“We could go anywhere,” says Nomi, for maybe the fifth time today, just for the thrill of it. They’ve pulled up a map of the United States on her biggest monitor, and Amanita dug up the laser pointer she usually saves for when they babysit the neighbor’s cat. The red dot’s been circling aimlessly for a while, but now it drops down toward the bottom of the map.
“Well, I vote for Texas,” says Amanita in a truly terrible would-be Southern drawl, “partly out of spite, but partly because—”
“Costumes,” Nomi nods, barely holding back a grin.
“—can you imagine the costumes? Seriously. That one should stay in the running.”
“You do look good in cowboy boots.”
“Hell yeah!” she cheers in that awful accent, so Nomi shuts her up with a kiss. They’re both laughing into it, until Amanita nips at Nomi’s lower lip and deepens the kiss, which only ends badly because both of them are holding full cups of coffee, and Amanita does not have the steadiest of hands. “Shit,” she yelps, grabbing a napkin for her bare leg. “Shit, that’s hot.”
“Careful. You know, I always thought Montana looked pretty in pictures,” says Nomi, and shoves Amanita when she snorts with laughter. “What?!”
“How do you think that’d go, after the first half hour of nature?”
The laser pointer wavers between it and Wyoming. “Fucking square states,” Amanita mutters. “Isn’t it just, like. Full of trees and sports and people who like hiking?”
“Maybe. But there’d be plenty of pot.”
“It can stay,” says Amanita with a regal toss of her hair.
“You’re very generous.”
“Yup. But how about Kansas or Iowa? Some tiny town full of churches. You could wear that rainbow bikini,” she says, waggling her eyebrows and running a fingertip down Nomi’s arm.
“It’s tempting to traumatize middle America.”
“Chicago’s nice this time of year,” Will says hopefully, sitting in the sunlight on a bench in Grant Park. It’s hard to tell if he picked the spot to show Nomi or Riley, who’s visiting him from her kitchen in Reykjavik; Nomi can feel her giggle and the warmth of her hand in Will’s.
“Will says Chicago.”
“Will,” says Amanita right away, because she immediately took up the habit of addressing the others directly, and Nomi loves her, she loves her so much. “If you think I’m going somewhere cold and flat and windy to—”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Will protests, defensive, and Nomi repeats it for Amanita.
“Uh-huh. Sure it is. No offense, but I’d rather fly to Iceland.”
“Riley would like that,” says Nomi, smiling, because she can feel it, and see the grin on Riley’s face; nothing that happened ever dulled her love of happy endings.
(Will is thinking, rather mutinously, that Iowa’s even flatter and boring as hell besides.)
Amanita nestles her head on Nomi’s shoulder, twines their fingers together and lifts up Nomi’s hand to kiss her knuckles. “I guess we need a bigger map.”
There’s nothing to this planning, really; just a fun way to spend their Sunday morning, half-dressed with cups of coffee, imagining endless ridiculous possibilities. In the end, Nomi can’t imagine getting married anywhere but San Francisco—it’s home, it’s where their friends are, where they met. They’ll pay way too much for the venue and there won’t be any dress code, unless Amanita decides to dress up their wedding party.
It will be perfect, she thinks, no matter what.
“That’s so romantic,” Kala sighs happily. Her lab work ran late, and dinner with friends ran later, so she’s only just now getting ready for bed, combing her hair in front of the mirror. The joy she feels for Nomi is bright in her eyes, a warmth in all their hearts.
“How do you mean?” Nomi asks her, because the cluster has always known she’s head over heels for Amanita; there’s something else Kala means.
Her smile is radiant and only a little sad. “You could go anywhere, but you’d rather be home.”
Nomi places a kiss on top of Amanita’s hair. “Always.”