Chapter Text
Spring, 1944
Spring finally felt brave enough to arrive after a snowy and bitter winter. Cherry blossoms were starting to bud. Sunshine felt warm and gentle to the face when the breeze off the Hudson wasn't too strong.
The open window of a second-story apartment released the lazy ribbon of smoke drifting from the end of a cigarette, held between the delicately and perfectly manicured fingers of one Greta Gill. She perched, long legs crossed lithely at the ankle, on the window sill of her kitchen, the one that overlooked the fire escape and into the alley between her building and the next.
Beyond the window, black-and-white tile floors spanned the narrow hallway, leading into a cozy, but functional kitchen. Opposite, a small bedroom with just enough space for a bed and nightstand and bureau. A tchotchke or two. Things purchased not just for function, but because they looked nice and would last a long time. An antique crystal ashtray. A cigar box containing a small handful of aggravatingly polite and chaste letters, always signed with initials.
Her first home.
After her family's apartment in Brooklyn, she never spent more than six months in one place. Out of boredom or fear or a bit of both, she and Joey never put down roots for long. Hell, they were hardly roots. Sprigs, maybe a blossom or two, but they pruned themselves before anything remarkable could take shape.
She settled into New York life as Just Greta. Not Greta and Joey.
The moment she stepped off the train, she really, really tried to go back to being The Greta Gill.
But, somehow, putting on that costume again after Rockford, after the Peaches…after Carson..felt odd. Itchy. Like a sweater that didn't quite fit anymore after going through the wash.
On the outside, anyone who recognized her wouldn't notice a difference. Her hair was still styled to perfection -- not a strand out of place -- her makeup impeccable, her outfits trendy and fun, but never garishly so. A smile and a wink and a wave always at the ready, flirty and inviting and friendly.
She loved dressing up every day. And working for Mrs. Hughes meant proximity to new trends and products.
But it no longer felt like an act. Like she had to prove something to anyone. Like, for once, she didn't have to apologize for taking up space, for being too much.
This is me.
She let herself be good at her job. Be smart. Speak up in department meetings when she had an idea.
"…and Mrs. Hughes has me working all week, but she says that my numbers have been so good that she'll let me work her summer trend show, which is--"
"Greta!"
Jo's voice on the other end of the line startled her, causing her to nearly dropping her cigarette out the window.
"This is the third time you've told me this. You still haven't answered my question. Have you done it yet?"
Greta, ever the nervous smoker, took a long drag, and let out an even longer exhale.
"No."
"You need to write her back."
"I can't. I…" Greta shook her head, tapping a few ashes into the tray on the sill in front of her. "I don't even think she wants me to."
The letters arrived every three weeks or so, each from a different city. She mentioned Charlie only once, and it was that they talked about…things, but…nothing after that.
Amazing how nothing could feel so full of possibility.
Possibility never felt so terrifying and overwhelming.
Every time she sat down at her small kitchen table, pulled out a sheet of custom stationary she bought herself, she froze.
Greta never responded to a single one.
"They're all so…short and polite. They don't even sound like her."
Jo cackled. "You think farmgirl is about to wax poetics and write you a full romance novel?" She sighed; Greta imagined her pinching her the bridge of her nose. "She's probably just trying to figure out where you're at."
"She knows where I'm at," said Greta aloofly.
"You sure?"
Greta bit her lip.
"It's been months. What are you scared of, Bird?"
That the thing I'm feeling is so big…You ever feel something so big that…you're scared that if you let it out, even a little bit, you won't be able to control it?
I have a feeling there's this line that…if I cross it, I won't be able to go back.
Except the line was a cliff. And going over meant falling in love with Carson Shaw.
She would go days, weeks, sometimes, without it settling into her chest. Then a smell, a sound, would send her back to the night in the convent, the night at The Office, on the porch at the boarding house…
She went right back to aching for Carson's strong, baseball-cured hands in hers, on her body, knotted in her hair.
Nights of frustration ending with her fingers gliding over herself until she had to muffle herself against her mattress, with only one face, one body, one set of hands touching and holding, that came to mind.
She would be kidding herself if she said she wasn't already dangling over the edge.
"If you could talk to her, if she was there, right now, what would you tell her?"
That I wish she was here, that I wish she came with me…
"Well, she's not, Jo, so I don't see how that's pertinent at the moment." Greta flicked the thoughts away like ashes off her cigarette.
"Hoooo look who's using their fancy upper east side words," Jo teased through the phone. "So you've been stewing on this since she slammed you up against the wall of the boarding house and basically told you she loves you?"
"She didn't say that, Joey…" Greta muttered. "Everything was so…jumbled and hurried at the end. I keep second-guessing what that kiss meant, what she meant by…"
"Don't even start with that bullshit, Bird."
Greta leaned her head against the window, chiding herself for not knowing why she tried to keep pulling one over on Joey.
Or herself.
For months, almost immediately, she tried to go back to being The Greta Gill. The one who looked for the gaze of wandering eyes held by an unsuspecting man.
In bars and dance halls, she felt the familiar pull of sliding up to a pretty face and curvy hips and soft skin. She almost took one woman home, but stopped before anything other than friendly gestures could've been taken from the encounter. The old routine felt like misstep after misstep, stumbling through what once was second nature.
Something was never quite right. There was always a wish that, from across the room, when she saw a glimpse of a particular shade of wavy, brown hair, a green plaid dress, a pair of dimples…
She was absolutely fucked.
"I don't want to be someone else's second choice anymore, Joey."
"You were never her second choice."
"I'm not talking about--"
"So you're saying there's someone else?"
Greta inhaled sharply, incensed at her friend's ability to see, hear, sense through her lies.
"I thought so, Bird," said Jo, not giving her a chance to retort.
Greta deflected the moment of accusation. "You're still coming out here in a few weeks? Before training camp?"
"Yeah…" Jo's resigned voice crackled on the other end. She sighed again. "You can't always run, Bird. Someone'll tag you out eventually."
Greta rolled her eyes at the cheap attempt at baseball humor, but couldn't help but crack a smile.
"I have to go, Joey. Talk soon."
"Go get 'em, slugger."
Greta set the receiver on the cradle and extinguished her cigarette. She pinched the bridge of her nose, Joey's words echoing through her mind.
I thought so.
Yeah, she was definitely fucked.
She tried, she really did.
The yearning had a different sound, a different color, than it used to. She knew the risks that it presented.
She knew her worth. Would demand it from anyone.
Would there ever be anyone else?
If she stewed here too long, she might do something she regretted.
Like respond to one of those damn letters.
She slipped on her dark green pea coat -- a gift from Mrs. Hughes her first week -- and grabbed a handful of change from her pocketbook. Some fresh air and a stroll to the corner store for some bread and a magazine would do her good.
She clambered down the rickety stairs of her walk-up, past her fellow tenants: the Italian nona who lived in the apartment below her who offered her coffee and short, nutty biscuits on Saturday afternoons; the young artist who worked as a waiter by day and a musician by night; her landlord, a retired navy admiral who always had his door open for visitors to talk union rights, comic books, or baseball.
Greta strode past him as he called to her.
"Miss Gill, there's someone--"
Greta already had her hand on the handle and pulled it open.
And there she was.
Like something out of a dream.
On her fucking doorstep.
Big, brown, eyes full of optimism and eagerness and determination. More freckles across her cheeks, like she'd been spending a lot of time outside, even through the cold weather. In navy track pants and a cream-colored Henley and a denim jacket, and her red Peaches baseball cap. A suitcase sat at her feet, a backpack slung over her shoulder.
Carson goddamn Shaw.
Like some messed-up replay of last year in Chicago.
Except she no longer saw the stumbling, nervous, woman she and Joey carted along for fun.
Well, she definitely still looked nervous. But there was a…confidence behind the anxiety that was going to keep her from crumbling. A clarity, a bravery she had uncovered.
"You're…here." The words barely formed in Greta's mind before they came out, they were half-whispered, half-garbled.
"Jo gave me your address and I…" Carson shrugged vaguely.
Greta shook her head, incredulous.
That little shit…
On instinct, Greta almost called over her shoulder to Joey, ready to do a bit of quips and kvetching.
But there was no more Joey at her heels, under her elbow.
Nobody else was there.
She was on her own.
And Carson Shaw, after six months, was now standing in front of her.
As the seconds dragged on, Greta didn't know if she wanted to kiss her or slam the door in her face.
So, she did neither.
Carson reached into her backpack, and held something out to Greta.
"I brought my glove."
A peace offering. An olive branch.
No, not even that.
It was…a starting place.
A way to step out onto the sheet of ice stretched out before them, built up since the porch in Rockford.
Would it break?
Would they fall?
And how hard?
"There's a park around the corner," Greta heard herself say before her common sense could stop her. "Give me a moment."
In a haze, she collected Carson's bags and hauled them up to her apartment, and changed into her practice gear--her red, satin exercise pants and light blue cotton crop.
On a small rack by her door hung, in a place of honor, her red Peaches baseball hat, waiting for the next season.
She put it on and grabbed her glove.
Suddenly she was back on the sidewalk in front of her building, closing the front door behind her a little too pointedly.
"Okay," she stated firmly, turning on her heel. "Let's go."
The three blocks felt miles long. Greta kept her eyes focused on the few steps in front of them, trying to keep Carson out of her peripheral vision.
Why is she here?
How is she here?
Carson kept mostly in lock-step beside her, though Greta's longer legs made it difficult.
Carson recounted her travels of the last six months. Starting back west, then traveling through the south along the coast. She tried to go back to Idaho, but couldn't bring herself to do it. So she came back east instead.
They landed on a stretch of grass not yet occupied by those brave enough to lounge about reading or bird-watching.
Greta hadn't thought to grab a ball, but luckily Caron had also produced one from her backpack, she held it out to Greta to tee up the first pitch.
The perfect distance for throwing and catching. And nothing else.
In baseball, there is little to no verbal communication. It's all in the eyes, the shifting of weight from one foot to another, the split-second glimpse of the grip on a ball as it left a pitcher's hand.
Would they just spend days out here? Become the newest tourist attraction in New York City? Come see the amazing baseball queers! They can never stop throwing or catching! They also can't form an adult conversation with each other! Who will break first? Place your bets now!
But they could talk. If they wanted.
Neither were pitchers, but it made for good outfield practice. Quick on their feet (Greta, never being fast, needed the practice more than Carson), and Greta got to stretch her long arms after a long winter’s rest. Sometimes, it seemed, Carson tried to huck it as obscenely far as possible, just to watch her scramble. Carson, ever the catcher, clocked every wind-up, and while some were too high over her head, she always started running the moment Greta pulled her arm back.
It was…endearing. And watching the calculations fly in front of Carson's face, going through every outcome, was mesmerizing.
It was hard to not watch Carson Shaw.
Suddenly, she felt a tug at her sleeve.
"Miss, I'm sorry to interrupt but…"
Three children -- maybe eleven years old at most, each with gloves, one with a small makeshift bat -- had approached Greta. The smallest of the three, a lanky girl with red, braided pigtails, stood at the forefront of her pack, clutching a baseball in her trembling hands.
"Are you Greta Gill, from the Rockford Peaches?"
Greta broke out into a wide smile. "Yeah, I sure am."
The girl's eyes went wide as she turned to her friends. "I told you it was her!" She held the ball out to Greta. "Do you think you could sign my baseball? Please?"
"It would be my pleasure," Greta reached into her pocket and pulled out the pen she kept there (at Mrs. Hughes's advice). "What's your name, my love?"
"Máire."
"Máire…" Greta looped her name carefully along the leather of the ball. "Anyone else want an autograph?"
One of the other children, a tall, stocky boy with mousy brown hair peeking out of a newsboy cap, rubbed his neck nervously. "I knew it was you…but my favorite's actually Coach Shaw. I'm a catcher like her, and I think it's really cool that they let a girl coach. Actually makes more sense, if you think about it…"
Greta couldn't hide her grin as she handed the ball back to Máire. "Well, you're in luck…" She turned and pointed across the way. "You see over there? Coach Shaw is here, too."
All of a sudden, Greta could've been a sack of rocks to those kids.
And she was fine with that.
The gaggle quickly scurried over to Carson, who had begun to approach Greta after the sudden pause in their game. Though she wasn't as used to the attention that Greta or Maybelle or Ana or Esti usually received, Carson spent almost fifteen minutes talking with the kids, answering every question that surely came up.
And, still, Greta froze as she watched Carson be…Carson.
One of the kids said something and Carson laughed. Really laughed. And it's the sweetest sound Greta's ever heard. It melts the cold, protective shield that grew in the last six months.
As the kids asked more questions and retold their favorite moments of the season, Carson looked up to Greta, offering a small, but proud smile. Greta mirrored it back to her.
Look at what we did. The world really is changing.
Carson sent them on their way, and their catch resumed.
"They kept asking about next season." She tossed the ball to Greta.
Greta made the easy catch. "You're still going back next season, right?" She threw it back to Carson.
"I thought that was obvious." Catch. Throw.
"Things change. People change…" Greta kept her voice steady.
"Do they, now?" Carson pursed her lips, considering Greta. "Are you going back?"
"I promised you I would. I try to keep my promises."
The letter came a week ago, summoning her to a whole week of practice camp in early April.
Did she really think she could last until the new season without speaking to her? Maybe this was a cruel way of fate stepping in, of ripping the bandage off for her.
They continued in silence for a dozen or so more rallies, before Greta felt brave enough to test the waters again.
"How's Charlie?"
Carson caught the ball as the question hit her ears. She took off her mitt and held up her bare, ringless hand.
Greta raised her eyebrows at her, surprised at the stoicism Carson showed.
"How does it feel?"
"Better than I thought it would, actually." Carson slid her glove back and passed the ball back to Greta. "Our families took it harder, I think. My dad was…surprisingly okay, though. Mostly just worried about me being out in the world by myself…you know, the way that I am."
"That's…good. I suppose." Greta nodded solemnly. "Best case scenario."
"Yeah," Carson replied, unenthused.
They fell into silence once again, back into a rhythm of pitches and catches that were harder, more pointed, calculated.
Until Carson also decided to step out onto the ice.
"Did you ever get any of my letters?"
Greta learned early on that Carson believed in the good of everyone; she was someone who was easy to lie to.
"No, sorry, I didn't. Would've loved to hear about all of your adventures," Greta strained to keep her voice lilted and high. "But I figured with you being in Spokane and Astoria and --"
She later came to learn that it made her stomach churn when she kept the truth from Carson. Specifically, her truth. Lying was second-nature to someone like her. She never did it out of malice. She did it to protect herself…
"I thought you said you didn't get my letters?"
So why did this suddenly feel like she was doing both?
But every player has a tell. In the way they stand, how they grip their bat, how they touch their uniform, even if they cough before throwing a screwball.
Greta talked too much when she was putting on an act.
"How did you know that's where I was?"
Greta swallowed, ice pooling into her stomach. She twisted the ball in her hands, hoping to find some answer on the faded hide.
"Jess told me. We talked on the phone last week. Says things are going well out in Calgary..." She threw the ball to Carson.
Carson caught the ball easily. Like Greta, she held it in her glove longer than before, studying it, gnawing at her lower lip. Finally, she looked up, her eyes clouded over.
And if anyone could pick out a tell, it was Coach Carson Shaw.
"I haven't talked to Jess since we left Rockford."
Gotcha.
Greta clenched her jaw to keep it from hitting the ground.
Fuck.
Letting the women go was part of the act. She learned to never get attached. The hurt she caused could never bother her. For a long time, it didn't. She no longer thought she was capable of hurting, not when the rest of the world had hurt her worse.
"Why didn't you write back?" Carson's eyes sparked red. "Why did you lie to me?"
"I just…" Greta put her glove up again to signal she was ready. "I didn't have the time."
"Oh." Carson weakly threw the ball across the grass, as if all energy had been sucked from her.
Each throw came slower, sloppier, like the last few pitches in an eleven-inning game. The last few blinks of a neighborhood game before they were called home to dinner by their parents.
This would end soon.
The sky itself even began to darken, the light, early-spring sky retreating back into winter.
Like Carson would retreat back to whatever life she was creating for herself. By herself.
Like Greta had retreated the moment the first letter came.
Someone will tag you out eventually.
She took a step onto the ice.
"You were wrong, Shaw."
Carson looked at her quizzically.
"When you said last year that every once in a while I'd think about you?"
The spark in her eyes dimmed, her shoulders slumping, like air leaking out of a bike tire.
"Look, Greta, I'm sorry for just dropping in on you like--"
"I've been thinking about you every single day."
Carson's arm stopped, mid-throw as the words processed. Her eyes softened, lightened once more with something different. She opened her mouth to reply, when the sky went dark.
A clap of thunder boomed over them, and rain began to fall.
Hard.
"Shit," they both muttered as they raised their hands, fruitlessly shielding themselves from the downpour.
Truly, they were right around the corner from Greta's apartment, but Carson, brand new to the city, sprinted across the street into an alley of the nearest buildings. Greta followed her. The fire escapes and the roof overhangs provided enough cover from the rain.
Greta stopped at the edge of the alley, squinting up at the clouds. "It wasn't supposed to rain today…"
"My answer is yes."
The words hardly cut through the deluge of rain around them. Greta straightened her posture and turned around. She moved into the alley toward Carson to hear her better. "What?"
The ice cracks.
"Last summer you asked me…" Carson paused, her brows knitted together, her strategic, coaching mind turning gears inside her head. "I was going to leave my comfortable life, my husband. Or, I did."
She stepped closer and closer to Greta as she talked and Greta stood frozen in place.
"Because anything with you is a thousand times better than anything before. I would've answered you then, but it just felt so huge and life-altering and, months prior, I didn't even know I could do that. And then you just…asked me. Like it wasn't the biggest question of my entire life."
The crack fully encircled them.
"I did leave. All of that. For you. And I came all the way here to tell you that. And now I just hope I didn't make a huge fucking mistake."
Greta gaped at her, her heart hammering against her ribcage.
They suddenly stood toe-to-toe on the ice together, the cracks widening, fanning out around them in all directions, thunderous in her ears, louder than the rain.
This was new territory.
A pursuer whose only agenda was her.
Not to experiment
Or to escape
Someone who wanted her.
Only her.
Someone who would stay.
Unlike Greta, Carson was a bad liar. A really bad liar. Her eyes twitched and she stammered and her hands started moving in every which way.
Truth, though, comes in stillness. In brown eyes filled with earnestness and trust and love.
When Carson wore her heart on her sleeve, just as she was now, she was steadier than anything.
They were so close, she could see it, the gentle reflections of raindrops caught on the brim of Carson's hat, the way Carson searched her face with pleading eyes, trying to see if what she remembered from last September was still there.
"Greta, please say something."
Greta didn't say anything.
Instead, she stepped forward, and pulled Carson with her as she plunged.
She cupped Carson's face in her hands and crashed their lips together, pulling Carson tightly against her.
Carson immediately melted into the kiss, like frost dissolving away after a long, bleak winter, her hands finding her waist and the nape of her neck, her fingers knotting themselves into Greta's hair. Clutching to something she never wanted to let go of ever again.
They're afforded enough cover by the rain and the narrow alley and trash cans and maze of fire escapes, but it still feels intoxicatingly dangerous, a fire igniting in Greta's chest as Carson tuggedGreta's hands to settle on her hips. Carson guided Greta back until they hit the brick wall of the alley.
This time, she wasn't going to push her away. Or tell her to stop.
She never wanted to stop.
She could kick herself for the times she told herself to stop.
She didn't realize how she had been starving herself, yet how could she also not realize there was only one thing…one person…who could satisfy that hunger? She held it in her body, a tension made of unfulfilled desire. She knew how to feed into her own pleasure -- that she was well-experienced in -- but to have someone else unlock it, who knew it, who would hold it as it surfaced, worshiped it...
Carson was just as hungry, cupping her face in the sweet way that always made Greta's heart melt -- like she was holding something so fragile and precious, not a fling, or an experiment; rather, like she was the most important thing in the world.
Their lips part each other and searched for other places, places longing for touch in the months of each other's absence. Greta landed at the hollow of her neck, and Carson threw her head back. A deep, satisfied chuckled stifled Carson's sharp exhale. In retaliation, Carson surged closer--as if she can't get close enough--and if Greta didn't know any better, Carson had stared to press her hips against Greta's, slowly, rhythmically. She could already feel herself settling against Carson's thigh, she could feel the unraveling of something tied together so tightly for months.
The thunderous downpour veiled it to passerby, but Greta could not stifle the gasps and low moans as Carson found not just her lips, but the soft spot behind her ear, the hollow of her neck, teeth teasing entirely too much for this to be considered safe…
A sudden, earth-shattering clattering of metal against the cobblestone ground forced them apart.
Heart pounding, Greta frantically searched the area for on-lookers or cops or--
"Hey, hey…Greta…" Carson's voice, hollow and far away, anchored her back, her hands cupped against her face. "It's okay. You're okay. We're safe. I just bumped into a trash bin."
As Greta's breathing evened, Carson's eyed remained locked on hers, her warm hands against her face.
"You're okay. You're okay…"
Carson brushed something away from her cheek with her thumb.
Greta felt herself nodding.
She was okay.
She was really here.
"Carson…"
Greta rested her forehead against Carson's. She stroked Carson's face, reacquainting herself to the feel, the hum, the magic of the woman before her, swiping away damp clumps of hair.
"I thought that…when you didn't respond…" Carson's first words came out rough, careful.
"And you had every right to think…" Greta shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Carson. For not writing or calling or--"
Carson grabbed the lapels of Greta's coat and pulled her close, cutting her off with another kiss. Greta smiled against Carson's mouth, out of relief, of amusement at the brazenness.
Out of pure, goddamn happiness.
To finally not being the second option.
The kiss ended quicker, only for Carson's continued rambling explanation.
"I didn't want you to worry about what might be in the letters. You have your rules…I really didn't want to mess this up. Plus, you already know how terrible I am at explaining myself in letters."
Greta let out a shaky laugh, enough to keep herself from letting out the sob that was building in her chest.
Oh, Carson.
Of course.
She was just as scared.
Greta grabbed Carson's hands and brought them to her chest, just like when they were last in Rockford. "Well I guess it's a good thing we're here together now, isn't it?"
Their foreheads still touching, Carson nuzzled her nose against Greta's cheek, not wanting to stray too far. A few inches now felt like a mile.
"But I didn't want you to think…" Carson furrowed her brow, choosing her words again. "I'm not gonna do this halfway with you. I promise. I don't want you to feel like you're in second place to somebody else. Because you were never that. It was always you. And if you're in…so am I."
Greta let their hands hang between them, so she could properly look at Carson. She squeezed Carson's left hand, rubbing her thumb against Carson's bare ring finger. "All or nothing, Carson Shaw."
Carson squeezed her hand back tightly, her eyes shiny and full of hope. "I'm in all the way."
"Good."
Greta gathered Carson in her arms, held her, Carson tucking perfectly under Greta's chin. She squeezed her eyes shut, daring the universe to take this away from her, to make it a dream.
Eventually, though, the rain stopped, the sky lightened, and she opened her eyes. And Carson was still there.
She stroked her thumb across Carson's cheek. "I've missed you so much," she said, her voice low and thick. "I have so much to tell you."
Carson leaned up to capture Greta's lips once more, tender, sure, loving, unshakable.
"Why don't you bring me home, and you can tell me more about it?"
Arms linked, sopping wet, smiles plastered on their faces like their curls from the rain, they go home.
Home was a feeling that showed up at her doorstep every so often, but never crossed the threshold. Greta tried to invite it in, but it never budged. It was something she tried to hold tightly in her grasp, but always slipped through her fingers.
But the moment Carson stepped through the door, a future quickly unraveled before her.
She saw more shoes gathered by the door and notecards over every unclaimed surface, a pie baking in the kitchen, two sets of soap and shampoo in the bathroom. A bed with both sides slept on.
Maybe this could be ours.
And it doesn't have to stay a dream.
At that moment, Carson turns around and Greta steps forward and kisses her again, her arms wrapped tightly around Carson's waist. Carson pushes herself up, and Greta actually lifts her off the ground and spins her around.
You're here.
We're here.
This was the ending she was waiting for.
Except it is no ending at all.
The next morning, clad only in Greta's bedsheets, they eat toast and drink coffee and laugh and Carson rereads her letters to Greta, and Greta tells Carson everything she wanted to say in return. And more.
So much more.
They spend days, weeks navigating the idea that they were never supposed to go so long without each other.
Carson's belongings move from her suitcase to a bureau drawer to the closet.
They start to learn.
How Greta likes red wine and straight bourbon, and Carson likes her martinis extra-dirty.
How Carson is a human oven and always needs the window cracked at night, and how Greta can never sleep with enough covers.
How they fight, when it's not about being present in the relationship or how to sneak around husbands or teammates or a society that wants them to disappear. They learn how to fight when it's just over whose turn it is to buy groceries or drop off rent money or how the laundry should be folded or who keeps leaving the toothpaste cap off. They fight when when the stakes are low, but they know it only builds from there.
They learn how to ground the other when things get too high or too low. Greta knows to take Carson's hands when they're gesticulating so much she's afraid she'll fly away. Carson learns to point Greta to the sky, the stars, forces her gaze upward and beyond, and shows her the stories they could tell.
They learn how to like each other.
How to love each other.
This is what home is supposed to feel like.
There's no longer a need for it to be real.
Because it is real.
Something new begins.