The day of the wedding finally comes.
Grace’s arms and legs are sore from helping set up the outdoor wedding tent and wobbling on ladders to string up extravagant fabrics and lights and little flowers.
She’s in her room making sure her suit is immaculate. It’s a deep purple, the color of nightfall. She went to the African braiding shop like Heather suggested, and they put her hair in thick, jumbo box braids. The woman put purple and silver threads in them that twinkle and glimmer when they catch the sun. The braids hang down Grace’s back, and she glows when she looks in the mirror.
Thankful for a mild temperature day, the suit makes her feel put together and settled. “What do you think?” she asks.
Meera leans in, her face too close to the screen. “Come closer to the phone, and do a turn,” she commands. “Move back a little. It’s tailored so well.”
Grace sighs. “My father is military. You think I’m not a stickler about my suits?”
Meera rolls her eyes, smiling quickly when she realizes Grace can see her. “You’ll look so good when you’re dancing at the reception,” she says dreamily. “Some beautiful woman will twirl you, and your suit jacket will flare so perfectly.”
Grace frowns. “Where did this beautiful woman come from?” She straightens her bejeweled choker in the mirror. “There is no beautiful woman dancing with me. Just Kelly, and like, Mr. Cooley, who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”
“Did you tell him you’re a lesbian?”
“I told everyone I’m a lesbian,” she says. “Maybe he thinks it’s a phase.”
“Well, tell them to back off,” Meera says loyally. “You look amazing, by the way.”
Grace smiles. She sits at the vanity, so she can actually talk to Meera for a second instead of yelling at her from across the room. “Thank you,” she says. “You know I wish you were here, right?” Ximena and Agnes arrived yesterday afternoon. They’re only staying for the weekend, and Graces wishes they could stay longer, or that she was going back with them to Portland.
Meera shrugs, ducking her head. She’s taken over Baba Vihaan’s office to talk to Grace, and she looks unbearably small in the middle of all his things.
“Meera,” she says, her voice gentle. “You know that, right?”
Meera nods quickly, and when she looks up, her face is contorted into something that is supposed to be a smile. “I know,” she says, mouth trembling. “It’s just—ugh. Yeah, I know.”
“Tell me,” Grace says quietly. She is trying; she is trying so hard to be here and present. She is trying to be the best friend she can be. “You can tell me.”
She’s not expecting it when Meera starts to cry.
“Hey,” she breathes out, reaching for the phone like she can touch her. “Do you need Raj? What’s wrong?”
Meera hiccups, carefully wiping her eyes. “He’s not here,” she gets out. “He’s at another meeting for the new tea room, and soon he’ll be living in Boston. He’ll be in Boston, and soon enough you’ll be in New York for good, and it’ll just be me here.”
“That’s not true,” Grace says carefully, though her chest feels tight. “Baba Vihaan is there. All your cool, young and hip college friends are there.” She pauses, mouth twisting playfully. “Agnes and Ximena are there,” she teases, “and I know they loooove being around you.” Meera covers her face with her hands, embarrassed.
“Shut up,” she mumbles. “God, you’re as bad as Raj.”
“Older sibling privileges,” Grace says. “It’s our job. You know what else is?”
Meera sighs, fiddling with her hair. “What?”
“Not leaving you.” The sincerity of the words comes from somewhere deep inside her. “Even if we’re not there, we haven’t forgotten about you. You don’t just stop being our little sister.”
“I know,” Meera says, sounding stronger than she did a few minutes ago. She meets Grace’s eyes and nods. “I know. Now go away. I’m going to call Agnes and Ximena so they can show me the wedding decorations.”
“You could have just asked me to show you,” Grace complains. “You guys are going to be so gross and cute, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Meera says. “As if you don’t know Ximena is, like, ridiculously beautiful inside and out, and Agnes is the coolest, kindest person ever. I’m hanging up now. Bye!” The call disconnects.
Grace laughs and slips her phone into her pocket. She decides to take a short walk around the groves, on the side hidden away from the guests. She will breathe in the smell of citrus and earth, and she will breathe out all her anxiety and swirling thoughts.
But by the time the guests start arriving and people begin looking for her, all Grace has done is work herself up into an anxiety spiral about officiating. And, her shoes are dirty.
“Them things look a mess,” Saffiya says, when Grace greets her at the front of the tent. “Go inside and clean yourself up, Grace Porter.”
“I have to—” she starts, but Saffiya snatches the wedding programs out of her hand. “Fine, I’m going. Thank you.”
She cleans herself up. She knocks the dirt off her heels, dabs sweat off her forehead and tries to remember her speech.
Somehow, she makes it back outside in one piece. She feels stuck in her head, and it’s hard to breathe. It feels like she’s inside a washing machine, spinning around so fast that everything on the other side of the glass blurs.
Heather says to focus on one thing when she gets like this. Focus on one thing, Grace, and hold on to just that. Only, there is not just one thing to worry about now. Grace is officiating a wedding. Guests begin to sit, watching her for direction. Mom and Kelly are depending on her to do this perfectly. She is trying so hard and—
“Hey,” someone whispers, grabbing her arm.
Immediately, Grace relaxes. She knows that voice. She knows that shampoo and that lotion and that presence next to her. “Ximena,” she says. “Fuck, I’m—”
“Freaking out,” Ximena finishes. “Yeah, I could tell. But Kelly is on his way down, and the music will start soon, so you need to get it together.”
Grace blanks out. “I can’t,” she says, shaking her head frantically. “Oh my God, I can’t do this.” She grabs Ximena’s hand tightly. “Why did they ask me to do this? I don’t—I’m not—”
“You can,” Ximena says firmly. “You are.” She’s in a bright pink dress that pops against her brown skin. Her thick, curly hair is pushed into a high puff. “What did Heather tell you?”
“Focus on one thing,” Grace parrots obediently, feeling dizzy. “There’s too many things. What am I supposed to—”
“Focus on me,” Ximena says. She points to a row near the front where Agnes slouches down and gives them a lazy wave. “That’s where we’ll be. Focus on me and Agnes, okay?”
She gives Grace a push, so hard that Grace stumbles to the front of the tent just as Miss Darla starts to play the opening notes on the piano. Grace looks back at Ximena, wide-eyed.
“Go,” she whispers loudly, so Grace goes.
She takes her carefully typed-up paper out of her breast pocket. It has been opened, folded and opened again. It opens for the last time just as Kelly appears at the end of the aisle and walks up.
She takes a deep breath.
She tries to smile as he makes it up to the front next to her. “You look wonderful,” he says, leaning in carefully. “Do you need me to hold your hand?”
Grace glances at him, just as the curtains pull back and reveal Mom, ready to make her walk down the aisle. “Why would I need you to hold my hand?”
He looks down. “So that only one of them is shaking,” he says blandly, and Grace grips one hand around her wrist in response. “Suit yourself.” He adjusts the cuffs on his neat, pressed suit and tucks some gray-brown hair behind his ears. “Mine are shaking, too, just so you know.”
“Thanks anyway,” she murmurs, and she refuses to look at him when he laughs, quiet and low.
Mom walks down the aisle as Miss Darla plays the wedding march. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t stumble as she walks toward them. Grace wonders if she was this sure walking down the aisle toward Colonel. If her eyes were this wide. If her cheeks were flushed with heat and happiness just like this.
Grace commits it all to memory.
Mom reaches them as the music ends. She has makeup on, enough that her eyes sparkle and her mouth is a pretty apple red. She smiles at Grace first, then Kelly, and Grace thinks, I am a part of this. I am a part of this moment and this happiness. I am not left behind, but in the thick of it.
“We are gathered here today,” she says, in the hush of the crowd, “to wed two people that have found love.”
Her hands shake. She meets Ximena’s eyes and watches her whisper, “I love you so much it hurts.” She finds Agnes, who has sunglasses on but is smiling wide, despite how much she is trying to project a devil-may-care attitude.
“There are a lot of things I don’t know about my mom,” she says, glancing down at her paper and deciding to go off script. “There are so many things I don’t know and so many things I am discovering by being here. I am learning that she works hard in the groves, never asking anything of anyone that she wouldn’t do herself. I am learning that she drinks one, sometimes two, glasses of red wine every night, and she prefers company while she does it.”
The crowd laughs, and Mom reaches out to grab her hand. Grace blinks and squeezes back.
“I have learned that she is capable of many mistakes and is not without flaws. My mother is not perfect,” she says, voice trembling. “But she is also capable of great love and understanding.”
Grace glances over to Ximena and Agnes, her anchors. Focus on one thing, and she focuses on a piece of her family, her chosen family, that settles her and makes the spinning stop.
“I have learned that she is a part of a wonderful community. It is full of people who want to help, and do good, and feed others, as is their path in life. They grow so they can feed. They wake up at sunrise, so they can pick the fruits of their labor, and deliver them with gentle hands to those who need it most.”
Mom ducks her head, and Kelly gives Grace another smile. She thought she would have regrets, standing up here, but she feels hopeful. For love, for their future.
She looks out at the crowd again. There are familiar faces everywhere. Grace squints into the sun, toward the back of the tent, and her breath catches at the person looking back at her. She would recognize that uniform anywhere. Colonel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. Well, he seems to say. Are you going to let this trip you up?
It won’t. She is a Porter, and she said she would officiate this wedding. She said she would marry Mom and Kelly, so she will.
“We are gathered here today,” she says, voice loud and clear, “to unite two people who have found love in our strange, chaotic world. Kelly,” she says, turning toward the man who will soon officially be her stepdad, “you are kind and patient and wise. Most importantly, you always cook so much food, and it’s seasoned. Incredible.”
There is warm laughter, and he looks pleased. Grace sobers and grips her paper tightly, even though she has given up on reading from it. “Thank you for taking care of Mom,” she says softly. “If I have to respect and live with a white man, I couldn’t imagine a better one than you.”
He does laugh then, loud and long. He pulls Grace into a tight hug. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable like she did the first time she saw him, approaching her at the airport. She feels familiarity and comfort—he’s someone who will look out for her. He lets go, and she has to wipe her eyes quickly before she continues.
“Mom,” she says. Mom grips her hand so tight it hurts. Grace doesn’t let go. “You are trying, and I am trying. I am so grateful to share this day with you, and I am so glad you found someone to make you happy.”
Mom pulls Grace in, too. It’s a different hug than the one shared with Kelly. This hug says, I’m sorry. This hug says, I am here. This hug says, I am trying and you are trying. This hug says, Nobody will be left behind.
“No one makes me as happy as you, kid,” she whispers fiercely. “No one could ever compare to you.” Grace closes her eyes, and for a moment focuses on this one thing: the smell of Mom’s perfume and her trembling arms and the way she holds on like a promise. I will not let go again. Grace focuses on that one thing, and her brain is quiet. Mom and Kelly share vows that are sincere and genuine and intimate, and her brain is quiet.
She clears her throat when it is her turn to make this official. “Let’s get you married.” She raises her voice. “Mom,” she says. “Do you take this man to be your husband?”
Mom turns to face Kelly, glowing like the sun. “I do.”
“And, Kelly?” she asks. “Do you take this woman to be your wife?”
His eyes are only for Mom. For him, it is just the two of them. “I do,” he says, sure as anything.
The I dos echo like a memory, a memory of the same words uttered in a church in the desert. She doesn’t try to push it away. She just lets it be.
“Melodie Martin,” she says. “Kelly Nichols. I now pronounce you husband and wife.” She lets out a relieved exhale. “You may kiss the bride.”
The crowd stands and applauds as Mom and Kelly kiss. She looks out, and Ximena meets her eyes. “I love you,” Grace whispers, “so much it hurts.” She feels good seeing all the people from their community brought together for this day. She looks toward the back, and there is Colonel. He catches her eyes. Grace stares back, and she smiles. He doesn’t return it, but his parade rest relaxes just a little bit.
She’ll take it.
Miss Darla starts the piano again, and Grace takes in the music. She takes in the happiness. She takes in the fact that she is here with most of her family. She is here, and not lost, spinning between stars and galaxies. Mom and Kelly start to walk down the aisle, and Mom looks back to make sure Grace is following.
“I’m here,” she says quietly.
The piano plays the start of another song. It’s about new beginnings. It is honest, and it is love, and it is real. She commits it to memory.
Grace feels like herself again at the reception.
It’s in a different tent. The ceiling of this one is entwined with gold lights that illuminate the oncoming night. She walks through to see all the people engulfed in gold, to see Mom and Kelly engulfed in gold, and she relaxes. It’s over. She did it.
She collapses in relief next to Ximena and Agnes seated at a table by the back. Agnes leans on Ximena’s shoulders as she downs a glass of champagne. They sway a little to the music.
“Hey,” she says. “Hi, I’m so happy to see you.”
“Hey, hi,” Agnes says. “I’m getting drunk.” Next to her, Ximena nurses what is probably ice water. “Tell her to get drunk with me.”
“She won’t,” Grace says at the same time Ximena says, “I won’t.”
They catch eyes, and Ximena glares. Grace grins. “She likes taking care of you too much, Agnes,” she says brightly. “Weird kink, but whatever.” She ducks from the shoe that tries to swat her. “Not la chancleta!”
“Don’t get comfortable,” Ximena snipes when Grace sits down. “Someone is looking for you.” She gestures toward the other side of the tent, and Grace’s stomach flips before she turns around.
Colonel, standing stiffly and proudly, watches her.
“Shit,” she mumbles. “Did you know he was coming?”
“Yeah,” Ximena says. “He texted me all his flight details, and we even shared a drink at the airport bar. No, of course I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Maybe he didn’t see me.” Grace stays stock-still. “Is he still looking?”
“Yep,” Agnes says, starting on Ximena’s glass of champagne. “It’s almost like he recognizes his own daughter. Strange.”
“Okay.” Grace glowers at the two of them. “I’m going to go talk to Colonel because that is actually better than sitting here being mocked. How do you feel about that?”
“He’s still looking,” Ximena says. She inspects one of her painted, jeweled nails. Grace stomps off.
The walk from their corner to where Colonel has planted himself feels like miles. There are a million questions swarming through her head. Mom never mentioned inviting him. Colonel never mentioned coming. Granted, Grace only answers about half his calls, but it’s the principle of the thing. She tries to get ahead and figure out his angle, but he has always been unreadable and two steps ahead.
She comes to a stop a few steps in front of him and resigns herself to the fact that he has the upper hand.
“Colonel,” she says, straightening. She meets his eyes, chin tilted up. “I didn’t know you would be here.”
“Yes,” he says evenly. “I asked your mother to keep it a surprise.”
“Why?” Grace blurts out, frustrated. “Did you want to trip me up? Were you trying to disarm me or something? I’m not coming back to Portland, not yet,” she says, surprised by her own decisiveness.
She has seen Colonel in many moods. She has seen him angry and disappointed. She has seen him in pain, near out of his mind lying in a hospital bed. She has seen him scared, convinced the ghosts of his past would burst through his own front door in the middle of the night.
She has never seen him surprised. The expression is unfamiliar on his face.
“Porter,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. “Is it really that far-fetched that I just wanted to see my own daughter and maybe wish an old—” His lips twist, unsure. “Maybe just wish your mother the best?”
“Maybe,” Grace responds, but she knows, deep in the pit of her belly, it’s unfair. Some days, her brain reshapes Colonel into a villain of her past. Sometimes, it’s easy to believe. It is much harder to believe the person she looked up to as God for so many years is just a man. He is just her father. “I didn’t mean that,” she says. “I’m just a little taken aback.”
He holds his hand out. She eyes it warily. She cannot think one move ahead, let alone two. She takes it, out of options, and is amazed to be led onto the dance floor.
“We’re dancing?” she asks, as he positions her arms around his tall, broad shoulders. His arms rest on the side of her waist. It is the closest thing to a hug Grace can remember ever getting from him. “Okay, we’re dancing.”
“An astute observation,” he murmurs, taking the lead. “Glad to see all your education has paid off.”
She tenses. She hasn’t told him about her plans for her career, and she certainly won’t do it while he’s looking at her. When she broaches the subject, she would rather not have to see the reaction on his face.
“Relax,” he says, voice almost, almost apologetic. “I’m not going to ask you about it. Tonight is a night for celebration. It’s a wedding.”
Her shoulders relax minutely. “But tomorrow is fair game?” she guesses, and one of his eyebrows flicks in answer. “Where are you staying?”
“Your mother offered me a room in the main house, since they’ll be away on their honeymoon, but I—” He glances at Grace, and for a moment, just a blink, he looks like the man who needed so desperately to leave this place. “I declined,” he finishes, composed once more. They make another turn to the beat, and his voice is low when he says, “Some memories don’t need to be revisited.”
Grace has been trying on some bravery lately. “My therapist would probably disagree with you,” she uses it to say.
Colonel shrugs. “Well, it’s a good thing she’s not mine,” and she is struck speechless.
The song starts to wind down, and she and Colonel slow their dancing. As the next song starts, something faster and upbeat, she pulls away and wraps her arms around herself. “Well.”
“Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” he says abruptly. “There’s an acceptable place near my hotel. I’ll text you the address. I suspect there are some things you and I should discuss.”
She swallows hard. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs, staring at the spot over his shoulder so she won’t have to meet his eyes. “I’ll be there.”
He nods at her, as if unsure how to make his leave. She will make it easy for him.
“I’ll just—”
“Grace—”
She freezes. She holds her breath and watches her father struggle to find words. He always has words, whether they are short and succinct or weighted and heavy. Now, though, he flounders. Grace watches, entranced.
“You did well today,” he says finally. He’s never been prone to fidgeting, not like Grace, but he rolls his shoulders and clears his throat. “I watched you stand in front of all those people, and in front of your family, and you were every inch the Porter I always knew you were. I was—proud.”
She lets out a stumbling, disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” she manages. “I—”
“Yes,” he says quickly, cutting her off. He clears his throat again and takes a step back. “I’ll greet the newlyweds and then take my leave. Give my regards to Ximena and Agnes, yes? I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow. Be on time.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, arms clenched around her waist like she’s trying to hold everything in. “I’ll be there.”
He inclines his head, and then he is gone.
Grace doesn’t remember the walk back to the table. Ximena and Agnes move so she can take the space between them. They flank her on both sides.
“That bad?” Ximena murmurs. She holds up a glass of champagne and a small water bottle. “How are we feeling?”
“Water, please,” Grace says. “It wasn’t that bad, actually. Maybe that wasn’t Colonel at all. It was probably a clone.” She closes her eyes. “Well, mystery solved.”
Agnes snorts and leans on her. “Great job, Nancy Drew,” she says.
“I’m Bess,” Ximena says immediately. “You’re George.”
Agnes shrugs. The champagne has made her languid and agreeable. “I always knew George was gay. The many Carolyn Keenes can’t fool me. And don’t get me started on The Baby-Sitters Club.”
“Don’t get started on The Baby-Sitters Club,” Grace and Ximena both plead. Agnes sticks her tongue out and slouches back down. Grace takes her hand in consolation, and it’s a testament to how peaceful Agnes is feeling that she doesn’t pull away.
Grace lets the world spin around her. She can see Mom and Kelly holding court at the elaborate sweetheart table set up for them. Mom is smiling and glowing, bright and gleaming. Kelly watches like the sun rises and sets on her command.
The buffet smells like Caribbean food. Old Maria and her sister cooked for almost a week leading up to this. Grace’s stomach grumbles at the smell of curry and brown stew and the buttery scent of roti.
People are dancing and laughing and the room fills with love. There is so much love spilling out from this tent. Grace feels it on both sides of her, between her two closest friends, who press close and do not let her go. There is a small, hollow ache, somewhere deep inside her, but she is learning that she is made up of many small, hollow aches. She will continue the process of exploring them, one by one.
Ximena’s phone lights up and she makes a choked, surprised noise. “Shit,” she says. “I forgot your mom asked me to bring in the other case of champagne ten minutes ago.”
Grace tilts her head. “Did you set an alarm for it?” she asks, leaning over her shoulder. “You’re turning into me.”
“I like to be prepared,” Ximena says primly, getting up. “I’ll be right back.”
Grace shakes her head. “No, I’ll get it,” she says quietly. “I could use some air anyway. All this carefree happiness is more than I can bear. Where is it?”
Ximena glances at her phone. “On the front deck. Tucked in the corner closest to that cherry blossom tree.”
Grace nods and starts to untangle herself. “Got it, boss. I’ll be right back.”
“I can go,” Agnes says. She fluffs up her hair under her pink beret. “It’ll give me a chance to show off my outfit.”
Ximena stares at her. “Porter is going,” she says carefully.
Agnes crosses her arms and tilts her head like a challenge. “Porter had a long day,” she says. “I think she should stay here.”
“Believe me,” Ximena mutters fiercely, “you’ve made it quite clear what you think.”
“Then maybe you should—”
“Okay,” Grace cuts in. “I’m going to go get the champagne, so you two can have this—is this a lovers’ spat? Is this foreplay? I’m flattered that you would involve me, but—” she leans down to kiss Agnes’s cheek, then Ximena’s “—maybe another night. Be right back.”
She feels their eyes on her as she disappears into the crowd.
Outside the tent, the world becomes quieter. She shivers as a night breeze rolls in and blows through the grove trees. Hello again, Grace Porter, the crinkle of the leaves says.
“Hello,” she whispers back.
She makes her way through the dimly lit path toward the main house. The porch lights are on, and the same gold string lights from the tents are twined down the railings. She stops to admire them. Everything looks gold kissed. If there is any truth to the story of the sun favoring her at birth, tonight she could believe it.
On the porch, there’s the box of champagne, already loaded on a cart ready to be wheeled out. She grunts with the weight and starts the annoying job of getting it down the steps.
She turns around, trying to decipher the probability of dropping the whole thing, when she realizes there is a light coming from the groves. A flashlight or something. There is someone out there.
“Shit,” she says. She sighs and stares up at the sky. “I am way too Black for this.”
She waits and watches, but the light does not dim. “Okay,” she says. She opens the case of champagne and pulls out a bottle. “We’re going to ‘white girl in a horror movie’ this shit.” She carries the bottle out like a baseball bat for protection.
With the bottle in hand, she moves quietly through the trees. These paths are familiar to her. Whoever is out there does not know these groves like she does. Grace gets close to the mysterious light and holds her bottle out. Whoever this is doesn’t stand a chance.
“Who the hell—” She stops, the bottle coming just shy of the person in front of her. “Yuki?”
Yuki turns around. Her black hair gleams in the light. Her half-moon silver piercings glint. Flowers bloom, her very own cherry blossoms, from the exposed parts of her skin. “Are you going to kill me with that, or can we open it?” she asks.
Grace tries to recover from her shaking adrenaline. “What are you doing here?”
Yuki shrugs. She looks very small out here. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I heard there was a lonely creature lurking in these orange groves. I wanted to see for myself.” She looks intently at Grace. “And I heard from some friends of yours that there was a wedding.”
“And which one did you come for?” Grace leans against an orange tree. If another breeze comes through, it might just take her with it.
Yuki sighs. “I thought about going to the wedding,” she says. “But I couldn’t. It made me think about...”
“Us,” Grace breathes out, and Yuki nods in agreement. “I thought about you the whole time. I missed you, like my body knew if I was standing at a wedding altar, you were supposed to be there with me.”
Grace takes in the girl in front of her. She’s wearing a high-waisted leather skirt with a striped button-up tucked in. Her face is done up with shimmering, dramatic makeup. There are metallic barrettes holding her bangs back. She’s barefoot, and her feet are speckled with earth and soil. She is beautiful, and Grace aches for her.
“Were you really out here walking?” Grace asks. “Were you out here the whole time?”
Yuki shrugs again. She doesn’t meet Grace’s eyes, not yet. “I can see the appeal, I guess,” she says. “Almost got myself lost walking in these groves, trying to figure out if I wanted to talk to you. I was so angry. I am still so angry. But I’m here, and I hate to waste a trip.”
Grace swallows. It hurts. It all hurts. “Well, I’m glad you came,” she says. “I should have asked you myself, but I don’t know if I could have handled it if you said no.”
Yuki meets her eyes finally. “Don’t you know, Honey Girl?” She plays with her collar. It’s pressed neat, like she wanted to make an impression. “I said yes to you once, and I haven’t learned how to say anything else, since.”
Grace steps forward. “I’m guessing you got my recording. I was—I don’t know how you do it,” she confesses. Yuki stares at her, illuminated by moonlight. “It was scary. It was terrifying. I don’t know how it doesn’t terrify you to get on your show and—”
“Talk about monsters?”
“Be honest,” she says, and Yuki’s teeth clack together. “How you can be vulnerable to so many people. I’m not quite used to it yet.”
Yuki mirrors Grace and takes a step forward, too. She waves her phone. “Is that what this was? You being honest and vulnerable? You said a lot of things.”
Grace nods. She bites her tongue hard, but not enough to bleed.
“Was it true?” Yuki presses. “That you’re sorry for leaving me? That you’re looking for teaching jobs in New York?” She crosses her arms, glaring. “That you—” Her voice gets stuck.
Honesty, Grace thinks, is jumping into the blue-green sea. It is letting the salt burn your lungs. It is about reaching out at the bottom of the sea and saying, I heard you singing. I heard the song you sang for me. Stay, please, with me.
“That I love you?” she finishes. “It was all true. I was scared and angry and trying so hard to be the perfect everything. I’m learning to deal with all of that, but yes, I love you. That’s not something I have to work through.”
Yuki lets out a slow, trembling breath. “I didn’t understand exactly what you were going through. I didn’t understand that it would make you leave,” she says. “I just wanted you to be with me. I wanted you to see that maybe I could be part of your perfect plan. I would have tried to live up to the great Grace Porter for the rest of my fucking life. Because,” she says softly, “that’s what you do when you’re upside down in love with someone.”
Grace laughs. One of the hollow, aching spaces inside her starts to fill. She shoves her hands in her suit pockets. “And what about now?” she asks. “Are you still upside down in love with the great Grace Porter?”
“Our friends coordinated this whole scheme of getting me down here,” Yuki says. “You think I’d let them do all that for a girl I don’t love?” She ducks her head and wipes her eyes. “Grace Porter,” she murmurs, “why did you leave me behind?”
Grace looks at the girl in front of her. “Remember how you asked me what best really meant to me? What does best mean anyway, if I’m not happy? What is best if the people I care about come second? I realized my idea of best left no space for anything that didn’t tear me apart in the process. It barely left space for me. I didn’t know how to deal with that, how to reckon with that truth, that revelation, so I left. I left you behind, and I’m—fuck, Yuki. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Yuki says, looking shaken by Grace’s openness. “I never meant to put more pressure on you. I shouldn’t have expected you to have all the answers, you know? God, nobody does. I certainly don’t. I just wanted to be one of your answers. One of the things you would fight for, too.”
She stares Grace down, her voice going fierce. “I’m still so angry with you, but if we do this, if we keep doing this, you don’t get to disappear on me again. We talk and we fight and we stay. We said in good times and bad, and I don’t know about you, but I have been having a bad time these last few months. Would not recommend.”
Grace lets out a real laugh now. Her vision is blurred. “Would not recommend,” she agrees. “Good times and bad,” she repeats, “I’ll be here. You asked me, you asked all your listeners, and I’m a few months late, but I’m here. I’m listening. Lonely creature to lonely creature. Now, I’m asking you,” Grace says. It hurts. She keeps going. “I’m asking you.”
Yuki nods. She looks past Grace at the big tent filled with carefree people and sun-gold lights. They reflect in her eyes.
“Okay,” Yuki says. “Ask me.” It sounds like an echo.
There is a siren singing Grace a song. It must have looked into the very core of her to know which song to sing. It is a sad song, because sometimes the world is sad. It is a hopeful song, because sometimes the world is hopeful.
“Ask me.”
Grace asks.
Yuki catches the words in her mouth, and she tastes citrus-sweet. Yuki kisses her, and Grace is lit up from the inside, like the sun has been buried within her all along. She is favored, or maybe the gold lights from the wedding tent illuminate what she’s been searching for.
Grace asks. She does not hesitate. The universe waits for her; the girl in front of her waits for her.
“Grace Porter,” Yuki says, when all the guests have gone, and the house is quiet with just the few people staying. Sunrise approaches in the distance, and the yellow and gold and honey rays reach out toward them. “Did I ever tell you why I was in Las Vegas?”
Grace looks at her. Yuki lies in her lap, mouth kiss-swollen, fingers curled around the bottle of champagne. “No,” she says quietly. “You never told me.”
Yuki smiles. “Monster hunting,” she says. “We crowdfunded to get that trip paid for, and I didn’t find a thing.” She glances up. “I was so frustrated about going back home with nothing. I went out on my last night to at least have some fun. And then I found you.”
“And then you found me.”
Yuki shivers when Grace runs fingers through her hair, careful of the barrettes. “Maybe you heard me,” Yuki says, “that night in the desert. Maybe you heard me singing you a song even back then.” She holds her pinky out. “Finders keepers. No take-backs. Promise me.”
Grace curls their pinkies together. “Promise,” she says. “No take-backs. You’re stuck with me now.”
Yuki shrugs. “That’s okay. Heard there was a monster lurking down in these groves anyway.” She closes her eyes, like she trusts Grace will watch for the scary things in the lingering shadows. “Heard it was favored by the sun, even.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Grace tells her. “But I believe you,” she says. “Maybe I believe in your monster, too.”