony is held in an actual goddamn castle.

Clontarf Castle is a 12^th century structure in gray bricks and, excluding some glass additions, it has remained unchanged since the day it was built. Harrowhark pokes me again, once out of the taxi—I’ve been staring dumbfounded. I shake it off. She locks her elbow in mine and we walk into a reception room only slightly less impressive than the outside.

It’s a large open space with heavy-lidded silvery-bluish curtains, and many round tables.  It’s all very fancy and colorless, much like the Fitzgeralds’ manor. The front wall with the podium and a projector screen is decorated by an arch of silver, black, and blue balloons, in the middle of which a giant ice sculpture in the shape of the number 25. There are silver trays, silver-tinted glasses, even silver candelabras all over white tablecloths. Dramatic bouquets of silver and white roses garnish the corners of the room.

We circle once. I smile politely, nod, and shake people’s hands, but for the most part the conversation is far too boring and heavily accented for me to follow. Not that Harrow seems to mind. She is content pretending to be engrossed and using me as an excuse when she wants to get away.

We’re finally seated at a table of ‘young people’—aka the rowdy cousins, their girlfriends, and some family friend in his thirties and his wife. One of the girlfriends—Emily—tells me she’s always admired derby players, but feels too intimidated to join a team, while I snack on a meager arrangement of nuts, pickles and fruit. Harrow leans on Niall, who seems incapable of shutting up, for conversation support.

That’s when Harrow’s parents stand up to make a speech.

“Thank you, all for coming,” says Mrs. Novenarius into a mic. Her smile is so stretched and fake, it chills me. “We’re privileged to be able to celebrate this tremendous occasion with all our closest friends and family.”

I can’t imagine that the three hundred or so people here are their closest, but sure.

Mr. Novenarius grins into his own mic, six feet away from his wife’s. I briefly wonder if they even share a bedroom. “Twenty-five years, huh? In some countries they give you less for murder.”

People laugh, but I only roll my eyes. Not the ball-and-chain stuff. Why do straight people marry someone if it feels like a sentence? I glance at Harrow and smirk, self-satisfied. The corner of her mouth hasn’t lifted either.

The slide show starts then. Mr. and Mrs. Novenarius talk about how they fell in love in university, thanks random friends who introduced them, blah-blah. I sigh and check the group chat under the table.

Harrow pokes me in the ribs. “Are you okay?”

“I’m peachy.” I mean it to come across snappy, but it’s just flat.

I’m certain Harrow got my meaning because she says, “Gideon, we had an agreement. Behave.”

“Trust me, if I behaved any better I’d be canonized.”

She gives me a murdery look. I swallow and leave the phone. Twelve-to-thirteen years down the timeline of their relationship, baby pictures of Harrow start playing on the screen and my attention is drawn back in.

“As many of you know, for the longest time all Priamhark Noniusvianus and I wanted was a child,” Mrs. Novenarius says with that vocal fry thing in fake YouTuber apologies. “But we struggled to conceive. Until eventually we were blessed with our brilliant, beautiful daughter.”

“And Harrowhark,” I whisper under my breath, already prepared for the punchline.

“And Harrowhark,” Mrs. Novenarius says and the room erupts in laughter.

I type in the group chat.

Gideon: i hate everyone at this ‘party’ !!! harrows parents r the f-ing worst istg

Cam: everyone? *eyes emoji*

Palamedes: Is there not a *vampire girl emoji* you like even a little bit?

Judith: just kiss already! We’d all like to move on with our lives.

I gasp.

Gideon: thats not whats happening here !!

But when I lift my head Harrow is glaring at me, so I only glimpse the last message, before pocketing the phone:

Coronababe: So you & Harrow are still not friends ??

At least after the speech is over, they serve appetizers. Which is great, except Harrow’s parents decide this is the perfect time for gift-giving and picture-taking. When it’s mine and Harrow’s turn, Mrs. Novenarius whispers something to the photographer. He tries to split us up and put me at the end of the photo. The gall, honestly!

I grab Harrow’s waist, warm under her fingers, and pull her to me. She stiffens, then relaxes into my side. “Take a picture or don’t, but I’m not moving.” They can’t just cut me out of the picture to present some perfect conservative family values bullshit.

It occurs to me only after the fact, that this was probably not the move—after our relationship’s expiration date passes, I’ll no longer be in her life and my presence in her parents’ anniversary photos will be extremely awkward for everyone involved.

Yet, Harrow said nothing.

#

The table smells of butter and wealth. Girlfriend!Emily explains the dishes to me—there are cheese potato cakes, Guinness bread, cheddar onion Biscuits, potato skins, Reuben dip and cornbread beer puffs—and once I put some of them in my belly, my mood drastically improves.

“You know you’re not supposed to fill up on hors d'oeuvres right?” Harrowhark asks. She hasn’t stopped frowning all night and her silverware is as pristine as the moment it arrived. “There’s a main course and cake.”

I shrug. I’ve always liked appetizers more than main courses anyway. “You know you’re supposed to at least try them, right?”

She just rolls her eyes and pours more water into her glass.

We’re alone at the table—the rowdy cousins have gone off to dance with their girlfriends and the family friend and his wife are fraternizing with the enemy (aka Harrow’s relatives) two tables over. I grin and raise a beer puff on my fork. “Come on. We can play a game—look, a plane!”

Harrow slaps my hand away. “I’m not a toddler.”

“It’s coming for yoooou.” I sing-song and zoom with my mouth.

“Stop embarrassing me!” Harrow swats me away again, but she’s fighting a smile.

It only makes me grin wider. “Try it and I’ll stop.”

Harrow rolls her eyes again, but bites into the puff off my fork.

“Harrowhark,” sounds a deep, stern voice above us. “You’re causing a scene.”

I stop zooming just to look up and see Mr. Novenarius. Clearing my throat, I drop my hands to my sides.

Harrow swallows with some difficulty. Her expression grows serious and she nods briskly. “Apologies, Father.”

He pats her shoulder. “Don’t let it happen again. People are staring.”

I look around. Sure enough, a couple great aunts are giving us dirty looks, trying to imbue us with that Catholic guilt I’ve heard so much about. Ha, good luck with that! I’m an unrepentant sinner and damn proud of it. If I end up in hell, so what? It’ll be full of lesbians, so I’ll probably have a good time.

“Gideon.” Mr. Novenarius sits opposite me, stirring a whiskey glass. “We haven’t had the chance to talk this weekend.”

Thank god for that.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about your hobbies and interests?”

“Father,” Harrow begs.

“Am I not allowed to ask after the people in my daughter’s life? Especially her… what do they say these days? ‘Partner?’”

Harrow opens her mouth, but I’m faster. “‘Girlfriend’ is fine—we’re dating, not starting a law firm. And, it’s cool. I don’t have anything to hide.”

Harrow flops back against her chair, but gestures for me to continue.

“Honestly?” I shrug. “I’m mainly interested in roller derby. We’re about to start the competitive season in a couple of weeks.”

“I gathered that from Harrowhark already. I meant more so…” He waves his hand. “Existentially.”

“Existentially? Still roller derby.” Maybe I’m doing this wrong. No matter what I say he’s going to judge me, but I should try to sound impressive, shouldn’t I? Then again, who the hell cares what Harrow’s awful father thinks of me. Isn’t that the whole reason I’m here? If Harrow wanted respectable, she would’ve brought Coronabeth.

He raises one balding eyebrow. “Can you get a scholarship for that in college?”

“Not really. But I don’t even know if I’m going to college.” I feel the urge to explain. “I might just take a gap year or two, figure it out. I don’t exactly have fifteen thousand dollars to throw on a degree I might hate. And that’s on the low end.” I glance at Harrow, who nods barely perceptibly. It eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’m college material at all.”

Her father just humphs before finishing his whiskey glass. “I see.” Then his head lifts and he stands. “I see my cousin, I should say hello. Harrowhark, we will talk later.”

“Yes, Father.” She nods, palling.

As soon as he’s a few feet away, I flip him off.

Harrow elbows me in the ribs.

“What? We were playing with food, not making out over the table.”

She says nothing, and I grit my teeth. Why is she not bickering? Fight back, damn it! Or better yet, stand up to your asshole father. But Harrow is clearly not interested in either and I’m the one who ends up frustrated.

“And what the hell was with that college question?” I lean back, crossing my ankles. At this point I’m just looking for trouble, but I can’t stop myself. Everything about that interaction bothers me. “What, am I not ambitious enough for you?”

“No,” she says and lifts the water glass to her lips.

I grimace. I thought we were over this. Maybe thirteen-year-old Harrow was a classist asshole, but this Harrow sees me. Or… so I thought. “You’re a real dickhead, you know that?”

“I warned you this would happen.” She slams the glass down and water spills from one side. “If it makes you feel better, you could be getting two PhDs, and he still wouldn’t think you’re ambitious enough for me.”

I grind my teeth before I say something I’ll really regret. “I don’t care if he likes me—we both knew he wouldn’t. But he treats you like crap and you say nothing. Why did you even want to come to Ireland?” It clearly doesn’t make her happy and it’s not as if a day and a half is enough time to visit family or connect to her roots or whatever.

Harrow looks at me as if I just asked what’s two plus two. “It’s not about what I want. It’s my parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary.”

“So what? Tell them you have homework. That’s what I would’ve done.”

Her fingers skim the rim of her glass. “Yes, well. We can’t all be you.”

I blink. In a few hours Harrowhark has reversed to the September version of her, before we’d bridged the gap between us. It’s suffocating. “Can we go? The speeches and photos are done, just fake being sick and show me something you actually like in this city.” Maybe outside of this castle I could even get her to eat something.

“We cannot leave. My family expects me to show face—”

“Your family sucks! I don’t give a shit what they ‘expect.’” I cross my arms. I should say I’m sorry, except I’m not. “You don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here and I—” don’t want to see her put herself through this. I purse my lips before it tumbles out. “Whatever. Can we just go?”

Harrow turns to me, elbow over her seat. “Is this a fight?” she asks, her tone calm, pointy face drawn in concentration. “We haven’t fought in a while and you miss it, is that it?”

I roll my eyes. God, she’s insufferable. “Yup. I want you to take care of yourself, so I’m fighting with you. Good job, jackass.”

Harrow sighs, and turns back to the table. “Take a walk, Griddle.”

That’s what does it.

“Screw you, bitch,” I say, leaping out of my seat. She does not get to act like she’s above it all. It’s her messy family! “You know what? I will take a walk. All the way to the B&B, in fact.”

“Fine.” Harrow says with a shrug of her delicate shoulders. “And on Monday, we’re officially breaking up.”

I falter. We can’t. Not before the season starts. The energy drink people will never have that. “Oh, you would hold that over my head.” My voice comes out fried.

“I’ve been fulfilling my part of the bargain.” Harrow stares me down, lips pinched distastefully. “This is the only thing I’ve asked in return.”

I groan and flop back down. She has me and she knows it. “Fine. I’ll be your arm candy. I’ll smile and only speak when you tell me to, until the clock strikes midnight and you turn into a pumpkin or whatever.”

“It’s Cinderella’s carriage that turns into a pumpkin, not Cinderella herself.”

“You win.” I ignore her semantics-obsessed smart ass. “Is that what you want to hear? I’m your faithful servant, my Dark Duchess.”

Harrow scoffs and takes a victory sip. “Don’t be petulant, just because I’m right. It doesn’t suit you.”

She’s not right though, she just holds all the cards. I still need her, but after tonight, Harrow won’t need me. Even if I’m on my best behavior, what’s stopping her from walking away come Monday? Surely, she can find another driver. I slump in my chair. For a second, I thought I might be talking to a real girl and not Our Lady of Perpetual Angst.

How silly of me.

Harrowhark opens her mouth with what’s no doubt a biting remark, when she’s ensnared by a distant relative.“What’s with the dress, love?” the auntie asks with a humorless laugh. “Are you going to a funeral after?”

“I—” But before she can finish her sentence, Harrow is dragged toward a gaggle of other aunties.

I should be relieved, but my stomach feels heavy and I don’t think it’s the food.

Chapter Text

With Harrow gone, I spend the next hour or two stuffing my face, nursing a beer (still totally legal in Ireland!), and giving the room a glowering look every once in a while, in case anyone decides to approach me. Mostly though, I watch the group chat for responses that never come, because all my teammates are at practice. I burn with the desire to join them. I need the rush of derby, the release of endorphins.

After the thirtieth refresh with zero responses, I start scrolling through Threads. I find a hot take about how “not all lesbians in media need to be masculine” that makes my fingers itch to respond (“where? Literally where are all the masc lesbians?”), when I remember that I’m now the face of an ad campaign. Getting into petty drama on the internet is probably not the look my sponsors are looking for. I refresh my timeline so the tweet will disappear and open Candy Crush instead.

I raise my head only when the music switches to a folksy song and a group of people start Irish tap dancing. Harrow is not among them, and neither are her parents, but Girlfriend!Emily is and so are both cousins. I grin and film on my phone. The energy is so infectious, I even try to join, but the steps are harder than they look. With a few drinks in my system, jostling myself too much can’t lead to anything good. Amped up with restless energy, I steal towards the garden.

Outside the breeze is pleasant and the bushes nicely trimmed, but I’m not looking for pleasant.

I’m looking for a fight.

Surely it won’t take long to find some drunk homophobic relative who’ll call me a slur. Then I won’t feel too bad for bruising his jaw… God, since when have I become so violent? Is this just what happens when people don’t exercise enough? I’m rounding the angel statues when I hear a deep female voice, “like that mid-term you failed. You’ll never get into Harvard, if you’re not Valedictorian.”

I’m about to turn back, not wanting to intrude, when Harrow responds, “It won’t happen again, Mother. I was ill and I couldn’t concentrate, but I know the material. I’ll redeem my credits.”

I peek out from behind the ivy-wrapped statue to see Harrow sitting at a wooden outside table opposite her parents. She’s slumping and she’s fiddling with her skirt, looking absolutely miserable. I shift back into my hiding spot, watching the three of them with one eye.

“How can I believe that, when you’ve been acting like a spoiled brat for the last two months?” says Mrs. Novenarius. If anyone else had said that I might be tempted to agree, but something tells me that she and I have very different ideas of what ‘acting like a spoiled brat’ entails. “It’s one thing to have a girlfriend and another to place her before everything that used to matter to you. Making a scene at our anniversary party… Surely, you understand how this looks for us?”

Harrow winces. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“And that Gideon,” Mr. Novenarius spits my name like a poison. “If you had to bring a girl, couldn’t it at least have been someone more… refined? The Tridentarius girl, perhaps.”

“Coronabeth and I are just friends. Can we just leave it alone, please?”

“What I don’t understand is,” he continues, bulldozing over her objections. “If you like such masculine people, why not just date a boy?”

“That’s not how it works, Father,” Harrow sighs, with the air of someone too tired of having the same conversation over and over. “I like Gideon,” she says, and my heart flutters, because she sounds painfully sincere. Even if she doesn’t mean it like that.

Mrs. Novenarius leans back and says, “Well. No one has ever accused you of having good taste.”

I gape. Seriously?

“We’ve been waiting for you to grow out of this phase—”

“Being a lesbian is not a phase, Mother,” Harrow grits out.

“Oh, I don’t mean that.” Her mother waves a hand. “It’s your whole… rebellion thing. The outfits, the attitude, the constantly trying to provoke us. It was cute when you were little, Harrowhark, now it’s coming up on embarrassing now. Look.” She grabs her chin and forces her to look into her eyes. “I just don’t want you to wreck your future away on a fancy. You’re meant for Harvard, or perhaps, Duke. I don’t want to make assumptions, but I doubt your girlfriend is headed there.”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Mr. Novenarius deadpans. “She might not even go to college.”

“I will not base my life on a girl,” Harrow says, her voice coming across a little like a shriek. “But… what if I like Stanford?” She says it like a question and I hate hate hate how tentative it sounds.

“Oh, darling. Stanford is only number three in pre-med. You’re better than that.”

She sighs. “I suppose.”

I can’t take this anymore. I step back and shuffle the bushes, making as much noise as I can and practically yell, “Heeey, sugar lips!” Sugar lips? Where did that come from? And right in front of her parents? “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh.” Relief washes over Harrow’s features. “Hi.”

“Let’s go dancing. Everyone else has had a turn by now.”

“Yes, we probably should.” She stands and holds on to my arm.

I hate to say it, but it makes me feel a little like James Bond, especially in this tux. “Mr. And Mrs. Novenarius.” I nod, but don’t give them a chance to speak before turning my back. As we’re walking away, I say to Harrow as loudly as possible, “You know, my dad works at Stanford. Do you want me to give you a tour sometime? Personal open day.”

She flushes.

#

Inside, a slow song is playing. I encircle Harrow’s waist, pulling her in. The alcohol must be working its way through my system, because all I can think about is how my thumb fits perfectly in the curve beneath her ribs.

“How much of that did you hear?” she asks, joining her fingers around my neck. Her hands pleasantly chilled against my flushed skin.

“Everything after the midterm part.” I shrug. I don’t even try to lie. Harrow isn’t stupid enough to believe I’d just gotten there. “Did you really fail one?”

“I got a C- in French, but that’s as good as an F in my parents’ eyes. Mr. Aubert is letting me take extra credit to rectify my grade—I’ll be damned if Castillo beats me for Valedictorian.”

I chuckle. “I keep forgetting you and Pal have this weird rivalry.” Valedictorian drama has always been the furthest thing from my mind.

“That’s what I like about you,” Harrow says softly, only for me.

I snort, swaying lightly. “That I don’t pay attention?”

She shakes her head. “You pay attention plenty—to the things that matter. What I like is that you don’t make me feel like I have something to prove.”

And that warms me all over. I don’t even know what it means, because we’re constantly arguing, but if she says so… I want to draw her in, but I don’t know how to do it without ‘causing a scene’. Or being a creep.

Harrow takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry about before.”

I blink and stop moving. “That’s a new word for you. Did you just learn it?”

“Shut up.” She swats my shoulder, tugging on my lapels until we’re swaying again.

My hands are firm on her waist, the lace of her dress soft under my fingers.

“I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. I suppose misery wants company. My parents, their need to flaunt their success, the fact that we are in Ireland and I can’t even—” She licks her lips. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

“I mean. You did bring me here to piss them off, right?”

“Yes.”

I grin. “Am I doing a good job?”

“Brilliant.” Harrow stares directly into my eyes. “But more importantly, you’re the only reason I’ve survived tonight.”

I squirm under the focus in her oil-spill eyes. It makes my whole body tingle, like an itch on the wrong side of my skin. The thing is, I’ve never felt important. I wasn't important enough for my mother to stay or for Coronabeth to date me. Even as a pivot I’m more convenient than important—a well-trained clown can do what I do. But Harrow, with her eerie eyes and her affluent family and a brain so brilliant she can shape the world in her image… having the undivided attention of a girl like that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.

“Hey,” I grin, desperately needing to break the tension. Thankfully, the song has changed into a faster, poppier track. “Don’t be alarmed, but I’m gonna pick you up now.”

Harrow stiffens in my arms. “Griddle, don’t you da—AAAAAGH!”

It turns into a loud yelp as I lift her off the ground, clutching her waist. She wraps her arms over my neck holding on for dear life. I grin even wider, spinning her around. The yelp becomes startled laughter and it’s the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.

People are staring and I can’t even pretend to care.

When I finally set her down, Harrow isn’t smiling exactly, but her eyes are shining with an excited, wild look. “I hate you,” she says, but she can’t muster her usual sharpness.

“Sure you do.” I wink.

Then she does smile—a proper smile, not a sneer or a turned-up corner—and it changes her whole disposition so completely, my head spins. How did I ever think Harrow was anything other than beautiful? Not beautiful the way Coronabeth is—all six feet of curves and big golden hair and face so proportional, it’ll make eugenicists dizzy. Harrow is more like the edge of a shiny sword—pointy chin and bow-shaped lips and smart eyes, black, like painted stainless steel. Her dainty neck with even daintier collarbones blends into narrow shoulders that carry the weight of the world and it makes her gorgeous.

The air is charged. I feel like metal drawn to a magnet of a girl in a poofy black dress. It’s as if someone else is pulling my strings but I don’t bother to fight it. I step closer and lean in.

For a second, it seems like Harrow is leaning too.

Then her smile drops and her eyes flutter. “Oh,” she gasps. “I don’t feel so good—” and lurches forward.

#

Harrow tips toward my chest. I catch her, heart pounding. Oh, god. Oh g—

She gasps against my shoulder and straightens. “What happened?”

“I think… you passed out.” It was only for a couple of seconds, but they were the scariest seconds of my life—and I once watched Cam do an apex jump and splatter herself on the track. Thankfully, she only ended up with bruised ribs.

“Oh.”

Oh? What does she mean, oh?

“Did someone see?”

“I don’t know! I was busy preventing your concussion. Are you sick or something?”

She shrugs. “I assume it’s low blood sugar.”

“Low blood—” I want to scream. I can’t believe Harrow did this to herself… or no, actually. I can totally believe that. The little stress goblin probably hasn’t eaten all day. “Come here.” I grab her wrist and pull her toward our table, pouring her a glass of water. “Drink this.” Then I push a plate of potato biscuits towards her. “Eat at least five.”

Harrow sits and sips the water. Then eats, miserably—five exactly, in fact. “Stop looking at me like that,” she says.

But I can’t unfurrow my eyebrows. She’s dug her impressively manicured nails right under my skin, and now I have this weird urge to protect her, even from herself. “Why?”

Harrow rubs her temples, and grits out, lowering her voice so Family Friend and Wife don’t hear us, “I’m not talking about this here. I’ve already had one berating tonight, I can’t handle another.” She turns to me, eyes shining. “Could we leave?”

I roll my eyes. Now she’s listening to me? “I thought you needed to ‘show face.’”

“I did. Now I’m tired and hungry and I want to go.”

I can practically feel the grin splitting my face. That’s what I’ve been saying all night! Then I remember my concerns and wince. “As long as wherever we’re going will be under fifty pounds, cause I don’t have more on me. And you need to eat.”

Harrow nods. “Fine.” She grabs my hand, pulling me up. “Shall we?”

We slip out from the back door, glancing at each other every two seconds only to smile sheepishly, and hail a taxi from the back. Once inside, Harrow wrings her hands in her lap.

I just watch, determined not to push her.

“I wasn’t trying not to…” She looks up. “I don’t restrict or anything, at least not on purpose. I just felt so anxious. I thought if I ate anything I’d simply regurgitate it. I may have pushed myself too far.”

I snort. “No kidding.”

She ignores this, laughing humorously and flops back. “God, my parents will be furious.”

“Tell them you weren’t feeling well. It’s not even a lie.”

Harrow shakes her head, a curl slipping from her half-do. “I don’t think they’d care.”

I clench my fist, regretting not throwing that punch after all, but at a different target—like Mr. Novenarius’s nose. Or his expensive watch. Taking a deep breath, I pat Harrow’s knee. “If you need to get away, you can stay at mine anytime. I’m sure Dad won’t mind. He practically talked my ear off when you left.” I pull my hand back. This is getting a little too intimate. “Where are we going, anyway? Because I told you it has to include food.”

“I was thinking… McDonald’s?”

I chuff. “I can’t picture you at McDonald’s.”

“That’s probably because I’ve never been before. And don’t you dare make fun of me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I smile back.

Even though it’s not how I imagined tonight, I can’t stop grinning when Harrow unwraps a triple cheeseburger and eats slightly more than half. I smear ice-cream down her nose; she scoffs and sprays me with water and I spam the group chat with sooo many selfies.

I even pick my three favorites and post them as a little collection on Instagram.

Chapter Text

November stretches like an elastic band about to snap. Harrow and I have been texting—which has mostly meany me sending her whatever random thing pops into my head. Such as:

Gideon: do u think androids actly dream of electric sheep ??

Gideon: i mean why would smo even make an electric sheep?

Gideon: sounds wasteful

Gideon: its not like they can give u electric wool lol

Duchess of Darkness: Your mind should be studied by science.

Gideon: thank u *smiling blush emoji*

Or:

Gideon: how do u put an *elephant emoji* into a fridge ??

Purgatory Princess: You cannot.

Gideon: wrong !!

Gideon: its simple

Gideon: u just open the door, put the *elephant emoji* in and close it

Gideon: now how do u put a *giraffe emoji* in a fridge ??

Purgatory Princess: Do I open the door, put the giraffe in and close it?

Gideon: wrong !!

Gideon: first u have to take out the *elephant emoji*

Purgatory Princess: I hate you.

But she always responds. Even the one time I send her a picture of Ollie sleeping on his back with his legs in the air.

Gideon: what DO dogs dream about anyway ??

Shadow Sovereign: Griddle, I swear to God! It's three a.m. Go to sleep!

I’ve also typed and deleted a text about the almost-kiss seven million times, but I never dare send them. She hasn’t brought it up either, but she did pass out. For all I know, she doesn’t remember. Which is fine by me—our friendship is precarious enough without bringing romance into it. In fact, at this point Harrowhark probably is sticking with the fake dating, because a) it gives her ample opportunities to rub her grades in Palamedes’s face and b) finding another personal driver would be too inconvenient. What did she do before our arrangement? She certainly didn’t drive herself and the mere thought of Harrow on a public train or cable car is so hilarious, I often have to stop whatever I’m doing and breathe deeply to avoid erupting in laughter.

Anyway, I’m far too exhausted to handle that conversation. With the competitive season right around the corner, my schedule becomes a constant barrage of school, training, work, sleep; school, training, work, sleep; wash, rinse, repeat. Once, I sit on the bed to rest for ‘two minutes’ and I’m woken up the next morning by my alarm.

The monotony is only broken when during one lunch hour, I see Camilla sniffling outside of the college counselor office. Palamedes is holding her shoulders, whispering to her. I creep closer, thumbing the straps of my backpack. “Hey. What’s up?”

To my surprise, Camilla hangs her head and it’s Palamedes who answers. “Cam just had to make a pretty hard decision.”

I snort. “What, between Yale and Harvard?” I’ve been trying not to think about how far away she’ll be next year. There are still nine-ish months left and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

“I withdrew my early applications,” Cam says, eyes still glued to her shoe-laces.

“What?” That doesn’t make sense. Camilla is, like, the second smartest girl I know. She’s not in the running for Valedictorian, but that’s only because her grades started slipping this year. She still has a 3.9 GPA, is an accomplished athlete with a part-time job, and somehow finds time for the Big Sister mentorship program. “Why would you do that?”

This time Cam’s brown eyes focus on me—and they’re not soft. “Because I can’t afford college, you asshole. Especially not an Ivy.”

“But…” I splutter. “Since when?”

“Since my dad lost his job?”

Shit, I am an asshole. She told me that already. “I’m sorry. It, uh… slipped my mind.”

“Unsurprising. With all your Harrowhar drama, you barely have time for anyone else.”

“That’s not tr—” Except it kind of is. Harrow has been taking up all my time and attention outside of school and derby. What do people say? You gain a girlfriend and lose two friends? Well, I’m not sacrificing Camilla and Palamedes for a fake girlfriend. “No, you’re right. I’ll do better, promise. Are you… mad at me?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have the energy to be mad right now.”

“Cool.” I nod, my pulse leveling. “Hey, what about scholarships?”

“It’s a lot of money even with one, especially out of state.”

“Financial aid—”

“Student debt?” Cam laughs ruefully. “That’s your solution? No, a gap year is best. I’ll save up. Next year, Kiki will be thirteen. She can help with Val and Mateo after school, so maybe I can go then?”

My shoulders slump—I feel so useless. “This sucks.”

“Yeah.” She chuckles, none of it reaching her eyes.

I bite my lip. “At least we’ll be together? Working at Thanks-a-Latte, keeping the positivi-tea in San Francisco.”

Cam laughs awkwardly and punches my shoulder. I smile, though all I want to do is cry and cling to her. So I do. I hug her as tight as I can, then grab Palamedes by his stupid pressed shirt and it becomes a group hug. I take in Cam’s rough hands and her smell of coffee and Pal’s scent of boy and academic stress. God, I never realized how much I missed them.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask. I mean it too—I need to make up for my absence.

“Yeah, actually.” Cam sniffs and wipes her face. “Take my shift next Friday? There’s a family emergency and I need to be there, but I also need this job.”

“Dude, of course!” I grin. Anything for her.

Chapter Text

December rolls around with our first bout. P'wned is playing against The Salty Dolls in their light pink and blue uniforms, looking like bubblegum. I hate them so much. Especially their jammer, Crystal Doll. We met three years ago and every time we’ve lost to them. It’s always early in the season and it always demoralizes the team. And Crystal loves rubbing it in our faces.

Mine, most of all.

“Violet Painbow,” Crystal says, as the two teams face off on the track before the bout.

The crowd around us raises signs and whoops—there are twice as many people as last year. Back then, it was just our families, friends and a few teenage boys who wanted to see girls in fishnets beating the shit out of each other. Now, it feels like half our school has packed into the gym.

Crystal flips a lock of candy pink hair behind her light-brown shoulder. A septum piercing glistens from her perfect button nose. “Surprised to see you. I thought I wiped you from the game forever last term.”

I scoff from behind my captain, who’s having her own spat with another Salty Doll.

It was just a sprain—it took a few weeks, but I was fine. “As if your weak ass can take me out.”

“Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.” She winks. “There’s always today.”

“Be careful, Crystal.” I smirk—I’m not afraid of this girl. “Dolls tend to break easily.”

“Is that a threat?” Her face brightens, as if I just told her half my team is out of commission and handed her the win. “I love threats. Especially if they come right before I destroy you on the track.”

I grimace. Once upon a time I might’ve considered Crystal my type—a Vietnamese girl, with light-brown skin, on the tall side of average and well-toned. She looks like she belongs on the set of a high school TV show, more so than an actual high school. But now… I scan the bleachers.

Palamedes is there, and so are a few of the non-athlete queer girls at school, Camilla’s dads and her three younger siblings. Dad is grinning and holding up a giant sign that says “Violet brings on the Pain-bow.” It makes me chuckle anytime I catch a glimpse, though he’s had it since freshman year.

Harrow is by his side too. She’s even holding up a “Go Violet Painbow!” poster in purple glitter which probably means one of the fresh meat did it for her. I reject the mere concept of Harrow doing arts and crafts with purple glitter. It’s not the most creative slogan, but hey—she’s here, with a poster. I struggled to imagine that even in my wildest fantasies.

She is frowning though, which makes my skin prickle in all kinds of nagging ways.

I don’t have time to analyze this feeling though, because we’re settling into positions. The referee blows her whistle and the first jam is on.

Calamity, a freshie, and sophomore blockers line up with me and we immediately get slammed by the Salty Dolls. The freshie gives in, falling on her knees to the side, and Crystal—now with her hair tied and septum piercing flipped up—breaks through the pack.

Calamity and I give each other a look and that’s all we need. On the track, it’s like we’re telepathic. We skate toward the Salty Dolls’ blockers, shoulder-checking them out of the way for the Crowned Assassin to roll past us. She’s quick, rushing in a wind of giant golden mane… but not quick enough. Crystal scores, ending the jam with her hands at her hips and a wink at me.

Goddamn it.

The audience boos, except for the section of The Salty Dolls’ fans.

The next jam starts.

The Salty dolls use a wall of three to trap The Crowned Assassin with only the last blocker fighting off ours, to make way for Crystal. This is a mistake. CA stretches back and passes the panty to me. I skate just fast enough to push Crystal out of her way and score. She gets up, but Calamity and Captain Clock Her wall up, holding her in place, and in three seconds, the jam is over.

I look up at the bleachers, where Dad is grinning with a giant thumbs up—like, an actual styrofoam thumbs-up that people bring to football games. I search for Harrow’s eyes and she’s… still frowning. What the hell?

We trade off winning and losing jams for the first period. At some point CA gets a penalty, so she has to leave the track, while our blockers hold off Crystal before she scores on a power jam. Then the same thing happens to Crystal. By the end, the points are too close to call, the Dolls having only a tiny lead.

I sit on the lowest bleacher—no people here, in the splat zone—and take deep breaths, stretching my legs.

Dad comes over, nudging me. “Great job, kiddo.” He beams, though I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing even if we were losing by a mile.

“Thanks.” I grin back, unbuckling my helmet. I don’t deserve it, but I appreciate his endless enthusiasm for anything I do. Especially now that I’ve met Harrow’s parents.

“Not gonna hug you, cause you are...” He gestures at my sweaty uniform.

I wipe the back of my neck with a towel. “Solid call.”

Dad clicks his fingers. “I’m getting a soda. Do you want anything?”

“Water, maybe?”

“Will do.” He says and walks into the hallway, towards the vending machines.

Crystal replaces him a minute later. “You’re putting on a good front, Violet, but you’ll still lose.”

Not today, Satan. “Tell me Crystal, do you like the taste of ass? Cause I’m pretty sure you’ll be biting mine soon.”

“Only if you ask.” She winks.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, skinny legs clad in massive combat boots and skull tights catch my eye. I lift my head to behold Harrow, her arms folded over a classic Victorian corset. The ‘Go Violet Painbow’ poster hangs from her clenched fingers. “Are you quite finished?” she says, looking like one of us is about to be murdered in cold blood. And for once, I’m not sure it’s me.

Crystal scoffs. “I was just leaving.” She stands and dusts off her skort, which is such a gross uniform choice. Just pick one—skirt or shorts.

“Hey.” I smile up at Harrow, crossing my skates. “You having fun?”

“It’s girls pushing each other.” She rolls her eyes, but does perch her non-existent ass next to me, placing the sign beside her. “I’m riveted.”

“You literally told me you were never bored during practice three weeks ago. Why are you being a jerk now?”

“You know very well why ‘I’m being an jerk’,” she says, expression still pinched.

“Iiiii really don’t, actually.” Every time I think we’ve taken a step forward, Harrow drags me three back. “And if this is a fight, can it wait until after the game? I’m kinda in the zone and I can’t deal with your drama.”

“It’s not my drama, Griddle.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Does Crystal know you have a girlfriend?”

I lean in and whisper, just for her. “I don’t have a girlfriend, though.” I might’ve felt guiltier, if I were actually sneaking around to make out with Crystal behind the bleachers—aka the favored spot of secret couples and football players, cheating on their girlfriends—but this was literally just trash talk. And it’s none of Harrow’s business… right?

“As far as everyone is concerned,” she says, voice pitched an octave higher. “You do.”

Oh. I grin. “Are you jealous?”

“For the love of God, Griddle.” She rolls her eyes so hard, they must’ve glimpsed her gray matter. “I could not care less about you flirting with some bubblegum bimbo. What I care about is how this makes me look. I will not be mocked in front of the entire school.” She stares me down. “So, which is it? Does she not know you have a girlfriend or does she not care?”

I shrug. “I’ve no idea.” It’s the truth. I don’t think Crystal follows me on Insta, but some of her teammates might, and they could’ve passed it on. Conceivably.

“Tell her, then.”

I blow air through my lips. “Fine. After the game.”

“No.” Harrow folds her arms again, murdery look definitely pointed at me this time. “Tell her now.”

“She’s with her team…” I gesture at the bleachers opposite us, where Crystal has huddled between two Salty Dolls. “What do you want me to do, walk over there and announce my relationship status?”

“That would be ideal, yes.”

“You have some real issues, you know that? Nothing’s ever happened between Crystal and me. Nothing will happen. She’s… not my type.” Once, maybe. But I don’t see myself with a girl like Crystal anymore.

“A),” starts Harrow and I’m already exhausted. “I find that hard to believe, as your type appears to be ‘girl’. And B) even if that were true, she clearly doesn’t know it, because she’s shamelessly flirting with you. So tell her, or I walk.”

I just stand there, silently pinching my lips. This is ridiculous.

“Fine then.” Harrow springs up, boots heavy against the wooden floor.

“Okay!” I put up my hands. Obviously, I can’t have my girlfriend walking out of my first bout—that won’t look good for me or the team or the sponsorship. Also, as much as I hate to admit it, having Harrow here pushes me to play my best. “I’ll tell her. Just… sit down.”

Harrow doesn’t say anything else, but she nods and sits. In Harrow’s language, that’s basically screaming approval. I take a deep breath and skate toward The Salty Dolls. Crystal and one of her teammates have angled their heads together, laughing at something on the other girl’s phone screen.

“Hey.” I try my best to keep my expression neutral.

“Hey, Violet.” Crystal perks up. “Come to ask me not to throw you on your ass?” There’s a sultry note in her voice. Goddamn it, Harrow was right—this is definitely flirting.

“More like you—” I shake my head. This is the opposite of what I’m trying to do here. Wasn’t my goal to stop falling for obvious bait? “Actually, I came to say that…” I lick my lips. How do I phrase the next part? I was too frazzled by Harrow’s ultimatum to consider my actual words. “Maybe you don’t follow me on social media and you don’t know or whatever, but… I’m seeing someone.” I point to Harrow. “That’s her, over there.”

“The angry goth chick?” Crystal scoffs. “I thought she was your sister. Didn’t peg her for your type.”

Ha, peg. Nice one. Also, my sister? Yeah, right. “Okay, first? We look nothing alike.”

She shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

I roll my eyes, but ignore her petty ass. “And second—she’s… cool, actually.” Some of the time, anyway. “So whatever this thing we have going on is, let’s keep it to the track. Alright?”

Crystal’s teammate looks vaguely uncomfortable, but honestly? I’m glad to have witnesses.

Crystal rolls her eyes and returns to the phone screen. “Fine.” I don’t miss when her face drops.

Still, I did my job. I turn to Harrow and give her the thumbs up with a mocking grin and get a head shake in return. She does raise her sign though, which I take as a ‘thank you.’

When we get back on the track, there’s no banter. This time, Crystal is out for blood.

Chapter Text

The second period is vicious. The Salty Dolls take no prisoners—I haven’t taken that many elbows to the face since sophomore year, when Cam, Pal and I decided to go camping—the tent was so small, we kept nudging each other. They get a bunch of penalties but with a dozen blockers to replace their fallen comrades it doesn’t matter.

My teammates fall, then get back up. A sophomore is kicked so hard in the shin she has to skip the rest of the game. There are five more penalties for our jammer, and Coach throws J Wrecks in. The final jam pits Crystal against J Wrecks.

Our strategy is simple. Calamity Hurtz, Captain Clock Her and I pick out the slowest blocker and surround her, slowing down. Now they can’t legally block our jammer.

“Oh, what the—” one of The Salty Dolls’ blockers calls.

Captain Clock Her just grins and I flip off another blocker. Calamity shakes her head, hiding a small smile of her own. We’ve left J Wrecks alone against Crystal, but I have faith in her.

They skate shoulder to shoulder. Crystal tries to push her out of the way, but J holds her own and my chest is bursting with pride. She swerves left, then right. The remaining blockers do their best from the engagement zone, but J Wrecks does that apex jump CA showed her back in September, and passes the final blocker—a grand slam.

The referee blows her whistle. J Wrecks skates in a semi circle to face the team with wink. I glance at the board.

Holy shit. We won!

Cheers erupt around me before I’ve processed what’s happened. I get swept up in it, whooping at the top of my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye I can see The Salty Dolls groaning and grumbling. Crystal throws her helmet on the ground, but I don’t feel bad for her. Cam skates over, grins and pulls me by the wrist into a full-team victory lap around the bleachers. It’s loud and bright. People keep screaming our names, tapping my shoulder, my open palm.

Dad grins and gives me a high-five. “Congrats, kiddo!”

Then, there’s Harrow. She jumps out of her seat, sign forgotten. “I can’t believe it!” She squees. “You won!”

I blanch. I’ve never heard her squee before. I didn’t even think she could make that sound. She doesn’t hug me, but her face is glowing. When she smiles with all her stupidly white teeth, she looks so goddamn beautiful, my entire body feels warm and overstrung. I feel like I’ll jump out of my skin if I don’t do something with all that restless energy. And the only thing I want to do, is kiss her. I want it so bad, it feels embedded in the fabric of my very being. It’s the only way this thing between us could’ve ended.

But before I can, a junior pushes my back and Cam pulls my wrist again, and I have to skate forward. Once the moment passes I take a deep breath—I almost did the stupidest thing in the world. Kissing Harrow could not have ended well for me, especially in front of so many people.

Pyrrha is there, beaming. “Great job, girls!” she says, and extends her hand.

We huddle, hands-in and scream “P’wned!” laughing.

Judith skates to the bleachers beaming, grabs her girlfriend from the crowd and starts making out with her so violently, Marta actually blushes. There’s so much embarrassing leaning in!

Several people scream “Ew!” and “Get a room!” but they don’t stop.

The crowd starts dispersing, but my teammates are still amped up… all except Coronabeth, who turns away to brush tears under her eyes. I’m about to skate up to her and quip that it’s good to let someone else make a few scoring trips. We’ll have to pass the mantle in a few months, anyway… Then, I remember her massive crush on Judith.

I deflate. No way a girl like Coronabeth used to being rejected. But as screwed up as it is to watch my friend cry and do nothing about it, I can’t comfort my ex over another girl—that’s a whole ass minefield I’m not stepping in. Instead, I dare a glance at Crystal, whose hair is down again. She flips another glossy lock behind her shoulder with a stony expression. It’s astonishing how little it does for me.

#

“Did you see Judith and Marta?” Harrow asks, as we walk towards Nathan, her face sour as if she had a spoonful of vinegar.

After we’d settled, I reminded Dad she was there as my guest and I’d promised to take her home. He kissed the top of my head and congratulated me again, before heading for his beetle.

I grimace thinking about all that saliva. “I wish I hadn’t.” I don’t think I can look Judith in the eyes for the next week or so.

“Right?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “In front of everyone too? I thought better of them.”

As I close Nathan’s door, I breathe a sigh of relief, intensely grateful I never gave in to my urge to kiss her, or we’d be having a very different conversation.

Having buckled her seatbelt, Harrow says, “I want you to teach me how to roller skate.”

I laugh, but her face is gravely somber. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“No offense, my Evil Empress,” I put the car in reverse. “But you don’t strike me as a sporty lesbian. You’re more like one of those mean femmes who’d rather die than touch a ball.”

“I’m not trying to be a pro derby player.” She rolls her eyes, then sucks on her crucifix. “I just don’t appreciate that skating is something all your friends are good at, and I’m… not.”

I shrug. “Pretty sure Pal can’t skate.”

It’s a reasonable thing to point out, but Harrow just scoffs. “Believe it or not, I strive to surpass what Sextus can do.”

Of course. It’s against Harrow’s code of ethics to be bad at anything, especially if Palamedes is bad at it too. “Fine. I’ll teach you.”

“This Friday,” Harrow announces, as if it’s already decided.

I did promise to take Cam’s shift… “Can we do Saturday? After practice?”

“You’re always tired after practice and I have lessons this Saturday.”

She has a point. Like most gays I’m bad at math, but if I take Harrow roller skating from four to five, I’ll have just enough time to get to Thanks-a-Latte and cover Cam’s shift. It’ll be a tight fit, but I’ll manage. “Fine. But it has to be early-to-mid afternoon.”

“I’ll reschedule my lessons. But I want to go to an actual rink, not that dreadful gymnasium.”

“Noted, Ice Princess.” I fake-salute.

Chapter Text

The Church of 8 Wheels is perfect for our rollerskating ‘date.’ Old and vaguely goth on the outside, fun and colorful on the inside. It’s still church-y, smelling all musty and humid, but the altar is now a DJ stand with LED screens, the space is dim, colored only by more LED lighting and disco ball, sprinkling rainbow spots everywhere. Sunlight comes through the painted glass windows and bout thirty people in pastel 80s outfits skate over the hardwood floor, while “Le Freak” plays in the background.

Harrow gapes at the giant “ROLLER SKATING DISCO” sign on the front steps.

“What about me says ‘disco’?”

I glance at her—currently she’s in a black romper over a long-sleeved skull t-shirt and purple-and-black knee-high socks with combat boots. At least she didn’t wear anything ridiculous like jeans, or god forbid—a skirt. I’m just wearing yoga pants and a stretchy t-shirt that says I’M THE LESBIAN AGENDA.

“Honestly?” I shrug. “I thought it’d be funny.”

Harrow rolls her eyes.

“C’moooon this isn’t so bad—we’re literally in a gothic church. Just imagine it’s decorated with the skulls of your enemies. But like, classy.”

This earns me a scoff, but she doesn’t demand we leave, so I take it as an acquiescence.

I’ve brought my own skates but Harrow has apparently obtained a black pair with silvery details specifically for the occasion.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “When did you even have the time?”

“I asked Seamus to buy them for me.”

I roll my eyes.

“What? You can’t expect me to borrow used skates. Who knows how many people have shoved their disgusting floor grippers inside them.”

That’s… a valid point. I was relieved when I could afford my own pair too. “Let’s take a selfie,” I say, after we’ve tied our skates.

She nods and I pull out an energy drink can from my bag, so jostled it’s completely undrinkable. I raise my phone to capture our faces, skates and the can. My victory photo was the only one lately that got decent engagement. Now that we’ve got the initial attention, maybe I only have to date Harrow for another five weeks or so… Except that thought just makes my stomach heavy. When did I start missing Harrow before we’ve even ended our ruse? This cannot be healthy.

I need to shake this off, so I leap into the air and pull Harrow to stand—

“Nonononono, I wasn’t ready—” She stumbles forward.

Harrow’s crashes into me, breaking her fall. She rests her head under my collarbone with a startled gasp, and my heartbeat quickens, as if I was the one about to face-plant the floor.

“If you let go of me,” Harrow says, pushing away. “I’m going to kill you.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” I say, but extend a hand.

She takes a deep breath and grabs it shakily. I skate backward, keeping to the outside rink and pull her along. Slow movement, forward motion, nothing too extravagant. We make a couple of circles while the music changes to “Stayin’ Alive,” which is quite appropriate. I let go—partially because it’s funny to watch Harrow flounder, and partially because she’ll never learn if she doesn’t take the training wheels off.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she chants, waddling with an expression like she’s about to throw up.

“This was your idea.” I say, skating in a backward arch. I have an unfair advantage here, but so what? Harrow has an unfair advantage everywhere else. “C’mon, you’re not even wearing rollerblades. These skates are literally made for balancing—five-year-olds can do this.”

“Not. Helping.” She grits out, digging her nails into the grooves of the brick wall.

“Honestly? I don’t know why you bother.” I push forward holding out my arms to her again. “We’ve been ‘dating’ for almost three months and you’ve never shown any interest in skating or derby. Why now?”

“I told you—” Harrow starts, gripping my elbows.

“Yes, yes, you don’t like being bad at stuff my friends are good at. But like… you’ve never cared about what my friends think of you.”

She scoffs. “I’ve known Coronabeth almost as long as I’ve been alive.”

“You told me you weren’t close, not long ago.” I pull her into a semi-circle. We skate around a literal kindergartener, who is already skating circles around Harrow.

“I’m also friends with Camilla and Palamedes...”

I raise an eyebrow. Everything Harrow has said about Palamedes has been in the context of their Valedictorian competition.

“I suppose Sextus is closer to a frenemy, but they’re fine.”

“Oh, ‘fine’ are they? Quite an achievement for them.”

“Shut up, Griddle.” 

She stumbles over literal air and I catch and straighten her. “How about we try the truth, huh?”

Harrow pinches her lips.

“Tell me or I let go.”

She threatened me like this back in Ireland—so can I.

“Fine.” Harrow spits. Brushing a sweat bead off her forehead, she leans back against the nearest wall. “Anyone with two eyes can see that we’re faking. That must be why engagement on our posts has slowed down. It’s obvious that I’m not your type.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I thought my type was ‘girl’?”

She shakes her head. “I was being a bitch when I said that.”

“You? A bitch? Well, I never!”

She swats my shoulder.  “Obviously, you’re into tall girls with thunder thighs and big hair—Coronabeth, Crystal…”

I rub my forehead. “First, I like your hair.” And if I were to pin down my type, the real common thread seems to be ‘girls who’re mean to me’… which might be something I should look into. Like, in therapy. “And second, if people knew we were faking, we’d get more engagement, not less. Cause we’d be canceled.”

Harrow just gives me a skeptical look.

“This is stupid.” I sigh. “You’ve never cared about what anyone thinks of you. That’s what… I like about you.”

She folds her arms and looks away. “I care about what you think.” It sounds a little too raw to be comfortable. “And I care that you’ll probably ask Crystal out once we’re done—”

I snort skating back, until I have one shoulder propped on the wall and face her. “Based on everything you know about me, do I seem like the kind of lesbian who asks girls out? Come on, now.” I try to smile sheepishly.

She doesn’t even chuckle, just shakes her head. “Then Crystal is going to ask you out and everyone will say how obvious it was all along, because I don’t even play derby and she’s clearly your nemesis with homoerotic tension.”

I blink. “What?” I’m laughing. Judging by her face, Harrow is 100% serious. I don’t mean to minimize her feelings, but they’re such ridiculous feelings.

“You must see it. It’s like every teen romcom, but with lesbians.”

“I’m pretty sure Crystal is pansexual, but fair.” ‘Fair’ may not be the right word, but I see where Harrow is coming from. “You know that’s bullshit though, right? Maybe we have—or had—flirty tension or whatever, but Crystal is not my nemesis. You are.”

“Really?” Her face lights up.

“Yeah.” I smirk crookedly. You don’t need to play derby to cause someone massive trauma. “My hatred for you has been formative to who I am as a person. Crystal wishes she was that important.”

Harrow chuckles and her eyes crinkle, which makes me go all warm and fuzzy on the inside. “Me too.”

Weirdly? It sounds like a compliment.

Then the DJ lowers the volume and leans into the mic. “Hello, roller fans! It’s time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for—limbo.”

“C’mon.” I smile. “Let’s go home.”

“Well,” Harrow straightens, dusting off her romper. “We’re already here… we might as well try?”

That sounds like the worst idea ever. But challenging Harrow directly would only make her do it to spite me, so I just ask, “You sure?”

The logical answer would be, No, Gideon. I started skating half an hour ago and I can’t even let go of the railing. So naturally, what Harrow says is, “Of course I’m sure.”

#

We limbo. I skate a full arch around the crowd, shimmying to the beat of “Funky Town,” and slip under the stick with ease, despite my height—roller derby and regular visits to the gym have translated to decent agility. I won’t be a gymnast anytime soon, but for this? I’ll pass.

Then it’s Harrow’s turn and my heart actually starts hammering in my chest. To my surprise, she manages fine, probably due to the fact that the top of her head doesn’t even touch the limbo stick. Her left foot still slides, but she reins it in and stands upright. People clap and she smirks, self-satisfied.

“Good job, my Midnight Haguette.” I say and high-five her.

“You had better stop it with all this twilit princess garbage, because I may start to enjoy it.” says Harrow, lightly fist-bumping my open palm.

Well. You can’t win them all.

The second round is harder—I have to lean back quite a bit. I manage, to a round of applause, then skate to the back to watch.

All Harrow has to do is slightly tip her head. It should be fine, but it seems her success was beginner’s luck and this time, she’s Icarus, flying too close to the sun. The skates slip from under her and her feet slide all the way forward, until she’s falling on her ass. She tries to grab for the limbo stick for some leverage, but her ankle buckles under the pressure and twists so far it looks excruciating. When she lands, Harrowhark’s leg is bent at a freakish angle.

She doesn’t scream in pain so much as bites her tongue and groans.

“Shit,” I spit.

A  straight couple in their twenties head over to her. The guy crouches to check her injury, while the girl talks to her. I skate past, elbowing my way through the crowd and bend down, one knee on the floor. “Hi,” I smile tightly at them. “I’ve got it from here.”

They nod and leave my periphery.

Harrow groans again, clutching her knee. “I might’ve sprained my ankle.”

“I told you you shouldn’t have tried that,” I grit out. I’m going for angry, but my whole body is stretched taut, as if I’m on the track, waiting for an opposing blocker to hip-check me. “You’re such a prideful idiot.”

The prideful idiot rolls her eyes. “Shut up with the ‘I told you so’s and help me stand, will you?”

I sigh, but rise, extending a  n hand to Harrow. She grabs it with both of hers, but pulling herself up isn’t that easy. I pull more than she pushes, sweat drops beading on her hairline. Once she’s upright, she’s shaking so much, I have to clutch her waist to keep her from falling again. “Can you make it to the seats?”

Harrow shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

Fuck. I wipe my face. I… might have an idea. A terrible, horrible idea. “Ooooh, you’re gonna hate this.” And before she can react, I crouch and grab the back of her knees, pulling her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Her primal scream cuts through the music. “Put me down, you miserable sack of muscle!” She cries, banging her small fists against my hips.

I can feel eyes on us and grit out, “You can’t walk and I can’t carry you any other way. When we take off the skates, I’ll give you a piggyback ride. You’ll love it, I’ll literally be your mule.”

“Figuratively,” she grumbles, but says nothing more. It’ll take it.

I roll to the edge of the rink, with Harrow swaying against my back, and gently pull her down and help her sit. “Can you take these off?” I ask, touching my toe to what I hope, is her good foot.

“It’s my ankle that was hurt, not my hands.”

I roll my eyes—god forbid I be worried. “Cool. I’ll be back for you.”

Once I’ve changed into my sneakers, I grab Harrow’s combat boots and make my way back to her. The laces are untied, but one skate is still on.

“I can’t remove it,” she says, drawing her knees closer to her chest.

Is she pulling my leg? Maybe this is Harrow’s chance to live out her royalty fantasies of people literally serving her on their knees. Buuuuut she’s all curled up, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet and shaky. She’s always valued control and independence so no, I decide. She probably isn’t being evil... right now.

I sigh and kneel to take off the left roller skate. Harrow winces when it grazes her ankle, but only asks, “Can I have my shoes back?”

“Actually, your Hellish Highness, if I’ll be carrying you, I’d rather you didn’t have boots to kick me with. I get enough bruises from derby. I’ll just take these.” I nod at her shoes. “Now. I need you to stand for like, two seconds, okay?” I pull Harrow to her feet, which mostly involves a lot of wincing, balancing on one foot and propping herself on the nearest wall. I turn, bending my knees. “Hold on tight, Spider Monkey.”

“Did you just quote Twilight at me?” She asks, but clambers on, settling herself into position.

“I might have.” I shrug, grabbing a hold of the insides of her knees. I’ve seen that movie more times than I care to admit—Kristen Stewart was my first celebrity crush. I adjust Harrow’s thighs, shocked that none of her fine bones poke me. “Just don’t choke me, or neither of us are making it out alive.”

Chapter Text

The one good thing about carrying Harrow? She’s quiet. I let her play her shitty music on the way to her house, because she’s hurt and I don’t feel like fighting. At least her parents aren’t home, so I don’t have to explain why their daughter is broken. The old-as-balls butler gives me the stink-eye, though.

“Roller skating accident,” I try for a nonchalant smile.

Mr. Crux shakes his head and glances to the sky, as if praying. Which, rude. He ignores me and turns to Harrow, who’s currently strapped to my back. “Do you need anything, Lady?”

Lady? What is this, the nineteenth century?

“I would like some ice. Thank you, Seamus.”

Harrow gives me directions to her room. How is it soooo much further away than I remember? Ughhhhh. By the time we get there, I’m panting and sweating. I open the door with my elbow and hip and drop Harrow on her purple bed. Finally, I’m able to fill my lungs to capacity. Panting, I wipe my forehead with the hem of my t-shirt and when I look down Harrow is staring at me.

She flushes red and pushes herself up to sit, wincing.

I reach to help, but she swats my arm away. “I can do this myself. I’ll have to, for the next few days.”

“Fine.” I sit on the edge, near her feet. “Let’s see the ankle, then.”

She winces.

“What now?”

“You don’t… have a foot fetish or something, do you?”

I just give her my best, are you fucking kidding me? look. “One, no. Two, even if I could have had a foot fetish once, I’ve seen enough blistered feet to put me off forever.” Though weirdly, I do have a soft spot for ankles. “And three, I’ve already seen your bare feet. Come on, Goth Cinderella. Now’s not the time to be modest.”

Harrow sighs, but starts gingerly rolling her sock. Her ankle is red and swollen—it’s definitely gonna hold her up over the weekend.

“Well, that looks like shit.”

She rolls her eyes, then closes them, banging her head against the back wall lightly. “Do you want to hear something insane?” She faces me, completely void of humor. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I really enjoyed myself.”

I laugh, startled. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to enjoy yourself, unless you were trying to bring on the zombie apocalypse in a creepy lab or some ghoulish shit like that.”

“Please, I’d be the first person to die in a zombie apocalypse.”

“Not if you controlled the zombies.”

“I suppose.” She shrugs. “I’ve never been good at sports—I’ve avoided P.E. for four years by volunteering in the main office, but that first round was… exhilarating.”

I snort. “Easy, you mean. The stick was taller than you.”

“The point still stands. Now I understand why you love derby—injuries and all.”

I flush all the way to my neck. Obviously a terrible comparison, but in a way? It’s also perfect. It’s hard to get across my love affair with derby to people who aren’t already into it. Out of all the women’s sports, derby is one of the most dangerous, but nothing measures up to the sheer exuberance of the track, of watching your jammer score, winning a bout. A few bruises feel like a fair trade off for all the endorphins. And in her own way, Harrow seems to understand that.

I clear my throat. “It’s just a sprain. Put some ice on it, don’t wear heels for a while and you’ll be fine. Maybe get one of those bruise creams. Actually,” I jump up, dusting off my jeans before the urge to do something stupid overtakes me. “I’ll go get you some ice.”

“Seamus already—”

“He’s taking a while. I won’t be long—I already know where your fridge is.”

Harrow nods. “Before you go, could you fluff my pillows?” She lowers her eyes, clearly not ecstatic about having to ask. “I can’t reach all the way back.”

“Sure.” I sit by her side to arrange the pillows behind her, patting them until they’re just right.

When Harrow sinks into the feathers, we’re so close, the tip of my nose nearly brushes hers. So close, I can smell the mint of her toothpaste. We haven’t been this close since we practiced almost kissing. Against my better judgment, my eyes flicker to her nude lips and I want again.

“Don’t you dare,” Harrow says, grabbing a fistful of my collar. “I will end you.”

I don’t dare. Because even though Harrow is half my size and has never done a sit up in her life, I know that’s not an empty threat.

But then it’s Harrow who closes the spaces between us. It’s Harrow who smashes her mouth against mine.

And god help me, I laugh.

Because, finally, finally after three years, I know there’s one thing that Harrowhark Nonagesimus—genius extraordinaire, speaker of seven languages, encyclopedia of medical knowledge—cares about and is still bad at. And it’s kissing. She’s awkward and bumbling and blunt. Her teeth crash against mine, her eyes are open and she doesn’t even move her head… I can’t help it. It’s hilarious.

Harrow pulls away. “Nav,” she whispers and draws into herself, staring at the bunched sheets between us.

Fuck.

“No.” I smile, stroking her cheek with my thumb, until she looks up at me. “No, it’s okay. Come here.” I cradle the back of her neck and draw her in. This time she closes her eyes and—despite every instinct in her tiny, mean body—lets herself be kissed, lets me coax her into it. We kiss slowly, softly and it takes Harrow an impressively short amount of time to figure out just how much tongue is the optimum amount. God, she really is a genius.

She stands on her knees, braces her hands against my shoulders and gasps.

That’s what undoes me. “Please,” I whisper. I’m shaking. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just want more.

Harrow throws one knee over my legs until she’s sitting in my lap, her bad ankle hanging in the air instead of pressed against the mattress. Oh, God. In a moment of ill-conceived bravery, I slide my hand up her romper, kneading the tender skin of her thighs. Harrow actually whines and leans into me, twisting her fingers until she’s clutching a fistful of my hair. She kisses me harder, turning three years of pent up resentment into her lips against mine. It’s how I’ve always wanted to be kissed by her. She’s kerosine and I’m her match and when we kiss, it feels like fire. It’s her hair and her mouth and her body pressed into mine.

Then she cringes, and moans—and not in a sexy way. “Sorry.” She pulls away. “It’s my ankle.”

I nod, eyes glazed. “Yeah.” Then some of my brain functions return and I process her words. “Shit. I really should get you that ice.”

“Oh.” She mutters. “Alright.”

She climbs off me, and I stand, stretching, trying to diffuse that hazy, warm feeling.

I head vaguely toward the kitchen, still dazed. I kissed Harrow. Or Harrow kissed me? Harrow and I kissed! Not as a performance, not for anyone else’s sake, but because… we both wanted to?

When did this wanting happen? Back in Ireland?

Tempting to think that, but no.

When I accidentally overheard her having a sex dream about me?

That’s not it, either. If it’d happened back in September I would’ve endlessly mocked her, but the thought never even crossed my mind. The idea of bringing it up to Harrow embarrasses me more than I care to admit.

The birthday party, when I’d told Harrow about my mother and she just held me? When she stayed over at my place because I didn’t want to be alone? When we practiced PDA and I had my first urge to do more?

Holy shit. Have I wanted to kiss her since freshman year?

And more importantly, what does kissing each other even mean?

If we’re two lesbians who are going on dates, meeting each other’s families and friends, holding hands… When does our fake relationship become real? Because if it’s kissing?

We’re.

So.

Screwed.

Chapter Text

I run into Crux, carrying an ice pack on his way to Harrow’s room, and force a smile. “Thanks,” I say, and grab it from him. “I’ll take it to her.”

“I’d rather—”

I don’t give him a chance to finish. Just grin fakely with a thumbs up and jog away.

I’m not sure what I’m doing. If I’m fully honest with myself, I’ve been falling for Harrow for a while, but I was sure she didn’t feel the same. As long as nothing real happened, I should’ve been safe. Now, everything is bubbling up in my chest, about to burst me open. I take the stairs two at a time and each step rings inside my head, making it impossible to ignore what I want to do. What we should’ve done from day one.

Upstairs, I throw the ice pack at Harrowhark and collapse on the old-fashioned mauve loveseat.

She places it on her swelling ankle and cringes at the contact. “Can you get me a flannel or towel? This is a little too cold.”

“Sure.” I spring up, antsy for something to do. An old t-shirt hangs off the side of her closet and I wrap the ice in it, sitting on the edge of her bed. Then, because I’m a complete idiot, I run my thumb over Harrow’s ankle. “It should heal by tomorrow,” I say, tying the ice t-shirt around the swell. “Just keep this on through the night.”

“I will, but Griddle—”

“Don’t call me that.”

She just nods and draws her knees up again.

I hate that she nods. It makes me shake in anger and grit my teeth. Half an hour ago, she was screaming at me and now she’s gonna make awkward eye contact and act like I broke her nose just because I kissed her once? “You know what?” I scoff. “Fuck this, actually. And fuck you, Nonagesimus.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Except, I didn’t want to stop them. I never wanted to stop them. What I want is to fight. I want us to tear into each other, like we used to. Most of all, I want to get the apology I’m owed for freshman year. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She frowns. “Do what, exactly?”

“This. We tried the friendship thing and I actually like you now. But I can’t just move on. I get it, you know? Freshman year was so long ago and I'm a different person and you're definitely a different person, but it's eating at me from the inside. I can't pretend it isn’t for the rest of—” our lives. I gesture around. “Whatever.”

Harrow throws her head back into the pillows. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Fuck you, Grim Reaper. We’re doing this.”

She sighs as if this conversation is boring to her and I kind of want to punch her. I’ve never wanted to punch a girl before, especially one that’s about two-thirds my size. So. That’s new.

“It's been three years, Griddle. You’ve saved my life and I've forgiven you. Must we dredge it all up again?”

I blink and stand. Forgiven me? Forgiven me? “I'm sorry, Twilight Princess, but what the fuck do you have to forgive me for?”

Harrow scoffs. “Please, even you’re not that obtuse. I realize you didn’t want to date me, but you didn’t have to be so cruel about it.”

I pause. Was I cruel? I might have included a few choice words best kept to myself. It might’ve been tactless and beneath me, but I was livid. I’d experienced homophobia before—straight girls who just assumed I was hitting on them, because I dared to be a butch lesbian in their presence; straight boys who called me ‘queer’ and ‘dyke’, and not in the ways I’ve reclaimed for myself; vague comments about height and size and outfits—but never so insidiously. Never from someone I thought I could trust.

“Well,” I start, trying to taper the emotion in my voice. Tears already press into my eyes. “I’m sorry no one in your pristine life has ever rejected you, your Morose Majesty.” I know this is bullshit even as I say it—I’ve met her parents. “Maybe I was harsh, but you were the one playing your stupid, homophobic prank on me.”

It’s Harrow’s turn to stare. “I was doing what, now?”

“What was even the end game there?” I continue, pacing furiously around the room. “Were you just going to stand me up and laugh about it behind my back? Have all your richy-rich friends jump up and scream PUNK’D, like some kind of 80s romcom-villain moment?”

“You thought…” She blinks her long eyelashes. “I was pranking you?”

I stop pacing and narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t do that. You have many flaws, but gaslighting isn’t one of them.”

“I’m not— I’d never— Who would even do such a thing?”

“You, clearly.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know! Because you’d never experienced hardship and I clearly thought you were kinda hot, and you so obviously thought you were soooo much better than me—and I…. I don’t know.” I can feel myself deflating, because saying it out loud makes it sound too far-fetched. Collapsing on the couch, I force my voice to sound level. “You may not’ve known you were queer, but I certainly did. Maybe you thought it’d be funny to put the broke loser-lesbian in her place.”

“Is that what you thought happened all this time?” She covers her mouth with her palm, shakily. “My goodness, Griddle. No wonder you hated me.”

“Don’t.” My eyes water, and I rub my face furiously. I can’t. I cannot accept that she didn’t do it, because that’s the truth I’ve been holding on to for the last three years. I’ve always known what started this… thing between us. This rivalry or hatred or whatever it is. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to understand Harrowhark. The only way I’ve been able to understand myself. “Don’t you dare. At least have the balls to admit you’ve always thought you were better than me.”

Harrow shakes her head and closes her eyes. When she speaks, her voice comes out quiet and quivering, “I’ve never claimed to be a saint.”

“That means shit all. Admit it or I’ll never respect you again.”

She sighs and shifts her hips, readjusting against the pillows, as she seems to consider her next words. “Perhaps… perhaps I did think that being from a certain background, being more academically successful despite my age, and having certain privileges made me better than you. In my defense, I was thirteen and I’d been home-schooled my entire life. I hadn’t had many chances to speak to people outside of my classist family and their classist friends. I was working through it—I still am. But never in a million years did it occur to me to ask out you or anyone as a cruel joke. Why would I? It’s not as if I’d had much experience being asked out myself.”

I pause, take a deep breath. “So, what? You were actually asking me out, then?”

“Yes!” She gestures with both her hands. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

I cross my arms. “No, you weren’t.”

“I was.”

“Weren’t.”

Harrow sighs. “Gideon.”

And because she isn’t calling me the stupid nickname, I know she means it. But I don’t know what to say back. I’ve no idea where we go from here. So I just… sit.

Harrow pulls one knee to her chest, threading her fingers over it. She rests her chin on top, chewing on her bottom lip. “What you said before. Were you hoping we’d—did you like me back then?”

“I guess.” I shake my head and lean against the wall opposite Harrow, arms still crossed. “Don’t let it get to your head, I wasn’t in love with you or anything. I barely knew you. I was just into your whole smart bitchy vampire princess thing. Whatever. Maybe I wouldn’t have been if I’d known you were a baby.” I smirk, then drop my hands to my hips. “When we did those portraits I thought there might’ve been a spark between us. The real question is, why were you into me? That doesn’t track.”

“Because you’re brilliant. You always have been. You’re just so…” She makes an expanding gesture with both hands. “Large.”

I glance at my biceps and shrug a little. “Thanks?” Though I didn’t really have those back then.

“Not your muscles, you bumbling idiot.” Harrowhark rolls her eyes. “Your presence. All I ever knew was etiquette and dress codes and how not to breathe wrong. And then I met you and you were so loud and genuine and unafraid to take up space. Can you blame me for finding that attractive?”

“I— but you’re demi. You told me you’ve only ever liked—” my eyes go wide.

It can’t be.

“One girl.” Harrow nods and smiles nostalgically. “It was you, Bonehead. It’s always been you.”

“No. No.” I shake my head vehemently, because it doesn’t make sense. She must be lying. If she isn’t, then… “I know, because someone told me. It’s not like I randomly decided you were playing a prank on me. Someone I trusted told me about it. Why would she lie?”

“I don’t know! Half the time I don’t understand perfectly obvious motives. But I can prove it.” She glances down again and mumbles, “Ikepttheportait.”

“What?”

Harrow raises her head, her cheeks slightly flushed. “I kept the portrait. The one from freshman year.”

“Yeah, dumbass. I know which portrait. But at your birthday, party you said—”

“I lied. It’s the only time I’ve lied to you directly, but I thought that if I showed it to you, I’d be—” she sniffs and wipes under her eyes. “Tipping my hand. I’d already admitted too much and I was certain that if you saw the portrait you’d connect the dots. You’d know what you’ve meant to me all this time. We were finally on an equal footing and it was too tenuous to risk. I didn’t want to disturb your… equilibrium.”

Too tenuous to risk. I resent that, but I nod regardless. I’m not sure I would’ve acted differently in her place.

“Can I see it now?”

Harrow nods. “Cupboard, second drawer. It’s under my homework assignments. Please don’t ruffle them too much.”

I spring up and open the cupboard, digging until my fingers feel a rolled up piece of drawing cardboard. I lift everything else to extract it, push the drawer closed with my hip and unroll the cardboard.

Objectively, it’s not a good piece of art. Worse than my own portrait, or at least equally  as bad, but it does capture something about me. There’s… charisma in it. My face is adolescent and pimply; my hair shorter and awkwardly spiky, but the cut of my jaw and cheekbones are my own. The shape of my nose, normally of no particular importance, looks defined and regal. My eyes are this intense gold color and Harrow clearly paid special attention to my mouth, making it full and inviting. And there’s actual light coming out of me, like some kind of lesbian saint.

I look up at Harrow who’s drawn into herself again.

“I… believe you.” I say, because god damn it, I do.

What would she gain by lying now? And the whole prank idea… wasn’t there always a part of me—a tiny, minuscule part—that said, Isn’t this a little too childish, too cruel, even for her? Didn’t I see the shock and mortification in her eyes when I rejected her and decided to handwave it? Wasn’t it just easier to believe that I wasn’t good enough for Harrowhark, since I’ve never even been good enough for my own mother?

I drop the portrait on top of the cupboard and collapse on the edge of Harrow’s bed. “Fuck.” I bend in two, hands in my hair.

“Are you alright?”

“No.” I don’t think I’ll ever be alright. Harrow isn’t evil. How can I live in a world where Harrow isn’t evil? I sniff and wipe my face. “Exactly how much pain are you in right now?”

Harrow sneers. “Why? Are you planning on causing me more?”

“Shut up, loser.” I say and lean over, kissing the loser on her stupid, bow-shaped mouth.

Chapter Text

We spent the next half an hour making out. I don’t know what all this means, but right now I don’t care. All I know is that Harrow’s lips taste like her blackberry chapstick, that her hair is soft under my fingers, and that her skin prickles whenever I drag my hand over it.

We make out and cuddle, make out and talk, and make out again. We talk about whatever. What’s Harrow’s favorite part of Ireland, that time I fell from a climbing frame as a kid and scraped my knee, the freaking weather—talking to each other as though we’ve never had the opportunity to talk, but talking about bullshit, about nothing at all, just hearing the rise and fall of each other’s voice.

“Can I ask—” Harrow says after we finish another make out session.

I stretch my arm from underneath her and pull her closer. She laughs softly, which I’m quickly discovering is my favorite sound in the world—the little gasps she makes when I kiss her neck coming in close second. “Anything.”

“Who told you I was playing a prank on you?”

I lay back and close my eyes. I don’t want to not talk about this, not now. But I want to know what Harrow will make of it. “I think you already know.”

She sighs like a forgone conclusion. “Coronabeth?”

I nod. It all makes sense now. She proposed to fake date me instead of Harrow, back in September. She gave us that weird look when she caught us holding hands, she’s been avoiding us as much as possible. “She’s been so weird since the fire. I should’ve guessed she was hiding something.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Harrow says sternly, but still draws her fingers through my hair.

I shudder. Touching my scalp is basically my Achilles’ heel. “Guess not.”

“Why aren’t you mad at her?”

I frown. Between my fight with Harrow and all the kissing, I haven’t had an opportunity to think about Coronabeth. I search for the hot, burning anger, but find only a vast emptiness. “I don’t know.” I shrug, honestly.

Maybe it’ll come to me, but right now? I’m so tired of caring about Coronabeth. I’ve spent the last three years crushing on Coronabeth, hoping Coronabeth would notice me, having my heart broken by Coronabeth. And after all that, finding out not only what she’d done, but also that she lied to me about it? Yeah, I’m done. Caring so much about someone who doesn’t give a shit about you is exhausting.

Harrow is quiet for a long moment. “I’ll certainly be having words with her.”

“I’d love to see that.” I grin.

Harrow pushes at me. “You’re such a pig,” she says, but she’s smiling.

I don’t think I’ll ever be used to her smile. Even as it becomes less scarce, less unique.

I only kiss her neck in response. She moans and it’s so pretty, I can’t do anything, but draw her in until we are enveloped in each other. Harrow hooks a leg over mine and it tugs below my belly. I trace the side of her delicate throat, the fine collarbones. Her breathing turns ragged and I smile, weaving a hand in her hair, pressing my lips into her neck a little harder…

She places a hand on my chest.

I stop. “Something wrong?”

Harrow forces herself on one elbow and looks at me with her pupils indistinguishable from her irises. It’s a little creepy, but in a super hot way.

“I’m not ready for that.”

“For... sex?”

She nods. “I know you’re more… experienced, so maybe you thought—”

I snort. “Harrow, I’ve been one girl. I’m hardly Casanova. And I don’t—” I take a deep breath. I definitely want to, but it doesn’t have to be right now. I’m not that much of a pig. Plus, wanting something in your fantasies is hardly the same as it actually happening. “I wasn’t making assumptions. I know you haven’t done anything before and I mean, I still low-key hated you half an hour ago. I’m not exactly in a rush to get our clothes off.” And honestly I don’t want a repeat of the Coronabeth situation—I was a wreck with her. I want a girlfriend, not a hook-up. “I just thought we’d make out for a while?” Maybe second base, but I was gonna play it by ear.

She bites her lip. “I’m good with making out.”

“Cool.” I grin and plant a chaste kiss against her lips. “Tell me when to stop.” Just as I go for her neck, my phone rings with NSync’s “Bye Bye Bye.” I groan. “Sorry, it’s Pal. He never calls unless it’s an emergency. I should probably…” I gesture at the phone.

Harrow nods. I roll over to reach my phone and slide the green button.

“Hey,” I say into the speaker. “What’s up?”

“Why is Camilla’s boss screaming at her while she’s taking care of her brother post-appendectomy?” Palamedes asks with his serious voice. I hate his serious voice. “I thought you two had an arrangement.”

Oh, shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

“Oh, my god.” I rub my face. I forgot. I had it all figured out, but I got carried away with Harrow’s ankle and her love confession and her quickly advancing intimacy skills, I actually forgot about my best friend.

“She just texted an SOS,” he adds. “What’d you do, Nav?”

“I got caught up in—” Yeah, somehow I doubt Cam will like my excuse. “I’m such a dumbass. Just… tell her I’ll be there in fifteen.” Which would be a literal miracle, but our boss doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll call the boss. I’ll even close up and everything. I’m so, so sorry. Tell her I’m sorry? Also, she’s doing what?”

“I thought she told you,” Palamedes says, and I practically see him cleaning his glasses with his t-shirt.

“We haven’t had time to—doesn’t matter. Listen, I’m pulling on my shoes on right now, and I’m leaving. Just… tell her to hang on.” I hang up and turn over my shoulder to give Harrow my most apologetic look.

She’s already sitting up. “You have to go,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah. Shit. I’m so sorry? I’d rather be here, trust me, but I promised Cam last week that I’d cover her shift, but you twisted your ankle and I—” 

“I understand.” She nods and god, I could just kiss her again.

In fact, I do. But only the top of her head, because I don’t wanna get carried away. “Thank you. I’ll text you later?”

“I certainly hope so. I’ll see you tomorrow, before practice?”

“Oh.” I rub my temple, because, damn. We did not think this through, did we? “You’re… coming to that?”

“Isn’t that what all the girlfriends do?”

Girlfriend. All the contents in my stomach swish. “Yeah. Hey,” I stroke the side of Harrow’s face, searching for the perfect nickname. Honey? Babe? Sweetheart? It all seems so cheesy and pedestrian, so incapable of encompassing my feeling for her. At the end, I just omit it. “I’d love for you to be there, but maybe we shouldn’t tell the team about this… development yet? Just until we figure out what we’re doing with the end-date looming over the horizon.”

“Oh.” Harrow draws her knees under her chin. “Yes, of course. That makes perfect sense.”

I don’t like the way her face falls, but I also have no time to unpack it. I’ll just text her later. Worst case, we can talk about it on the drive tomorrow. “Bye,” I say quickly, grabbing my rolled up portrait and rushing out the door, before I get a response.

Chapter Text

The rest of my night is crap. I spend my shift profusely apologizing to my boss and texting Camilla sorry-s sprinkled with memes and ‘get well’ wishes for her brother. By time I lock up though, there’s just a ‘seen’ notification. My heart sinks all the way to my heels. Cam and I have never fought, so this is brand new territory.

When I get home, all the fake-smiling makes me not wanna look at another human for at least twelve hours. But I’m still spiraling from all the Harrow developments (was this even real? I still have the portrait so it must’ve been…), as well as thinking about where Cam’s head is that I can’t fall asleep. I send Harrow a ‘good night’ text, and she hearts it without responding. Which seems a little terse, even for her.

I’m overthinking again. Maybe she’s just tired. Maybe Cam is too. Although they both clearly opened messages so how hard is it to send something back? Even something as simple as “let’s talk about it tomorrow”? They both know I’m ADHD as all hell and when rejection-sensitive dysphoria hits, it hits hard.

I can’t get my brain to calm down enough to sleep, or even focus on my Yuri, so I spend the next couple of hours mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. I keep checking both chats in case I missed a notification—even though it’ll show up on my screen. Nothing. Even the group chat is dead, though that’s probably because it’s two a.m. When my phone finally loses the last of its battery and switches off, I’m forced to plug it in and fall into a fitful sleep.

#

Saturday is somehow worse.

No one’s texted back but I keep checking my phone and pacing around the room. I try to sit down but I just.. can’t focus on my homework. At least I’ll see Harrow today. I’m writing a whole speech in my head about how this communication style spikes my anxiety and asking her if we can resolve whatever happened last night—which, I remind myself, was probably nothing. Maybe I can even tell her about everything with Camilla. Harrow has always been good at putting things in perspective for me.

Cursed Countess: I can’t come today. I have an AP literature essay to finish and my Gaelic lesson has been moved to 4 p.m.

Normally, I love her ridiculous texting style with its perfect grammar and punctuation, but right now the lack of inflection and emojis makes me wince.

Gideon: that sucks !! can i see u tmrw?

Cursed Countess: Perhaps it’s best you didn’t. My parents will be home and I have a lot of homework.

Gideon: :(((( okay

Gideon: i miss u tho

I get another heart. What the hell?

Gideon: see u monday morn??

Cursed Countess: Yes, I’ll see you then.

Ughhh, this is crap!

Worst of all, Cam isn’t even at practice, so I can’t apologize to her in person.

My anxiety gets so bad, even being on the track can’t lift my spirits. I bomb, hard. Everything, but 27/5—my heart isn’t in it. Coach blows her whistle, and I skate forward, stopping in front of her.

She folds her arms. “Get it together, Violet. You look like a ghost.”

“Sorry, Coach.” I hang my head. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Jesus.” She rubs her face. “I’ve told y’all—don’t come to practice if you’re not feeling well. You’re putting yourself and your teammates at risk. Go home and don’t show up at my gym like that again.”

Go home? As if. What am I going to do besides stare uselessly at my phone? At least derby is physically taxing. At least it can maybe, maybe get me out of my head. I bite my thumbnail. “I… can’t go home. I’m sorry, I’ll try harder.”

Coach looks like she’s about to argue. She must see my desperation, though because she sags and her face softens. “You better.” She blows her whistle. “Girls, let’s go again.”

And I do try, but my game continues to suck, proportionally to my mood.

#

Sunday breakfast raises my spirits for about five minutes. Then I’m reminded about Harrow eating breakfast with us and I’m down in the dumps again.

“Hey, kiddo.” Dad smiles, watching me listlessly stir my corn cereal—the blandest of all breakfast foods. “What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” is all I say.

I don’t actually know what’s wrong—or if there’s something wrong. I just feel like shit. Not knowing is the worst part. At least if I knew, I could try and fix it. Right now I’m doubting my judgment, but also feel like everyone hates me. And if I say it out loud, it might make it real. I’ve texted Palamedes, but he says that Cam hasn’t texted him either—too busy with her family. I kinda want to call him anyway, just to hear him logic this out for me. But I don’t want to ruin his weekend too.

It’s probably nothing. I’ll talk to them both on Monday. Cam will snort and nudge me with her elbow and say she just forgot about my texts. Harrow will call me an ‘imbecile’ and show me a completed AP lit essay and everything will be fine.

Homework is bust for today too—I don’t even bother.

#

On Monday, I pick up Harrow as per our arrangement. “So,” I try to smile, though my eyes must look a little crazed. “How was your weekend?”

“Boring. Frustrating.”

“Would’ve been better, if you’d let me come over.” I nudge her.

Harrow says nothing, just buckles her belt.

I sigh and try again. “How was the essay?”

She shrugs. “It’s finished. We’ll see, I suppose.”

Goddamn it. I can deal with her being a bitch, but this passive-aggressive closing up crap? I’ve no clue how to reach her. Maybe I just need to wait for whatever bug has crawled up her ass to die. “Are you coming to my games on Wednesday and Friday?”

“Of course,” she says, without elaborating.

That’s it, I give up.

Later, Harrow texts that she won’t make it to practice today and is getting a ride from Palamedes in the afternoon. Apparently, they’re going to ‘study together.’ She’s been in an academic rivalry with the guy for years, but now they’re suddenly besties? What the hell? I text Palamedes myself to check the verisimilitude of this story. Apparently, it’s true, but even he can’t tell me what this is all about.

At least, I finally corner Camilla in the changing room, after everyone has gone into the gym. “Hey,” I say. “Can we talk?”

Cam slams the door of her locker. When she turns to me, her nostrils are flaring. “What do you want?”

“I just… I’m so sorry about Friday,” I try for my most apologetic smile, wringing my hands in my lap. Do I normally know what to do with them? “I didn’t mean to screw you over, but I swear I have a good excuse.”

“Let me guess.” She rolls her eyes. “You got caught up in some Nonagesimus drama and you forgot.”

I step back, crossing my arms. “Okay, it was a little more complicated than that.” But the way she’s looking at me, suddenly I don’t want to tell her what happened. It’s too precious to me, so fragile. I can’t have my best friend be mad at me about it. I have to say something though, so I go for a half-truth. “She twisted her ankle pretty badly, so I took her home. We got into this big fight and I found out what actually happened freshman year. And it’s not at all what I thought!”

“I’m glad you resolved your emotional trauma, Gideon,” Camilla says, though she doesn’t sound glad at all. “Meanwhile, I was stuck being screamed at by my boss, and thinking I might lose a job I actually need. All while fretting whether what was coming out of my brother was the normal amount of surgical drain. So. Thanks for that.”

“Cam, I swear, I—”

“You didn’t mean it. Yeah, I got that.” Camilla waves her hand “The thing is though? It doesn’t matter. I’ve been there for you through thick and thin. You wanna bitch about your lady problems? Need someone to run into a burning building with you? Pass out at a party? Sure, I’m your girl.” Her voice quivers and she takes a deep breath, clenching her fists by her sides. “But the one time I need you to do something? You get way too caught up in yourself, even though you promised you had it covered.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I wouldn’t have asked you to be there for me, if I knew I was such a burden.” I’m yelling and I know. I know that’s the worst thing to say, but I can’t help it. Everything is spinning out of control and it feels like I want to turn my skin inside out.

“But you weren’t!” Camilla snaps back then groans, dropping her arms. “That’s what I’m saying. I did all that because I care about you. I just wish…” She wipes under her eyes. “You cared about me—your wife, your supposed best friend—more than some… girl you spent the last three years hating.”

“But… I’ve been there for you! I left Corona’s Halloween party to help you.”

“You mean the boring party? Yeah, sure. You’re there when it’s easy. I want you to be there when it matters. When it’s hard.”

“Cam—”

“No.” She jabs her finger in my solar plexus. “Camilla Hect talking time. Do you even understand how hard the last few months have been for me? My dad lost his job, Gideon. He’s picking up dangerous construction work that pays below living wage, just so we don’t lose the house. I should’ve quit derby, but it’s my last year and I wanted to keep doing the only thing that’s just for me. I thought, it’ll be okay, I have wonderful friends who’ll support me. But I don’t. Or at least—you’re not one of them.” She sniffs, brushing her nose with her palm. “I’m done. From now on, we’re not friends and we’re certainly not derby wives. We’re teammates, at best.”

My jaw drops and all words fail. Did she just… divorce me?

I stand there, dumbfounded, as Camilla pushes the door of the changing room and stomps into the gym. And for the first time in a long while, I feel truly alone.

Chapter Text

We lose both bouts this week.

Despite Cam’s promise, there’s an obvious rift between us.

Or maybe that’s my fault. For the first time, I don’t become Violet Painbow on the track and I don’t only see Calamity Hurtz and The Crowned Assassin. I’m just Gideon, and all I have is the best friend I let down and the girl who broke my heart, twice. That doesn’t feel like a team.

On Wednesday, at our first out of home turf game, we drop the ball so hard it feels like the other team slammed us face-first on the floor and skated all over our lifeless bodies. On Friday, Coach takes me out of the bout and we only lose by a little. Enough to keep us in the season, but also enough for our growing egos to take a massive hit. 

I dress sluggishly, scrolling through punny TikTok comments about how we should rename ourselves, which don’t even get a chuckle out of me. I’m not in a hurry. Why should I be? Dad had a lab emergency and couldn’t make it to the game. Since I was benched for most of it, I’m actually glad.

I’m certainly not looking forward to Harrow ignoring me all the way to her house. That’s what she does now, on the rare occasions she even gets a ride with me. Even attempting to annoy her by ignoring our music schedule and blare the most obnoxious 2000s pop I can find—and I’m talking The Black Eyed Peas, Train, late era Avril Lavigne, stuff even I don’t think is fun—doesn’t do much, but make her put on her noise-canceling headphones and stare out the window.

That’s how I end up in the dressing room with Coronabeth, alone.

“Hey,” Corona says, taking off her skates.

I pull a white tee over my head. “Hi.” I know we should have a talk eventually, but right now Coronabeth is the last thing on my mind.

“Listen,” she tries for one of her charming smiles, but I’m not charmed. “I know you and Camilla had a fight, but why are you mad at me?”

She’s seriously gonna pull that? I sigh. “I’m not mad at you.” And I’m not, really. I’m just over it.

“You’re playing like you are.” Coronabeth stands, leaning against the wall.

“Fine.” I close my locker, yanking the towel around my neck until both ends are even. “I know you had a shit couple of weeks now that Judith is dating Marta, so I wasn’t gonna add to that, but if you wanna do this now? Let’s go. Do you need me to spell it out for you, or do you wanna go first?”

“I…”

I stare her down.

“I’m sorry I treated you the way I did, okay?” She cries out, brushing at her perfect cheekbone.

That’s not what I was referring to, but… I never expected to hear an actual apology. I deflate, listening.

“I knew you were into me,” Corona continues, shaking her head with a wry smile. “And I used you because I was an insecure fool.”

I scoff. “Truly. The hot blondes have it the worst.”

“I’m not trying to sound like a stereotype, but…” She sighs and leans back. “Sometimes I think rich and hot are the only things people see when they look at me. Add being bisexual or pansexual or queer, or whatever you want to call it, and I… haven’t always had the best experiences dating. People think I’m easy or a bimbo or both. That’s why I was obsessed with Judith. She’s so hard to impress, I knew that if she liked me it’d be for me.”

I fold my arms. As far as apologies go, this is kinda crap. “Got it. Judith is cool and I was a simp.”

At least Coronabeth has the decency to blush. “That’s not what I meant. It was just easy with you. You saw me and I knew you’d fallen for me, but I broke it off before I had a chance to fall back, because I didn’t want to risk being hurt. That’s just what I used to do. But Gideon, you’re amazing. I don’t know how I missed that. If you gave me another chance…” She bites her lip, invitingly. “I wouldn’t take you for granted again.”

I pause. The thing is, six months ago—hell, even three months ago—I was still dreaming about Coronabeth groveling for me to take her back. Because I did see her. I saw her enormous heart and the way she gives for us, but wouldn’t take crap. But now? It feels empty.

Maybe there was a version of me who thought Corona—with her curves and her golden mane and blinding smile—was the perfect girl. But this is Gideon 2.0, and she knows better. Her heart belongs to a tiny, mean goth who never took her for granted, not even when we hated each other.

Coronabeth steps forward, and despite my best intentions, my eyes are drawn to the soft curve of her chest under the tight uniform. Her musty, flowery scent overwhelms me, and my brain short-circuits. I close my eyes and she kisses me, and in the stupidest moment of my life, my lips lock against hers.

It lasts no more than two seconds, but it's enough. I push her away.

“Corona…” I start.

And then it gets worse.

Because when I lift her my eyes, Harrowhark is at the door. She stands, frozen with her legs apart as if she was about to step inside. “I just wanted to…” She juts her chin, all the meanness in her face moving to the cruel quirk of her mouth. “…tell you I’m being taken home by Palamedes. But I can see you're busy.” She rounds the corner, skirt ballooning behind her.

I wipe my face. I have a split-second decision to make—stay and air all this out with Coronabeth or go after the girl I actually like.

It’s not rocket science.

“Nonagesimus!” I call, grabbing my gym bag and rushing after her. “WAIT, I can explain!” I sound like every husband caught cheating in a domestic drama, but I have to try.

“Gideon,” Corona grabs my wrist, tugging me back. “She doesn't even like you.”

I groan. Harrow is already out of sight and by the time I shake off Coronabeth, I’ll be too late. We’re doing this, then. “Do you like me? Or do you just think that because you said some sweet nothings, I’ll fall at your feet and lavish you with attention like I used to because I have nothing better going on?”

“I told you—”

“You told me what you thought I wanted to hear.” I shake my head and pull my wrist free. “Maybe I did want to hear it, once. But I don’t care anymore.”

Coronabeth steps back, biting her lip. “You know it’s the truth, though.”

“Do I? Sometimes I feel like I don't know anything about you.” It rings true. This is no longer enough for me. “The thing is, Corona, I won’t be eating out of your hand because you graced me with the bare minimum. I want someone who likes me for more than being a good lapdog. And honestly? I haven't forgiven you freshman year. It’s not like you've even bothered to apologize.” I leave her gaping and sling my bag over one shoulder, storming out. “Nonagesimus!”

But it’s too late. I’m at the back door, but she's already climbing into Palamedes's car.

Fuck.

I fling my gym bag into Nathan’s backseat. When I switch on the engine, one of Harrow’s CDs starts playing in the car. Undisclosed Desires by Muse—seems appropriate. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks, but I clench my jaw and keep them at bay until I park outside of my apartment. When I get Dad hugs and dog pets, I’ll feel better.

“Dad?" I call, unlocking the door. "Dad?" But aside from Ollie, who jumps at my feet, the apartment appears fully deserted.

I pick him up, and walk inside. Then I get a text:

Dad: Working late again, kiddo.

Dad: There's half-frozen pizza in the fridge.

That's what finally undoes me.

I collapse on the couch and break down, fully and completely. For the first time in the last few months, it’s not just a few tears that escape. I’m sobbing and it’s ugly—sniffling and wailing, the works.

Ollie curls into a ball on the couch. I hug him and cry harder into his fur.

Chapter Text

The next morning I wake up to an email, which is basically a lot of business talk for ‘we wanted to support an underdog team, not complete losers. If you don’t get your shit together and start winning soon, we’ll pull the money. Gideon and her relationship are not enough to generate interest anymore.’

We don’t get our shit together.

After the third loss in a row, we get a new email.

This one actually startles me.

From: Energy Drink LLD

To: Coach Dve; Gideon Nav; Harrow Nonagesimus; Judith Deuteros; Coronabeth Tridentarius; Camilla Hect

Fwd: Palamedes Sextus

Due to the team's streak of losses and the dropping interest in Miss Nav’s social media, a representative of ENERGY DRINK LLD would like to meet with Miss Nav, Miss Nonagesimus, Mrs. Dve, and the senior class of P'wned as well as any parents or legal guardians that wish to be present.

Following are the details for the date, time, and place of the meeting.

Shit, that can’t be good! We’ve only ever met with a rep (and three of her lawyers) when we were signing the contract. The rest of the time it’s been Coach emailing them. What do they want now/

#

The rep, flanked by two lawyers, enters the old high school gym that afternoon, half an hour before practice. In her pencil skirt and stilettos, with an updo so tight it must make her skull itch, she looks completely out of place. Hell, she probably smells of Chanel #5 or something equally as fancy, while our gym smells of industrial cleaner and dirty socks.

Veronica or Victoria, or whatever her name is, stands next to Coach and scrolls through her iPad. We’ve all gathered round on the bleachers, feet apart. Harrow is sitting on the first row, pointedly not looking at me. Camilla is on the row in front of Palamedes and Judith, and Corona is in her own corner. I’m completely alone in the middle. Apparently no one opted to tell their parents, because the only proper adult, besides the rep and her lawyers, is Coach.

“Girls, I'm sure you want to get on with your practice,” says Veronica or Victoria with a tone that suggests we’d better. “So I’ll get to the point. The fire was three months ago. Since then, people have lost interest in derby. And considering your recent losses, the company is… concerned.”

“We've lost three games.” Coach counters. “The season has just started.”

Victoria or Veronica turns to her, the click of her heels echoing in the gym. “Yes, but the holidays are coming. We need to make sure we keep their interest into the New Year. Around the holidays is when people shop the most and we need to retain brand recognition.”

Yeah, because Christmas is definitely when everyone is drinking their energy drinks.

I manage not to roll my eyes. Instead, I raise my hand to ask, “What if I post more?” I’m not sure what I’ll post exactly, since I clearly have no friends to drag into my pictures or videos, and my girlfriend situation is… tenuous, at best, and most likely— non-existent. But I’ve always been good at working under pressure. I hand in 90% of my homework assignments five minutes before the deadline. Surely, I’ll come up with something. There’s always Ollie and everyone loves dogs. “And of course, I’ll go to the company’s New Year’s charity auction.”

“The auction is a given.” Victoria or Veronica waves her hand. “But unfortunately social media posting no longer cuts it. Your relationship seems too perfect and perfect is boring.”

Perfect? I blow up my cheeks to stop myself from laughing. If they only knew.

“To make a long story short, we’ve talked it over at the head office and agreed that the best option would be to stir something up. There’s nothing that gets the blood pumping and hashtags trending like drama.”

I frown. Palamedes and Camilla start whispering.

V-name beams with her toothpaste-commercial teeth. “We could stage a break up! A scandal told in vague posts, where Gideon ends up with another girl.”

For the next five seconds the gym is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“I don’t think we should be playing into butch lesbian stereotypes,” says Coach.

At the same time, I say, “I’m sorry. Are you actually asking me to break up with my girlfriend?” The question of whether I have a girlfriend to break up with, is another matter entirely.

“Of course not.” Victoria or Veronica smiles blindingly, unperturbed, and completely ignores Coach’s very valid point. Most butches in media act like predatory men always happy to sleep around with any fem woman regardless of either’s relationship status, usually after sexually harassing said woman.

“Privately, you can see whoever you want,” V-name says. “We're simply discussing public appearances. Think of it as a PR stunt—pro athletes get involved in them all the time. So do singers, actors, models…”

Oh, hell no! I pinch my lips. This whole mess started with a fake-dating PR stunt—whether she knows it or not. No way am I doing that again. I haven’t got the time, the attention span, or the desire. Nor can I even think of someone I’d want to do this with, let alone someone who’d agree to do it with me.

“We were thinking Miss Tridentarius? You're of age and single, yes?”

I look over my shoulder at Coronabeth’s corner.

She nods, even though she looks like she’s about to throw up. “Yes, but I don’t think—”

“Perfect.” Victoria or Veronica claps her hands. “You two would be the ideal roller derby power couple."

No.

No, no, no, no.

No way.

Not Coronabeth.

I’d rather set all my Yuris on fire than fake date her.

I open her mouth to say so, but Harrowhark, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet this entire time, beats me to the punch. “What if we refuse?”

“Well.” V-name clears her throat, with the air of someone who’s only pretending to think about her answer. “You’re in your right to do so, of course. However, the conditions of the sponsorship are very clear. It’ll only be afforded to you, if you comply with our reasonable requests. If you do not, we’re under no obligation to support you."

I bite my lip. Without the sponsorship, there’s basically no future for the team. We won’t have new uniforms, we won’t be able to travel to any out-of-city games—the only reason we did last year was because of Coach’s fundraiser, and we were barely scraping by. Hell, we probably won’t even be able to reserve the gym for practice, and it’ll be overtaken by the boys’ teams again. I picture the disappointed expression on Jeannemary’s babyish face when she finds out we’re so low on funds, there won’t be a team by the time she’s a senior.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’d… have to think about it.”

“By all means.” Victoria or Veronica simpers, knowing she’s got me by the balls. “You have my number.” She swipes on her iPad again. “It’s now Wednesday, so you have until the end of the business week to consider. Discuss it amongst yourselves, with your parents if you must, and feel free to text anytime. The break up and new relationship announcement posts will be on Instagram, possibly TikTok. Both within a few days of each other. They do need to appear before Christmas Eve and will have to be approved by us, which means I’ll need a draft by next Wednesday, at the latest. Aside from that, you can continue to post as normal.”

“I…” but honestly I’ve no idea what to say. I cross my ankles and chew on my thumbnail. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Have a nice practice, girls!” She waves and marches off. I watch dazed, as her stilettos hit the hardwood floor like nails.

Harrowhark is out of the meeting next, disappearing in a flash of black.

I snap out of it and spring from my seat, rushing after her. Thankfully, I’m faster, so I grab her bracelet-clad wrist in the hallway outside the gym. “Nonagesimus! We need to talk,” I whisper, pulling her into a little alcove. Here, we can have some semblance of privacy.

My face is inches apart from hers, for the first time in over ten days. She’s paler than normal and there are huge bags under her eyes. She looks… worn out, like a faded pair of skates in desperate need of a replacement. Was I the reason for it? I want to kick myself. “Have you been sleeping? Eating?”

“I’m fine,” Harrow spits.

I don’t believe her, but I don’t have it in me to argue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say ‘no.’”

Harrow sighs. “It’s fine, Griddle,” her voice comes out bone-weary, but not mad.

It’s ‘fine?’ My eyebrows shoot all the way up to my hair line. She was seething over Crystal back before anything had actually happened between us, but this is just fine? “I’m… what?”

“We'll simply schedule that breakup post earlier than we planned.” Harrow pulls on her fingerless gloves, stretching her fingers. “No need to buy me a Christmas present. You must be ecstatic.”

So it’s not actually ‘fine.’ She’s just doing the passive-aggressive bullshit again. “Do I look ecstatic? C'mon, you know I don't want to fake date Coronabeth.”

“Do I?” Harrowhark looks up, all defiant chin and sharp black eyes. “Last time I saw you two together, you looked quite comfortable with that proposition.”

“She kissed me! I didn't even…” My head feels like it’s going to explode. I want to talk about it. I want to resolve all the crap that’s been going on in Harrow’s head since we made out. But right now, I’m too frazzled and run-down to find the right words. And something tells me she is in no mood to listen. “Look, I know I screwed up. I'm not going to act like I’m innocent. But do you really think Coronabeth is the one I want, after everything that happened between us? After what I know about freshman year?"

Harrow sighs. “Perhaps not.”

“Thank you!” I throw up my hands. A tiny win, but at this point, I’ll take anything.

“But it doesn't matter, Griddle.” Harrow looks up at me again, eyes shining with something I can’t quite name. “What matters is that you and I have nothing in common. We may’ve had a mutual crush in freshman year, but that was puppy love. Even if we start dating now and manage not to strangle each other by the end of summer, what then? I’ll go to Harvard, you'll stay here, and we'll simply… peter out like 99% of high school couples.”

I groan and rub my forehead. I’m running on maybe four hours of sleep, five cups of coffee, and a nasty energy drink. I haven’t thought this far ahead, but the first term of senior year isn’t even over. “I’ll come with you. I'm sure they have roller derby and coffee shops in Boston. Or… we’ll try long distance and see each other during breaks. Or maybe you won't even get in.”

Harrow scoffs. “Oh, I'm getting in.”

“Okay, smartypants.” I try for a smirk, but I can’t hold it for more than a second. “My point is, we’re teenagers. We don't need to plan the rest of our lives this very second."

“That’s precisely my point,” Nonagesimus says and I feel like we’re talking in different languages. “We’re teenagers, not a decade into a marriage. This is as low as stakes can get. This sponsorship is important to you — you would never asked me to risk my future if I was in your shoes. So I won’t ask you, either.” She taps my cheek, but it doesn’t feel like a girlfriend touch. It feels like a goodbye. “It’s alright, Gideon. Some relationships aren’t meant to last past high school.”

The oxygen doesn’t reach my lungs. I feel like I’m drowning.

Harrow takes a deep breath and straightens, shaking herself. “You don’t need to drive me home. I’ll take an Uber.”

I blink moisture away and she is gone.

No one can focus during practice that day—least of all me.

Chapter Text

I come home to find Dad over a frying pan, cooking dinner.

“Hey, kid, what’s—” he starts, but I’m already rushing in and draping my arms over his neck. He smells of lab and fries and mozzarella sticks. Of home.

I sniff. “I’ve missed you.”

He hugs back, squeezing firmly, and it feels like being anchored. Dad’s hugs are always staunch and unyielding, like being wrapped in a safety blanket. His hugs are second only to Camilla’s. And thinking about Camilla just makes the tears spill from my eyes. I sniffle and bury my chin into his shoulder.

“Loving the sudden burst of affection, kiddo,” he says, releasing me with a rueful, yet measured smile. “But… do you maybe wanna talk?”

I flop on the nearest bar chair, wiping my face. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m just an awful, selfish person and everyone hates me.” The self-pity seeps from my words. Harrow didn’t sound like she hated me, she just didn’t want to bother. Which is worse, actually. I preferred it when she hated me. Her hating me has always meant more than anyone else in this hot and stupid universe loving me. At least I had her full attention.

“Ooookay.” He turns off the stove, and circles to the other side of the counter, elbows on the ceramic top. “You’re a teenager, though and you guys tend to be a little dramatic, so…”

I give him a look.

“Not trying to minimize your feelings.” He puts his hands up in a ‘I give up’ gesture. “But you have to forgive me if I don’t take this at face value. Is this more like ‘I cheated on my French exam and didn’t let my friends cheat off me’ awful, selfish person or ‘I ruined all my relationships’ awful, selfish person?”

“The… latter?” I mumble, pitifully.

“Yikes. But also, that’s wrong off the bat, because I’m someone and I don’t hate you.”

I smile, brushing my nose. “You’re my dad, though. You have to love me.”

“I think we both know that’s not how it works.” He smiles nostalgically.

Despite my intention to remain as miserable as I can, the corner of my mouth turns up. I know that he’s right. My mother left me as a baby, so clearly being a parent is no guarantee of love. Then again, my mother was less a ‘parent’ than a nine-month incubator. “It’s just…” I put my elbows on the counter and drop my head into my arms. When I look up, my vision is still blurry. “Everything is so fucked. When Camilla needed me, I screwed up and now she won’t even talk to me. She said we’re not friends. I can’t even imagine my life without her—no, scratch that. I can, because I lived through the last few days and it sucks. But… I also can’t say I blame her. I’m the worst friend. Harrow is also mad at me and I don’t even know why. But I went ahead and made it worse by kissing Coronabeth.”

“That’s… a lot, indeed.” He nods and takes a deep breath. “First, I must’ve missed something. Is Harrow your girlfriend now? Your real girlfriend I mean, not your Instagram girlfriend.”

“I don’t knooooow.” I drop my face into my palms. “We had this fight, but we actually ended up resolving all our issues, including from freshman year. Then we kissed a bunch. But we didn’t really have a chance to DTR, before all the Cam stuff happened and she’s been avoiding me ever since.”

“DTR?” He frowns.

“Sorry, forgot you’re old.” I wipe my face in my sleeve and Dad smirks. “Means ‘Define the relationship.’”

“Ah.” Dad nods sagely. “Very important, that. You end up in situations where one person thinks you’re exclusive and the other is not aware of that…” He smiles sheepishly. “But this is about you.”

“Well, a few hours ago she basically broke up with me.”

“That’s when you kissed Coronabeth?”

“No. That was last Friday. I wasn’t trying to kiss her, she just came onto me and I sort of let it happen. Only for like, two seconds. But… maybe I kissed her back? Harrow saw us. I tried to apologize over text, but she’s been ignoring those too and getting rides from Palamedes. Palamedes, of all people! She can’t even stand him, they’re in this tooth and nail competition for Valedictorian.”

“So they can’t be friends?”

“I don’t know.” I deflate. “Clearly, I don’t know anything! And now, the energy drink people want me to fake-date Corona because apparently fake-dating Nonagesimus didn’t work as intended, and they basically said they won’t support us unless I do. And Harrow was all like, ‘Yeah, that sounds like a great idea! Anyway, bye!” Ugh. Like I said, everything is fucked.”

“Okay. Wow.” He sits down. “That’s literally… all the things that could go wrong, so I have to congratulate you. I’m sure that’s some kind of a Guinness record you just broke.”

“Thanks.” I roll my eyes, but do crack a tiny smile.

His expression turns serious. “Do you want to fake-date Coronabeth?”

“No! I just want to real-date Harrow. I also want to fix things with Camilla and keep the sponsorship. But I’m awful and selfish and I don’t deserve any of it.”

“Gideon.” He smiles softly and reaches out to take my hands, warm calloused fingers wrapping over mine. “It doesn’t sound like you’re awful and selfish to me.”

“I mean, I screwed my best friend over and I cheated on my girlfriend, but suuure.” I yank my hands back. I don’t deserve to be held the way he holds me. “I’m a goddamn saint.”

“I didn’t say you were a saint, either. You’re just human, kiddo. You’ve made some mistakes, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“Cheating doesn’t make me a bad person?” I fold my arms. I don’t know what I’m trying to achieve. Goad him into calling me an asshole, so I can throw myself an even bigger pity party?

It’s Dad though, so he doesn’t fall for the bait. He just sighs. “Cheating, the way you’re thinking of it, requires far more forethought than maybe, possibly, sort of kissing someone back, while you’re maybe, possibly, sort of dating someone else. You and Coronabeth have a past. She was your first love. You may logically understand that she isn’t the right person for you, but if one day she shows up in your lab at midnight with a bottle of wine and your favorite Chinese takeout, things can just… happen.”

My head snaps up and I narrow my eyes. “Okay, that’s super specific and not at all applicable to my situation, so it makes me think you did that?”

His shoulders slump. “I… may’ve rebounded with A.L.”

“Dad!” I swat his shoulder “Ew!”

“I know, I know. She’s terrible for me. But like I said, it’s chemistry—sometimes you can’t help it.”

I let myself sag again. “I don’t think that’s a good excuse, though.”

“Not an excuse, but an explanation.” He smiles again, with his infuriatingly forgiving Dad smile. “Look, kid, you have to give yourself some leeway here. No one is 100% perfect or 100% terrible. You can screw up and still deserve good things, I promise.”

Even if I do, knowing it doesn’t help. “Well… how do I fix it?”

“First, you eat. You can’t fix anything on an empty stomach.”

As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. It’s not a solution, but I do feel like I can breathe for the first time in days.

Breathe, and eat mozzarella sticks.

#

On Friday, after another shitty practice, Judith corners me in the changing room.

“Get your shit together, Nav.” She folds her arms over her chest. I may be bigger, but Judith is giving me a ‘I’m not above mild arson’  look that’s genuinely terrifying. I’ve seen her mad before, but never at me. “We have one more game before Christmas, and I don’t want to end the year on a loss.”

I roll my eyes, buttoning my jeans. “You gonna have the same talk with Camilla and Coronabeth?”

“Camilla and Coronabeth aren’t the ones dragging the team down. You are.” She takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I know you’re going through your… personal issues, or whatever, but leave it off the track.”

“Gee, thanks. If only I’d thought of that.”

“Don’t mouth off.” Judith wags her finger, eyes blazing and I shut all the way up. “If we’re going to lose that sponsorship, we better start winning soon to justify our team’s existence or these girls won’t have a team next year.”

I take a step back, blanching. “Who says we’re going to lose the sponsorship?”

Judith just scoffs. “I’m not an idiot, Nav. That white lady was pretty clear on her conditions and neither you nor Corona seem particularly enthusiastic about being in the same room, let alone pretending to be loved up.” She sighs and looks at me, softening. “I don’t blame you—I blame all this corporate bullshit. I’ve made my peace with it, so has Coach. The rest of the team will come around eventually. It was funny the first time, but this is crossing a line.”

“I…” swallow, hard, my chest filling with deep gratitude. Being on a team means one person can bring everyone down, but it also means this. It means getting the support you need. I take a deep breath—I can’t cry. Not now. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. But I don’t understand—you pulled yourself together after Corona. What’s holding you back now?”

My jaw nearly drops. “You know about me and Coronabeth?”

“Everyone knows about you and Coronabeth.” Judith rolls her eyes. “You weren’t as subtle as you think. That’s actually part of the reason I don’t want to date her—I don’t need a rift in the team. That, and also I don’t think she is as serious about relationships as I am.”

“I guess… last time, I had the whole summer to get over Coronabeth.” Not to mention Camilla and Palamedes by my side. Now, that’s all gone.

Judith forces herself to relax, creaks her neck back and forth. “Will talking about it help?”

I smile. That’s very sweet and also, weird as hell. “Look, Cap. I like you, but… we’re not that close? I’m not sure you’re the one I wanna be talking to about all my personal shit. No offense.”

To her credit, Judith doesn’t even blink. “I’ll get Palamedes,” she says and turns on her heels.

Ten minutes later Judith drags Pal into the changing room. “I don’t care if you need to give her a therapy session—I need my star player back.”

Star player? I puff up—that certainly strokes my ego.

Palamedes cringes, rubbing his bicep where Judith grabbed him. “Is it okay for me to be in the girls’ changing room?”

I roll my eyes. “Dude, it’s eight p.m. We’re both fully-dressed, and there’s no one else around.”

“Also,” adds Judith. “Either one of us can take you. Easily.”

“Right.” He nods and takes off his glasses to clean them.

Judith gives us a one final terse nod of acknowledgment and pivots again, leaving us alone.

I whistle. “She’s effective, that’s for sure.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Is that why I’m here? To mutually thirst over Judith Deuteros?”

“So you admit you’ve thought about it?”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

I shrug. “Not right now. She made it pretty clear I’m free to thirst as I please. I mean, c’mon. All that pent up energy has to go somewhere.”

“First,” —he says as he starts aggressively cleaning his glasses again, in a strangely aggressive move— “she’s gay. Weirdly, I tend to prefer women who are interested in my gender. Second, neither of us may have a girlfriend, but she does. And third, you’re a hog, Nav.”

“That’s what Harrow would’ve said,” I sigh nostalgically and perch on the long bench, gesturing for Palamedes to do the same. “I miss her.”

He does, knees facing away from mine.

“I need to apologize. Not about the ‘hog’ comment, that I stand by that. But about… abandoning you when you needed a friend. I was trying to be loyal to Camilla, but I’m your friend too and taking sides isn’t helping anyone.”

“Thanks.” I nod, chewing on my thumbnail. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I would’ve accepted his apology no matter what. Hell, I would’ve just hugged him and carried on as normal even without one—it never even occurred to me to be mad at him. Palamedes was just caught up in the middle of all my girl drama. “And Harrow?”

“Her company was… an added benefit. I didn’t expect it, but studying with her has been helpful. I think we’re becoming friends—even if she’ll die before she admits that.”

“Cool.” I say, though it comes out steeped in venom.

He snorts. “It definitely sounds like it’s ‘cool’ with you.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m happy for you. I’m just like, super jealous too.”

“Do you mean ‘envious’?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because I assure you there is nothing to be jealous of, neither Nonagesimus nor I have any romantic interest in one another.”

“Yes, that.” I wave my hand. Him and Harrow should’ve become friends much earlier considering they’re cut from the same cloth—both pedantic jerks. “Right now, the two most important women in my life aren’t even speaking to me. Harrow, I have no idea why; and Camilla, I know exactly why, but no idea how to fix it. I don’t even know what to say about Coronabeth.”

“That’s… a lot.” He pushes his glasses up his nose again. In that moment, it’s like staring at a younger copy of my dad. “Let’s unpack. Start with Corona. I thought you were over her?”

“I am, we even talked about it. It’s not about that.” I wave my hand. “I just found out that she did something real shitty to me and Harrow back in freshman year and she hasn’t even apologized. If Harrow hasn’t told you, I won’t either, but trust me when I say—it was evil.”

He nods, carefully considering. “Would it help if I talked to her? I don’t know the full context, but I could casually remind her—”

“No!” I shake my head. “Thanks, but I don’t need you to be my big brother and ask the mean girl to apologize. That’s bullshit. I need her to do it on her own. Otherwise, it’s not genuine.”

“Well, depending on how your conversation ended last time, she could be… intimidated to speak to you. Perhaps you should try with a more cordial approach.”

I glare at my sneakers. He’s probably right, but I don’t want to admit it. “What about Camilla? Cause groveling is clearly not doing it.”

“Honestly? No clue.” He shrugs. “You guys have never had a falling out before.”

I groan, hanging my head. If Palamedes doesn’t even know…

“Maybe you should… give her some space?”

“Give her some sp—are you for real, my dude?” I throw up my hands. “Have you met Camilla? The woman can hold a grudge for ages.”

“You said it yourself, though. Groveling doesn’t work. Do you have any other ideas? I don’t. Trust me, if I did, you’d know. She’s been sulking ever since you had that fight. I love that girl to pieces, but even I’m getting sick of it.”

“You’re unhelpful.” I roll my eyes. But weirdly? It does make me feel a little better. At least there’s isn’t one clear solution that everyone else but me can see. And if Camilla is ‘sulking’ too, that means that she misses me. So maybe, just maybe—I still have a chance to get my best friend back. “At least help me figure out how I screwed up with Harrow? Because I swear everything was going great—better than great—and then she went all cold and avoidant out of nowhere.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Lead me through everything that happened before she ‘went all cold and avoidant.’”

So I do. I start from the game and Crystal and tell him everything leading up to the moment I got his phone call. I skim on the making out details, but I mention that we did, in fact, make out. It’s pretty high on the list of things I’m proud of, and I haven’t had a chance to brag about it yet. “Please don’t tell Cam? I know she’s your best friend, but she isn’t even speaking to me, so I don’t want the team—”

“Gideon,” he says, tapping my hand. “I’d never.”

I pull him in for a hug. It’s not quite as good as Dad’s or Camilla’s, but it’s he’s warm and skinny and smells of boy and homework. It’s nice.

“Well, anyway,” I say, drawing back. “She understood that I needed to go, and then...” I throw up my hands.

His brows furrow. “I’m… not sure what you did wrong.”

I swat his shoulder. “You suck. What kind of therapist are you? You’re supposed to tell me how to fix things.”

“First of all.” He pushes his glasses again with one pointer. “I’m definitely not a therapist—legally or metaphorically. Second, therapists aren’t supposed to tell you how to fix anything. They’re only supposed to lead you to the conclusion.”

“Fuck lot of good that is.” I snort, shaking my head. “Seriously, you’ve been driving her everywhere, hasn’t she told you anything?”

“We don’t really… talk. We mostly just do school work and listen to music. I think she just needed someone around.”

That does sound painfully like Harrow. I force myself to smile. “So? Give it to me, doc. What’s your conclusion?”

This time, Palamedes actually flicks my arm.

“Hey, ouch!”

“Haven’t you been listening? I. Can’t. Do. That. I can only ask, what do you want?”

I sigh. “I just want my girlfriend back.” I sigh, deflating. “I want to take her to a restaurant and not because we have to take pictures, but because it might actually be nice. I want to kiss her until we both get dizzy. I want to drive her to school and listen to her angsty music on the way. I just want to be with her.”

“Then what are you still doing here? You know where she lives. Go get your girl!”

Can I just… do that?

Holy shit! I can just do that! Harrow can’t avoid me in her own house. I can’t force her to be with me, but I’m at least owed an explanation and I’ve always been good at picking fights with her. I grin and spring up. “Thanks, Pal.” I kiss his head, which is definitely weird, but I’m too fired up to care. “I know how to fix this.” I say and stride out.

“Wait.” He pushes his glasses again. “I have something to tell you too—”

“Later,” I call back, already sprinting out of the changing room.

Chapter Text

I drive up to the Fitzgeralds’ mansion.

Crux walks up just behind the iron bars, narrowing his eyes at me through the gate. “She’s not here.”

“Yeah?” I say, awkwardly jumping out of the car, one leg at a time, and shutting the door behind me. “Why is her bedroom window lit, then?” I actually have no idea if it is her bedroom window, but I’m hoping that the scary man won’t call my bluff.

And it seems he won’t, because he sighs and says, “Mr. and Mrs. Novenarius are home. Perhaps you should leave.”

I grit my teeth, trying not to groan. “I just want to talk to her.” When that doesn’t move him an inch, I set my jaw. “If you don’t let me in, I’ll climb over this fence and start blasting really dirty music from my phone. Is that what you want?”

He raises one gray eyebrow and folds his arms. “Then you’d be trespassing on private property and I’d be in my rights to call the police.”

“For the love of—Fine. I’ll do it from here. Then I’m not breaking any laws. The car’s louder anyway.” I open the door, and reach for the ignition. Please, please, please—

“Look.” He sighs, dropping his arms.

I grin. I’m definitely getting somewhere.

“I have direct orders from Miss Nonagesimus that if you come running, I’m not to let you disturb her.”

“And you listened to the girl with the self-destructive streak?” I shake my head, then put both hands over my mouth. “Harrow! Come out here, asshole. I want to talk!”

Crux looks at me like I’m off my rocks. Which I probably am after the last two weeks. I actually miss the goth weirdo.

“She won’t hear you.”

“You’re literally…” I sigh, drawing my palms over my face. I need a different approach. “Look, Mr. Crux? I know you care about her. I know there aren’t a lot of other people who do. And we both know I’m not including her parents in that.” I wince—that might’ve been over the line. The Fitzgeralds seem like the kind of rich people who’d want to keep their dirty laundry in the basket. Buuuuut backtracking now seems pointless, so I press on. “I know you don’t like me—and honestly, you don’t have to. All you have to do is believe me when I tell that I’ll do anything for her. Anything! Please, just let me in. Please?”

I can practically see the calculations happening behind his beady eyes. Crux’s shoulders finally slump. “Fine.” Then he moves aside and presses a button for the gates to open.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I’m almost tempted to jump through the gates and throw myself at his neck, but I’m pretty sure he won’t appreciate being tackled by a 6’1 teenager of mostly muscle. Instead, I throw myself inside the car and barely wait for the gates to open wide enough to drive through.

I park crookedly, but I don’t even care. I’m already rushing out, slamming the door behind me. Sorry, Nathan.

“Her room is on—” starts Crux.

“Yeah, I know,” I yell back, trying not to lose momentum. “I can find it.” Maybe. Probably.

I’m just able to hear him mutter, “I’m too old for this tomfoolery.”

#

The insides of the house are, as always, bigger and more confusing than the outsides. My only consolation is that I avoid running head-first into Harrowhark’s parents. I thank the universe or God for or whatever is out there for my luck, because honestly? I don’t have it in me to even attempt cordiality with them.

By the time I run up to the hallway of what I think is the direction of Harrow’s room, I’m panting and doubting myself. Just as I’m about to despair and return to Crux for directions, I see it—a pure black door, decorated with fake bones and spiderwebs, and the gothic font sign.

I rush through, whooshing the door open.

“Seamus,” says Harrow from a shaggy round rug on the floor. She’s sitting on her knees, surrounded by her laptop, a cup of tea, five different books, and three notebooks. “I told you—” She lifts her head. Her eyes land on me, growing tired. “Oh.”

I lean on the frame and try for a teasing smirk. “You’re disappointed?”

“I’m disappointed in Seamus.” Harrowhark sighs. “I told him not to let you in. That man is softening with age.”

I don’t even bother rolling my eyes, just close the door behind me and prop against it. “Can we talk?”

“You’re already here.” She waves her hand. “Might as well say your piece. I don’t want you barging in tomorrow too.”

I sigh. I can already feel this is going to be a battle, but I have to try. “Okay, first of all, I’m sorry about kissing Coronabeth. To be fair, she technically kissed me and my body reacted before my brain caught on. I was pushing her away when you saw us. I know that sounds like bullshit, and it’s not a good excuse, but it is what happened.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. It was stupid and it’ll never happen again, but you know I don’t love her, right?”

Harrowhark scoffs. “That’s pretty obvious.”

I frown. “It… is?”

“Always has been.” She shrugs, standing and dusts her dress off. It looks much like the one that she was wearing that day I saved her from the fire and it feels like we’ve come full circle. “At first, I thought maybe I’d… miscalculated and you still had feelings for her. But when I saw how forlorn she was the next day, I realized you’d probably rejected her and I was just letting old insecurities rule over me.”

“If you know, why are you being like this?”

“Because it doesn’t matter, Griddle,” Harrow spits back. “Coronabeth is the kind of girl you’ll end up with, eventually. It’s who you’re meant to be with. Her or Crystal.”

“Bullshit! I’m meant to be with whoever I decide to be with.”

“Yes.” She sit on the edge of the four-poster bed, and wraps an arm around the column to support herself. “Because the only prerequisite for relationships to function in real life is to decide to be together. That’s why everyone in Atonement gets a happy ending.”

“Okay. One, I’ve never seen that movie. And two, I thought we went over this already. I. Don’t. Like. Crystal! For the love of god, I don’t even know her real name! I keep calling her ‘Crystal’.”

“I’m not saying you’re literally going to date Crystal, Bonehead. I’m saying you’re going to be with someone like her. Relationships are based on mutual interests—”

“Who fucking cares?” I push off the door. “Literally, who cares that you’re a goth and I’m a jock? Who cares that you like lesbian pulp and I like Yuri? Who cares that you’re smart and I’m dumb? Okay, maybe not that last one, but—”

“You’re not dumb, Gideon.” She shakes her head, curls spilling down her bare arms. “Grades are not the only way to be intelligent.”

“See?” I point. “That! That is why I lo—I like you!” I sit beside Harrow on the bed, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She lets me and she gasps, leaning against my fingers, though her eyes are still darting all around the room. “You see me,” I say, softer. “Even when we hated each other, you saw me. You made me feel like I mattered. The only other person who’s made me feel like this is Camilla and she— ” I don’t want to think about that right now. Neither do I say that I see Harrow too. You don’t spend three years being obsessed with someone without knowing them in and out. “You’re it, asshole. Don’t you get that? Nonagesimus, you’re my dream girl.”

Harrow takes my hand in her own. “I know.”

A tear streams down my cheek and I brush it with the back of my hand. “Then why are you acting like this is just some stupid high school crush?” Coronabeth was the stupid high school crush. This? This is everything.

“Because you were going to break up with me!” Harrow yanks her hands back, leaping off the bed. When she turns her back to me, rubbing at her own eyes.

My jaw actually drops. “What?”

She spins around, her black eyes shining. Eyeliner and mascara are smeared down her cheeks, but her jaw is tight and her small face looks red. “You said so! You said that with the end date looming over us we shouldn’t tell the team.” She faces away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I was already in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years. So forgive me if I was trying to wean myself off, before I had to go cold turkey.”

I laugh. It comes out too loud and crackling, but I can’t stop. Of all the things… “That.” I shake my head. “Is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard such a smart girl say.”

It’s Harrowhark’s turn to freeze and blanch.

“Dude! Why the hell would I break up with you? All I meant was that everything was happening so fast and I had to go. I wanted us to have this conversation in private, before we went ahead announcing our changing relationship status to everyone that matters.”

“You…” She blinks. “Didn’t want to break up?”

I shake my head and stand, cupping the back of Harrow’s head with one hand. With her smeared make up and her ridiculous mean face, she looks so goddamn beautiful. “I never did. Let me be perfectly clear: I love you, you insecure dumbass. I don’t know when it happened, but I do. I’m never breaking up with you. Not publicly. Not privately. Not for the stupid sponsorship. Not even if your God himself comes down from the Heavens and tells me that loving you is a sin.”

The corner of her mouth twitches up. “I don’t believe God thinks that.”

“Shut up, loser.” I say, but I’m grinning through teary eyes. “Shut all the way up. You’re so annoying.”

“I hate you, Griddle.” Harrow wraps her fist into the collar of my shirt.

She yanks me down and we kiss.

Chapter Text

The kiss turns urgent, needy. We make out and wash our faces and laugh sheepishly. Harrow rolls on top of me on the bed and we kiss again, breathing heavily, hands on hips and waist and the backs of thighs.

She pulls away, lips grazing my nose. “Stay.”

“Aren’t your parents home?”

Harrow shrugs. “In a different wing of the house—probably asleep by now.”

“They’ll see my car.”

She smiles again and bites my lower lip more than she kisses me. My breath catches—I’m unbelievably into it.

“We’ll just have to sneak out early in the morning.”

“Yeah?” I grin. “And what would we do, if I stayed?” I draw my hand up her thigh.

Harrow gasps and buries her face in my shoulder.

I grin… and then realize how suggestive that sounded. I don’t want her to think I’m a sex-crazed maniac. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She interrupts me with a kiss that turns into biting my lip again. The pull beneath my navel makes me squirm with need.

“I’m ready,” she says.

I stroke a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “What changed?”

She smiles and leans her forehead against mine. “I know where we stand now.”

Well. Who am I to argue with that?

I kiss the side of her jaw and she makes a desperate, breathy sound that leaves me needing more. With shaking hands I pull down the zipper of her dress. My own jeans and t-shirt come off in two, three tugs under Harrow’s much surer fingers and then we’re tangled in each other. I trail my lips down Harrow’s chest, her heart fluttering nervously beneath her ribcage; kiss down her concave stomach and the sharp hipbones. I fumble between her legs at first—I’ve only been with one girl and the way she wanted it was nothing like Harrow. Nothing like the desperate sensitivity, the instant response to each touch. All the years we’ve lost, all the time we could’ve loved each other—more innocently perhaps, but always as intensely. I want to give her the world. I settle for her gasps, growing more desperate.

“Gideon,” Harrow whines and throws her head back, burying her hands in my hair. She tugs on the threads in a way that makes me understand the difference between grapefruit and red oranges.

In that moment, something irrevocably changes between us.

When her breathing normalizes, I pull myself up and lie beside her. I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss, her taste still on my lips. Harrow kisses back. Softly, hesitantly, but she kisses back. And then I touch her. She’s soft and pliant, and open—always so open.

“Is this okay?” I ask, kissing her neck, the hollow space under her ear, anything to soothe potential discomfort.

“Yeah,” she gasps.

At first it’s hard to ignore the ache between my thighs, but the more I focus on the little sounds my girlfriend makes, the easier it becomes. My weird brain takes over and even though I’m vaguely aware of the world around me, Harrow becomes my laser focus. I watch the way her back arches, listen for the moment her breathing gets faster.

Then she’s the one grabbing the back of my head and kissing me roughly, on my mouth and jaw down to my sternum, over my chest. I revel in it. In the feeling of being wanted, being cared for. Harrow touches me as if it’s the only thing she wants to be doing and looks at me like I matter. I soar through the air like an apex jump, landing with a quickened pulse and long, deep breaths.

I pull Harrow on top of me and we’re a desperate, messy entwine of sweaty limbs and aching breaths. In the back of my mind, I know where I end and Harrowhark begins, but it also doesn’t matter. This is everything that matters.

We don’t stop, as if we’re afraid that if we take our hands off each other, we’ll never get to touch again.

Eventually, I nod off, wrapping an arm around her waist. But when I nuzzle into her shoulder and kiss it, she makes an absolutely depraved sound of want and pulls me on top. She kisses me deeply, wetly, and I’m shaken out of my cozy state. It’s not long before Harrow is wiggling and gasping in that terribly sweet, broken way. Then, I have no choice but to touch her until she starts trembling and sweating and digging her fingers into my shoulders and back.

When she’s done, feverish and wide-pupiled, her hands grasp at my hips, and she slips her thigh between my legs, kissing me. I come undone with heavy gasps, as Harrow clutches handfuls of my hair and bites into my neck. It’s as sweet as it’s vicious and everything we’ve been to each other.

“I’m spent.” I pant, when it seems unlikely we’ll go for another round. “I wanna take a shower but...” I push off the bed with my elbow, but my shoulders tremble and I lie back down. “Nope. Not happening.” I’m pretty sure roller derby practice has left me less wrecked. “This is all your fault, you horrible little sex gremlin.”

The horrible little sex gremlin just smiles and kisses my collarbone. “You can shower tomorrow,” she says and it sounds like a promise. “I like how you smell right now.”

I smell of sweat and sex and Harrow—but I get it. She’s never smelled better to me, either.

Tomorrow, then. I’m not in a hurry.

Chapter Text

When I wake up the next morning, my head still hurts from all the crying and feeling sorry for myself. I turn on my side, brushing sleep dust off my eyes. Harrow is lying on her pillow, looking devastatingly gorgeous with her bare face, dark curls spread all over the pillows. I’m supposed to wake her up, but I can’t bring myself to. I just watch her chest rise and fall with even breaths.

She stirs and grumbles, waking. “Stop being a creep, Griddle.”

I laugh soundlessly, glad to know that she can still be resplendently mean. Then I reach out and brush her hair out of her face. “Sorry,” I say, finger teetering around her temple, because I can do that now. “I got carried away. You’re… the best thing in my life right now.” If I could travel back in time and tell this to September!Gideon, she would’ve shot me dead, but it’s true.

Harrow looks up at me and frowns. “What about derby?”

I sigh, flipping on my back and stare at the ceiling, twining fingers over my chest. “Everything is shit. We’ve lost three games in a row and the team blames me. I can’t even say that they’re wrong. Cam won’t speak to me, and since I won’t be fake-dating Coronabeth, we’re gonna lose the sponsorship.”

Harrow lifts herself on her elbow and nudges me. “Gideon… you know the energy drink people can’t force you to do that, right?”

I frown. “Of course they can.” Maybe not literally, but they were pretty clear—I either sign up for DerbyBlonde—or I lose the sponsorship.

“No, idiot. They legally cannot do that. They’re using your sexuality for marketing, which is already a gray area.”

“Well… yeah? That’s always been the strategy.”

“It’s discrimination.” She sits up and looks at me with all the intensity in her dark eyes. “You could sue them.”

I grimace. “I don’t want to sue them. That’ll be a mess for everyone.” I can see it now—dragging the whole team through the courts, along with Coach and Harrow, having to reveal the fake-dating, as to not perjury myself and some fancy lawyer using that against me. Maybe everyone will be into it at first, out of a misplaced sense of serving justice. Then some suit will make Jeannemary cry on the stand and they’ll all turn on me. “Not that I’d have the money for a lawyer, even if I wanted to.” The school might, but they won’t get anything better than someone with a community college degree. The corporation is, well… a corporation. They probably have Harvard Law School on call. And in the end, we’ll lose, anyway. Even if by some miracle we don’t, it’ll be a hollow victory. We’ll have ruined a business relationship, and no one will want to work with me again, if I’m a known as a troublemaker. Might just be easier to disband the team at that point.

“Obviously you’d use one of our lawyers, if it came to that.” Harrow rolls her eyes.

I want to laugh and cry. It was never that obvious to me.

“But that’s not what I’m referring to. They don’t want you to sue them. It doesn’t even matter if you win or not. Being sued over discrimination after working so hard to appear feminist and LGBTQ+ friendly will be a massive hit to their image. It’ll turn into a huge PR scandal, they might never recover from.” She bites her lip. “Well, they are a corporation—they’ll probably rebrand, but it’ll be expensive. They’ll do anything to avoid a scandal like that.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

It takes me a second to put the pieces together. When I do, a grin slips over my face. “Are you saying… not only do I not have to fake date Coronabeth, but the company will bend over backwards to give me anything I want, if I threaten them with a lawsuit?”

Harrow smirks, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

God, I love this evil, evil genius. I plant a kiss on her beautiful bow-shaped mouth. Her breath tastes like rotten eggs, but I don’t even care. “Wait.” My brows furrow. “You were at that meeting. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

She flushes all the way to her neck. “I was a little too… preoccupied to think clearly that day. Then I tried to convince myself I should let you go through with the PR stunt—it was a clean break, you could keep the sponsorship and it didn’t have to be complicated between us. Once I realized how much you didn’t want to do it, I told Palamedes. He was supposed to tell you.”

“Oh.” I blink, remembering him calling after me. “I think he tried, yesterday. I was a little busy running off to get you back. ”

She shakes her head, but the tiniest of smiles betrays how flattered she is.

“Speaking of. Just so there are no more misunderstandings—we’re definitely girlfriends now, right?”

“Definitely,” she agrees and I mentally high five myself.

When I made my list in September, I could’ve never, in my wildest fantasies, picture it leading me here. But honestly? This is better.

“We need to go, if we want to avoid my parents,” she says and I’m yanked back to reality. “Your deadline is Monday right? I’ll call a lawyer from your car.”

“It’s the weekend, though. Will you find one?”

Harrow shrugs. “Lawyers don’t keep traditional hours.”

“Cool.” I force myself to roll out of bed, before I give into the urge to pull Harrow on top of me again—we don’t have the time.

#

Sneaking out doesn’t go well. Passing through one of the sitting rooms, we run into Harrow’s parents and freeze, caught at the scene of a crime. I’m convinced that Crystal has found a way to hex me for rejecting her, because how does everything keep going so wrong?

“Gideon,” says Mrs. Novenarius from the table. She’s cutting a grapefruit into minuscule pieces. If that’s her mother’s breakfast, no wonder Harrow has an unhealthy relationship with food. “I did not realize you were here.” She may be addressing me, but she’s looking at Harrow… who isn’t speaking, her jaw locked.

I fumble with my hands. “I, erm. I just came to talk to Harrow.” It’s technically not a lie.

“It’s not appropriate—” starts Mr. Novenarius.

“No,” Harrow says, stepping forward. She’s shaking her head, as if emerging from a trance. “You do not get to do this. You don’t get to come home once every two weeks and dictate who I can and cannot see. My grades are perfect, I’m not doing drugs, I’m not out partying all night, I’m not avoiding my extracurriculars or responsibilities. I just have a girlfriend. And we’re being safe.”

Her mother opens her mouth, but Harrow is faster. “Gideon and I may not be married—and even if we were, the Catholic church would never recognize such a union—but that doesn’t mean it’s not serious. So be prepared for here to come over once in a while… or for me to stay at her place.” She purses her lips, thinking. “Also, I’m going to Stanford in the fall. I know it’s only the third best university for pre-med in the country, but it’s also the third best university in the country. If this doesn’t satisfy you, nothing I do ever will. And frankly? I’m tired of tying myself into knots for a smidge of your approval.”

“Harrow—” her mother starts.

“We have work to do.” She grabs my hand. “You can give me your lecture tonight, if you’re even still here.”

And before I can even wave goodbye, she’s dragging me toward the main exit.

Chapter Text

“I was pretty gay already,” I say, once we’re inside my car. “But somehow that speech made me gayer.”

Harrow only frowns, buckling her seatbelt.

“Okay, I know that was a dumb joke, but—”

“It’s not that.” She sucks on her crucifix again, then looks up at me. “We are being safe, right? Because we didn’t actually use protection last night and I’ve read up on lesbian sex and how unsafe the community is—”

God. I chuckle. “We’re fine. I’ve only been with one girl and I’ve been tested. And you were a virgin, so.”

Harrow actually swats my arm. “You can’t rely on that, STIs and STDs can be transmitted in utero. I also happen to be tested, but you should be careful.”

I just grin. “Thankfully, I don’t plan on having sex with anyone else in the foreseeable future.”

Harrow blushes. “Neither do I.”

I smirk—that’s my gay work done for the day. “Hey.” I glance at her, switching on the engine. “What do you call an Irish virgin?”

“I swear to god, Griddle—”

“Hump-free.”

“I hate you.” Harrow shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth liftss and oh, yeah. She’s smitten.

I chew on my lower lip, scolding my face into a serious expression. “Listen… you’re not picking Stanford because of me, right? Don’t get me wrong,” I add quickly. “I’d love nothing more than for you to be forty minutes away next year. I’m not gonna pretend to be over the moon if you chose to go to the other side of the country, but if Harvard or Duke is what you want, you should go for it. I don’t want to be one of those girlfriends that drags you down.” I give her a crooked smirk. “The only thing I require is that when you take over the world, you keep me as your trophy wife.”

“I’ll consider it.” She pauses, wringing her hands in her lap. “I won’t deny that Stanford’s location added weight to my decision, but it is what I want, I promise. And it doesn’t hurt that I know one of my professors.” She smirks. “Speaking of, I’ve already sent in my documents for early admission, but do you think your father could write me a reference? Just in case I have to apply again in spring.”

I grin. “I think that can probably be arranged.”

#

Harrow sets up the meeting with the lawyer two hours later, because she’s ruthless and a little scary. I spend a little too much time thinking about Harrow using her bossy voice on me in a… different context. When we get to my place, I make her French toast, while she lists questions and possible issues to address in one of my unused notebooks.

“Hey,” I ask through a mouthful of French toast and Nutella. “How are you paying this guy?”

“He’s on the family pay roll.” Harrow shrugs. “Technically, our accountant is paying him.”

My eyes widen. “Are your parents okay with that?” I can’t imagine they would be.

“They probably won’t notice.”

When the lawyer arrives, Dad decides to sit in on the meeting, even though he’s not quite sure what we’re doing. “I already let you deal with these people on your own once, kid,” he says, ruffling my hair. “And they nearly walked all over you. I’m not making the same mistake again. You may be a legal adult, but I’m still your father.”

I sniff and hug him so tight, I might’ve bruised his ribs.

Once we’re done, the lawyer—a handsome, dark-skinned guy in his late-thirties with a goatee that actually looks good—hands Dad his number with a wink. “It’s unethical for me to ask you out,” I hear him say at the door. “But text me once this is over.”

When Dad joins us for the remainder of brunch, I give him a shit eating grin.

“Oh, shut up.” He rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush.

“I just want you to know that I whole-heartedly support your happiness. You can even put it… on the record, if you will.”

Harrow chokes on her water, laughing.

Chapter Text

After the second meeting with  Harrow’s lawyer and the energy drink reps, I’m practically on cloud nine. They came in, all swagger with their massive red organizer, but the second Harrow uttered the word ‘lawsuit,’ they paled. Not only did they retract the entire Coronabeth plan, but actually offered us things I didn’t even think to ask for.

I’ve never seen a seventeen-year-old girl command a room like that. Perhaps Harrow should become a lawyer, instead of a doctor. I might bring that up, after the holidays—I can’t handle another existential crisis before New Year’s.

Right now, Cam is my number one priority. She needs to hear this from me first. Buuuut there is one other person I need to speak before her—and that conversation may not be nearly as pleasant.

“Hey,” I pull Corona aside before everyone goes into the gym.

“Hi,” she says, and to her credit she looks not too sure what to do with her arms.

I can’t deny I’m feeling a bit of schadenfreude, being the one causing Coronabeth discomfort for once.

“I’m assuming we won’t be fake-dating?” she asks, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’. “Why? Were you hoping for it?” It’s a total bait question. Even I noticed how she chafed, when the rep called out her name.

She sighs. “Before you rejected me? Perhaps. Now, I don’t believe it would be a particularly pleasant experience for either one of us. Does that mean we’re losing the sponsorship?”

“No.”

“But how…?”

“Harrowhark,” I say. I don’t think I need to explain further.

Corona shakes her head with a small chuckle. “Of course. That girl is a force to be reckoned with.”

She absolutely is, but that’s not what’s not what I want to discuss. “Can we talk about freshman year?” I say in my calmest voice and straightest face. The truth is, I’m not angry. All I want is to understand.

“Right.” Coronabeth lets out a long-held breath and sits on the bench, stretching out her long, tanned legs. “You and Harrow talked. Of course you did—it was only a matter of time. For the record, she already tore me a new one last week, but sure. Say your piece.”

“Wait. Harrow yelled at you last week?” We weren’t even together.

Even while we were broken up. Even then Harrow didn’t stop caring about me. I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall in love with her a little harder.

“She stormed into my house and scared my cats. It was embarrassing.”

“That’s…” hot. “Tell me more?” I shake myself. Not the time. “No, wait—don’t. I’m sorry she did that—I’m not going to yell at you.” Even though she kind of deserves it. “I just want to know what happened.”

“You already do, don’t you?”

“I know my version.” I fold my arms, leaning back against the lockers. “I know Harrow’s version. I still wanna hear yours.” It’s not that I owe it to Coronabeth to listen, but Coronabeth owes it to me, after lying for three years.

“It sounds ridiculous in retrospect.” She shrugs, looking up at me from the bench. “But I didn’t think it would be a big deal? I didn’t know how important it was to Harrow—and I didn’t think you’d react the way you did. I assumed you’d just say ‘no’, like a normal person. No offense.”

“None taken.” I’ve always had a flair for dramatics and Nonagesimus made it quite clear that my reaction had been… memorable. “Harrow already said I was a little shit.” Possibly enough to earn me a mean nickname.

“I figured it would sting a little, but you’d forget about it by the end of the month and by senior year it would be a funny anecdote.”

“I get that.” I never really thought Coronabeth set out to cause either of us massive trauma. She was just a dumb teenage girl, playing dumb teenage girl pranks. “But why?”

“I suppose…” She clicks her tongue, staring off to the side. “I was jealous.”

I furrow my brows. “Because… you were in love with Harrow?” It couldn’t have been me. That wasn’t a thing until junior year.

“No! I’m not that much of a cliché. I didn’t even know I was queer yet.” She shakes her head, golden curls spilling down her shoulder despite the ponytail. “It was just that Harrow was my oldest friend and I was playing roller derby with you, and… you two seemed to like each other more than you liked me. I thought that if you started dating, you’d never wanna hang out with me anymore.” She bites her lip.“For the sake of full transparency, I also didn’t think you were a good match. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“Gee, thanks.” I deadpan. “Why didn’t you say anything after? When you saw what it did to us?”

Corona looks up at me, all quivering chin and puppy-dog blue eyes. It doesn’t do shit for my sympathies. “I was afraid you’d hate me forever?” she says, almost as a question, chewing on her finger. “That’s lame, I know. I wanted to, but the more time passed the harder it got and the more pointless it seemed. Honestly, you said such nasty things to each other, I didn’t think the truth would change anything.”

That sounds like bullshit. I believe her, but it’s still bullshit. “Even when we started fake-dating?”

“You hated each other so much at that point, I didn’t think you’d end up having a real conversation, let alone one about freshman year. A part of me always thought it was a possibility, of course. That’s why I proposed to fake-date you instead. But then you could barely stand next to each other and you had this plan about when to break up and I thought… maybe I could get away with it?”

I scoff. “That’s dumb.”

“Yeah.” Coronabeth laughs humorlessly and brushes the dampness around eyes with the tips of her fingers. “God I’m so tired of feeling this needy.”

“You still do that, you know. With Judith, with me. A girlfriend isn’t going to complete you.” I learned that the hard way.

“I know. I’m trying, I promise. I want to be a better friend.” She stands, looking at me again. “Can I maybe… get a hug? Platonically, I promise.”

I shake my head. “Sorry.” I could give her closure, but I don’t feel like hugging her and I’m tired of making concessions for everyone else. “Not there yet.”

She nods. “Maybe one day you will be.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. Or maybe not.

Maybe some relationships aren’t meant to last past high school.

#

With Judith’s help, I find Cam and her family a few minutes before our last game of the calendar year. Around me, people are packing around the gym in rowdy groups—high school kids carrying big posters, girls laughing with pairs of roller skates in hand, families with overly-excited middle-schoolers. The night is lukewarm, air thick with fresh waves of the Pacific and the eager anticipation before a game. From inside, speakers blast "Hollaback Girl" by Gwen Stefani, and I can already tell it’ll be a great bout.

Right now, though, I’m only focused on Cam.

“Hey.” I smile weakly, leaning on my car just outside the other school’s gym. “Can we talk?”

“We’ll wait for you inside, sweets,” says Cam’s dad, before throwing a concerned look at me, then wrapping an arm around Cam’s little siblings, ushering them inside. I’m not sure what that was for, but I’m hoping it’s a good luck wish. I’ll need it.

Cam shakes her hand. “I have nothing to say to you.” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket, and pivots on her heels, striding after her family.

I push off Nathan and rush forward, grabbing her wrist. “Please?” My eyes beg. I try for a smile. “Palamedes said you’ve missed me.”

Cam grits her teeth. “Palamedes is a goddamn traitor and I’ll punch his lights out.”

“No, you won’t.” He’s Palamedes, he’s a sweetheart.

“No.” She deflates. “I won’t. But I kinda want to.”

“I get that—I wanted to punch Harrow just two weeks ago.”

“We’re not doing that.” She wags her finger, then stabs it in my chest. “We’re not bonding. Talk before I change my mind.”

I let my smile drop. I knew it wouldn’t be this easy, of course. A few jokes can’t fix a months-long rift. “I screwed up. Real bad.”

Cam scoffs. “Yeah. No shit.”

“I should’ve never promised to take that shift.” I can already see Cam rolling her eyes, so I push forward. “No, listen. I’ve been thinking about it and…” I sigh, smoothing my hair back. I honestly wasn’t sure what I wanted to say exactly. I didn’t know what, specifically, I should apologize for, but now the words come to me. “I’m not saying I wasn’t a shitty friend—I definitely dropped the ball on that one. Hard. I thought I should be focusing on Harrow, because it was helping the team, but… that’s an explanation, not an excuse.” I quote the smartest man I know—Dad. “I didn’t even realize how much I’d ignored you, until I saw you that day in front of the counselor’s office. I felt so guilty and then you mentioned your shift, I was like, ‘oh, that’s a quick fix, I can do that!’ But I couldn’t. I was already spreading myself too thin. Turns out.” I chuckle humorously. “I’m shit at setting healthy boundaries.”

“You? No way.” Cam snorts. “Gideon.” She smiles a little and punches my shoulder. “You jumped into a fake-dating scheme with a girl you hated, just because it would’ve helped the team. Hell, you probably considered fake-dating Coronabeth too.”

“I won’t confirm or deny,” I say, trying to preserve a shred of dignity. But by the look in Cam’s warm eyes, she knows she’s got me. “Also, if I remember correctly, you guys pushed me into the Nonagesimus thing.”

“In our defense, we thought it would be hilarious.”

I snort. “Was it?”

“For a time.” She shrugs. “Then you actually started falling for each other, and it was sweet.”

“Then Harrow broke my heart and it was horrible. Then she put it back together and it was awesome.” I slide my hands into my jeans pockets, and swing on my heels. “Such is life.”

“Wait. Are you and Harrow—No.” Cam stops herself again, stepping back. “No bonding.”

“Maaaaybe?”

“Gideon!” She punches my shoulder harder, butt we’re both grinning.

The truth is that I’ve been dying to brag about bagging a badass goth girlfriend, but Cam has to know first. Best friend privilege and all. “Did you know this would happen?”

“I might’ve suspected. I don’t know why, but I’ve always thought you’d make a good couple.” She looks up. “Pal did too.”

And that. That is why, I love her. There’s something about each other Cam and I just… get, even if it makes no sense. I shake my head, biting my lip. “I suck. I promised something that I shouldn’t have and then I didn’t do it. Didn’t back out in time or anything. I don’t want to be the kind of person who’ll do or say anything to please people. Even that rep thought I wouldn’t take much convincing to fake-date a girl that’s not my girlfriend. But I want to be your friend and I know that means taking accountability. I spoke to one of the Fitzgeralds’ lawyers. Did I tell you they have lawyers on retainer?”

“I’m not surprised.” Cam scoffs, but she does take her hands out of her jacket. They aren’t even in clenched fists, so that’s a good sign.

“Well, this guy was real helpful. He also might be dating Dad, but that’s besides the point.” I relay the whole discrimination case as fast as possible and Cam listens without interrupting—she’s always been patient, and I hope that means getting back to normal. “Short of it is, the energy drink people drafted a new contract with some concessions.” I smile wryly. “I know quick fixes aren’t a real thing and I’ll dedicate myself to actually being there when you need me. But can we consider what I’m about to say step one?”

Cam folds her arms. “I’m listening.”

“Obviously, I got them to support the team for two more years and if we—I mean, the rest of the girls—continue to win, they’ll renegotiate with Coach for more. Second, and more importantly, they’ll put away 1% of their revenue toward a college scholarship fund for deserving athletes. And guess whose name I put up first.”

Cam gasps, clamping both hands over her mouth. “Gideon! You didn’t.”

“I know it’s just money.” I wipe the corners of my eyes, where tears are still threatening to escape. “But I hope it makes up for it a little bit? Cause you’re so smart and you deserve to go to the Ivy of your dreams. Even if it’s on the other side of the country—we’ll Zoom.”

Cam smiles, then drops it. “I can’t. My family still needs me.”

“Weeeeell, that’s the other thing.” I force myself to grin. “You know how Harrow’s butler is old as balls?”

She laughs, the corners of her eyes misting. “I’ve noticed.”

“Apparently, he’s wanted to retire for a while. He hasn’t because of her, I think, but she’s going off to college in a few months so….”

“He said all this to you?”

“Oh, god no!” I blanch. The mere idea is equal parts terrifying and hilarious. “But he did tell Harrow and I asked her to get your dad an interview.”

“What? Gideon.” Cam swats me again. “My dad has no idea how to butle, that’s a really high-end job.”

“I know.” I scratch the back of my neck, smiling sheepishly. “Nonagesimus explained it to me already. He’ll be a butler-in-training for six-months to a year, until he learns the ropes. He’s been in the service industry, so he knows how to keep his mouth shut and fake a smile. The rest can be taught, apparently. It’s just an interview. He doesn’t have to take the job, if he doesn’t want to be ordered around in that manor—”

Before I’ve even finished, Cam’s arms are around me, and her cheek are wet and warm against my skin. We hug and hug and she smells like salt and feels like being complete.

“I’ve missed your stupid jokes,” she says, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe.

I don’t even care. I just smile, letting my own eyes blur. “I’ve missed you.” Harrow may be my girlfriend, but Cam is my wife. Life, or derby—none of it makes sense without Camilla Hect or Calamity Hurtz.

I grab her hand and we walk inside—it doesn’t matter what happens tonight. I already feel like a winner. But as the track stretches in front of my still blurry eyes, I can see it:

Me on a pro-derby team, working as a gym trainer in my down time. Sunday breakfasts with Dad. Visiting Harrow and Cam at Stanford every weekend. Long college parties, longer nights spent at Harrow's fancy single dorm. Bringing enough crap around, until she’s forced to free a drawer for me. Nagging Camilla until she joins my team as soon as she graduates, because derby will always be better with her. Kissing Harrow every New Year’s, for as long as she’ll have me. Sending and receiving embarrassing drunk college photos to and from Palamedes and Judith and Martha.

I can have a life beyond high school. A life where I’m enough.