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At eighteen years old, Beatrice believed that life was parcelled out in distinct blocks of twenty-four hours, that each minute presented the same opportunities as the last. She would have been startled to learn the truth. In the twenty years since she has come to realise that time stretches out like elastic and snaps back into place just as easily. She knows that some minutes stretch out over long hours and others are over in seconds.
Now, she realises the importance of letting time spool out as it will. Where once it would have made her impatient to sit in her truck waiting for a teenager with no sense of punctuality, now she relaxes into it. They are staring down the barrel of spring and the air is not quite warm, not quite cool, the barest hint of new growth is beginning to show on the trees. She sits in silence, preferring the hum of the breeze and the chatter of birds to anything she could find on the radio.
Through the frosted window of the diner she is parked beside, she can see the hint of figures gesturing wildly as they talk. The smaller of the two, she knows, is Ava, and she can imagine the way her hair has escaped her ponytail after a long day waitressing, the smear of ketchup on her apron.
The other is Melanie, undoubtedly breathlessly sharing the news she received that morning over breakfast. The acceptance letter had come at last: the dream college, the six-hours-away college. Beatrice showed all of her bemused coworkers a picture of the letter on her phone today. She doesn’t blame Mel for taking a little longer to talk to Ava.
The silhouettes of the two figures hug and then, a moment later, Melanie is in the doorway, balancing her school bag and a foil-wrapped parcel. She descends on the passenger seat with the drama only a teenager can produce, first throwing her bag into the footwell and then crash-landing, somehow, in a sitting position. Although Beatrice is sure she smells like sweat and motor oil, Mel dips her head to hug her anyway, pressing her cheek against Beatrice’s shoulder.
“Ava says hi,” she says. “She sent dinner for you.” She lifts the edge of the foil in her hands to show the tupperware underneath. The scent of spice and warmth curls out of it.
Mel has been going to the diner after school since they moved into town four years ago, keeps going even now that she’s old enough to head home alone or hang out with her friends. Beatrice is glad for it, though, glad that she has a place she likes, a place with another adult she can talk to - Ava, she is certain, is much better at discussing the latest high school gossip than Beatrice is.
Dinner being sent home on her behalf is a fresh development only a few months old though, new enough that Beatrice still hasn’t quite figured out how to feel about it.
Melanie, who has developed an unsettling ability to read her mind, faces her with a grin. “You know - “ she sing-songs, “Ava has a crush on you.”
Beatrice feels her cheeks heat up and turns the key in the ignition as an excuse to duck her head. “Adults don’t have crushes, Mel.”
“Weird, ‘cause Ava’s an adult and she has a crush on you. She asks about you all the time.” Mel turns to rifle through the CD cases in the door of the truck. “This car is a time portal, you know that? Nobody has CDs anymore.”
But she slides an Indigo Girls album into the slot anyway, and it makes Beatrice smile as they pull out into the road.
“I thought we could celebrate on Saturday night,” she suggests, “Go out for dinner, whatever you like.”
Mel is texting furiously but she looks up at this. Even after four years, her smile borders on cautious, “Take out? And we get to eat in front of the TV?”
Beatrice thinks mournfully of her blissfully unstained couch cushions, but there is no hesitation before she nods - her kid does not get into her dream school every day, after all.
*
When she looks up, Beatrice finds that the night is fully dark and she’s been working only in the blue light of her laptop screen for an indeterminate amount of time. Her stomach twists with hunger but she pauses to listen for the faint sounds of footsteps upstairs, Mel’s laughter as she talks on the phone with someone, the twang of music.
In the kitchen, she doesn’t bother to flip the light on, making her way to the fridge in the orange glow of the streetlights through the window instead. She takes out the dinner Ava sent for her, unwraps it and places it in the microwave. Then she stands, mesmerised, watching the digital clock count down the seconds.
A million years ago - six years ago - she worked in finance in the city, spent a decade clawing her way through promotions with long hours and ruthless, aggressive productivity. She gave it up and works at an auto shop across town now, finds more satisfaction in hearing the perfect turnover of an engine than she ever did in watching graphs bounce up and down a computer screen.
Still, lately she’s been doing a little bookkeeping for some of the businesses around town, trying to bring in a few extra dollars and send Mel off to college with as much as she can give her. It’s this she lost herself in working on tonight - time got away from her again. She raised her head and she is almost forty years old, her kid is about to go to college, she is watching dinner rotate in the microwave.
When it pings at last, she decants it into a bowl and eats it at the kitchen table, as per the rules that Mel half-heartedly rails against. She knows for a fact that the diner doesn’t serve chilli which means Ava must have made this herself at home, brought it to work and kept it in the refrigerator at the restaurant. It settles warm and filling in her stomach.
Remembering her manners - rather late, she’s willing to admit - she pulls her phone from her pocket with the intention of sending a thank you text, but finds a message from Ava already waiting for her. Behind the notification, her lock screen shows a picture of her and Mel at Pride last year. Beatrice is wearing an “I ❤️ My Trans Daughter” t-shirt and she remembers the way Mel smiled and cried and smiled some more when she put it on. She supposes this year might be the last Pride they spend together.
Ava’s message says, “Hope you’re proud AS HELL of your kid tonight AND YOURSELF. I know I am 🥳🥳🥳🥳”
In truth, Beatrice’s first instinct when they received the news that morning had been to text Ava, but she knew Mel would want to deliver it herself. She types out thank you, you should be proud too but deletes it almost immediately: the words seem inadequate.
Back when they first moved to town, when Beatrice was attempting to navigate the labyrinth of lawyers working to ensure she could keep guardianship of Mel and simultaneously figuring out how to be a parent to a terrified fourteen-year-old, Ava had given Melanie a soft place to land, a place to hang out after school without judgement, an adult who openly and voraciously supported her. She took her shopping for Homecoming dresses when it became clear that Beatrice was painfully out of her depth on that front and more than once, laid an easy hand on Beatrice’s arm and told her, “Hey, you’re doing good, you know that?”
None of that is easy to express in a text message though, and in the end, Beatrice settles on we couldn’t have done it without you . Still, it feels limp, silly. The words she needs though, the proper words, won’t come to her. Belatedly, she adds thank you for dinner .
*
In the lull between lunch and dinner, the diner is mostly empty when she arrives the next day. Ava is deep in conversation with Mel, leaning over the counter, but she straightens up when she sees Beatrice, smoothing her hair back with her hands.
Beatrice puts a hand on Mel’s shoulder and dips to kiss the top of her head, and when she turns back Ava is still smiling at her, the sunlight shining through the window falling on her face. The light travelled a hundred million kilometres to earth and happened to land here, across Ava’s cheekbones, over her lips and in her eyes. How lucky it must feel.
“Hi,” Beatrice says, like a fool. “I brought this back.”
She wonders now if instead of the empty, cleaned-out tupperware, she should have brought flowers. Flowers might have been the way to say what she can’t: thank you for helping my daughter. Thank you for helping me. Sometimes when you laugh I want to kiss the crease at the corner of your mouth.
But then, maybe she would be planting something too formally at the blurred borders of this friendship.
If Ava minds, then she doesn’t show it. She takes the tupperware and holds it there in between them for a moment, her grin bright and wide as she looks up at Beatrice. “Pretty good, right?”
“Very good,” Beatrice agrees, “Maybe you should be in the kitchen and not out here serving.”
Ava swells, bouncing up on her toes. “I can make it for you again. I mean, if you want. I don’t wanna - like - presume, but Mel said you’re always working so - “
Before Beatrice can reply with something stilted like I don’t want to impose , Mel says, “She is always working. And she can’t cook.”
“I can cook,” Beatrice protests.
Mel shrugs, “You make really good toast.”
“Maybe you can treat me to some great toast sometime,” Ava suggests with a grin.
“I like to think I could do better than toast.”
“Yeah?” Ava doesn’t quite say prove it , but there is a challenge in the way she raises her eyebrows and the smirk on her face that says it for her.
There is no opportunity for Beatrice to rise to meet her where she stands though, or else fail at the first hurdle. One of the other customers in the diner clears their throat loudly and calls out, “Excuse me, we’ve been waiting for our food for twenty minutes.”
Ava gives an apologetic shrug to Beatrice and Mel and steps out from behind the counter to speak to them. Never quite enough time, Beatrice thinks regretfully.
*
The forward momentum of spring has been stalled and there is a cold bite to the air by the time Saturday morning rolls around. It means very little to either Beatrice or Mel though: there is nothing more sacred in their household than weekend soccer matches.
Often, Beatrice feels like she doesn’t know much about parenting - her mother stopped speaking to her a decade ago, she didn’t attend her father’s funeral - but she has learned the importance of these weekly rituals. They wake up early and pour coffee into flasks while they’re still sleepy and yawning, then talk strategy with the radio turned low in the car ride to the pitch. Always, they’re the first two to arrive, and Beatrice helps her warm up, jogging laps and running drills until the rest of the team arrives.
She met Melanie for the first time when Mel was barely eleven, coaching a handful of kid’s teams back in their old town. That was before Mel’s parents made her unwelcome to stay with them, before it became clear she needed a new town and a fresh start. Although Beatrice doesn’t have the time to coach anymore, this has been solid and unchanging between them: even on the weeks when the games have been rained off, she and Mel are here, on the grass in the park, kicking a ball back and forth between them. She has not started to imagine the way her Saturday mornings are about to become stark and empty in a few short months, she doesn’t quite dare.
A scattering of parents have turned out for the match today, wrapped up in thick coats and shuffling their feet in the cold, but there is still plenty of space on the bench next to Beatrice by the time Ava lands on it.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, out of breath and hurried although the game has only just started, “Slept through my alarm. Did I miss anything?”
“Kicked off a minute or two ago,” Beatrice tells her, “You could have stayed in bed.” She tries not to think about the image of Ava wrapped up warm under her covers, one bare arm flailing for her phone alarm.
“No way,” Ava informs her with mock severity. “She’s not starting?”
“No.” Beatrice frowns as she points down to where Mel is sitting on the bench, “I’m not sure I like this new coach - Mel is their best defender.”
“Obviously,” Ava agrees easily, “Want me to go tell him to get his head out of his ass? I’m pretty feisty.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Beatrice laughs, “Maybe it’s best not to start a fight with the coach though.”
“I think I could beat him. And you can back me up, anyway.”
“You seem very confident in my abilities.”
“Sure I am.” Even through the thick jacket she’s wearing, Beatrice feels the individual press of each of Ava’s fingertips against her bicep. “You’re buff and you do martial arts.”
“Used to.”
“Used to, whatever.” Ava shrugs, “You think you could throw a guy across a soccer pitch?”
Beatrice snorts, “Doubtful.”
“Doubtful but not totally impossible.” A smirk is edging its way onto Ava’s face, “You think you could throw me?”
Ava’s hand is still on her arm, a barely there touch that burns away the cold. They’ve been here before, this maybe-flirting, but it still sends heat coursing through Beatrice’s chest.
“Depends on the context,” she says.
The laugh Ava gives is loud and Beatrice sees pink in her cheeks. When she looks away, back to the pitch, she catches Mel gazing up at them with undisguised curiosity.
*
“So,” Mel says the second she climbs into Beatrice’s truck.
She had played in the second half of the match and they eked out a win, although it seemed to Bea that it would have been much easier just to play Mel from the start. Maybe she’s a little biased though.
“You played well,” she tells her, “Your footwork was excellent.”
“Thanks.” Mel smiles, “But don’t change the subject.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a subject.”
Ava’s car pulls past them in the parking lot and she slows so she can lean out of the window, waving and giving a frantic thumbs up.
Mel laughs as she waves back and tells Beatrice, “I don’t get why you don’t ask her out.”
Beatrice shakes her head, edging the truck forward to pull out of the parking space and into the road behind Ava’s car. Through the rear window, she can see Ava bobbing her head along to whatever song she’s playing on the radio. When she glances back at Mel, she expects to see the familiar teasing smile, ready to rib her a little more, but Melanie’s expression is plain and earnest.
“Is it because of me?”
Beatrice barely has time to blink at her before she has to look back at the road, the combination of traffic and that question making her head spin.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Mel shrugs one shoulder, “You’ve never dated anyone since I moved in with you. Maybe you think I’ll be mad or upset or something. Or you don’t want to date with a kid around.”
Bea presses her lips together, her hands tight on the steering wheel, “I don’t think any of those things.”
“So, how come? Obviously you like her.”
“This is silly.”
She can’t see it with her gaze fixed on the road, but she can feel Melanie rolling her eyes next to her, can definitely hear her huff of impatience. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” Beatrice frowns, considers saying nothing and decides against it. She promised herself once, a long time ago, to be honest with Mel, and keeping her mouth shut now would feel like a lie.
When she was in high school, she didn’t date, really - all of her time was spent on homework and extracurriculars in a bid to get into college, and the thought of her parents finding out who she really wanted to date was too terrifying regardless. So it’s the first time that she really feels like a teenager with a crush when she says, “I do like her. But it’s more complicated than that.”
“Because of me.”
They come to a halt at a set of traffic lights and Beatrice leans back in her seat, runs a hand over her eyes. “In a sense, yes. But not in the way that you’re thinking. I don’t want to be distracted from you, from doing the best I can for you.”
She looks over to find Mel gazing intently back at her, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. “I’m doing good. Got into college, best player on the soccer team… it’s not the same as when we moved here.”
When Melanie was thirteen, Beatrice found her shaking in the locker room of their old soccer team. Her hair was so short that it half disappeared when Mel buried her head in her hands. It’s long now, grown far down past her shoulders. Beatrice reaches up and brushes it out of her eyes. Usually, Mel squirms and brushes her away, but she sits patiently this time, lets her do it.
Behind them, a car lays on its horn and Beatrice jerks her head around to find the light is green. Mel laughs as she hurriedly pulls away again, “Remember when you taught me to drive, you would not stop saying I should never take my - ”
“Eyes off the road, I know.” Beatrice laughs with a fond eye roll, “And you shouldn’t.”
“I didn’t, you did,” Mel points out, “Can I invite her to my celebration dinner tonight?”
Determined not to glance away from the road for even a second due to the cursed need to be a good role model, Beatrice struggles to judge from her voice alone where the question is related to the ‘you should ask her on a date’ line of interrogation. Still, it’s Mel’s dinner and it’s hard to say no to her.
“Alright,” she agrees, tapping one finger against the steering wheel. “But it’s late notice so don’t be disappointed if she has plans.”
*
Ava doesn’t have plans. She descends on their doorstep with unexpected punctuality at exactly seven o’clock, her cheeks flushed pink with the cold and clutching a bouquet of flowers like she’s terrified of dropping them. It is the first time she’s been to their house and Beatrice finds herself unexpectedly nervous, rubbing her palms on her jeans and wishing she had taken the time to vacuum for a second time.
“It’s okay I’m here, right?” Ava asks, looking up at her with wide eyes, “Mel said you were fine with it.”
“Of course.” Beatrice nods hastily, “I’m glad you came.”
Clearly, Mel feels none of the same tension, beaming as Ava hands her the flowers and nudging Bea with her elbow. “Get her a drink.”
Beatrice does as she’s told and by the time she returns from the kitchen any awkwardness has seeped out of the room, replaced with Ava and Mel’s excitable discussion about college parties.
“Your mom should know though, right?” Ava suggests as they settle onto the couch - Beatrice at one end, Ava at the other, Mel cross-legged in an armchair. “Since she’s actually been to college.”
“I didn’t really attend a lot of parties,” Beatrice admits with a frown, “I had a double major, I spent most of my time in the library.”
“You were a nerd.” Ava grins delightedly, “Knew it.”
“She still is,” Mel says, “You should see all the books in her room.”
Ava pushes her tongue into her cheek and bites back a laugh and Beatrice knows - just by the gleam in her eye - that she’s resisting the urge to make a joke about her bedroom .
Thankfully, her only comment is, “She’s just smart. We gotta respect that.”
They order Chinese food after that and Beatrice tries her best not to stare at her unstained couch cushions while they eat it, instead keeping her eyes fixed on the godawful rom-com Mel has insisted they watch. It features some sort of strong-jawed actor she is assured is very famous who spends much of his time shirtless and mooning after his sassy romantic interest, who has far better chemistry with her female best friend.
“I don’t understand the plot of this movie,” she declares approximately halfway through. She’s forgotten her couch cushions in favour of developing a scientific interest in figuring out the appeal of this film. “They’ve only known each other for two days and he thinks he’s in love with her? He doesn’t even know her. He only learned her name twenty minutes ago.”
“You have zero sense of romance.” Mel rolls her eyes, “It was love at first sight, that’s the whole point of the movie. He saw her in the train station and knew he wanted her.”
“I don’t know why filmmakers think train stations are so conducive to romantic scenes,” Beatrice complains, “They’re mostly just very stressful.”
Mel turns to Ava with a clear expression of can you believe this , “Will you tell her it’s romantic?”
“I dunno.” Ava shrugs, most of her attention on the chicken she’s trying to stab with a chopstick, “I’m kind of with Bea on this one. In my experience, love at first sight is sort of bullshit.”
There is a pause as both Beatrice and Melanie stare at her and she continues to make an attempt at spearing her chicken. When she finally looks up, she glances between them in confusion, “I’ve told you this story, right? When I got married?”
Beatrice feels the food she’s eaten turn over in her stomach, and she’s thankful that Mel manages to ask, “You’re married ?”
“Was married,” Ava corrects, pointing a chopstick at her, “When I was twenty-one. I met this guy and thought it was - you know - love at first sight, soulmates, all that stuff. We got married after like three months of knowing each other. He bought me a ring at Walmart and we went to the courthouse the same day.”
She grins triumphantly as she finally manages to grab hold of her chicken and pop it into her mouth.
“So what happened?” Mel asks.
Ava shrugs, “Living in his van got old pretty fast. I realised I mostly liked him because he had a mustache and played guitar. After a couple of years we said ‘hey, this isn’t working out’ and went our separate ways. Never saw him again. I’ve seriously never told you guys about this?”
“I think I’d remember,” Beatrice says.
“Huh. Well, anyway, I think love at first sight is fun in movies but I don’t think it’s real, probably. Now lust at first sight - “
“Child present,” Beatrice reminds her.
Mel rolls her eyes, “Barely.”
Ava laughs, “Okay, okay. The point is that good things are usually worth waiting for.” For a fraction of a second, she catches Beatrice’s eye and the corner of her lip turns upwards, then she looks away again, back at the television screen.
*
“Hey, so,” Mel says, almost the second the movie is over. “A couple of people who got their acceptance letters this week are hanging out tonight.”
Beatrice frowns, “A party?”
“Not a party,” Mel reasons, “Only a few people.”
Bea studies Mel’s face carefully, “Will they be drinking?”
Mel rolls her eyes, “Obviously not because we’re not old enough to drink. Can I take your car?”
Beatrice pretends she doesn’t hear the tiny snort of laughter Ava gives behind her.
“Will you be home by eleven?”
Mel huffs, “I’m seriously almost eighteen. I don’t need a bedtime.”
Beatrice crosses her arms over her chest.
“Midnight,” Mel bargains.
“Alright,” Bea agrees, “But call me if you need anything.”
“ Yes .” Mel has to juggle between pulling her phone from her pocket to text her friends and leaning in to kiss Beatrice on the cheek, but she manages it. “Thank you.”
She leaves in a whirlwind of distress over the clothes she’s wearing and the perfume she’s spraying all over the house, and then, although twenty minutes have passed, it seems like Beatrice and Ava are very suddenly left alone.
“Don’t feel as if you have to stay,” Bea tells her, turning away from the window where she watched Mel rumble away in her truck. “I know you were here for her dinner.”
Ava rocks back on her heels, her hands stuffed in the back pockets of her jeans. “Do you want me to go?”
Beatrice looks at her intently for a moment, trying to judge the weight of the question, if it’s as innocent as it seems or if there’s more to it. “No.” She remembers herself after a moment, “Would you like another drink?”
“Beer?” Ava asks.
“Sure.” Beatrice fetches the beer and a soda for herself, passing over the bottle and settling back on the couch. “I don’t like to drink when she’s out,” she explains when she sees Ava’s questioning glance, “Just in case.”
“Oh. I don’t have to - “
“It’s fine, really. Enjoy your beer.”
Ava flops back in her seat and brings the beer bottle to her lips, studying Beatrice over the top of it. “I guess it’ll be kind of weird for you when she’s gone.”
“It will.” Beatrice flicks her nail over the metal rim of the soda can, “But I’m excited for her. And a little terrified. As far as I can work out, being excited and terrified is the default state of parenting though.”
“She’s gonna do so good though,” Ava tells her with absolute confidence, “And we’ll go visit.”
Beatrice looks up at her, “We?”
“Well, yeah.” Ava nods emphatically, “You think I’m not going to take an excuse to do a six-hour road trip with you and go see one of my favourite people? Don’t even argue, there’s no getting out of it.”
“I wasn’t going to argue.” Beatrice laughs, “But I must warn you, I like to plan road trip itineraries down to the minute - including bathroom breaks. It drives Mel crazy.”
Ava taps her finger against her beer bottle thoughtfully, “Does that cover music choices and snacks?”
Beatrice shakes her head, “Not usually.”
“Okay good, because I take those extremely seriously.” Ava points her beer bottle dramatically at Beatrice, “Get ready to have your mind blown by the best road playlist you’ve ever heard.”
“You already have it made?” Beatrice asks.
Ava waves her away with one hand, “No, I just know it’s going to be the best. You gotta be confident in your talents.”
Beatrice laughs and, for the first time since Mel received her acceptance letter earlier that week, she feels the barest hint that there might be something to look forward to after she leaves.
Ava grins at her, pleased with herself, and after a moment she says, “You know, I think this is the first time we’ve been alone in a room together.”
It’s true, Beatrice realises, although being alone in a room certainly implies more than what they’re currently doing - sitting at opposite ends of the couch, even their knees too far apart to touch. “I suppose we’re always at the diner or a soccer match or something.”
“Yeah,” Ava agrees, “Do you think this was Mel’s plan?”
It hadn’t entirely escaped Beatrice’s notice that Mel’s sudden disappearing act aligned perfectly with Ava being in their house, but she doesn’t really believe she’s quite that devious - probably, at the very most, she viewed it as a lucky coincidence.
“I’m not sure she puts quite that much thought into my social life.” Beatrice shakes her head with a smile, “Her own takes precedence.”
Ava shrugs, “You’d be surprised. I think she’s worried about you.”
Disappointment sinks like a stone into Beatrice’s stomach. She spends most of her time trying to make sure Mel never has anything to worry about. “Did she tell you that?”
For a moment, Ava looks at her as though she’s trying to figure something out, then she says, “Yeah. She told me she doesn’t want you to be alone when she goes to college.”
“Oh.” Beatrice runs a tired hand over her eyes, “I’ll speak to her. She should be looking forward to college, not thinking about that.”
“She loves you,” Ava tells her gently, then, before Beatrice can fidget at the emotion in her voice, she adds, “Anyway, I told her I’m gonna come over and bug you all the time, make sure you eat and don’t kill yourself working. I’m going to drive you so crazy, just wait.”
Against all odds, Beatrice finds there’s a smile on her face, “You really don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. And you can’t stop me.”
“I wouldn’t even bother to try.”
“Good. Because now you’ve invited me into your house once I’ll just keep coming back - I’m like a vampire.”
“You make your company sound so appealing.”
“Yep. Like a rash you can’t get rid of.”
Beatrice glances away just to break the spell of Ava, leaning forward a little in her seat now, her eyes glinting in the glow of the living room lights. Mel’s words from that morning come back to her - I don’t get why you don’t just ask her out - and with Ava sitting there across from her, wearing mismatched socks with one knee propped up against her chest, she can’t think of a single reason not to.
“It would be nice to see more of each other,” she says, “With or… without Mel.”
Ava’s eyes roam over her face like she’s trying to read something there. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve been trying to see more of you for four years.”
Beatrice laughs, embarrassed, looking down at her hands, “I noticed,” she admits. “Or maybe I hoped. But with Mel and everything…”
“Bea.” Ava moves forward, close enough that her hand lands just short of Beatrice’s thigh. “I get it. I’m not trying to push. She’s the most important thing.”
“She is,” Beatrice agrees. “She thinks I should ask you on a date.”
Ava laughs out loud, suddenly, clearly caught off guard. “Well, yeah. Shit. I mean - you totally should. She doesn’t pull any punches, huh?”
Beatrice’s stomach swims with the admission, the words you totally should racing laps around her brain. “I’m not very good at this.” It seems suddenly urgent that she stress just how hopelessly out of her depth she is. “I haven’t been on a date in four years and even before that I wasn’t exactly Casanova.”
The hand that had been next to Beatrice’s leg drifts upwards, lands on her shoulder, and Ava’s thumb brushes over her shirt close to her collar. Ava feels very close, suddenly - Beatrice can see the changing shades of brown in her eyes, like autumn to spring, and feel the tickle of her breathing on her neck.
“I don’t care about that,” she says, her voice low, “I like you. I think you should ask me on a date.”
Beatrice’s eyes flicker down to her lips, “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”
Ava leans forward, but in the instant before their lips touch, the beer bottle she’s holding collides with Beatrice’s soda can and Bea has to fumble to stop it dropping out of her hand.
“Fuck.” Ava laughs, covering her eyes with her hand, “That was going to be so fucking smooth. You were gonna ask me, I was going to kiss you…”
Beatrice shakes her head with a smile, “Maybe neither of us are very smooth.”
She leans over to put her soda down on the coffee table and then takes the beer from Ava’s hands to put it down too. She moves forward and feels acutely the place where her knee bumps against Ava’s. “Can we try that again?”
“Yeah.” Ava nods quickly, her voice breathy, and her eyes follow the movement of Beatrice’s mouth as she leans closer. When their lips press together, she sighs, her fingers curling into the hem of Beatrice’s shirt.
Bea brings one hand up to cup Ava’s cheek and feels the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks, before Ava’s arms wrap around her neck to pull them closer together.
“Is that a yes?” Beatrice asks, still close enough to feel the brush of Ava’s lips against hers.
Ava laughs, “Obviously.”
*
The sound of a truck crunching onto the driveway outside takes both of them by surprise. Ava is curled into Beatrice’s lap, lithe and supple, her nose at the corner of her jaw as she kisses her neck.
“Shoot,” Beatrice curses, fumbling blindly for her phone to check the time with one hand, not quite ready to relinquish her grip on Ava’s hip with the other.
Inexplicably, it’s a couple of minutes past midnight - the past few hours of giggling and making out on the couch like teenagers have slid by without either of them even noticing.
“Mel’s home,” she says, taking in the sight of Ava, flushed and dishevelled.
“She must be the only seventeen-year-old in the world who comes home when she’s told to.” Ava half climbs and half tumbles out of Beatrice’s lap, smoothing out her shirt as she does.
“She’s sensible,” Beatrice says, standing as well and attempting to flatten down her collar. “You might want to - um - “
She reaches out to touch a stray strand by Ava’s ear - her hair is wild, still with distinct signs of having had Bea’s hands in it very shortly before.
“Shit, I’m gonna - “ Ava jerks a thumb towards the bathroom as they hear a key in the front door.
It opens while Beatrice is still fastening the top button on her shirt but, thankfully, Mel doesn’t seem to notice.
“Why are you just standing there?” she asks, dropping the car keys into the dish by the door, “Were you checking I got home on time?”
“No,” Beatrice says truthfully, “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah.” Mel is still eyeing her like she suspects something, “Where’s Ava? Her car’s still outside.”
“In the bathroom.” Beatrice isn’t quite able to meet her eye, fairly certain ‘I just spent the last three hours making out’ is written all over her face and that’s definitely not a conversation she wants to have with her teenage daughter.
“Alright, you’re being weird.” Mel informs her bluntly, “Can I have something to eat? I’m starving.”
“We only ate a few hours ago,” Beatrice points out, but leads her into the kitchen anyway, blinking at the familiar surroundings when she flips on the light as if, somehow, the layout of her house might have been changed just in the act of kissing Ava. “Toast?”
“Sure.” Mel hauls herself up to sit on the kitchen counter, watching Beatrice fetch the bread. Across the house, they hear the sound of the toilet flushing. “So, did you ask her?”
“Ask her?”
Mel rolls her eyes, “On a date.”
Beatrice feels her cheeks heat up and stares down at the bread as she puts it into the toaster, “Yes. We’re going to dinner.”
“Wait, actually?” Mel’s disbelief might be offensive if it wasn’t, also, completely fair, “Holy crap, when?”
“Language, Melanie.” Beatrice frowns. They hadn’t actually got around to discussing when they would go for dinner exactly - they’d been a little distracted by figuring out that Ava really liked it when Bea squeezed her ass.
“Wait.” Mel is staring at her intently now, and she jumps off the counter to come closer. “Oh my God.” She pokes at Beatrice’s cheek, “You have lip gloss on your face.”
“No I don’t,” Beatrice says, although the lie is slightly ruined when she scrubs at her cheek and discovers she does, in fact, have lip gloss on it.
It’s this moment that Ava chooses to slip back into the room, just as the expression on Mel’s face turns from curiosity to shock.
“That’s gross.”
Ava snorts, slipping an arm around Beatrice’s waist and leaning into her, “Be careful what you wish for, kid.”
Mel looks between them, shaking her head even as she struggles to suppress a smile. “You two are going to be so annoying, aren’t you?”
“Probably,” Beatrice says.
“Definitely,” Ava adds, squeezing Bea’s hip and grinning up at her.
“Alright.” Mel’s tone is agreeable, and before Beatrice needs to look at her to discern any signs of real discomfort, she tells Ava, “We’re making toast. You want some?”
“I could go for some toast.” Ava nods.
So the three of them stand there in the yellow light of the kitchen, watching the bread turn from white to golden inside the toaster. Beatrice wonders if she concentrates very hard, if she separates out the seconds, if she never looks at the ticking hand of the clock, whether she can stretch this moment out into hours.
There is a future lying in wait ahead of her, one blooming with possibilities, but just now she has the two people she cares for most on either side of her, the warmth of their voices enveloping her. Maybe the toast won’t ever be done, maybe she can stay here, just a little longer.