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one.
In retrospect, Denise probably should have realized that she and Steven Conklin were never going to work out the second that she met his sister Isabel. Despite being introduced to her as Belly, Denise had initially refused to refer to her that way—because what the hell is wrong with this entire group of people that no one is pointing out that ‘Belly’ is a weird fucking thing to call a grown adult?—but everyone here says it with such fondness that it just sort of sounds right, and ‘Isabel’ begins to sound weird coming out of her mouth.
Anyway, Belly Conklin is uncomfortably hotter than her brother. It’s not that Denise is into her or anything, but it’s not the type of thing you want to be even vaguely thinking about when you meet the sister of the guy you’re almost dating. Really, Denise thinks to herself, it’s a fucking relief that she and Steven didn’t get together. It would have been weird seeing Belly at the holidays and having to ignore the fact that her beauty is sort of, like, moving.
Denise’s last hookup had looked a little bit like her, actually. Taller, dark hair, kind eyes, soft hands. Okay, so, Denise probably shouldn’t be thinking about the bride’s hands this way when she's sitting at her rehearsal dinner and has also become weirdly good friends with her fiancé. Whatever. Sue her—she’s drunk on the expensive champagne that Adam’s provided, trying to make her way through this meal that she’s so obviously not supposed to be at. It’s not even like the Conklin siblings or her last fling are even her type, although Denise doesn’t know if she has a type, really. Mostly, she just likes ambition, and, if she’s being honest with herself, the occasional redhead; both demographics are oddly hard to come across in the wild.
Beside her, Steven’s rambling on about some video game he’s been playing, which, now that Denise’s crush on him has been cut abruptly short, is somehow infinitely less interesting than it was a few days ago. It isn’t that Steven’s not funny or cool or annoyingly smart, or even that she isn't totally down to do a tournament when they get back to Boston. Mostly, it’s that Steven’s been around this group of people his entire life, which means that he would much rather lock in on game mechanics than people watch, and Denise just isn’t in that headspace right now. Also, she spilled a small drop of wine on her dress earlier in the night, and she can't stop picking it at unsuccessfully. It isn't exactly noticeable, but she can't help but be a little bothered by it.
“Uh huh,” she says, nodding her head when Steven stops talking for a second, clearly waiting for her response.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Steven exclaims, launching back into another rant about character mods, and how they're going to revolutionize the app they're working on.
Out of the corner of her eye, Denise spots Taylor pretending like she isn’t paying attention to them. God, she thinks. This entire group of people is comically incestuous. Have any of them not dated each other? For a second, she thinks about asking Steven if Adam and Laurel have ever gotten it on, but she bites her tongue out of respect for—well, something, anyway.
“Conklin,” Denise cuts her conversation partner off. “Our boss is literally right there. Maybe we can cool it on the extracurricular work talk for the night? Come on, there must be something else you can talk about besides RPGs. You play sports?”
Steven snorts. “No, Denise,” he says. “I do not play sports.”
“Yeah?” she smiles, shooting him a flirty smile, just because she can. “Where’s all that muscle coming from, then?”
Steven’s eyebrows shoot so high on his face that Denise thinks maybe they’ve disappeared. Denise fights to keep her expression cool, but they’re staring at each for barely a second before they both burst out laughing. Denise grabs his arm, relieved to find out that, yeah, she has fully gotten over any lingering crush. “Oh my God,” she says, shaking her head affectionately. “The look on your face.”
“What is your problem, man?” Steven’s asking, but he's smiling at her. “You’re crazy. Fucking weirdo.”
“Sorry,” Denise is giggling, and she sort of hates that—the fact that she can tell she’s giggling and not laughing, her collected exterior quickly falling apart under the influence of alcohol. “It’s just that I am so not supposed to be here. What part of this is casual, again? There’s no way Belly approved my presence here. I met your sister like one day ago.”
Steven shakes his head again. “Nah,” he says. “Belly’s a chill bride. Look at her.”
Denise does. Belly’s got her arms around Jeremiah’s waist, and she’s smiling so brightly that it looks kind of painful. Actually, when Denise squints a bit, she thinks that Belly might have something wrong with her; contrary to what Steven said, she does not look chill at all. She’s standing there with intensely good posture, and the rigidity of her shoulders reminds Denise of a marionette on strings, pulled upright and forced to put on a show. Slowly, Denise scans the rest of the room for some hint of what might be going on, looking past Steven’s parents and landing squarely on Conrad Fisher.
Jeremiah’s older brother is, in short, a weirdo. With the way Steven and Jeremiah both talk about him, Denise had expected a tall, charismatic man to waltz in with a wide smile and shake her hand. She expected to be charmed. She expected drive and ambition, all packaged neatly within another annoyingly good-looking, six-pack Fisher brother body. Instead, Conrad had greeted her with a mumbled ‘hello,’ a shocking lack of eye contact, and a defeated slump to his shoulders. He had then proceeded to dance in front of her so badly that Denise wondered if maybe everyone else in the world had gotten it wrong, and actually, Conrad Fisher was the world’s biggest loser virgin of all time. To be entirely honest, Denise would be willing to put money on that. She had seen the way that he body-rolled on that floor.
The Conrad that she’s briefly gotten to know looks very different than the one who’s currently staring at Belly’s stiff stance with a smirk on his face, leaning back in his chair with a surprising amount of confidence. Denise can also see the way that Belly is angling her and Jeremiah’s bodies precisely so that her fiancé cannot see what’s happening behind his back. Something clicks when Denise watches Conrad flex his hand, and Belly moves her fingers automatically. Belly tilts her head, and Conrad follows. Oh my fucking God, Denise thinks to herself, watching the two of them mirror each other so intensely while they pretend to be engrossed in conversations with other people. Denise swears that she can see Belly starting to sweat when Conrad takes a sip of wine while looking at her.
Briefly, Denise resists the urge to laugh at herself, so caught up in the ridiculous idea that if she and Steven Conklin had gotten together, she would have been dragging Belly into something weird with her. As if that would ever have happened—it seems that Belly’s already embroiled in a much more tumultuous sibling love triangle. (Anyway, Denise is pretty sure Belly is aggressively straight. But that's neither here nor there.)
“Your sister’s super chill,” Denise tells Steven politely, watching Belly vibrate out of her skin with a fake, airy laugh. “Nepo Baby’s a real lucky guy.”
From across the room, she hears Belly giggle, and it’s obvious that Conrad hears it too, because’s suddenly looking down at his plate of food and smiling like he’s been gifted him a billion fucking dollars. Jesus Christ. Denise didn’t even know the guy could smile like that.
Alright, she concedes, wondering very seriously whether they’re all going to make it to the end of this rehearsal dinner, never mind the end of the wedding. Lucky might not exactly be the right word to describe Jeremiah.
two.
“Steven, this is not a casual dinner!” Denise hisses in annoyance. They’ve just entered the double doors of the restaurant, where a cascade of burnt umber and golden streamers greeted them. She groans immediately, recognizing the colours from her—very tasteful, very beautiful—wedding invitation.
When Denise had gotten the letter, she was mostly just surprised that Belly Conklin had bothered to track down her address. We would love to see you! an extra, handwritten note had read when she pulled it out of the envelope. It was too neat to be a doctor’s writing, and besides, Denise couldn't imagine Conrad’s dry voice using an exclamation mark. So—Belly. The invite had been all Belly.
“It is so casual!” Steven defends. “It’s just a dinner at a nice restaurant. It’s not, like—”
“Steven,” Denise interrupts, grabbing his arm so tightly that he whines.
“Ow, woman! What is your problem?” Steven asks, dragging her over to a table of his family members. Denise recognizes most of them, but there are a few unfamiliar faces. A few chairs are still empty. She resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“You think they put these colour-coordinated decorations up to be casual?” Denise whisper-shouts, smiling brightly as she makes eye contact with Taylor and waves. “I’m at your sister’s fucking rehearsal dinner again. Oh my God. Six years later, and you are still such an idiot. Remind me why we decided to go into business together again?”
An hour later, Denise finds herself awkwardly hovering by the bar. Drinking alone, as it turns out, isn't that hard to do as a slightly unwelcome guest at another Belly Conklin wedding rehearsal dinner. It’s not like anyone is enthusiastically requesting her presence. She’s tapping her fingers against the bar top and moodily thinking about her best friend’s ignorance when someone bumps into her from behind.
“Fuck,” Denise exclaims, tripping over her heels and spilling a thin-stemmed glass of prosecco down her dress. It goes down cold, and she cringes, seeing the way her nipples perk to attention beneath the thin, silky fabric of her black top.
“Oh, man,” the woman who just caused her wardrobe malfunction says. It’s one of the people from Steven’s family that Denise is unfamiliar with, and Denise realizes with a start that she's sort of gorgeous up close. She’s been sitting way down at the other end of the table talking animatedly with her hands and, of course, no one’s bothered to introduce Denise, because everyone here is supposed to know each other. Fucking Steven, Denise thinks silently to herself again.
Standing beside her now, Denise notices that the mystery woman is a few inches shorter than her, and while she’s sporting a somewhat sympathetic expression for Denise’s situation, she looks annoyingly unphased. For half a second, Denise contemplates dumping the rest of her drink onto the woman’s light green dress, just to see whether it disrupts the calmness in her icy blue eyes. The seafoam satin looks ridiculously good in contrast to the woman’s dark red hair, and it almost pisses Denise off; she’s stuck in boring business wear, because Steven had failed to mention what they were actually attending.
“That is so my bad,” the woman continues, which confuses Denise. She can’t tell if the sarcasm in her voice is a feature of the woman’s charm, or if there’s some great practical joke she's missing out on.
“Yeah, it was,” Denise snaps, despite her best efforts to avoid lashing out for, if she's being honest, essentially no real reason. She rearranges her features into a perfectly cold expression just to get a reaction; it’s the same one she uses in meetings with all-male teams who don't take her seriously, and she knows that her glare is enough to make anyone second guess her.
“Whoa,” the woman laughs, putting her hands up in surrender, but clearly nowhere near the point of running off or pissing her pants in fear. Now that Denise gets a good look at her, it's clear that she's ridiculously hot, especially with a smile on her face. “Hey, I’m sorry, really,” the woman continues. “You wanna come to the bathroom with me? I’ve got a Tide pen and at least six dry wipes in my purse. At the last wedding I was at, it was 105 degrees out, and I sweat through my dress so badly that I had to stand under the hand dryer in the bathroom after the ceremony for so long. People were pounding on the door. I looked like I'd jumped in a pool in all the photos I was in. Just awful shit, really. We’ll get you sorted out better than that, I'm sure.”
Denise can't help herself; she laughs, and the woman’s face softens just a bit. “Okay, that does sound way worse,” Denise concedes, partly because it feels like this woman is her best bet at getting the smell of alcohol out of her skirt, and partly because she's just relieved to have someone to talk to at this very-clearly-family event that she shouldn't be at. “You have any tips for stain removal? I’m supposed to re-wear this fit in two days for a business meeting.”
The woman loops their arms together, tugging her in the direction of the bathroom, and Denise jumps when her fingers make contact with soft skin. “Oh, I have loads of tricks,” the woman says, waving her hand nonchalantly. “Let me get you a club soda, okay?” Denise’s mouth falls open momentarily. Is this woman…hitting on her? “It can remove any fresh water-based stain. Serious miracle cure,” she adds, and Denise clamps her slack-jawed mouth closed immediately.
“Who are you?” Denise wonders out loud, and her rival-turned-saviour grins.
“I'm Agnes,” she offers with a red-lipstick smile.
“Cool,” Denise says, which sounds so horribly uncool the second she says it that she’s cringing internally, but she forges forward nonetheless. “I’m Denise.”
When they get to the bathroom, Agnes holds the door open for her, which might piss her off if it was a man, but she's pretty sure she shouldn't tell Agnes, a woman, that she thinks holding the door open for women plays into patriarchal expectations of gender norms. It seems effectively useless and, to be so honest with herself, Denise kind of likes how easily and competently Agnes does things. Under the dingy bathroom light, Agnes gets her hands immediately on Denise’s breasts, which is to say that she delves into a weirdly clinical assessment of what she's done to Denise's dress, while Denise stares intently at the green tiled walls and tries to pretend she isn't having a gay crisis. Afterward, Agnes directs her on how to stand under the hand dryer, and Denise would probably be more pissed about being bossed around if the irregular puffs of hot air were at all effective without intervention.
“Okay, wait—” Agnes says, shoving her freckled hands under the hand dryer and trying to get it to wheeze to life, while Denise does some insane backward bend at the knees to try and shove her chest under the dryer.
“I guess my tits are too small to register,” Denise tries to joke, but it comes out weirdly breathy with exertion, and Agnes bursts out laughing.
“Girl, come on,” she says, spreading out her hand where it’s situated directly above Denise’s breasts. The tips of her fingers barely reach the edges of them. “Humble bragging is not a good look on you.”
Denise giggles at that because okay, yeah—her tits are probably her best asset and she knows it. The fact that Agnes is calling her bluff is sort of hot. Before she has the chance to admit defeat, the door to the bathroom swings open, and Belly walks in, bright-eyed and smiling when she sees them.
“What are you guys doing?” Belly asks, taking in the scene before her, before giggling so sunnily that Denise is reminded that she sort of gets how this girl had two brothers fighting over her for the better part of five years.
“Prosecco incident,” Agnes says, flashing her a familiar smile. “Denise is a klutz.”
“Hey,” Denise protests, glaring at Agnes. “This is not my fault in the slightest. I was having a lovely time before someone decided to dump her drink down my dress.”
“You two are not dragging me into a fight on my wedding weekend,” Belly replies, her eyes dancing with laughter. Something mischievous quirks at the corners of her lips, and Denise recognizes the expression immediately. Steven makes it, too, and apparently, the Conklins have identical meddling faces. She’s immediately on high alert. “Okay, I’m going to pee,” Belly continues, and closes the bathroom stall, laughing quietly to herself.
Agnes raises one of her eyebrows, shooting Denise an inquisitive what was that all about? look, to which Denise shrugs her shoulders, hoping she can indicate look, I really don't know Belly that well, but I sure as hell know a Conklin when I see one, and she's up to something weird with just her eyes.
“I told him you two would get along,” Belly mutters to herself suddenly from inside the stall, and Denise’s face turns pink.
Who is Agnes? That probably should have been her first question, far before “where did you get that sick dress?” (in a girlhood way, not a gay way), “did you try the shrimp finger sandwiches?” or, although she didn't exactly say this one out loud, “did you notice how good my tits look?” (and okay, yeah, that one was possibly in a gay way).
“So,” Denise says, turning to Agnes. “How do you know the bride?”
Once they’re seated together at a table—dinner has passed, and they're free to rearrange themselves to visit—Agnes introduces herself as ‘Conrad’s oldest and dearest friend,’ which is sort of a bummer, given that Denise kind of hates Conrad. Well, hate is definitely too strong of a word, given that Conrad might objectively be described as her friend, but it would be completely appropriate to say that he annoys the shit out of her on a bad day and is tolerable on a good one.
It’s also sort of a bummer, given that Denise lives about 3000 miles away from Boston, and Conrad’s ‘oldest and dearest’ friend has got to be from around here.
“So, let me guess,” Denise says. “You’ve known Conrad since birth. You two grew up in diapers together. He came out of the womb fully bald, you came out with a full head of gorgeous curls, and your moms decided you’d be friends forever.”
Agnes laughs, wrinkling her nose. It’s really sort of adorable. Denise feels a little bit crazy.
“God, no,” Agnes replies. “I never met Conrad’s mom, actually.” She pauses, getting a sort of sad look in her eyes, and Denise immediately feels guilty. Earlier, she had been silently judging the bride and groom; Belly had been flitting around the restaurant talking to everyone, joking and hugging every person who’s shown up for them, while Conrad sat tucked away in the corner with his soon-to-be mother-in-law. Suck-up, Denise had thought when she’d seen them. Now, she feels terrible, remembering that Laurel Park is the closest thing to a mother that Conrad has. “We met during undergrad at Stanford before we did med school together,” Agnes continues, and Denise’s heart jumps at the geographical acknowledgement so close to where she lives. “He ended up going to oncology; I went to surgery.”
Denise shakes her head, smiling. A surgeon, her brain is screaming internally. How much more high-achieving can you get? God, I bet she fucking reads medical textbooks for fun. I bet she was top of her class. I bet all the doctors in the hospital listen when she talks. I bet she’s good with her hands.
“You Ivy Leaguers all say it like that,” Denise laughs, trying to act normal “‘During undergrad at Stanford.’ You and Steven would get along well. He loves to tell everyone he’s a Princeton grad every chance he gets.”
“First of all, Stanford is not an Ivy,” Agnes replies, pointing one finger at her. Her nails are short, polished with red. Denise very deliberately does not think about the implications of a short manicure. “Second of all, where did you go to school?”
Denise can feel herself blushing, but she grins, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I went to UMass Lowell for undergrad,” she says, and then takes a sip of the drink that Agnes got her. It’s something bubbly and sugary, which most people don’t think she would like, but she actually loves. “Then,” Denise continues sweetly, “I did MIT for my MBA.”
“Oh my God,” Agnes bursts out laughing. “Yeah, Denise, you’re a real slacker,” she says sarcastically. “How embarrassing.” Denise smiles, batting her eyelashes in a bit of an overkill attempt at flirting.
“I’m on the west coast now,” Denise says in a rush, and she can see the flash of interest in Agnes’ eyes. “San Francisco. Steven and I used to hang out with your boy Conrad a lot before he moved back east.”
It’s true. After moving out away from Boston a few years after Belly’s last rehearsal dinner, Denise had been subject to far more Conrad Fisher than she had ever wanted in her life, given that he was the only person either she or Steven knew on the west coast. Annoyingly, he ended up being a far better friend than she originally thought he would be. Even though they really only hung out for Steven's sake, Denise could always count on Conrad for a lightning-fast joke and annoyingly high levels of consideration. When Conrad had moved away, Denise had maybe sort of missed him a bit, although that had come and gone quickly enough; she’s barely talked to him these past few years beyond sending her regards via Steven.
“But you're not here with Steven,” Agnes says. It’s a statement and not a question; they both have a perfect line of sight to where the man in question is currently sitting with his girlfriend on his lap.
Denise shudders visibly. “God, no. Steven’s just my business partner.” She pauses, taking a sip of her drink. “He’s also my best friend, but don’t tell him that. It’ll go to his head.”
Agnes laughs, shuffling closer to her in the booth they're in. Denise plays with a curl of her own hair and tries very hard to look nonchalant instead of sweaty and nervous. “I’m still in the Bay Area, too. I have an apartment in the Castro,” Agnes says, her voice pitched strangely low. “You should stop by sometime.” Denise thinks that Agnes is looking at her with more than friendly interest, and she did sort of just say hey, by the way, I live in the gayest neighbourhood in SF. Do you want to come to my gay house to do gay things with me? Still, it’s fucking hard to tell.
“Yeah?” Denise asks, swallowing hard.
Agnes cocks her head, just looking at her for a moment, and Denise feels like she’s being dissected right there on the table. She might sort of like it, actually.
“How have we never met before?” Agnes asks finally. It isn't even flirty, just genuinely bewildered. Denise appreciates the sincerity of it—the way Agnes’ serious stare makes her feel like she’s the only person in the room. “It seems insane that we’re meeting at this shitty restaurant an hour outside of Boston when we apparently live in the same city.”
“I don’t know who would have introduced us,” Denise shrugs. “I don’t think Conrad’s my biggest fan,” she adds tactfully, which makes Agnes laugh.
“I don’t think Conrad is anyone’s biggest fan,” she snorts. It’s kind of adorable. “Well, except…” Agnes nods over to where Conrad’s got his arm around his fiancée, looking more relaxed than Denise has possibly ever seen him. Belly’s face is flushed, presumably from drinking, and Conrad keeps running his fingers up and down her arm absentmindedly. Every so often, it will stop on her shoulder, and Belly will turn slightly to kiss his wrist. It’s annoyingly sweet of them.
“I was at her last wedding,” Denise says suddenly, gesturing at Belly. Possibly, she shouldn’t be telling Conrad’s best friend this, but then again, she also probably shouldn’t be hitting on Conrad’s best friend, either. She mentally shakes her head. What is it about these people? Does simply spending time around them fold a person into their weird, incestuous web of crushes? After dodging the bullet that was Steven and very successfully not kissing Jeremiah Fisher during the six months that he’d lived in her spare room, Denise had really thought that she was in the clear.
Agnes’ mouth falls open in shock. “Really?” she says, intrigued. Denise has to laugh. Agnes’ obvious penchant for gossip is endearing.
“They were so unhappy,” Denise says honestly, giving Agnes what she wants. “I remember watching the two of them—Jere and Belly—and just thinking to myself that there was no way they were going to go through with it. Even at the rehearsal dinner, I could tell we were all thinking it. Like, would there really be a wedding? It felt crazy to think, but we were all thinking it anyway. They kept fighting all night in this weird, quiet way, like if they smiled big enough while they did it, then no one else would be able to tell.”
Agnes is silent for a moment. “It’s good, you know?” she says finally. “That the three of them have worked it out. I don’t know how they did it, really. I don’t know if anyone else could have.”
“I’m happy for them,” Denise says, and she means it. As she and Agnes speak, they watch Jeremiah walk up to his brother and pass him a box—a gift of some sort. Conrad’s face lights up when he opens it, and the two of them exchange some sort of weird, one-armed bro-y hug. When they pull away, they’re both genuinely laughing. Beside them, Belly hasn’t let go of Conrad’s hand, and she’s smiling fondly at both of the Fishers. Idly, Denise hopes that Belly goes through with this wedding. Only a little bit bitter at her lack of love in life, she watches Belly’s face light up when she talks to Conrad and thinks: he might be the luckiest guy around.
Distractedly, Denise pulls the maraschino cherry out of her drink. It isn’t until she’s twisted up the stem on her tongue that she realizes that Agnes is staring at her a little open-mouthed.
“Jesus,” Agnes breathes, and it occurs to Denise that she’s ironically rendered this very hot, very smart, very fucking ambitious surgeon a little tongue-tied.
“Oh,” Denise says lightly. “Yeah, I sometimes forget that I can do that. Undergrad at UMass Lowell,” she adds, smirking. “Lots of free time to work on my extracurriculars in slacker school.”
Ten minutes later, she and Agnes are back in the bathroom, this time locked in a stall together; Denise is blowing a strand of hair out of her face very unsexily while Agnes’ hand is all the way up her skirt, pulling her—very wet—panties to the side and sliding her fingers against her slit.
“Oh, fuck,” Denise says, sort of pathetic and whimpering, when Agnes crooks her fingers inside of her and palms her breasts with her free hand. Denise is pretty sure that the wrinkles it’s putting in her dress are worse than the wine she spilled earlier. She sort of can't bring herself to care.
“Is this insane?” Agnes wonders out loud, her tongue darting out to taste the column of Denise’s neck. Denise doesn't bother answering. She’s too busy intertwining her fingers in Agnes’ hair, and she pulls a little, loving the weight of it between her hands. “Oh my God, Conrad is going to kill me,” Agnes continues. “It’s his wedding.”
“Agnes,” Denise pants, kissing the other woman on the mouth. She tastes like gin and lemon, and when their lips meet, Agnes moans a little bit. Denise kind of wants to do everything in her power to have her make that sound again. “I do not want to fucking talk about Conrad while your fingers are inside of me.”
Agnes laughs at that, the sound a little strangled. “Yeah,” she says, using her thumb to circle at Denise’s clit. Her technique is so fucking good. It’s ridiculously precise, like she knows exactly where each tiny nerve ending is in Denise’s body. Goddamn surgeon hands. “Yeah, okay, baby,” Agnes continues, kissing Denise again. “Fuck Conrad.”
Denise groans, bracing her hand on the bathroom wall as Agnes slips another slim finger inside of her. The stretch is so good that her vision blurs. “No, fuck me,” she says, yanking Agnes toward her.
The joke is terrible, but it works anyway, and the room fills with their shuddery, heavy breaths working in tandem. Denise feels shaky in her heels, but she manages to stay upright as Agnes works her toward the point of no return. A burn of pleasure licks up her spine when Agnes presses down on the exact right spot inside of her.
“Oh,” Denise gasps, because it's possible that no one has ever touched her there so precisely and deftly before in her entire life.
Agnes smirks at her. “Good?” she asks, a little fond and a little sarcastic. It makes Denise want to glare at her. It makes Denise want to nod vigorously and slump over into her arms. It makes Denise want to kiss her so hard that her self-control breaks. Instead of doing any of those things, Denise squeezes around Agnes' fingers so hard that it vaults her into an orgasm, gasping and clenching down while she grabs Agnes’ other hand to steady herself, lest she fall face-first into the toilet.
Afterward, when Denise has come so hard that her vision whites out—twice, actually, because unsurprisingly, Agnes is sort of relentless—she gets down on her knees, her panties thoroughly ruined and her hands shaking. She props one of Agnes’ legs up on her shoulder for better access, ignoring the twinge in her back that warns her it will be in pain the next day, and lays her tongue flat so that the other woman can ride her face.
“Fuck, baby,” Agnes pants, pulling on Denise’s hair. Denise doesn’t usually like being called baby—she gets weirdly bristly about it, and has been known in the past to go on extended rants about the infantilization of women—but it sounds so hot in Agnes’ mouth that she doesn’t care.
Really, she doesn't care about much else right now but the way Agnes is grinding down on her tongue and getting her lips all wet, and the way her gentle, caring hands are wound into the bun Denise has her hair in, definitely messing up the deliberate style. Denise’s heart is hammering in her chest, and she can barely see anything with her head under Agnes’ skirt, the sweet scent and tangy taste of her invading all of her senses. It doesn’t bother her, though. She just wants to make it good.
“You’re gonna make me come,” Agnes warns, so Denise doubles her efforts, sliding two fingers inside of Agnes alongside her tongue and driving them in deep, over and over, until Agnes lets out a sob, squeezing around her and throwing her hand over her mouth to muffle her orgasm.
There’s no time to bask in the aftermath of it all, because the bathroom door swings open immediately afterward, and Denise can clearly hear Taylor’s voice complaining about the dessert offerings.
“I just think it’s so messed up that you guys served peach pie,” she’s telling someone—presumably Belly. “Isn’t Conrad, like, allergic?”
Denise scrambles onto her feet while Agnes giggles silently, putting one finger over her mouth to shush her. She’s still shaking a little bit, which is flattering.
“Yeah,” Belly giggles, and Denise hears a bag unzip, like the women outside might be searching for something in a purse. “It’s sort of an inside joke.”
“Ew,” Taylor says. “Do I even want to know? Of course I don’t. Do not tell me what freaky ass shit you and Conrad get into with fruit, Belly.”
Beside her, Agnes is clearly struggling not to burst into laughter, and Denise realizes that she’s clearly in on whatever secret Belly is keeping from Taylor. Denise wrinkles her nose, trying to imagine the possibilities. Ew, indeed.
“Okay,” Belly announces, a zipper closing outside the stall. “Lipstick reapplied. Sweat wiped. Hair combed. Let’s go. I miss my fiancé.”
Belly and Taylor’s footsteps get quieter as they walk away without uncovering the fact that they were not alone in the bathroom, and Denise breathes a sigh of relief. She can hear Taylor start to ask, “It’s been four minutes, Belly, how can you miss him—” when the door opens and closes, leaving her and Agnes alone.
“Oh my God,” Denise says, breaking the silence. Then, they’re both giggling while they hold onto each other in the tiny, bathroom stall, their hair mussed, their underwear wet, and their smiles wide. Denise kisses Agnes again, just because she can, but it’s sort of terribly unsuccessful when it becomes apparent that they’re incapable of doing much more than just grinning into each others' mouths. Actually, when Denise leans her forehead against Agnes’ and thinks about it more, it might be her most successful kiss of all time.
“If that’s the rehearsal dinner sex,” Agnes quips, sounding ridiculously enchanting, “I can’t wait to see what you pull out for the wedding tomorrow.”
three.
Agnes’ parents’ house, which is neither as nice nor as large as Denise’ and Agnes’ Bay Area home—thank you, surgery and tech start-up money—has the most beautiful, wooden stove that Denise has ever seen in her life. It also has an impressively spacious veranda that faces south and, according to Jeremiah, these two features make it the best location in the state of California to cook a rehearsal dinner and entertain guests. Alongside the perfect kitchen, Agnes’ parents’ house also contains their adorable dog, Belle, who keeps perking her ears up every time Belly enters a room and someone says her name. Conrad, who’s been flitting around the house all day in his role as best man, seems to find that entire set-up rather amusing; he won’t stop making jokes comparing Belly to an animal, and Denise can’t really tell whether they’re on the verge of fighting or making out on her in-laws’ couch.
“Conrad,” Denise snaps finally, swishing her glass of red wine in annoyance, and he gets up off the floor; Belle the dog whimpers when she loses her playmate. “Make yourself useful. Go find my fiancée and tell her that her hair looks great, and that she needs to get her ass downstairs. Stop antagonizing your wife.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, giving her a strange, mock salute. Denise shakes her head as he walks away, stopping his mission only to give Belly a gentle kiss on the forehead. Conrad Fisher is still as weird as ever.
“Your husband is nuts,” Denise acknowledges out loud to Belly, who’s currently sitting on a wooden chair at the kitchen table, leaning back and rubbing large circles over her very rounded stomach.
Belly snorts. “Tell me about it,” she says, and then her eyes grow teary. “He’s going to be such a good dad.”
Denise shakes her head again, trying to give Belly a sympathetic look and likely landing on something more like a grimace. Pregnancy hormones seem like hell, even if Belly is probably objectively right. Denise has seen the way Conrad’s dealt with the pregnancy. He keeps a daily baby journal, for God’s sake. The other day, Denise was forced to listen to him go on a weirdly impassioned rant about how measuring the baby’s growth using comparisons to food is wholly unhelpful because each baby's growth trajectory is unique to them, and isn't that sort of beautiful? It was kind of disgustingly sweet. Denise had hated it.
When Denise hears some commotion distantly down the hall, she hopes it's Agnes. A minute later, Jeremiah walks into the room carrying a ginormous tray of blistered tomatoes in one hand and two baguettes balanced in the other. Denise tries not to act too disappointed to see her friend, who is, all things considered, also one of her favourite people in the house right now.
“Hey, D-nice,” Jeremiah says nodding at her. “Bells.” He leans down to give his sister-in-law a hug, ruffling her hair. “I keep forgetting how fucking pregnant you are. You look like a balloon.”
“Jere!” Denise is forced to scold her second Fisher brother of the day. “Did you not have a mother to teach you anything about how to talk to a pregnant woman?”
There’s a second where everyone—her, probably most of all—winces at her insensitive choice of words, before Jeremiah laughs. “Okay, Bridezilla,” he teases, but there’s no hurt in his voice, only affection. Denise breathes a sigh of relief, trying to convey an apology with her eyes. “Sorry, Bells,” Jeremiah adds. “You look great.”
Belly sticks her hand up at him, and he offers her his elbow. “And you suck,” she says sweetly, using his arm as leverage to help herself up. Then, she wanders—well, waddles might be a better word for Belly in this state, Denise muses—over to a basket of strawberries on the counter and plops one in her mouth. Jeremiah swats her hand away, putting the fruit up onto a shelf she can’t reach.
“I apologize on behalf of both myself and the Fishers, Denise,” Belly says, laughing. “Can I help you with anything else? Drinks?”
Just then, Agnes comes bounding down the stairs looking radiant. Conrad follows close behind her, but Denise isn't looking at him. She’s looking at her fiancée, whose hair, as Denise predicted, looks great. She’s got it in this sort of twisted top-knot style that Denise—despite having somewhat similar hair texture—just can’t seem to master, and she’s wearing a dark mascara that makes her blue eyes sparkle. Her white dress—the colour of which matches Denise’s—is strapless, and Denise's mouth sort of waters at the sight of her collarbones.
“Belly, you better not be offering to help again,” Agnes says in what Denise recognizes very clearly as her doctor-in-charge voice. It’s so hot when she does this. “Jeremiah’s on kitchen duty. Conrad’s got drinks. Steven’s coordinating. Taylor’s on decorations. We’re so good, okay?” When Belly nods, conceding, Agnes turns her attention to Denise. “Hey, baby,” she says, kissing her gently.
“Hi,” Denise says, wrapping her arms around her fiancée’s waist and kissing her back. For a minute, it’s like there’s no one else in the room but them, before the unmistakably loud footsteps of Steven Conklin walk inside, yammering away a mile a minute.
“Oh, disgusting,” he says, like a small child who’s caught their parents doing something inappropriate, and not like he’s seeing his best friend and her soon-to-be wife kiss for the thousandth time. Denise does not turn away from Agnes, throwing one middle finger in the air and kissing her harder. Steven makes a graphic retching noise in response.
When she pulls away, Agnes—who is phased by basically nothing in life, as Denise has found out—looks a little dazed. Denise can’t help but be pleased with herself. She’s giddy, actually, with the excitement of tomorrow. Somehow, it’s still hard to believe that she’s even caught the attention of the smartest, most beautiful, most driven woman she’s better met, never mind the fact that she’s about to marry her.
“I love you,” Agnes says in front of everyone, which shouldn’t make Denise blush, but it does. She’s always been a little private about her feelings, but it’s not like her love for Agnes is a secret. For God’s sake, she’s got the woman’s engagement ring on her finger, their signatures beside each others’ on a mortgage, and an electric vehicle with both their names on the contract.
“I love you, too,” Denise responds, and when Agnes smiles—that wry, beautiful, sarcastic smile of hers—Denise feels her heart rate increase.
“Alright,” Jeremiah interrupts them, opening the oven and pulling out giant Beef Wellington—his choice, not hers. To be frank, Denise hadn’t given a fuck what they’d had at their rehearsal dinner, only that Agnes was there. It had been Jeremiah who’d insisted that he cook, offering his services for free, despite the immense success that Denise knew he was having with his restaurant. “15 minutes, people! Look lively! Get your asses out on the veranda and sit down. Agnes, I think your mom and dad might be out front already.”
Denise decides that it’s against her best interests to fight with the chef, so she simply listens. Grabbing her glass of wine from off the table, she wanders outside with her arm around Agnes’ shoulders. Together, they watch everyone else they love file in after them, this odd group of friends and family that they’ve collected over the years, come together to celebrate their love.
“Hey,” Denise grabs Agnes’ hand, suddenly desperate to look at her amidst the chaos of the weekend. When Agnes’ eyes meet hers, they’re as serious as always, with the tiniest sparkle always hidden underneath just for her. “You’re incredible,” Denise says, unexpectedly emotional.
“Oh, shut up,” Agnes says, but she kisses her fiercely anyway, and then Denise is stumbling, red wine spilling down the front of her extremely bridal rehearsal dress. There’s a moment of silence, during which Denise catches Steven’s horrified, widened eyes looking at her.
“Oh my God,” Denise laughs, looking at the absolute disaster that is her outfit. “Agnes, you klutz,” she scolds, but she’s smiling. Agnes has her reddened face hidden behind her hands, looking like she’s about to dump the rest of the wine on herself in apology. “I already love you, you know,” Denise teases. “You didn’t have to act out to get my attention.”
Agnes smiles ruefully at her. “You don’t suppose club soda would work on that stain, would you?”
Denise bursts out laughing. Then, she thinks about the way that Steven, all those years ago, had looked at the unhappiest version of Belly alive and tried to insist that she was a chill bride. Denise gets it now, she thinks. She loves her fiancée. Her fiancée loves her. It’s easy to be a chill bride when everything feels like this.
The sun is setting low in the sky, and there’s wine running down the front of her dress, which, in Denise’s life, has come to mean that something incredible is about to happen to her. She’s marrying the love of her life tomorrow. Everything else is just noise.