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mistydear · 1 year ago

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soften me now, let me take as is given (xviiii)

Norah, who is in a skin tight green dress and heels you know will be coming off the second she gets tipsy, cashes in her birthday privileges when reinforcements arrive to help finish setting up. She sits daintily on a barstool while you and mutual friends tie up balloons, set up string lights, and prep a beer pong table.

Once you’re able to relax for a few minutes, Norah celebrates by pouring all of them a shot. The lights in Norah’s apartment are a mix of pinks and blues and reds, the string lights are taped to the bar, and they have more than enough alcohol to last them several months.

“Here’s to another year older and no better off,” Norah toasts. A chorus of cheers and salut and unintelligible whoops was followed by the painful grimaces of people who are too old to be taking shots without a chaser. So, you pour everyone another. Just to start the night off right.

The first two hours of the evening fly by. There’s beer pong and good music and video games in the living room, and you’re just about to broach the subject of the cake when a familiar face walks through the door. A beer in hand, you weave your way to the entryway. Billie Dean Howard is in a silky black dress, and her legs are showing, and you feel like you’re about to be knocked to the floor with the force of her. She’s looking around, bag on her shoulder, heels as tall as the night is long.

“Billie,” you call, regaining your voice, dodging the last few people to get to her. It’s sweaty and smells like sweet flavored vodka in Norah’s apartment, and the noise and the lights and the people seem to hit Billie like a wave. But she narrows in on you with a weary smile. You wrap an arm around her, and she stiffens momentarily but reciprocates, nails grazing the skin of your shoulder blade.

“Hi,” she breathes, and you pull away.

“You can put your purse in Norah’s room. It’s the only place off limits tonight,” you say, dragging her through the crowd. She dodges and weaves easily as you plough through, your hand gripping hers. You close the door behind you, and Billie hesitates, setting her purse gently on Norah’s bed.

“When you promised chaos, you meant it,” Billie offers, and you grin.

“I told you Norah’s insane.” But there’s something in Billie’s body language that flips a switch in you. She’s closed off, and you think maybe it’s the people, but Billie’s used to a lot of people in her face. “Are you okay?” Her eyes widen momentarily, and she looks away in a panic but then slowly back to you, swallowing.

“Am I that transparent?” she asks, and you shake your head.

“Not at all.” Billie’s eyes drag across you, lingering, analyzing, looking.

“Good.” It’s final, and you accept it as such. “Is Andy here?”

“No,” you say, jaw twitching. Billie nods, not pushing, and you take the last swig of your beer. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.” As soon as you and Billie are back in the kitchen, Norah grins and claps. She’s just unveiled the cake, a red solo cup in hand.

“You’re here!” she squeals and sets down her cup. Then her arms are wrapped tightly around Billie who blinks and stumbles back. As she recovers, her arms come up to hold Norah, featherlight and awkward. It’s a far cry from the way she hugs you. And as Billie meets your eyes, almost pleadingly, something stirs in you, faint and frightening. Billie always holds you tight and warm, and you can feel the tension melt from her the second your arms are around her. It was silly to think that was commonplace. You swallow as Norah lets her go. “I’m so glad you could make it. Let me get you a drink. What do you want?”

“I got it,” Billie dismisses, squeezing Norah’s arm. “Focus on your cake.”

Someone lights the candles, the music is lowered, and Norah’s dragging you to her, wrapping an arm tight around your waist.

“This bitch right here,” Norah begins, and you grin, rolling your eyes. Everyone whoops and shouts. “Is my best friend in the whole world. She’s the reason.” Norah doesn’t elaborate, but you don’t need her to. “I love you,” she says to you, and then plants a wet kiss on your cheek.

“Love you more,” you grin back, grab onto the side of her head, and kiss her temple.

“And thank you to everyone who made tonight possible. It wouldn’t be a Norah birthday bash without the henchmen behind the scenes.” Another whoop and cheer from the crowd. You find Billie’s eyes. She’s fixed on you, face unreadable. Norah squeezes your waist, pulling you closer.

People don’t exactly sing happy birthday as much as they scream it, and you’d be surprised if you didn’t get a noise complaint before the end of the night. As soon as Norah blows out her candles, the music is back up, and Norah is dipping her finger into the cake. Shots in little red solo cups are passed around, and you find yourself face to face with Billie, who clinks your cups together and downs her shot without so much as a wince. You’re not quite as steely.

You’re quickly put in charge of handing out cake, and by the time you’re down to the last pieces, Billie is back at your side.

“Wanna split one?” you half yell, and Billie nods, handing you a drink. You’re not sure what it is, but it tastes good, and you tell her so as you hand her a plastic fork. As soon as Billie asks you how you’ve been, you launch into a tale about the latest mishaps at Corner Store, and it pulls a smile from Billie, however small. You relish in it, happy just to see her happy. “Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, and Billie swallows.

“Fine.” You don’t believe her, but you know this isn’t exactly the time to dive into it. So, you try to entertain her. And it seems to work. Her smile returns, just slightly, and her shoulders loosen. As you take the last bite of cake, Billie says something to you, but you can’t hear it over the music and the laughter. Instead of talking louder, she simply reaches over and swipes her thumb along the corner of your mouth. You’re effectively silenced, and Billie’s eyes are dark when she wipes the excess frosting onto her napkin.

“Do you want to play beer pong?” you ask, the only thing capable of leaving your mouth and still you sound like an idiot. You think you might be blushing, but you’re already so warm from the alcohol and the party you can’t be sure. Billie swallows.

“I’m not very good.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” you say, and pull her by the hand, something you’re doing a lot tonight. It feels natural when you’re uninhibited. Billie is good at everything she does. And you’re right, too. She’s excellent, and by the end of the first round she’s grinning, and it’s beautiful. Billie is, undoubtedly, beautiful. But the depth of it hits harder under the low lights, everything tinged with liquor. Billie licks her lips and turns to you, having sunk the winning shot, and you’re definitely blushing now. “I told you,” is all you can say, and Billie laughs. She laughs. And it’s so pretty. Your hands seem to move on their own volition as you set up the cups again.

Most of Norah’s friends are also your friends — artsy, queer types who can’t wear a little black dress without making it subversive and fresh. When Billie wears a little black dress, she makes it do exactly what it was designed for in a way so delicious you find it hard to look at her. Her hair is down in waves, and you want to bite down where her neck meets her shoulder, spread her legs so that her dress slides over her hips.

Billie draws attention here among people who only wear pearls in drag. She’s out of her element, but the gays of Los Angeles certainly know her. You wonder if Norah asked people not to approach her about the show. You’re thankful, regardless, because Billie’s unrestrained here, playing beer pong in heels on a slippery floor, verging on drunk.

In the next round you’re faced with more competition, but Billie’s determined now. She’s competitive, you know this about her. Though it doesn’t come out very often, you like to see her unbridled passion. Her lips fall open, brow hard and set, and your eyes are drawn to her arms when she throws the ping pong ball, the way she manages to stand even higher on her tiptoes. You’re too distracted to notice when she sinks two in a row, and then she’s pulling you to her, nails digging into your arm. She’s so bright and lively, and she’s definitely drunk now, and you’ve never seen her like this. Smooth and easy, she wraps an arm around your waist, digs in and pulls you flush to her.

“That’s two for two, darling. We make a good team,” she says, leaning in, and you swallow, eyes darting across her. You feel hot. Billie’s sticky, and her face is shiny, and her body is warm and soft against you. Shadows dance across a jawline that could cut you, and her nose and cheeks are red. Oh, and her lips are so very red. You could kiss her right now. You want to so desperately, but Andy. God. You pull away and grab her elbow.

“I need another drink.”

You take two shots in a row, and then Billie says she needs a cigarette, so you meander back to Norah’s room to grab her purse. You don’t realize that you’re drunk until Norah’s bedroom lights flicker on, and the room doesn’t feel all that real, your ears hollow and ringing from the music. Billie’s uncoordinated, and she sways just slightly, just enough for you to want to hold her steady, place your hands on her hips. Jesus Christ.

“Maybe I should call Andy,” you mumble, and Billie turns, unlit cigarette between her soft painted lips.

“Why?” she asks, and you pull your hair from your neck, sweaty and flushed.

“I told her not to come tonight. I feel bad,” you admit, fanning yourself. Billie sits down on the bed full of other people’s coats and bags. She steadies herself by pressing her hands to the mattress.

“Are you two okay?” she asks. Billie’s always polite when it comes to Andy but not overly friendly. Come to think of it, she and Andy have never really spent time together. You find that odd considering both Norah and Margot have. And Billie has quickly become an important addition to your life. She should be meeting Andy. Deep down, part of you doesn’t want her to.

“I think I’m pushing her away,” you admit, something you wouldn’t do so freely if you were sober. Billie cocks her head, her now frizzy curls falling down over her arm.

“Come to the balcony with me,” she says then, striding forward with the abrupt purpose only a drunk Billie could pull off. You follow obediently.

There are two other people there already, but it’s quiet and cool, and the wind sobers you a little. Billie lights her cigarette, the orange of the lit tobacco illuminating soft skin. She puffs deeply, languidly, like this is something she’s been needing for hours.

“Tell me everything,” she says, eyes meeting yours. You sigh, leaning against the railing, cool metal digging into your partially exposed stomach. The brightly lit skyline of West Hollywood and LA in the distance soothes you. The smell of cigarettes and the lingering hint of Billie’s perfume soothes you in a different way. You want to lean into it.

“There’s not much more to tell,” you admit, picking at your cuticles. You’ve already told her you don’t love Andy. “It’s starting to feel…unfair to her. I have to make a decision.” Billie hums, smoke curling from her nose. “Anyway, why aren’t you seeing anyone? I’m sure you have women flocking to your doorstep.” Billie snorts, and it’s undignified in a distinctly un-Billie way, and you love it. “I’m serious.” Billie’s jaw clenches, and she taps ash over the balcony.

“No one’s struck my fancy,” she answers, eyes sliding back to you. You glare, and she narrows her eyes briefly at you. But you win because she breaks eye contact first, fiddling with the filter of her cigarette. “It’s hard. Finding people who…accept me,” she relents, looking down. “Don’t see me as a spectacle or a celebrity or an actor.”

She’s bitter, and you want to dissipate that feeling as quickly as possible. So you reach over to grab her cigarette and take a slow drag. Her eyes find your mouth as her nails tap out a pensive rhythm on the railing.

“I don’t,” you say, leaning forward.

“I know,” she answers hoarsely, brushing a sticky strand of hair from your cheek and tucking it behind your ear. Her thumb lingers on your skin, stroking lightly. You lean into it, savoring the warmth.

. . .

Billie thinks you may be trying to kill her tonight. You’re drinking quicker than she can keep up, and everytime she sees you take a shot, she wants to lick the excess from your chin and your neck and down your collarbone and fuck. You get affectionate when you’re drunk, not unlike Norah who’s kissed Billie on the cheek twice now. You left that out when you warned Billie about Norah, and she smiles thinking of it, wondering if this is out of the norm for you. If Billie’s the exception. Because you linger. Your fingers barely leave her skin, always grazing, holding, gripping. And the way you look at Billie burns it’s so tender.

Not to say Billie isn’t drunk either. She most definitely is, but she cuts herself off when the room starts spinning and she can’t feel her feet, which should be aching in her heels by now. It’s only much later into the evening that Billie finally gets you to drink a glass of water.

You’re so pretty tonight. And every night. But especially tonight, carefree and open and lovely. Your eyes are shining, and your smile is bright, and you wrap an arm around Billie every chance you get, low around her waist or up around her shoulders. Either way, Billie’s overwhelmed. You smell like sweat and liquor and a hint of sweetness Billie wants to devour. God, she wants you. It’s an easier thought to accept when she’s drunk. She can watch the way your hips move, the way you lick your lips, the way you dance to the music without suffering through quite as much mental gymnastics.

But it’s when you run your hands through her hair as you dance together that Billie truly feels like she’s in trouble. Her head comes back, heat washing over her as you tug just enough to part Billie’s lips, to blow her pupils wide and dark and eager. You’re singing, and it comes out hot and breathy on her skin, in her ear. Dazed, Billie wraps an arm around you, pulls you close as her other hand rises to your arm, still in Billie’s hair. Her nails dig into your forearm, and as you let her hair go, your arms settle on her shoulders, around her neck. Billie’s hot, and it has nothing to do with the party. There’s heat pooling low in her belly and tight between her legs, and you don’t notice the way she looks at you. So openly ravenous.

And then Norah’s there, and she’s dancing with you in the sweaty haze of the living room, and Billie’s so thankful she almost gasps. Her heart is pounding. She almost kissed you right there in the middle of Norah’s crowded apartment.

Billie’s feeling reckless tonight, emotions she doesn’t want to face boiling under her skin, and she needs to leave.

Seeing her walk toward Norah’s bedroom, you chase after her, sliding in and closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” you breathe, running your hands through your hair. Billie swallows, drunk and roaring with adrenaline. Even your voice makes her ache.

“Y/N,” she sighs, turned away from you.

“Are you leaving?” you ask, breathless. She doesn’t answer, ears ringing, heart thumping in her chest. She wants your hands on her right now. “What’s wrong?” You’re slurring just slightly. Billie turns, hands buzzing, face hot. You’re so gorgeous. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”

Billie steps forward, practically glides, a moth to a flame. And she doesn’t stop until she’s in your space, raising both hands to cradle your jaw, nails scraping behind your ears, pulling. And she doesn’t breathe, doesn’t think, doesn’t consider much of anything except her deep, bruising need when she slides her lips onto yours.

She presses in, desperate, and can feel the surprised tension in you dissipate, the breath you gasp before kissing her back. Your lips are soft and wet when they seek out Billie’s and pliant when she parts them, sinking deeper into you. When your hands finally grip Billie’s waist, she sighs, tongue sliding. Sucking on your bottom lip, she feels your breath on her cheek. You taste like peaches, and Billie’s fingers dig into the nape of your neck as she backs you up against the wall. You do gasp then, and she kisses you so deeply it makes your hands go slack against her.

Billie’s heart is racing as her arm snakes around your back, and you pull her closer by the waist, hips pressed together. She nips at your lip before kissing your cheek and your jaw and your neck under your ear, and you shiver. You shiver, and Billie chokes back a moan when you let out a noise so soft and sweet she barely hears it. But her tongue feels it on your throat.

You smell like sweat and cheap perfume and alcohol. Christ.

You arch into Billie as she slows, her fingers splayed across your back. Your breaths come out quick in time with Billie’s when she stops nose to nose with you, eyes closed, lips parted. You tug softly at her, and Billie swallows.

When she peels herself away from you it’s definitive but gentle, and she turns so she doesn’t have to see the lipstick she left on your skin. You don’t speak, and when Billie does turn around, purse in hand, your back is still against the wall, swaying in place, unblinking and focused on her. Dazed and throbbing, Billie wants nothing more than to drop her purse and take off this dress for you. But you’re drunk. You’re very drunk. And your lips are swollen and stained red from Billie’s lipstick. She swallows and strides wordlessly out of the bedroom door before she can change her mind.

. . .

You’re in and out of sleep for hours before your eyes finally open. There’s a crick in your neck, and you feel far away from the bed you’re in, stomach cramping. You groan, pressing your face into the pillow. There’s rustling next to you, and Norah’s face appears from under a blanket. Her makeup is smeared across her puffy face. You stare at each other, unable to muster much more, eyes barely open.

“I gotta go,” you mumble, untangling yourself from the sheets to trek to the bathroom, hands steadying yourself on the walls.

When you return, Norah’s laying on her back, arms at her side.

“I may be getting too old for this,” she admits, voice hoarse. You sigh as you strip out of your party clothes and lay on top of the covers, clammy and aching. You both stare at the ceiling.

“I blacked out,” you say, trying to pinpoint when you stopped retaining memories. It may have been just after the balcony with Billie. You hope she got home okay.

“Me too,” Norah sighs. You both stare at the ceiling until the stomach cramps fade to hunger, and then you order in the greasiest brunch you can find.

#soften me now #billie dean howard #writing #ahs fanfic #billie dean howard x reader #ahs murder house #ahs #american horror story #billie dean howard x y/n #y/n

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mistydear · 1 year ago

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soften me now, let me take as is given (xviii)

billie dean howard x reader summary: You meet Billie in mourning. She's too professional, and you're too angry, and it takes too long to see her again. And again. And again as your lives tumble together. w/c: 2.9k taglist: unsure! let me know if you're still interested chapter one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen notes: hi! i've actually had this chapter and most of the next chapter written for a long time and never posted them. not sure why, but i'm going to get 19 posted in a couple days just because i can and should. can't make any promises, but this story lives in my head still. so i want to finish it. to whoever reads this, thank you! and i hope you enjoy :) warnings: discussion of cancer

The last few weeks, Billie thinks, have been oversaturated with you. Like a movie screen with the vibrancy up so high it hurts her eyes, makes her dream in colors that don’t exist. It’s terrible. And Billie just can’t stop, doesn’t have the willpower to grab onto something steady, something real to stop the spinning. She’s sick with you, absolutely run down and overwhelmed by your warmth and gratitude and patience and humor. God, you can make her laugh. Harder than she has in years. It scares her half to death sometimes when she looks at you and wonders. Not just about brushing your hair back for you or sliding a hand tight around your waist or kissing your soft, lovely lips. But about waking up next to you, getting to see you bathed in a soft morning light, knowing how you take your coffee and making it for you every morning. Billie finds herself wanting something much softer and more tender with you than she’s allowed herself to have in a long time. She wants to love you.

The last time she took you out to dinner, it was at some swanky bistro in West Hollywood. And as soon as you noticed that they didn’t post the prices on the menu, you blushed and set it down.

“Billie, I can’t afford this,” you admit with considerable difficulty and humiliation, your cheeks tinging red in the candlelight. Billie forces down a blissful, hazy grin and reaches over, covering your hand with hers.

“Darling, I’m taking you out to dinner. I don’t expect you to pay.” Your cheeks flush darker at the term of endearment, and you swallow, pulling your hand away and down into your lap.

“This is too much,” you breathe, and Billie’s eyes search yours, her smile flickering and fading, trying to hide her panic.

“Did I overstep?” She’s been worried, endlessly it seems, about stepping too carelessly into romance and getting burned, about making it awkward and uncomfortable. Billie doesn’t think she could stand that, not with you. They’ve worked too hard to be friends to then get lost in some terrible unrequited crush. Fiddling with your napkin, your jaw tightens momentarily before you look back at Billie.

“No, you’re not…” you take a breath. “You’re not overstepping. I’m just not used to being paid for. I don’t want to owe you anything.”

“You could never,” Billie says, brow furrowed because the idea itself is ridiculous. It takes a minute for you to accept that, but as soon as Billie sees it on your face, she smiles, soft and easy. “Unfortunately, I’m rather fond of you. It’s what I do for people I like.”

“Buy them things?” you ask, a hint of amusement creeping in. Billie chuckles, resting her elbow on the table, her chin on her knuckles.

“Spoil them,” she allows herself to say, eyes sparkling in the low, warm light. Your eyes lock with hers in surprise, and then you swallow.

“You are not the same Billie Dean Howard I met on my front porch,” you say with a shake of your head. “I feel like I’m constantly uncovering a little bit more of you.” Your voice begs a question Billie isn’t sure how to answer. She feels like any explanation might give too much away. She helped you when you were nothing but cruel to her. She bought your house. She was so patient with you, and you with her. And now you’re here, and she’s spoiling you the way she does with the people who steal her affections. Billie swallows, resting her hands back in her lap.

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I’m not an easy person to get to know.”

“Please don’t apologize,” you chuckle, shifting forward. “I promise you I understand. Besides, it’s kinda exciting.”

“Exciting?” Billie drones, looking at you over her lashes.

“Yes” you laugh. “I’m never bored.” Billie huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes.

“I’m glad I’m so entertaining for you.” You grin, biting your lip, and your eyes are shining in the candlelight, and Billie wants to kiss you.

Later in the night, after Billie steals the check from you before you can look at it and you’re walking to your cars arm in arm, you lean your head on her shoulder. Billie stiffens.

“Maybe next time, we can start talking about the really deep stuff. Like your favorite color.” Billie lets herself grin, chest tight, and rests her cheek against your head.

“It’s taupe,” she mumbles, and your head shoots up from her shoulder, horrified and disbelieving.

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes, I’m kidding,” she chuckles, and you press a hand to your heart in relief. “It’s green.”

“Green,” you echo, resting your head back down, your steps falling in line.

“Like spanish moss,” Billie offers, and you hum.

“That’s oddly specific.”

“There’s not much that I miss about my childhood,” Billie breathes. “But climbing all the big oak trees and watching the spanish moss sway in the breeze was…” You lift your head, turning to watch Billie’s furrowed brow and faraway eyes. “It was a nice escape.”

“Escape from what?” you ask quietly, and Billie swallows, giving you a brief, tight smile. You give her one back, but it’s sadder, more careful, and then you’re leaning in, squeezing Billie’s arm, your thumb across her bicep. It’s a little thing, a small comfort, but it means the world to her. And she’s afraid to look up at you. Afraid she might kiss you.

“Thank you for coming to dinner with me,” she says, mustering the restraint to meet your eyes. Your arm tightens in Billie’s, and you’re smiling.

“Thank you for agreeing to come to Norah’s birthday party.” Billie exhales the tightness in her chest. “It’s this Saturday. Don’t forget.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she says, and it’s the truth. An opportunity to see you in any context was something she couldn’t ever pass up. Then you pull her into a hug, tight and warm, and Billie closes her eyes against you, fingers splayed across your back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night, Billie.”

. . .

Billie’s curled up on her couch the night before Norah’s party in satin pajamas. There’s a steaming cup of tea on her end table and a book nestled in her lap. She’s startled by the sound of her phone ringing but even more startled to see who’s calling. With a deep, settling breath, she dog ears her book and sets it down next to her tea.

“Hi dad,” she breathes.

“Good to hear your voice, honey bunches,” he says, that southern twang drawn and tired. She checks the time. South Carolina is four hours ahead of Los Angeles which would make it two in the morning there. Something surges up within her, choked and panicky.

“What happened?” He lets out a strained chuckle, and she can picture him scrubbing his fingers across his scruffy jaw.

“Y’know how your mama’s had that cough.”

“No,” Billie shoots back. “I didn’t know.” Her father hums.

“Musta been Jamie I was talkin’ to then,” he offers. “Your brother actually calls home to check in every once an’a while.”

“Dad,” Billie groans, pressing her fingers into her temple. “Please just tell me what happened.”

“She started up that coughing. Couldn’t catch her breath. I pat her back, gave her water,” he sighs, pausing. “There was blood in it, Billie. Curlin’ down like smoke. An’ she just looks up at me with a face I ain’t seen since you up and left. Resigned and so hard. Then she swallows and licks those lips and says, James, get my coat.” The silence on the line is deafening, and Billie numbly registers her ears ringing. “So here we are, Hoffman-Strauss Memorial.”

Billie’s throat is thick, and she blinks once then twice, chest tight.

“Okay.” Her voice is hoarse. She swallows. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“Just a room. Your mama’s sleepin’. She’s scheduled for a CT at 8.”

“And Jamie knows?” He hums.

“She’s too proud to say it, but she wants you to call her.” Billie scoffs, holding her hand over her eyes as she shakes her head.

“The only thing she wants to hear from me is that I’m leaving Hollywood,” she says, suddenly so weary.

“Set it aside, Billie Dean. Just for a minute,” he tells her, harder this time, with less give. Her shoulders deflate, and she swallows, looking down into her lap. “I love you.”

“Love you, dad.” When she hangs up, the world feels like it’s tilted on its axis. The last time she spoke to her mother, Billie’s face had been in the tabloids, her name spoken like a disgraced Hollywood starlet. Out of all the things her mother’s ever said to her, that phone call was relatively tame. It was expected, usual. The guilt, the shaming, the moral superiority. And now she’s coughing blood. Some might call that divine intervention. Absently, Billie laughs. It’s a weak chuckle, but it grows. And as it does, Billie’s chest seizes up. She laughs and laughs, but there’s a growing pit in her chest, and she’s starting to feel hysterical. She just can’t stop. And then the laughter turns gasping, and she can’t breathe. And my god, the hardest woman in America is coughing blood. She is a human being. Delicate and fallible.

Billie presses her palms into her eyes. “Fuck. Fuck.”

She remembers pressing a wet cloth to the back of your neck when you broke down over Kate, and Billie tries to treat herself with the same patience, the same kindness. What do you need right now? Slowly, she forces her breathing to slow, shuts out everything but the in and out of her breath and the occasional flash of your smile in her mind’s eye, your gentle hands on her arms. Jamie. She hasn’t spoken to him since his birthday. He reminds her too much of her childhood, so she tries to stay away. Not tonight. Her heart is pounding when she presses call, and she feels lightheaded, but she forces herself to stay on the line as it rings.

“Dad called you too, huh?” he asks when the phone connects, and immediately her breathing evens and slows.

“Yeah,” she says quietly as the world stops spinning around her.

“Takes a lot for you to reach out. The news must’ve rattled you.”

“I’m fine,” she says immediately, rubbing circles in her chest. He scoffs, and she closes her eyes. He hasn’t lost his accent, but it’s weaker now, stilted. Though his voice hasn’t changed, that richness, that unwavering steadiness is still there.

“Alright. Goodnight, then.”

“Wait,” Billie starts, and she hears him settle and exhale. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know…” she scoffs and shakes her head.

“I know,” he says, low and even. There’s a thick silence between them, and Billie remembers his hair, brown and unruly. She always used to ruffle it. She wonders how he styles it now. Is it shorter? How does his wife like it? Does she like that scruff he refuses to shave? Or does he shave it now? They’re little things, she knows, inconsequential really. But it’s the missing she can’t let go of now. The disconnect.

“How are you?” she asks finally, and he chuckles.

“I’m alright. Business is tightening with the economy, but we’re fine. Addison’s still with her firm. Could be making partner next year.”

“That’s great, Jamie, really,” she says with a smile. He doesn’t respond right away.

“How are you? I saw the magazines.” Her blood runs cold. “Come on, Bill, I know mom ragged you on it.” Jamie’s known she’s a lesbian since high school when he caught her kissing her best friend against the shed one hot summer afternoon. Feeling bitter, Billie stands up.

“I’m used to her bullshit,” she says, grabbing her cigarettes and stepping onto her balcony. When she lights one, it’s an immediate relief. “The press? Not as much,” she admits.

“What’s it like bein’ a Hollywood hotshot?” he asks, a laugh in his voice. She takes a deep drag, shaking her head.

“I try not to acknowledge it,” she admits.

“Me and Addie’ve been watching your show.” She taps ash over her balcony and clenches her jaw. “Don’t get like that,” he drones without ever seeing her face. “It’s good. Really good.”

“You never used to think it was good,” she says, embarrassed and maybe too bitter. Jamie always stood around a corner and watched when their mother would yell at her, tell her to stop that. It’s not right. As if she had any choice in the matter. As if she wanted to see the dead roaming her house on a Saturday afternoon. She was so alone. And then Jamie would look at her with those big, shameful eyes and turn away to go play with his friends, knees muddy and bruised. Jamie takes a breath on the other line.

“You really think I had a say in it, Billie Dean?”

“No,” she replies quickly and then sighs. “No, I don’t,” she adds, softer. “But you could have…” she trails off, rebellious tears welling in her eyes. She takes another long drag, trying to will them away. “Later, you could have…”

“You mean later when you moved out and didn’t talk to any of us for five years? Or do you mean later when you sent me a Christmas card and spelled Addie’s name wrong.” Billie blushes fiercely, jaw clenched as she looks down, looks away as if Jamie’s staring right at her right now. “I know that your experiences with mom were a lot different than mine, but I ain’t the enemy.” She takes a long drag as she looks out at the skyline. She knows he’s right, but she doesn’t know how to let her body know that.

“I’m sorry,” she finally admits, blowing smoke into the warm breeze.

“I’m sorry too.” They’re both silent for a long time. “Listen, Billie. I’m tired. I’m driving in tomorrow. I’ll call you with news, alright?”

“Alright,” she says, quiet as she looks down at her feet.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says before the call disconnects.

. . .

When the sun comes up, Billie’s neck deep in a scientific journal about lung cancer. Her eyes are red, and her tea is long since cold, and her brow feels permanently furrowed, lips sealed in a hard line. It’s 6:30 when she finally turns her neck in another direction, peels her laptop from her skin, and licks her chapped lips. Her whole body is buzzing and achy, and she swallows, sending a vague text to cancel her things for the day. And then she drags herself to bed and sleeps so fitfully she could barely call it sleep.

She only wakes up at noon to the sound of her phone ringing. Bleary and dazed, she pulls it toward her, hair across her face.

“Hello?” she mumbles.

“They’re gonna do some more tests, but…” Jamie sighs, and Billie feels electricity shoot through her in an icy, terrible jolt.

“It’s cancer,” she says, cold and empty.

“Is it surprising?” Jamie chuckles wearily, “she smokes like a chimney.” Billie’s stomach flips and a rush of dizziness takes over.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know.”

. . .

Billie doesn’t know what to wear to a party like this, but she does have more than enough black for a funeral. Stop. Stop it. Billie wants to scrub her mind clean with a brillo pad. Her chest clenches, and she closes her eyes, willing away the intrusive thoughts that want to swallow her whole. She doesn’t even know what to feel. All she can manage is panic and avoidance. It’s something to deal with later. Not now. Please, not now. She’ll have to make the trip down south. She knows this. It’s inevitable. Christ.

Instead of digging through her closet, hair still wet after her shower, she walks to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of bourbon. She’s going to a party in two hours. Isn’t that what one does? Drink beforehand?

. . .

“Andy’s not coming,” you announce when you enter Norah’s apartment with several grocery bags full of various liquors.

“What?” Norah asks, poking her head out from the kitchen. She’s unpackaging red solo cups, both shot glass and full size.

“We had a fight.”

“Uh oh,” she intones, “what happened?” You sigh, setting down the bags on her dining room table.

“I told her I didn’t want her at the party.” Norah raises her brow, pressing a hand to her hip patiently.

“Is everything okay?” You don’t know how to answer that. The excuse you gave Andy was some story about how you always attended Norah’s parties with Kate, and you didn’t want to feel like you’re replacing her this year, and it was thin and unbelievable even to Andy.

“I’m pushing her away,” you finally admit, eyes squeezed tight. When you open them, Norah’s head is tilted, her eyes soft.

“Why?” she asks carefully, stepping forward, folding her arms over her chest.

“I think I feel trapped?” you guess, wringing your hands. “She loves me. She hasn’t said it, but I know she does. And I don’t think I can love her back.”

“Because of Kate?”

“Partially. I don’t know. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” you sigh, shaking your head and waving the topic away with your hands. “Let’s just get ready for this party.” Norah gives you a searing look, a hint of a smile on her lips, before continuing on. Though there’s something in her eyes that unsettles you, something she knows that she’s not saying. You chew your lip and try not to think about it.

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