Live, Laugh, Love Gwen

“Oh, come on, Mel. She’s right, it’ll be fun!” 

Janine walks beside you, bright-eyed and sunny as you both trail behind Melissa.

“No,” Melissa huffs. She walks through the doorway of her classroom and sets a box on her desk, hand on her hip as she turns around to look at you both. “I don’t want a bunch of random jabronis in my house. I only talk to–like–six of youse on a regular basis, anyway.”

“But a party would be the perfect way to start the school year!” Janine presses. 

Jacob’s head pops in the door as he knocks on the frame. “Janine, can I get your help with something?”

“You wouldn’t have to pay for anything,” you say as Janine excuses herself. “I will supply everything–food, alcohol, music–you just supply the venue…please?”

Melissa’s eyes narrow and her lips purse. Beneath her sharp gaze, you can’t help the feeling of butterflies that churns in your stomach. The past six years have flown by quickly–six years of endless teasing, six years of Friday night Happy Hour at Rubenstein’s, and six years of teachers’ lounge Christmas traditions. They say time goes by fast when you’re having fun–but they say nothing about time when you’re completely and hopelessly lovesick. 

Melissa sighs. “I hate that I can’t say no to you. Fine–but you’re cleaning up too. And if anything goes missing, you’re payin’ for it.”

The rest of the day’s events unfold in…a strange way. 

When everyone gathers to take a picture with Gritty, you stand off to the side with Gregory awkwardly. Melissa eyes you suspiciously with a hand on her hip, “You don’t like Gritty?”

Your face warms. “Well–I–My family are Capitals fans.” You rush through your next words, taking your spot beside her. “But, I leave the rivalry in the arena, so sure, I’ll take a picture with Gritty.”

And before the camera can take the picture, she leans in and mutters, just quiet enough for you to hear, “Good girl.”

Eventually, everyone’s back in the library. Veteran teachers share words of wisdom and Jacob and Janine insist everyone partner up and answer New York Time’s 36 questions–that are supposed to make you fall in love with your significant other.

You and Melissa sit in a corner together, watching as everyone gives thoughtful answers to the questions.

“This is stupid,” Melissa mumbles. “Look at this–‘What do you value most in a friendship?’. Oh, here’s another one–‘How do you feel about your relationship with your mother?’”

“Well, how do you feel about your relationship with your mother, Mel?” you ask, smiling as you take a drink from your cup of store-brand soda.

“That’s between me and my mother,” she says, but you can see the corner of her mouth twitch. 

In truth, you don’t care how stupid the questions are. You want to know every bit and piece there is to know about Melissa Schemmenti. You want to know what she values in a friendship. You want to know what her most treasured memory is. You want to know what roles love and affection play in her life.

But you know there’s no chance in Hell. Not when she has her vending machine guy wrapped around her finger. 

So, instead you’ll settle for pining silently and re-downloading Hinge for the third time this year. 

Friday night approaches quickly. By the time you get to Melissa’s house, Barbara is already there.

“I thought I’d help set up,” she says, taking a sip from her glass of wine.

You set four bags of catering down on the kitchen counter, along with a tote bag of unopened bottles of alcohol and mixers. “Oh, thank you, Barb! You don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense,” she says, taking out an aluminum foil pan from one of the catering bags. “I insist.”

By ten o’clock, the party is in full swing. The music is loud, a math teacher designated herself as the bartender, and you’re watching a third round of beer pong on Melissa’s dining room table. 

As you stand there, watching Ava absolutely destroy Jacob in beer pong, Melissa comes up to you, plastic cup in hand. “I can’t lie, this party is pretty great, hon.”

You take a sip of your own drink and smile. “I went to a party school. I know a thing or two.”

“Well, I feel like I’m back in college,” she chuckles. “You did good.” And with that, she leaves you with a pat on your shoulder.

A game of Never Have I Ever breaks out, and soon you’re on the tiled floor of Melissa’s living room in between Janine and Jacob.

Janine grins as she thinks hard. “Okay…Never have I ever…had a one-night stand.”

“Ugh, ya’ll are so childish,” Ava groans, rolling her eyes and taking a drink.

Multiple teachers drink–including you and Melissa. Janine’s mouth opens in shock as she looks at you. “You’ve had a one-night stand?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, feeling Melissa’s eyes burning into you. “You haven’t?”

Janine scoffs. “Obviously not. Now, spill the tea.”

Your head rolls back and you sigh. “Okay, fine.” You make a pointed effort to avoid Melissa as you reluctantly share the brief details of your one-night stand. “She was my scene partner in my musical theatre capstone project. We went out to one of the local bars after our final show, she took me back to her apartment, and I left before she woke up. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Wait, musical theatre?” Melissa says.

You can’t help the smile that grows on your lips. “I was a musical theatre and elementary education double major.”

“Nerd,” she mumbles, smirking into her cup.

“You left before she woke up?” Jacob says. “That’s cold. Commitment issues?”

“I dunno, Jacob,” you say, exasperated. “Maybe it’s the disorganized attachment style. I’m working on it in therapy.”

“Okay, I wanna go next!” Jacob’s practically dancing where he sits. “Never have I ever…gotten back together with an ex.”

You drink. Janine’s jaw drops once again and Jacob snickers.

“She’s a lesbian, what do you expect?” Ava says (also taking a drink). “Alright, my turn. Never have I ever…gone to a red carpet event.”

Nobody drinks but her.

“Ava,” Janine says, “what red carpet event did you go to?”

“The Grammy’s,” she answers, looking entirely smug. “Look up ‘Ava Coleman’ on Getty Images. You’ll find the pics.”

The party begins to die down around two. Barbara–in her sea form–is being walked out by Gerald, Janine gets a ride home from Zach and Jacob, the camera crew leave, and eventually, by three-thirty, you’re left alone with Melissa.

Your head is still a little fuzzy from the numerous drinks you had, but you can feel yourself sobering up quickly. You hold a large garbage bag as you go around and shove empty cans and plastic cups and paper plates inside. When you’re back in the kitchen, you see Melissa, hair pulled back as she cleans the kitchen.

“Oh, you don’t have to help clean up,” you say quietly.

She waves her hand. “Nah, it’s fine, hon. It’s my kitchen–I’ve cleaned it hundreds of times. What’s one more?”

The clock on the mantle ticks as you sit on the plastic-covered couch. You can feel your eyes become heavier, but somehow, even at four in the morning, you feel wide awake. The TV turns on and when you turn your head Melissa is standing behind the couch with the remote.

She takes a seat beside you and the sound of a rustling bag grabs your attention. When you look down, your eyebrows scrunch. “Is that taffy?”

Melissa nods. “I got it in Jersey when I went with Gary.” 

Your stomach sinks at the mention of him, but still, you smile and reach for a piece. “Well, salt water taffy is one of my favorite candies.”

“Really?” she asks, unwrapping a piece.

You nod. “Reminds me of when I was a kid and we’d go to St. Michaels and Ocean City. I don’t eat crab unless I’m in Maryland.”

Melissa chuckles as she turns on some random movie. “Well, that’s very hoity-toity of you.”

“No, it’s not,” you gasp, unwrapping another piece. “I think it’s very reasonable to only wanna eat crab in the state that’s known for crabs.”

You both sit side-by-side, watching the movie in silence and eating pieces of taffy.

“Y’know, this was a great party,” Melissa says. “Really. I’m glad I let you do this.”

“Please, this party was nothing,” you say, popping another piece of taffy into your mouth. “You should’ve seen me in college–especially after football games. My friends and I had a house on campus that was close to Frat Row. We’d have house parties all the time. It helped that the liquor store was within walking distance.”

Melissa laughs and then sighs. “Oh, I miss college. I was out all the time. Slept with a lot of people…”

You hum. “What do you think is your favorite memory from college?”

“Oh, God,” she laughs, unwrapping a piece of taffy. “I dunno if I can remember that far back, hon. Jeez, lemme think…” 

Her face lights up quickly. “Oh, there was this one time I dressed as an employee at one of the college bars and snuck in–I had my skimpy goin’-out clothes on underneath and trashed the employee uniform in the bathroom. Oh! And one of my friends dressed as a bouncer and took everyone’s cover charge, so we didn’t have to spend a cent of our own money on drinks for–like–the rest of the semester.”

In your head, you can’t help but imagine a 21-year-old Melissa sneaking into a college bar through the back door, and knowing her today, it isn’t hard.

“This one time,” you begin, “at my friend’s birthday, her roommate and I stayed up after everyone else left or went to bed. And we both wanted McDonald’s and it was almost five in the morning, but we were still super drunk. So, instead of driving–because we were responsible–we walked to the McDonald’s on the other side of campus at seven in the morning to get breakfast.”

“You walked to the other side of campus while drunk, just for a lousy breakfast sandwich?” she gawks. 

“It was–like–a half-hour walk,” you say. “It wasn’t terrible. But we sobered up while eating, so the walk back was excruciating. But in that state of drunkenness, it was the best damn breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had.”

Your chest flutters when you hear Melissa laugh. You take another piece of taffy and unwrap it. “What would be the perfect day for you?”

Melissa turns to face you. “Is this from that New York Times question list that Jacob tried to have us answer.”

You smile. “Maybe…I still have the questions pulled up on my phone.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “A perfect day for me…I’d definitely get to sleep in–preferably until the sun has fully risen. The day would probably involve bottomless mimosas–and going to an Eagles game. I dunno…I’ve never really thought about it. What about you, hon?”

“The perfect day for me…” You think hard. “...Would start off with sleeping in, of course. I’d be with my brothers and our dad’s side of the family in D.C. and we’d have my aunt’s Belgian waffles for breakfast. Then, we’d take the Metro into the city and go see the museums for the millionth time–oh, and it’d be December, so the city is decorated for Christmas. And then, we’d go to a home Capitals game–preferably against the Flyers, and of course, we’d win.” 

You giggle as she groans and makes a sound of disgust. “And after that, we’d take the Metro back home and decorate gingerbread houses and watch a movie.”

Melissa silently thanks God that the lighting in the room is dim, because she swears she feels her cheeks grow pink. “Alright, let me see these questions. It’s my turn.” When you hand her your phone, she reaches for glasses and slips them onto her nose, scrolling through the page. “Mm–here’s a good one. Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

You sigh. “I think my biggest dream was to end up on Broadway.”

“I’ve heard your pipes at karaoke,” Melissa says. “Why didn’t you go through with it?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, reaching for another piece of taffy. “I guess I felt more useful going into teaching. There are plenty of artists out there already, but not nearly enough teachers. I would love to start a theatre club, or something along that line, at Abbott.”

“I think that’d be great,” she chirps. “I mean–I have no idea where you’d get the funding, but I think the kids would love it.”

“I was their age when I was first introduced to theatre,” you say quietly. “They don’t have every opportunity I did at that age, but I want them to at least have the opportunity to find what they’re passionate about.”

Your phone is passed back and forth as you answer the questions. Every answer she tells you drags you further and further down, and you know that you’re done for. 

And then, she hits the nail in the coffin.

“If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?” she asks, reading off the phone.

Your heart races–from how close she is to you, from the way her free hand seems to mindlessly rest on your knee, from the question she just asked you and the first response that pops into your head.

You think over your response carefully. “I would regret not telling someone how I feel about them…”

“And how do you feel about them?” she asks–too casually.

And you could swear you saw her eyes flicker to your lips.

“A little–a lot more than platonic,” you chuckle. “I think I would regret not being able to tell them that I am…hopelessly in love with them and have been for the past…few years…”

“And why haven’t you told them?” she asks, her voice quiet and eyes knowing.

You hesitate and suddenly you realise just how sober you are now. “Because they’re a close friend and I don’t wanna risk losing that.”

“Mhm…” Melissa’s eyes search your face. “And what if they feel the same?”

You snicker. “If they do, they’re pretty damn good at covering it up.”

“Well, I’ve always thought Barb is good at keeping secrets,” Melissa shrugs.

Your eyebrows scrunch and you’re taken aback. “Wait, what? Barbara? No, Melissa, I’m–” 

And then your phone is on the cushion and she’s wearing a shit-eating grin as her hand tightens over your thigh. Your shoulders slump and you exhale. “Oh…”

“You’re not subtle, hon,” she says, her grin turning into a soft smile. “Not one bit.”

One hand gently holds your jaw and you feel her lips skim over your cheek. Wrappers crinkle beneath your motions and you feel your breath stutter as her lips get closer to yours. And before you can give in entirely, you pull away.

“Melissa, you’re in a relationship,” you mutter. “I can’t–”

“We broke up in July,” she says.

You pause, eyes wide. “Wh–You broke up in July? Why?”

Her thumb strokes over your jaw and she shrugs. “We wanted different things. He wanted marriage, and I wanted you.”

The way she said it so casually–so flippantly, as if it’s something she’s said a hundred times before, and as if it wasn’t what you’ve been dying to hear since you realized how you feel.

And suddenly, nothing matters anymore, because you’re pulling her in before she can get another word out. She tastes like salt water taffy and red wine. Your hands grasp at her shirt, trying to steady yourself in the heat of the moment.

Six years.

You’ve known this woman for six years.

Six years of teasing, six years of her bringing you leftovers for lunch, six years of happy hour at Rubenstein’s, six years of slowly getting to know this woman and six years of realizing you’re slowly falling in love with her.

Barbara finds out a week later. The three of you are in the teachers’ lounge and it’s devoid of all other teachers and staff. You’re quiet, all of you focusing on grading or lesson plans–or Fantasy Football rosters–and then Barbara clears her throat expectedly. 

Melissa looks up through her glasses. “Can we help you, Barb?”

“Yes,” she says, smiling. “You can help me figure out why you two haven’t told me about your multiple rendezvous since the party.”

You choke on your coffee. “What?”

Melissa sighs, closing her eyes. “Rendezvous?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at each other,” Barbara says, eyeing you both. “That party did not end with ‘just cleaning up’ like you told me, Melissa.  And you both canceled on Happy Hour last Friday. Don’t think you can pull a fast one past me.”

“Okay, fine.” Melissa surrenders immediately. “But it’s not dating.”

“Nope,” you agree, even though it hurts to say. “Haven’t made anything official.”

Melissa searches for words. “It’s more casual than ‘rendezvous’, Barb.”

Barbra eyes you both suspiciously. “Mhm…Well, you two clearly don’t want it out in the open. Your secret is safe with me.”

By the second week of September, you have a mountain of grading–and lucky for you, Melissa does too. You’re sitting at your desk, stomach growling as five o’clock approaches, when there’s a knock on the door frame of your classroom.

When you look over, Melissa is strutting in with a plastic bag and a folder thick with ungraded assignments.

“I got dinner,” she says, setting the bag down and pulling a chair up beside you. “Two hoagies, two bags of chips, and two drinks.”

“Thank you,” you say, and accept a soft kiss in return. “That was dangerous,” you giggle. 

“Nah,” she says, brushing it off. “Camera’s aren’t here, hon. It’s fine. Besides, you’ve had a long day.”

“You’re right,” you sigh. “A long day, completely devoid of kisses.”

Melissa places another kiss on your lips. “It’s too bad we have this mountain of grading.” Her voice is low and gravelly in your ear, and you can feel the heat in your gut. “Otherwise I’d take you home and fuck you so hard, you forget about the whole day.”

She opens her folder of assignments casually–like she didn’t just cause your brain to short circuit. Then she turns back to you again. “Actually, I have an idea.”

You narrow your eyes. “What is it?”

“For every two assignments graded,” Melissa says, leaning in close, “you’ll get one kiss.”

You reach for your best red pen and click it with a bright smile. “Well, this is going to go by very fast.”

You’re on kiss five when a throat clearing startles you both. Pulling away quickly, you feel your cheeks heat up when you see Mr. Johnson standing in the doorway.

He says nothing, only leaning down and taking the bag out of your trash can. And he says nothing as he leaves too, whistling as the two of you sit at your desk, cheeks warm with embarrassment. 

As the weeks go on, your chest gets tighter and tighter. Every kiss, every moan, every swipe of her tongue over yours brings the question further and further to the front of your mind.

And now, you’re naked in her bed, with a death grip on the pillow beneath you and her head between your legs. Your chest heaves as you come down from your high, lips twitching into a subtle smile as she kisses up your body.

The second you feel her lips over yours, you let out a sigh and the rest of the tension from your body leaves. Melissa pulls you in close, sprinkling kisses all over your face and neck before leaving one last on your lips. 

It’s quiet for a while and your mind wanders. You can feel the words on the tip of your tongue, begging to come out, begging for you to ask her to make this relationship exclusive.

And it’s like the words have a mind of their own because suddenly your mouth is open and you’re talking. “Mel, can I ask you something?”

She lets out a hum and you turn over before sitting up. You look down at her and you feel more vulnerable than you ever have been, fingers picking at the duvet and pulling it closer to you. Your mouth opens, but your throat tightens and the words get stuck.

“I–Um–Okay, I know that you’re not–Umm–”

You have no idea why your voice is so meek, and you have no idea why you’re practically choking on the words. And then your eyes water and you’re even more confused, because why are you starting to cry?

You try to continue, but your voice is thick and almost unintelligible through the tears. “I know that you said we’re casual, and I know I agreed to it too and I’m fine with it, but I–Okay–It’s fine if you don’t want to, but–”

Melissa sits up, confused but there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Hon, why are you crying?”

“I don’t know!” you sob. “This has never happened before!” You take in a deep, shaky breath. “I wanna be–Oh, God!”

“You wanna be exclusive?” she asks slowly.

“Yes!” you cry, wiping your eyes. “I wanna be exclusive–while naked and crying in your bed!”

Melissa laughs and pulls you in close. The feeling of skin-to-skin and the smell of her perfume lets you relax as you bury your head into her neck in shame. Her hand rubs over your back and you sigh.

“Wow, you were not lyin’ about that disorganized attachment style,” she mutters into your hair, and you can’t help the watery laugh that escapes your lips. She sighs and you hear her tsk. “I can’t lie, hon, I kinda assumed we were already exclusive.”

You sit up, an exasperated look in your tired, puffy eyes. “What? So I’ve been making myself sick over this for nothing?”

Her hand holds your chin and she flashes a half smile at your pout. “How about you go take a shower and I’ll make you some of that garlic bread you like, and we can turn on a movie and have a glass–or several–of wine?”

Your vision is still clouded by tears, but you giggle anyway.  “Okay.”

Larissa should be there with you, you think, and tears of exhilaration blur your eyes as you reach for your phone with trembling hands. 

You pause.

You should tell her in person — she’ll be elated. You could surprise her, come home early, have dinner waiting for her when she gets home from work. The conference is suddenly the farthest thing from your mind — you’ll say you got sick or something, it wouldn’t even technically be a lie, as it’s been a challenge to keep your breakfast down all week. 

Booking a flight is hard with how hard you’re shaking but you manage. You’ll fly home the following morning and take a taxi from the airport — if all goes to plan you’ll be home well before Larissa finishes work. The hardest part of your plan is staying calm when you call Larissa before bed that night, not telling her you’re coming home, not telling her you’re pregnant. Luckily for you, you don’t have to keep up the facade for long — she’s not feeling well and cuts the call short to go to bed, and you tell her that you hope she sleeps well. You know you won’t get a wink of sleep. 

~~~

Trees whizz by outside the window of the taxi, butterflies of excitement bat their wings against your ribcage. You feel like a teenager about to pick up their date for prom, a small bouquet of Larissa’s favorite flowers from a flower stand in the arrivals hall clutched in your clammy palms, faint remnants of nausea from your morning sickness belying the drive. 

You’re grateful for the hours you still have before Larissa gets off work, you’re going to need the time to calm down a bit and figure out exactly how you’re going to tell her. As the taxi turns onto your road, however, you realize you might not get much time at all — Larissa’s car is parked in the driveway, right next to yours. Your brow crinkles and you frown, you’d texted with Larissa before your flight and she hadn’t mentioned staying home sick or anything like that.

“It’s that one.” You point to your house and the driver stops the taxi at the shoulder of the road and gets out to help you with your suitcase. You thank him absentmindedly and drag it up the driveway, fishing around in the pocket of your coat for your keys. Unlock the door, step into the house, close the door, drop your bag to the floor.

“Babe?” you call out cautiously, wandering down the front hall towards the living room.

“Darling?” Larissa appears in front of you, in the process of wrapping her robe around herself, clutching the silk to her breasts in a white-knuckled grip. Her hair is mussed, long, platinum curls cascading messily over her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights, and you frown at her. “You’re home early.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you joke, though your voice falters a bit. 

Larissa’s gaze drops to the flowers clutched in your left hand. The stems are starting to feel mushy from how tightly you’ve been holding them with sweaty palms. Usually her eyes light up when you get her flowers, the gesture always brings a beaming smile to her face, makes her crinkle her nose. This time, however, her face twists into an unreadable expression and her shoulders tense visibly, one hand nervously smoothing over her hair. 

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, her voice hoarse. “Have I forgotten an anniversary?”

You falter — you both know that you’re the one who’s prone to forgetting important dates, Larissa is the one who always has everything under control. 

“No… no, you haven’t forgotten anything, I just…” 

Of all the ways you pictured this afternoon going, Larissa reacting like this wasn’t even an option, and now you’re starting to second guess everything, from coming home early to how and when you should drop the news of your pregnancy. 

“Riss? Who are you talking to?”

Larissa freezes, her eyes snapping shut, her throat bobbing as she swallows. A young woman walks into the living room, coming from the direction of the bedroom. Her short, black hair is just as mussed as Larissa’s and she has your robe tied securely around her waist. 

It takes every ounce of strength and restraint in you not to empty the contents of your stomach onto Larissa’s bare, pedicured feet. It’s as if you’re suddenly standing in some sort of tunnel, the silence around you ringing loudly, your vision going black at the edges, a bottomless pit opening up in your stomach. 

And Larissa isn’t doing anything. She’s just standing there, still as stone, eyes closed, as if pretending you’re not there could teleport you away. 

You don’t realize you’ve dropped the flowers until they hit the ground at Larissa’s feet and cause her eyes to open. Then they meet yours and you finally recognize the emotion that you couldn’t name before. 

Guilt.

“Larissa?” you ask, or at least you mean to — you’re not sure you’ve actually said anything aloud.

“Sweetheart, I’m s–”

“You said you were getting divorced,” the other woman pipes up, sounding hurt, as if she has any right to, and that knocks the rest of the air clear out of your lungs.

“We’re what?” 

Larissa pinches the bridge of her nose. “Charlotte, I think it’s time you leave.”

“No.” 

Your answer seems to surprise Larissa, and she falters. “Darling, what do you–”

“Don’t fucking call me that, Larissa.” The anger is taking over, thoughts of your baby forgotten for the moment. “Why don’t you let Charlotte stay — I’m already packed, I’ll go. She’s already wearing my fucking clothes, anyway.”

The momentum from your anger propels you into motion as you turn on your heel, ignoring Larissa’s protests as you tear back down the hall, fumbling with your bag, dropping it, shoving the spilled contents back inside, opening the door and pushing your suitcase out onto the driveway. 

Maybe getting in your car with tears blurring your eyes is the wrong move. Maybe not telling Larissa about your — her — baby on the phone last night was the wrong move. Maybe not hearing her out is the wrong move. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe you were wrong for ever trusting her or thinking she loved you back. The only thing you’re sure is that you need to get the hell away from her, for you and your baby.

You don’t look in the rearview mirror.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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