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The first thing Carson notices about Greta is her smile. Not the way she towers over everyone else, or how she uses her friend’s shoulder as an armrest. Not the gorgeous, meticulous curls of her hair or intoxicating curve of her hips.
Maybe not even the intentional manner in which she rakes her eyes over every inch of Carson’s body, from the tattered up running shoes on her feet to the cap on her head.
No, it’s definitely her smile.
The red of her lipstick is enticing at best and criminal at worst, in more ways than one, and her lips frame teeth that practically shine. She’s immediately magnetic, stunning, charming in all the ways Carson is powerless to resist.
And it all comes back to that smile.
She says Carson doesn’t look like competition, but Carson doesn’t want to believe her. All the same, Greta’s continuous gaze and the quirked corner of her lip tells Carson that she must look like something – and she’s a bit scared of what that might be.
Baseball is more than just fun. It’s about excitement and devotion. It’s the intersection of physical and mental fortitude. The community surrounding baseball is dedicated and energetic. The sport binds her to the world. It has meant something to Carson her entire life. Little did she know, it means something to a lot of women – that much is clear from the second Carson steps on the field.
Greta’s watery smile is remarkably relatable. Right in front of them is a massive group of women who all share the same piece of their identities. They’re driven by an identical purpose and dream. It’s the most miraculous sight to behold.
Well, almost.
- - - - -
Everything Greta does is with passion, and baseball is no exception. In fact, it might be what she delights in most.
When she tags someone out or makes a play at first base, her smile is cheeky, with eyebrows pressed close together and some whacky bodily movement to accompany it, like a kick of her leg into the air or a little twirl. Even when she’s at bat, just waiting for a pitch, the corners of her mouth are upturned. She’s so excited for the possibility, too overjoyed to be playing to care about anything else.
Carson watches her during each spare second she has; she wants to memorize every feature, every single part of every single moment Greta spends on the field. The gleam of that smile and the flushed apples of her cheeks. When Carson closes her eyes to fall asleep at night, this is all she wants to see.
The friendship between Greta and Jo is hypnotizing. They always lean into each other even if they don’t need the support. They go about their lives with unabashed adoration for one another. A ride or die mentality to the extreme keeps them essentially attached at the hip.
It’s beautiful to see.
Carson wonders if she and Charlie look like that. Do people look at Mr. and Mrs. Shaw and think their souls must be inextricably intertwined? Without a doubt, Charlie is her best friend. He’s sweet and sincere, hilarious and odd, so overwhelmingly dutiful and doting. Their partners in this world as much as Greta and Jo are.
But Greta and Jo aren’t in love with each other.
But maybe that’s besides the point.
(Or maybe that’s the whole point.)
Carson most enjoys witnessing the way they make each other laugh. The boisterous reverberations of their laughter are enough to turn every head in a room. Carson likes the way Greta smiles during those moments. It’s always a little manic, with her eyebrows raised and teeth bared. It’s as if her body doesn’t have room for the joy that Jo makes her feel.
What might be better than that, though, is the way she smiles after making other people laugh. There’s visible satisfaction in that wide grin. She’ll mirror Jo’s bombastic reactions or blush at the other girls celebrating her wit. That smile is captivating, crooked and crinkling the corners of her eyes.
A lot in the world can be infectious. Carson, among many others, will come to learn that being a lesbian is not one of them. But that smile –
That smile certainly is.
- - - - -
After practice, they all gather on the porch well after the sun has set, chatting and trading stories as they share smokes. Carson denies a couple offers before eventually accepting one just to put it to an end, but she never lights it. Smoking has never appealed to her, she actually found it a little gross.
But Greta upends that opinion like she does so many others. Carson likes to watch her lips curl around the cigarette and the way they part slightly when she inhales. She’s quite fond of the way Greta rests it delicately between her fingers, creating a v shape that has other implications, an innuendo that Carson can’t help but consider.
That’s how Carson spends most of the night – not engaging in the conversation with her new friends, but watching Greta.
“Revolt of the Zombies?” Jess scoffs. “The title alone tells you it’s shit.”
“I don’t watch films with blood, gore, violence, expletives, sexual implications, or generally unpleasant themes,” Shirley says. “Did Revolt of the Zombies have a happy ending?”
“Definitely,” Jo says, “we were all happy it ended.”
Carson chuckles down into her lap before looking up to find Greta’s brilliant smile, tongue tucked between her teeth as her body shakes with laughter. It’s as if Carson’s pupils are impenetrably tethered to that face; no matter what, her eyes will always make their way back.
“I remember liking it,” Lupe shrugs. “Wait, when did that movie come out?”
“It was… ‘36, I think,” Maybelle says.
“1936? That’s when I first fell in love,” Greta says, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray.
“Really?” Jo asks. She leans forward in her chair with narrowed, challenging eyes. They must know absolutely everything about each other at this point, and it seems that perhaps Jo wasn’t quite let in on this piece of information. Carson chooses to enjoy the incredulous look on Jo’s face rather than decipher whatever feelings arise when Greta talks about loving someone (else).
“Yup,” Greta answers conclusively. “1939, I met my second love. And then my third at 1941.”
The silence is stagnant as the other women process what they just heard. It should be in 1941, Carson thinks, not at 1941. Then with a knowing grin, Greta says, “it’s been quite the evening.”
The joke is hilarious to all of them, but even if it wasn’t, Jo’s explosive laughter would be contagious enough to have everyone joining in. Even Jess fights a smile as Lupe explains to Esti that Greta was using military time to suggest she had fallen in love thrice in one night. “El sistema de 24 horas,” she says, and Esti joins in with a piercing giggle.
Carson can’t look away from Greta. She’s beaming, her smile broad and bright enough to convince Carson that the sun has risen back up to replace the moon. She seems so thrilled to have created happiness, however fleeting it might be.
That’s the greatest power of humor, Carson determines as her sights stay locked on Greta – that it can cause a smile just as dazzling as the person wearing it.
“Next at the plate, Greta Gill!”
The bend of Greta’s arm is sharp as she kisses her palm and blows it to the stands. The men couldn’t be more obvious about their adoration for her, and it makes something hot and angry and unfamiliar flare in Carson’s chest. The heckling, catcalling, and inappropriate behavior has mostly dissipated since the first game. But a sick, shameful part of Carson might prefer that to the sounds of hundreds of men blatantly swooning over the one peach that no one else is allowed to have.
She’s distracted from her thoughts by the outrageous roar of the crowd. By the time Carson sees the ball, it’s well beyond the fence and Maybelle is already crossing home with Jess right behind her. The Comets’ pitcher scuffs her foot angrily at the mound while the catcher lets herself fall backwards into the dirt, dejected.
The whole infield is either irritated or glum, and it’s the perfect juxtaposition to the glow of Greta’s spirit. She takes an appropriate amount of time rounding third. She begins to wave to the crowd as she heads for home plate. As a self-proclaimed Greta-smile master, Carson can tell that this one is more intentional. It’s thinner, more designed for an audience.
When she makes it home, she takes a small leap and touches her toe gracefully to the plate. She's a ballerina executing the last piece of choreography before the inevitable applause.
“That was amazing,” Carson gushes when Greta returns to the dugout.
A new grin finds Greta lips, one wholly opposite of what Carson just saw on the field, and she pops up a shoulder like it’s no big deal. “Thanks.”
It’s impressive, the humility. Greta is confident without being cocky. She’s self-assured but never arrogant. Carson thinks that if she were Greta, if she were the sun that their entire universe revolved around, she might be a little boastful.
- - - - -
It takes Carson longer than she would care to admit to realize that it’s a show, just like it was at that the unbearable dinner with the dumb veterinarian. A performance practiced to perfection so she can float through this life unscathed by the cruel touch of man.
Because Carson knows Greta’s real laugh, and she didn’t hear it once at that dinner table – only a fabricated giggle meant to make a man feel funnier than he is. She knows her real smile, has seen it firsthand. It’s winsome during games and practices, a mitt on her hand or a bat hanging over her shoulder. It’s sunny and affectionate, occasionally even mischievous and flirtatious, with their team, their peaches, their family.
However, there’s one more smile from Greta that takes even more time for Carson to put a name to. Part of her denies it for too long, merely unconvinced that it could be possible. A smile more unique than all the others, exclusive to one person and one person only –
A smile for when she’s looking at Carson.
It’s early when Carson feels her eyes flutter open. She doesn’t have to look at the clock to know it, she can tell just by the shade of orange that flits through the curtains. She makes a grunting noise in the back of her throat and stretches her arms over her head before chancing a look to her right.
Greta is laying on her side, propped up on her elbow and leaning her head against the palm of her hand. Her smile is one that Carson grows more familiar with each passing day, but it’s difficult to truly appreciate when the freckled perfection of Greta’s exposed skin taunts her.
“Jess?” Carson asks anxiously. The sudden panic dissipates when Greta just shakes her head.
“Not back yet. She said last night that she was blowing off curfew for something.”
Carson furrows her brow but doesn’t ask for more; she knows that Greta would have told her specifics if there were any. She chooses not to question it and instead appreciates that Jess is nowhere to be found.
Privately, Carson is beyond grateful to be able to exist like this with Greta. They can share intimate space without fearing for the worst. They can enjoy the little things that Carson wanted desperately to appreciate with Charlie but always came up short.
It becomes more apparent that Carson isn’t alone in that sentiment. Greta continues to look right at her. She’s reveling in the sweet serenity of this moment, evident in the pretty curl of her lips.
“You’re staring at me,” Carson says, though her voice lilts at the end as if it were a question.
“I am,” Greta affirms. “You’re quite nice to look at.”
Carson doesn’t shy away from the compliment this time, or scoff at the very suggestion that she might be beautiful.
“Yeah?” It comes out quieter than she intended.
“Yeah,” Greta grins affectionately. “I think you might be the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”
Carson swallows the breath that catches in her throat. It gets harder and harder for her to be self-conscious when Greta Gill makes it so obvious that she thinks Carson is close to perfect.
“But you’ve looked in a mirror, right?”
She snorts, and Carson makes a shushing sound while covering Greta’s mouth with her own hand. She tries to stifle any subsequent noise, because the last thing they need is to wake up the other girls and have someone peak their head in the room.
Greta’s tongue darts out to lap at her palm, and Carson’s eww is buried in a giggle. She eventually lets her hand wander across Greta’s ribs. She quite likes the goosebumps caused by the tickle of her fingertips. Her attention is diverted when Greta drags a finger slowly down her cheek.
“So, so beautiful,” Greta whispers.
She seems prepared for when Carson wraps a hand behind her neck and pulls her down. She matches the eagerness easily, with mind-numbing fervor and enviable skill. The familiarity of it starts to feel even hotter than the kiss itself, but that’s quickly extinguished when Greta’s tongue teases between her lips like unsealing an envelope. Carson imagines she seems like a horny teenager when she presses her palms into Greta’s chest, but it’s well-received, if the groan is anything to go by.
Greta is almost always in control, so Carson isn’t shocked when she rolls over and slots herself between Carson’s legs, all the while continuing to press hot kisses to her mouth. Carson is usually a few steps behind, often left so blown-away and simply dumbstruck by how good it feels that she’s playing catch up. This time, not so much. She’s very conscious of Greta beginning her descent downwards. She kisses Carson’s chin, travels down her collarbone before making a pit stop at her chest.
The languid strokes of Greta’s tongue and calculated push and pull of her lips have Carson squirming uncontrollably. A long whine fills her ears, and Carson realizes it came from her – it couldn’t have been Greta, not with her mouth otherwise occupied.
It feels better than anything Carson has ever felt in her entire life, and Greta moans shamelessly when the evidence of that starts to coat her abs. Greta heartily, almost impatiently, continues towards her destination.
Carson hears Greta’s feet reach the floor. She’s awkwardly bent over the edge of the bed but she doesn’t seem to care, too intent on looking up at Carson with pupils blown out and lips a little bit swollen.
“Is this okay?” Greta asks before placing a kiss right below her navel.
Carson knows why she’s asking. They haven’t crossed this line yet. Aside from an offhand comment from Greta and a few lewd gestures to make Carson laugh, they haven’t broached the idea of using mouths in this way.
“Yup,” Carson squeaks. Her eyes squeeze shut but she can’t sense any movement below, so she leans up on her elbows. She’s breathless at the sight of Greta smiling at her, drinking in the moment and high on anticipation. She giggles when Carson tenderly pushes her head down to continue.
Every thought that Carson has ever had, any recognition of a world beyond the four walls of this room, becomes completely irrelevant at the first instant of contact. Her whole body rolls into Greta’s mouth, involuntarily but desperate.
“Ahh,” she hisses at one particularly finessed swipe of Greta’s tongue, followed by gasps for air to fill her lungs. Greta is more than pleased by the reaction. When she grows more coherent, Carson feels foolish for thinking nothing could be as perfect as Greta’s fingers.
“You taste good,” Greta moans, and Carson throws her forearm over her face to smother the whimpers. Her back arches and she tries to keep herself from gripping the red hair of her scalp too aggressively.
“Greta.” The whimper of her name only spurs Greta on, and Carson thinks she might pass out. “Oh – fuck.”
The sunlight entering through the windows is the same color orange when Carson’s hips stutter, once and then a dozen times over, and Greta is groaning as she continues to aid Carson in landing back on planet earth.
Afterwards, Greta climbs back up, mouth brushing over every inch of skin she can reach before they’re face to face once more. Her thighs frame Carson’s hips, her hands at either side of her head. The way she bites her lip is far and away the hottest thing Carson has ever seen, but the wide-eyed wonder that tells Carson she’s more proud to have been the cause of her euphoria than anything else.
Carson is still panting when she mirrors Greta’s smile, equal parts placid and enchanted. She’s seen this one a few times, but only after blissful moments like this.
The air around them once more becomes overwhelmed by the invigorating, sickeningly sweet sounds of sex. Carson comes again with Greta rocking into her, biting down on her shoulder to keep from screaming and reveling in the way Greta essentially sobs into her neck.
She feels brave when she later ushers Greta upwards, encouraging her to settle atop her face and spread over her mouth. Then she feels selfish for reaching down to stroke herself lazily until she’s embarrassingly close. The shocked o of Greta’s lips melt into a pleased smile when she understands what’s happening. Carson has never done this before, obviously, but Greta spurs her on with words of confirmation and pleas not to stop. They almost find harmony on the same beat, but the rhythm is addictive regardless and the melody rings glorious in Carson’s ears.
Afterwards, when she drapes herself over Greta’s body and leans her chin on her chest, Carson traces the soft curve of that dopey grin with her thumb. When Greta takes the digit between lips and teases it with the tip of her tongue, they’re sent right back to the start.
Paradise, heaven, rapture, Eden – whatever ends up welcoming Carson at the other side, she can’t imagine it could be any better than this.
- - - - -
Once she notices the first one, it’s impossible for Carson not to pay attention to the rest. Smiles from Greta designed solely and wholly for her.
When she teases her, Greta’s smile is closed-lipped and her eyes twinkle playfully. Sometimes she’s even kind enough to toss a wink Carson’s way, entirely aware of the effect it has on her.
Sometimes Greta pushes their relationship further. She’s always tentative, asking, “is this okay?” She’s testing the waters, maybe even being a bit challenging, seeing what Carson is comfortable with. When Carson offers the affirmative, Greta will light up like a Christmas tree.
Carson’s constant fumbling over excuses always gives Greta cause to grin. Her eyebrows raise and her lips press together like she’s trying to hold it back. She’s so clearly amused by it. It’s nice to make Greta smile, even when it’s unintentional.
Sometimes she’ll catch Carson staring at her. There are instances when Carson will avert her eyes immediately, and Greta will smirk but won’t give her any flack. Then Carson starts to be braver and keeps her gaze locked on that very pretty face she’s loved from the start. Greta’s smile grows so substantially that her cheeks would reach her eyes, and she’ll turn away bashfully.
This is all that truly matters in the world. Carson’s heart consumes these smiles as if she’s been starving for years. In reality, a not so insignificant part of her really has.
“You have different smiles. Did you know that?”
She feels Greta shift from where she’s positioned behind her, her back leaning against the old car door with Carson placed between her legs. She leans herself further into Greta’s chest. Carson is grateful for the blanket they snuck off her bed, almost as comfortable as the arms Greta wraps around her. It’s an awkward fit and her legs are starting to cramp, but Carson couldn’t care less.
“Well, I can’t see my own face, so how would I know that?”
Carson rolls her eyes, even though she’s grinning at the laughter that puffs against her cheek. “You’re a real smartass, did you know that?”
“Ah, yes. That I did know.”
“I hate you,” Carson says with absolutely no conviction.
“No, you don’t. Now tell me about these different smiles you have so observantly picked up on.”
Carson is tempted to backtrack. She could play it off somehow, and maybe she should. Every admission to what they notice about each other, every indisputable and irrefutable piece of proof that they truly know one another, brings them an inch closer to conceding to that four letter word.
“There’s one for when you’re playing ball. When you make a great play or knock it out of the park.”
“Which is often.”
“Yes,” Carson chuckles. “Um, there’s one for when someone makes you laugh, usually Jo. And another when you make other people laugh – again, usually Jo.”
“And you,” Greta teases. “You think I’m the funniest person to ever live, you said that yourself.”
Carson narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Did I use those exact words?”
“Yup. I’m certain of it.”
Carson chuckles and starts to toy with Greta’s fingers. These are the same hands that grip a baseball bat or find a home in a well-loved glove. Carson still isn’t sure she deserves to be beneath this touch.
“What else?” Greta urges her to continue.
“Well, you have a specific one for when you’re putting on a show.”
“Putting on a show?” Carson can hear the playfulness disguised in the quizzical tone of her voice.
“You know, like when you’re blowing kisses to the men in the stands. When you wave like a movie star on a red carpet. It’s part of why I’m certain you’d be a great actress.”
Greta’s chin drops to her shoulder and starts to twirl a strand of Carson’s hair, the hair she had cut so brazenly not too long ago, around her finger. “Who says it’s an act?”
“Isn’t it?” she asks, nervous for the answer. She’s dizzy with the rush of relief that floods her mind when Greta nods her head.
“Yes, it is.” Greta hums and kisses the side of Carson’s neck. “Is that all of them?”
Carson knows she must already suspect the answer to that question, but that Greta wants to hear it anyway. And Carson wants to say it.
“I think there’s one for when you’re looking at me.” Carson has to fight her instinct to sheepishly duck her head. Maybe it’s too cocky, maybe she’s dead wrong. But Carson doesn’t think that’s the case. “I think that sometimes the things I say or do… they make you smile.”
A different part of her feels naked now. Not just the body held in Greta’s arms but millions of pieces of her soul. They're fragile, Carson wants to say, please, handle with care.
Greta sees the pieces for what they are, connects them like a puzzle, and grins lovingly at what comes to be as a result.
“I think you’re right,” Greta murmurs.
The way she tilts Carson's head back to kiss her is reminiscent of their first night together. Carson is a different person than she was then. She's grown. She's more complete, she's who she is truly meant to be.
And if that person can make Greta Gill smile, then Carson doesn't mind the change. Not one bit.
Greta doesn’t need Carson to explain the smiles reserved for her. She’s pretty certain she knows exactly what she looks like. It will reflect whatever it is about Carson that blows her away in that moment.
She’s such a dork. She stumbles over feeble excuses for them to be alone together and Greta has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from breaking out into laughter. Sometimes the corners of her lips will jump up on their own volition, and Greta is starting to allow it. Carson will beam at her like a fool and Greta will do the same, that smile always reaches her eyes.
When she throws her mask mindlessly to the side and rushes to stand beneath the falling ball, Carson’s focus sends Greta into a trance. The triumphant nudge of her shoulder against whatever player on the team is close enough to be the victim of teasing, the way she jumps onto home plate with enough gusto to break the bones in her toes – it drives Greta mad with pride. It has her lovesick, tucking her clasped hands beneath her chin and swaying on her feet.
All it takes is standing in the same room as Carson for Greta to stare at her with muted fascination. She’s a little bit shocked that someone like that can even exist, even more surprised that she might love her back. She’s proud just to know Carson, amazed to be cared for by her.
So she isn’t at all shocked to hear that Carson has discovered special smiles reserved only for her. They’re different on the surface but mean the same thing underneath. Whatever they look like, Greta wants to make sure they make Carson feel safe and adored.
Because Greta is just destined to love and to be in love, in a world that does everything in its power not to let her. But there isn’t anything that can stop her from falling for Carson. As time goes on, less and less stands in Carson’s way to do the same.
Of course, she’s going to smile. How could she not?