Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She’s doing it again. 

Sterling’s best friend has like, almost zero bad habits. In fact, Sterling would say that her best friend is almost completely perfect. Sure, sometimes she clasps her hands in her lap instead of joining hands with the Wesleys’ for prayer before digging into their weekly family dinners. And yeah, sometimes she spaces out when Sterling’s talking, so Sterling will have to repeat herself. And okay, sometimes she leaves abruptly with barely an explanation. It’s cool, Sterling can deal with that. They’ve known each other forever. 

But it drives Sterling crazy when April Stevens chews on her pen cap. It’s one of the least “proper” things April does, and she’s been doing it ever since they started high school together two years ago. The pen chewing didn’t always bother her. It was just this thing April did, engrossed in studying or homework, thinking, always thinking. 

Something’s shifted recently, though. Now, when April chews her pen, Sterling’s face gets hot and there’s a weird pressure in her stomach. It’s not unlike how she feels when she and Blair watch a movie and there’s a scene with the main characters getting to know each other in the biblical sense. Maybe this feeling is even a little stronger than that. 

It doesn’t make sense. The scenes filmed with the tight close-ups, two bodies pressed together, the expanse of smooth skin and the soft panting—that leaves something to Sterling’s imagination, there’s anticipation there. She can imagine herself, has imagined herself in that scenario. 

This? The tip of a pen in her best friend’s mouth, the best friend she’s known since the third grade… What could her libido possibly glean from that? Seriously! She should find it downright unsanitary how April is nibbling at the tip while she carefully reads a problem, dragging her tongue along it as she’s mulling over the answer, and—

“What?”

Sterling blinks rapidly, taking in the rest of the room. April’s on her stomach in Sterling’s bed, feet kicked up in the air as she works on this evening’s homework assignment. She has always been most comfortable doing homework here. She has always been most comfortable doing mostly anything here. 

April’s looking up at Sterling with a snarky glint in her eyes, flashing one of those smug, crooked grins. Sterling loves how that grin has only increased in confidence over the years they’ve known each other. Sterling loves a lot of things about April. 

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with her?

After a few more seconds of silence, April’s face falls. “Sterl? You okay?” She covers Sterling’s hand with her own, and this finally shakes Sterling from her stupor. 

“Wha-uh? Yeah! I’m great! Super, totally great!” It’s a lot. It’s hot in here. Did her dad turn the thermostat up this evening? It’s not even cold outside, it’s literally September, so if anything she should be cold with the AC blasting. Should she find a hoodie just in case? Better safe than sorry, she’d hate to be hit with a wall of cool air out of the—

April squeezes her hand, eyeing her quizzically. “Are you sure? You’ve been dissociating in my general vicinity for like, five minutes.”

Sterling can’t pinpoint exactly when April’s big, concerned eyes and warm, comforting touch gained the power to render her a blubbering, blushing mess, but it’s highly inconvenient. April is her safe space. If April is making her heart race rather than calm, Sterling… isn’t sure how to deal with that. 

“I- I’m- Yeah, I’m good. It’s like, a little hot in here, but I might just need to go downstairs and adjust the- the temperature thingy. Thermostat! Yes, sorry, gosh, the heat might be melting my brain?”

April uses her free hand to adjust the neck of her sweater. “Really? I find it rather cool…” She stops, eyes widened, scrambling to sit up. “Oh my God, Sterling, are you coming down with something? Sterling! We tell each other when we’re not feeling well. We spend way too much time together not to take precautions when the other is feeling unwell. Do you need acetaminophen to reduce your fever? Shall I go downstairs and prepare some herbal tea?” She presses one hand to the side of Sterling’s neck while the back of the other checks Sterling’s forehead for any excess heat. 

Oh, Jesus. Oh, crap. This is not the commotion Sterling wanted to cause. April’s panic weirdly, as always, has a calming effect on her. When April panics, Sterling can be the calming presence. When Sterling panics, April assumes the role. That’s the way it is. Blair jokes that the world would probably implode if there were any simultaneous panic. 

So it makes it easy to gently pull April’s hands away, give one a quick peck, and offer a smile. “A, really, I’m fine. Love you for caring, love you for checking in.”

April flushes pink, so she must finally be feeling the hot air coming through the vents, too. 

“Okay, you’re obviously warm too, so I’m gonna go check the AC.” Sterling hops off the bed, heading out. She turns back in the doorframe. “You gonna be alright while I’m gone?”

April scoffs. “Please, Sterl, I practically live here. I’ll manage.”

“Let me be a polite hostess!”

April sticks out her tongue, and Sterling runs out the door and away from any further thoughts of her best friend’s tongue anywhere near, on, or in her. 

***

Blair intercepts her before she even reaches the stairs. 

“Are you and Stevens done being nerds yet? You know it’s fucking zombie murdering time.”

It’d taken Sterling a while to adjust to Blair referring to April as “Stevens.” Up until Blair joined the lacrosse team in freshman year, April was simply “April” or “Munchkin” or “Second Sister of Mine.” Post-lacrosse, Blair only called her “Stevens.” Probably because her teammates referred to each other by last name only. Probably because this was Blair’s way of showing April they were, like, equals. Teammates or something. 

Much like doing homework and quietly enjoying each other’s company is Sterling and April’s nightly ritual, playing video games to decompress is Blair and April’s.

Sterling knows for a fact that April has some anger to let out, specifically from the mounds and mounds of pressure her dad puts on her, so video games are an excellent outlet. And Sterling’s happy just to watch. With April’s eyes blazing, completely focused on the screen, an intensity so palpable reaches deep into Sterling’s gut and tangles up all her signals. Like, sometimes her gut will tell her it would be perfectly acceptable to lean over and kiss the lip April’s been worrying between her teeth. It would be a terrible, maybe even catastrophic idea to oblige that signal, but still. 

“Nah, I’m just going to check if we need to crank up the AC. We’re getting kinda warm.”

“Um, Sterl? It’s like the Arctic in here. Me, personally? Freezing my tits off. Why do you look like you did when we watched Fifty Shades?”

Frick. Literally why had she agreed to watch that with Blair? Ugh. That smirk tells Sterling there’s no escape. She can’t keep anything from Blair. 

“Urghh, come on!” They kinda trip over a few steps on the way down as she drags Blair by the wrist all the way into the kitchen. She leans against the counter, studying the granite, the centerpiece, anything but the topic at hand. Sterling’s nails seem awfully interesting. Maybe she needs to go get them done? A nice baby blue, perhaps, or a sea foam green might be fun to vibe with the end of summer…

“Well? Are you just gonna leave me hanging?!”

Right. 

“I’m having… thoughts.” Or, like, a peachy color could be cute?

She looks up at Blair who’s gaping at her, blinking slowly. “Congratulations on achieving… basic… human functions?”

Sterling groans, knowing she definitely has to elaborate. “Okay, so… ugh, how do I even say this? It’s so weird and gross. It’s weird and gross, right?”

“…I don’t know, because you have not told me yet.”

“Right, so April does this thing—“

“Oh man, it’s such a riot when she does things!”

“Blair!”

“True, sorry, doing the zip of the lip.” She mimes just that. 

“Thank you. Okay, as I was saying…” Sterling really isn’t going to be able to get this out, is she? Here goes nothing (or everything), in one breath: “April does this thing, and at first I thought it was kinda gross but just like, a quirk of hers, so whatever, it helps her think, maybe. But now she does it and I feel warm and tingly and breathless and also maybe like I’m gonna pass out? What does it mean?” Blair is still staring at her. “Oh, you can speak now.”

Blair makes it a whole thing to mime unzipping her lips. “Sterling?”

“Yes?”

“You still haven’t told me what the thing is.”

“Oh.” Sterling feels very stupid. “She chews her pen.”

“Oooooh, oral fixation. Sterl, I didn’t know you were into that!”

Sterling smacks Blair’s arm. “Not like that!”

“Sounds a lot like that, my sweet twinny twin.”

“Wait, where are mom and dad?” Sterling asks, suddenly feeling self conscious of where this is going. 

“Dad’s whittling ducks, mom’s out for a mani-pedi.”

Dang, Sterling would have gone with her if she knew!

“So she sucks on the pen, and you wish it were…”

Sterling tilts her head, not sure how to finish Blair’s thought. 

“Your nipples?” Blair’s eyes are wild, obviously teeming with more dirty thoughts like, “Ooh, or your clit!”

“Blair, have you been watching porn?” Sterling whispers the last word, thoroughly scandalized. 

“It’s educational!”

“It’s mostly degrading for all the women involved.”

“Yeah, which is why I only watch videos from the porn for women category.”

“I don’t think that really means… nevermind. We got way off track. Are you saying these thoughts are…?”

“Super normal, Sterl. I had similar thoughts last year, went and touched a boob about it.”

“And…?”

“Eh. Not for me. Still on the quest for the D, little sis.”

“You’re only three minutes older than me!” Sterling huffs. “Wait, whose boob?”

“Oh, one of the girls in that Satanist cult. Pretty nice, actually. The girl and the boobs.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, so go touch Stevens’ boobs about it.”

“I think this is more than an experimental boob grab, Blair.”

“Duh. You’re definitely in love with her.”

Every single one of Sterling’s thoughts screech to a halt, even the ones about her nail color choices. This one, this absurd, absolutely impossible thought is the only one that matters. “Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa. Who said anything about in love with? I might have, like, a little crush, but like you said, it’s normal!”

“Mmmm, no, Sterl.” Blair pats her hand and gives her a look that’s not too far from the church lady oh, bless your heart look. “You’ve been in love with Stevens for a looooooong time now.”

“I… no, no way, nuh uh, no sir-ee Blair.”

“Yes sir-ee, Sterl.” Blair nods slowly. “I clocked it in the sixth goddamn grade.”

Memories, memories stretching five years back, swim to the surface of Sterling’s mind. Yeah, they were already best friends before then, inseparable, but the sixth grade did mark a change between them. 

April started coming over more often, mostly because they were paired together on so many projects when they were in middle school. It was just easier for her to be around more often than not. Her parents got antsy about it because they didn’t want it to be too much, for it to turn into another Adele Meisner situation—Sterling’s heart still breaks for the baby second-grade April she never knew—but her own parents had assured the Stevenses that April was fine, she was welcome anytime, and they would never raise a fuss about it. There was an unspoken your reputation is safe that they seemed to respond to. And from there, April was easily, so so easily integrated into the Wesley family. 

So they had their family dinners, and their family game nights, and their family outings, and their… Sterling-and-April-exclusive sleepovers with… platonic… cuddling… and- and handholding, and inno- innocent cheek kissing… and- and sometimes their necks would get tense from studying, so there would be massaging…

And with… with the level of trust they’ve been building over the years, the love and the care and the…

And it- it’s not like Sterling’s been with anyone else. Like, yeah, maybe some awkward movie dates with clammy-handed boys who tried to kiss her with far too much tongue, but never anyone she cared enough to pursue further. It never in a million years occurred to her that…

“Holy shit, I’m in love with April.”

Blair throws her arms up. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner!” She does a victory lap around the kitchen, simultaneously playing the part of her own adoring crowd, but then she stops and points a severe finger at Sterling. “But also, language.”

Sterling rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, may I be excused to deal with my newfound gay awakening?”

“Only if you promise to use protection.”

Sterling snatches a piece of dark chocolate from the candy dish on the island, unwrapping the foil before popping the whole chunk in her mouth. “Mind your business, Blair!” comes out more like “Myb’r bibiss, Blai!”

She heads over to finally check the thermostat, but Blair, ever the one to get in the last word, says, “If I minded my business, you wouldn’t have a gay awakening to deal with!”

Why? Why is it a comfortable 71 degrees? Why does she have the literal hots for April Stevens? Why is it more than that? Why does she not mind that it’s more than that? Why is she totally okay with the thought of marching upstairs, taking April by the hand, and pulling her in for a kiss without warning?

Why, when she gets back to her room, is she paralyzed by the sight of April, still crouched over her textbook, something like a halo cast above her head, even though it’s just a trick of the yellowish light?

Why has she become a cliché?

April notices she’s being watched. “Welcome back, stranger.” Her mouth tugs into one of Sterling’s favorite grins, and with this recent epiphany… God, Sterling wants to know how that mouth feels, not on her cheek or her hand or her forehead—well, those too, but like… everywhere. Her own mouth would be a great start. 

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m the one who actually lives here,” Sterling argues. 

“Then you should be able to tell me why it was so hot in here, though it seems to have cooled considerably.” April burrows farther into her sweater. 

Sterling gets comfortable on her bed again, textbook propped open in her lap. “Yeah, I turned it down a bit. You’ll be here tomorrow, too? Since you practically live here?”

April sucks a sharp intake of breath like she’s been badly injured. “Sterl, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got another date tomorrow evening.”

Sterling tries to keep it lighthearted, joke about it like they always do, but her voice betrays her with a demanding quality. These dates only started this year, but there’s already been a lot. “Who is it this time?”

April’s good enough to pretend she doesn’t notice. “Draven,” she says with a theatrical cadence, “from that Satanic club at school. Our parents think I can help him find Jesus.” She chuckles. “Though I do surmise he’s already found Him and said ‘no, thank you!’”

Sterling clears her throat, tries to infuse her tone with more ease. “Wonder when your dad will stop setting you up on all these dates.”

April shrugs. “Keeps him happy to cart me around to all the eligible teenage dunces as some sort of trophy. Just showing me off. You can look, but can’t touch.” She pulls at her hands, twisting the purity ring on her finger. 

“Like you’re not already doing enough,” Sterling snorts, her usual protective instinct taking over. They’ve had this discussion before. She really, really doesn’t want April pushing herself too hard. 

“I know, I know, but as Daddy always says,” April puts on an exaggerated Southern drawl, “Gotta kiss some frogs to find your God-fearin’ prince.”

“Do you need to kiss any frogs when—“ you should be kissing me, “when you’re busy maintaining straight As, running the debate team—O Captain, my Captain—“ April cracks a smile at the reference, “Fellowship coleader, applying to colleges, and oh yeah, nurturing our beautiful, lifelong friendship?”

April tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “It’s… never bothered you like this before, Sterl. You know this is just how things are. No harm.”

Sterling sputters, then settles on, “None of them deserve you, that’s all.”

April wrinkles her nose, bearing the cockiest of smiles. “Well, who does?”

Me. I do. But Sterling can’t be so bold, not yet. Instead, she just stares into April’s eyes. She could get lost, she could drown in the depths of April’s eyes. She would let herself, too. She could really—but hang on, April’s eyes are lowering to look at… oh crap, did she get chocolate on her mouth? That’s so frickin’ embarrassing. Oh, even more embarrassing, April’s hand is on her cheek, probably about to wipe it off. Uh… but… 

THUD. THUD. THUD. 

Sterling so wishes Blair wouldn’t use her fist like a battering ram. April drops her hand, and whatever spell that was, it’s broken. Hopefully there wasn’t chocolate, or she got the chocolate, or… ugh, this is confusing. Frickin’ Blair. Making Sterling realize her frickin’ feelings for frickin’ April. 

“Yo Stevens! Unlock the handcuffs from your stupid homework and/or my stupid sister and come smoke some fuckin’ zombies with me!”

“It’s like she thinks the game is called Fucking Zombies or something,” April mumbles as she rights herself and gets ready to leave the room. 

Sterling doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she doesn’t even know what the game is called, that when they play, she’s not- she’s not watching the game. She’s watching April. She always has been, whether she’s realized it or not. 

She does have the heart to follow her into the living room, situate herself on the chair while April and Blair take the couch, and simply watch all the ways her face changes. How her jaw tightens when she’s at a particularly difficult part, then how it relaxes when she passes it. How there’s a huge, playful smile on her face when she accidentally shoots Blair’s character instead of whatever zombie… creature… thing… they’re supposed to be shooting. How she looks over and meets Sterling’s eyes to make sure she’s still watching. 

She has the heart to join the family dinner once her mom gets home, everyone sharing anecdotes about their day. Her parents are always particularly interested in how April’s doing. They know she needs the extra attention. 

And at the end of the day, she has all of her dang heart to crawl into her bed with April, as their unspoken agreement dictates, give her a small peck on the cheek, and roll over to let her be the big spoon. 

But most importantly, with April’s arm draped across her waist, she wonders how much heart it would take to confess her love, or even bolder, to take April’s hand from where it’s splayed across her stomach and move it lower. 

Nope. That’s weird. Jesus, Sterling, get a frickin’ grip. These thoughts, God…

She just can’t help herself. 

Chapter Text

April is so smart. 

And sweet, and funny, and pretty. And don’t even get her started on the way April’s lips twist when she’s trying not to laugh at one of Sterling’s many admittedly stupid jokes. Gosh, and how her voice can be smooth and lilting, like a lullaby soothing Sterling into a dream she never wants to wake up from, or how that same voice can be rough and commanding when focus is required and grades are at stake. 

Sterrrliiiiing, the lullaby voice says, often accompanied by a hand grazing her arm and a smile meant only for her. 

STERLING—or sometimes a shortened version makes it even more effective— STERL, says the commanding voice that freezes Sterling in place, makes heat bloom in her stomach, and redirects her attention to the tepid task at hand. 

But wait, how can she even forget how in any other context, April has this little speedwalk she uses to get anywhere—to class, into her family’s church pew, to one of the few extracurriculars she doesn’t share with Sterling—but when she’s with Sterling, she slows, falls into step, takes her time. 

Or there’s… no, no, no. Dangit. She lost the thread. 

Anyway. None of that is the point, even if the constant ache between her thighs tries to convince her otherwise. 

The point is, April is smart. So smart, in fact, that the whole reason they became friends was because of April and her tendency to overassert her smart… ness. 

It was the first day of third grade, and Sterling had drunk a little too much apple juice with her lunch. Her hand shot up, and with all the manners her mom had instilled in her up until then, she politely asked her new teacher, “Can I please go to the bathroom, ma’am?”

Before Mrs. Wallace had a chance to answer, a smaller girl with a tight ponytail and a face pinched into the expression of a true know-it-all turned in her seat, rolled her eyes, and hissed, “May you.”

Sterling remembers how hot her face felt, barely registering the teacher’s affirmative response and blinking back tears as she took the hall pass. She couldn’t contain the tears until she got to the bathroom. She was eight. But as she finished sniffling over mean words and hurt feelings, she considered how she could fix it. 

Her mom always said if someone was mean to her, “kill ‘em with kindness.” So that’s what Sterling resolved to do. She’d make that girl her friend and give her all the kindness. Sterling was really good at being kind. She bet that girl could do it, too. 

Everything was a little brighter and shinier when she returned to her assigned seat. And when it was time for recess and she finally made it outside to put her plan into action, the sun was on her side, too. It shone on the girl with the pretty ponytail as she sat at the picnic table, reading a book. Sterling tapped her shoulder, earning a startled jump and a sneer—from the sun in her eyes or Sterling’s presence, she didn’t know. The girl, this girl she was determined to make her friend, eyed her quizzically. Sterling looked at her eyes. They were a darker blue than her own. She liked that. 

“Can I help you?” her new friend finally spat. “Or can I get back to my book?”

Sterling’s lips curled into a grin. “I don’t know what you can do,” Sterling began, a giggle bubbling in her throat as she stuck out her hand, “but may we please be friends?”

Her offered hand hung in the air between them, her hopefully new friend looking from her face to her hand and back again. 

Sterling started to feel prickles in her tummy like she usually did when she was nervous. “Also, I’m Sterling Wesley!” She blurted, hoping a name would make this new friendship more enticing. 

Her new friend’s face went from blank to unsure to considering in a span of five seconds. It felt like five hours as Sterling stood there, her hand still midair, waiting to know if her kindness had paid off. Finally, finally, she said, “Okay, we may be friends.” And when she slipped her soft hand into Sterling’s—which may or may not have been sweaty—she added with a small smile, “and my name’s April. April Stevens.”

“Omigosh,” Sterling gasped, “April may! Like the months! That’s so cool!”

That was also the first time Sterling heard April laugh, hesitant and tinkling, and it made all of the eight-year-old enthusiasm swell in Sterling’s chest as she used her grip on April’s hand to pull her into the first hug they ever shared. It’s no wonder she hasn’t let go since. 

And… where was she? Oh, yes, April is smart. April is so, so, so, so smart. The smartest person Sterling knows. Straight As, overachiever, still a know-it-all smart. So how could she not know what’s happening between them, what’s been growing for the past several years? Blair saw it, and Blair… doesn’t always score the best on tests. 

“Stevens is so dumb, right?” It’s not the first time Blair has read her mind, and it won’t be the last.

Sterling checks back into reality, lands back in the present, wakes up from her daydream. They’re in Blair’s room. Sterling’s hands spread atop a paper towel she’d insisted they lay down on the floor. Mom wouldn’t be too happy if they got nail polish in the carpet. Three different colors—baby blue, sea foam green, and this really cute peachy coral—are lined up side by side, all purchased at the drug store as recently as this afternoon after school when Blair had correctly deduced Sterling might need a distraction while April is on the first date since what Blair has dubbed Sterling’s Earth-Shattering Epussany. Sterling’s not too keen on that title, but this is Blair, so she lets it slide.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sterling answers, maybe a beat too late, but Blair doesn’t seem to notice her hesitation. She’s too busy being hunched over, tongue slightly poked out and brows scrunched together in concentration, applying the polish to Sterling’s nails. Sterling must have spaced out at the very beginning of this whole thing, because she does not remember agreeing to all of the colors simultaneously. She probably should have been supervising the application, too. There’s polish on the nail beds, of course, but it’s also slopped around her fingertips—some even made it all the way up the back of her hand. How did that even get there?

“What would you say, then?” Blair asks, applying another coat to her pinky nail, which already looks three coats thick. “Idiot? Dummy? Peabrain?” She snorts. “I bet she would say ‘imbecile.’”

Sterling cracks a smile, but shrugs. “She’s not dumb, or an idiot, or a peabrain, or an imbecile.” Her fingers twitch, and she winces as Blair makes another stripe of baby blue up to her first knuckle. Oh, it’s even worse actually watching it happen. “Things have been like this with us for like, ever. I can’t blame her for not knowing when I just figured it out myself.”

Blair clears her throat loudly. 

“Sorry, when my super smart, super wise twin sister graciously informed me of what’s been, quote, so effing obvious for like a billion years.”

“I definitely didn’t say effing.” Blair caps the nail polish and sets it aside. She straightens and beams at Sterling. “But since you mentioned your ESE—that’s what I’m calling it now—“

Sterling breathes a sigh of relief that she no longer has to suffer through the verbalization of the word epussany. 

Blair’s eyes go wide and her smile stretches impossibly wider. “Ooh! Fuck ESE! We’re calling it easy! ‘Cause you’re so easy for Stevens!” She dissolves into a fit of cackling, and Sterling fights hard against rolling her eyes. Yeah, it somehow got worse. 

Blair’s laughter eventually dies as she wipes mirthful tears from her eyes. “Jesus Christ, I crack myself up.”

“You sure do.”

“You love me.”

“I sure do.”

“And you love Stevens.”

“I sure do.”

“And Stevens loves you.”

“She sure d- well, like, in a friend way, for sure. I don’t really know how to, like, bring it up with her. Like, ‘hey, do you also suddenly think unholy thoughts when we’re cuddled up in bed even though we’ve been doing that since we were kids and it really shouldn’t be a big deal at all?’ And like, what if it freaks her out? She’s everything, Blair, and if I lose her…”

“You won’t,” Blair declares with a ferocious confidence that makes Sterling wonder how she could even question anything, let alone a solid friendship forged over years and years. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Sterling’s mouth, and Blair returns it with bright eyes and a wrinkled nose. 

“Everything, huh? Don’t even have a backup in mind?” Blair looks up, raising her brows, deep in thought. “Chase Colton? Darren Boggs? Luke Creswell?”

All three of those boys had shown interest in her. She’d entertained the idea—her couple of dates with Luke weren’t even that bad. He used just slightly less tongue when he kissed her and actually wiped his palms on his pants before holding her hand, but there’d still been something missing that she couldn’t put her finger on. And now she realizes what that something was, and she’d already had her finger on it all along, and she would like to try her finger on it in new and exciting ways, and—

Dangit, lost the thread again. 

“No backup,” Sterling squeaks, trying to shove down these trains of thought that keep trying to bowl her over. 

“So you’re like, actually gay, right?”

“Um—“

“No dicks?”

“Well—“

“Just clits?”

“Just April,” Sterling mutters, feeling a flush creep up her neck. Very little had made sense in the romance department until yesterday, when it became abundantly clear why no one else had done it for her.

The smirk on Blair’s face splits into a wicked grin. “Would that make you A-sexual?”

“God, Blair, all this and you think I’m not interested in sex? Like, did we not have this conversation just yesterday? Are you okay? Maybe we’re not as connected as I th—“

When Blair’s grin doesn’t falter and she raises her brows, nodding along to Sterling’s sputtering, Sterling realizes what she was trying to say. 

“—ought. Oh. You meant I’m only interested in sex with April. Yes, that’s fair to say.”

“Of course it is. I’m perfect and amazing and beautiful and smart and wise. I can do no wrong.” Blair flips her hair over her shoulder. “The world revolves only around me, but also you by association, so you’re covered, too.” 

“I’m not sure that’s, uh, how it works, but I support you regardless.”

“That’s why you’re the best twi—“

Blair’s praise is cut off by a gentle knock at the open door. Sterling hopes whoever’s there heard exactly zero of what was said. 

“Hey girls, your mom sent me up to let y’all know dinner’s almost ready. Make sure ya wash your paws before ya head on down.” Dad taps the molding on the doorframe awkwardly, curious eyes scanning the room. “Where y’all hidin’ my third kid?”

A warmth flickers in Sterling’s chest, alight at the ease with which April fits into her family. Being with April would be so easy. She can’t think of much that would have to change. Except, ugh, these stupid, pointless, aimless dates. 

“She’s, uh,” Sterling swallows against the stupid lump forming in her throat, “Sorry, she’s got a prior engagement.”

Dad tuts, gazing at the ceiling and scratching his chin. “John still puttin’ her through the wringer with all them set-ups?”

“Unfortunately,” Sterling says at the same time Blair says, “Yeah, what an effing creep.”

“Language, Blairsie,” Dad tries to scold, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he chortles afterwards. “Alright, well,” he rubs his hands together rapidly, “Wash your paws and meet me down there. Last one there’s a rotten egg, which thank the good Lord is not on our plates.”

She and Blair give him their best fake, that was such a good one, Dad laughs as they wave him off and head into the bathroom. Scrubbing her hands in the sink gets rid of some of the blue-green-peach mess, but she’ll have to attack the rest with acetone. Later. She’s too hungry to worry about that now. 

What awaits her at the dinner table is a spread of mashed potatoes, green beans, and pork chops. She honestly wouldn’t care what was there, as long as it’s edible. She’s so hungry she’d eat anything. Just as she has that thought, she makes the mistake of meeting Blair’s gaze across the table. Blair wiggles her eyebrows. Sterling wonders if anyone’s bothered trying to invent some sort of technology which keeps your twin out of your brain. After they bless the food, Sterling is more than ready to dig in. 

“Gosh, Mom, this all looks so delicious. I can tell  how hard you worked on it,” Sterling compliments as she scoops some potatoes onto her plate. 

Mom scoffs goodnaturedly, putting a pork chop on her own plate. “Oh, this ol’ thing? I’ll have to teach you the recipe sometime. It’s mighty easy.”

Blair spits the sweet tea she’d been gulping, doubling over, ducking under the table to regain her composure. “Easyyyy,” she wheezes, her throat catching on a cough and making her pretty indisposed to this dinner, and quite frankly to life, at the moment. 

Dad uses a napkin to dab at the sweet tea splatter on his face. “Wha’s so funny ‘bou easy?” he asks through a mouthful of green beans. Mom is just staring, eyes wide—with a bit of a twitch in one—brows raised, head cocked at the exceedingly unladylike behavior of her other daughter. 

Considering Blair can’t come to the phone right now, Sterling attempts to improvise. Truly her best skill. 

“Oh! Hm, umm, well, it’s just like, another thing us kids are saying these days. It means, like, well it’s—you see, memes are always evolving, and like, sometimes the point of them is that they don’t make sense.” Blair is still coughing, though a little less so, and Sterling has no idea why her parents are continuing to entertain this ramble. Mom is now smiling politely and Dad has the usual twinkle in his eye as he chews and watches her intently. “Like- like there’s spicy memes, and crunchy memes, and—“

“Easy memes?”

“Yeah! Yep. Uh huh. Easy memes, just super easy to make, and read a-and—“

“We gotcha, sweetie,” Dad winks at her as he manages to swallow that large bite. 

And now, now that she’s choked out a sad excuse for an explanation, is when Blair is done doing her own choking. 

The rest of dinner is relatively uneventful. Everything is delicious, but the hardest thing for Sterling to swallow is the empty chair next to her. The chair where April usually sits. The chair where April usually sits, thigh not quite touching Sterling’s, but knee lightly knocking hers when Mom asks about a project or Dad offers to take them to the shooting range or Blair makes a raunchy remark that goes over their parents’ heads. And it’s so silly; it’s not like April joins them for dinner every night, but Sterling’s feeling everything times like a zillion, so this ridiculous ache of loneliness in her chest very well might eat her alive. 

Once everyone’s plates are clear, Mom clasps her hands together. “Y’all ready for dessert? I made peach cobblerrrr,” she sing-songs.  

“Hell yeah!” Blair pumps her fist, but Mom shoots her a look, the language heavily implied. Between their mom and dad, one of them is bound to clean up Blair’s potty mouth. Around them. Maybe. 

As Mom gets up to grab dessert, she gives Sterling’s shoulder a squeeze. “Oh yeah, sweetheart, I also made a little key lime pie for you.”

Oooooooh. Sterling grins. She loves her mom’s peach cobbler, but she can’t help wanting some tartness with her sweetness. Tonight’s meal has her nice and stuffed, though a slice of key lime pie does sound like the perfect palate cleanser. 

The doorbell chimes, echoing into the kitchen. That’s weird. No one ever bothers the Wesleys during dinner. Could it be some little kid trying to sell candy or whatever to raise money for their sports team or… something?

“I’ll get it!” Blair announces, flitting into the foyer.  

Dad shrugs and starts digging into the generous helping of peach cobbler Mom just placed in front of him. 

Blair reenters the room, a frazzled April trailing close behind. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Dad waves, fork still in hand. Sterling’s stomach flutters. April does indeed seem a little worse for wear: frantic eyes darting around, phone clutched tightly in her palm, knuckles stark white from the grip, orange cardigan just slightly askew off her shoulders, which are hiked up near her ears. She’s wound up. She’s the dictionary definition of stressed. Yet, as always, she’s flawless to Sterling. And she’s here. 

April seems to have the same thought, because once their eyes meet, Sterling can see the tension drain from this beautiful person: eyes returned to their normal level of alert, grip relaxed, shoulders at their typical height in a great sigh of relief. 

“You’re here,” April voices what Sterling was thinking. 

“Um. Yes? It’s my house. On a school night. Dinner time. I thought you were on your date or whatever?”

April shoos away the question, easy as a flick of the wrist. “Finished early.” She pretends not to notice the squeak-snort coming from Blair, obviously holding back something inappropriate. Sterling’s proud of that small bit of restraint she’s showing. “Doesn’t matter. I called and texted. No answer? Was worried.”

Sterling knows April only speaks in clipped fragments, reducing herself to so few words to ensure she’s not being too much, when she’s really freaking out. She feels terrible for putting her into that spiral. 

“Sorry, ba-“ Where the heck did that come from? Sterling shakes her head, clears her throat, then starts again. “Sorry, A. I left my phone upstairs when we came down to eat. I didn’t think I’d hear from you until later tonight.”

“Yes, well,” April shrugs a shoulder, a crooked smile peeking through her dark expression like the first inkling of a sunrise, “I’m here. Mind if I join?” A question she directs to the rest of the family since she knows Sterling’s answer without asking. 

“Free country,” Blair says. “Well, sort of,” she amends.

Dad’s still chowing down, but curls both hands into thumbs up, still holding his fork.

“Don’t be silly! Like you even need to ask,” Mom chuckles, scooching her seat backward, moving to get back up. “What would ya like? We still have some of the dinner, there’s the peach cobbler I made, and the key lime pie I make special for Sterling.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Debbie,” April radiates good manners, “I don’t mind helping myself. You stay right where you are. You do enough for us all as it is.”

Mom smiles to herself, scooching her chair back in and getting comfortable. “And that’s why she’s my favorite,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice. Me too, Momma, Sterling thinks. 

But of course, Blair and Dad feel differently, and their response is a wounded, “Hey!”

In the skerfuffle of April’s arrival, Sterling didn’t notice Mom serving her a small sliver of key lime. She’d really been looking forward to it, salivating over it, but now it’s not even the most appetizing thing in the roo— oh, for the love of the Lord, really, brain? Objectifying the best friend now? Ugh. 

The world rights itself as April takes her place, totally innocently and not at all an inch or two closer than usual, to Sterling’s right. It may be time to check the thermostat again.

“Hi,” April says, almost shyly. She must be really embarrassed about her unwarranted freakout, but it’s all good. 

“Hiya,” Sterling replies, perhaps a little louder than intended. She shovels a large bite of pie into her mouth to avoid saying or doing anything else incredibly stupid. 

Blair’s observing from across the table, eyes volleying between the two of them, amusement sparkling in her pupils with each movement. 

In a rare display of platonic affection around the family, April’s hand finds Sterling’s knee under the table. It’s because April is coming down from some pretty high anxiety, Sterling knows, and physical touch grounds her, but still. As the soft, citrus tang of the pie swirls around her tongue, and she’s trying to keep her mind off the simple touch, she considers other things that might be just as satisfying to swirl around her tongue, and—nope, nuh uh, not helpful at all. That huge bite finally goes down. 

April’s taking small, dainty bites of her own slice, not at all affected by this while Sterling feels like an entire friggin’ furnace. Sterling’s fork is loaded with a reasonable portion of pie halfway to her mouth—a futile attempt to cool herself off—when April looks over, lets out a strangled gasp, and snatches her hand from midair. This… isn’t helping the temperature situation.

“What is that?! What kind of poor workmansh—I hope you didn’t pay for this! Any self-respecting manicurist should feel ashamed to let you leave their shop with this- this atrocity!”

Sterling’s jaw is slack—first from, like, the anticipation of food or whatever, but now from April’s searing touch, April’s firey tirade, April’s passion. She looks at Blair, who couldn’t contain her smirk even if she tried. 

“Hey! I worked really hard on that!” Blair fails to say with a straight face. Mother effer. She did that on—good Lord. 

April scoffs. “Sterl, your sister needs to pay you money for the irreparable damage she’s caused.” Her fingertip traces along the nail polish streaks marring Sterling’s hand, and it takes everything Sterling was, is, and ever dreams to be to stop from shivering. 

“That’s not—I mean, clearly it’s rep-errrrable—it’s not like she cut off my hands or like—“

“We’re taking care of this as soon as we’re done here, okay?”

Sterling nods dumbly. There’s other things she needs to take care of, but no way is that happening tonight with April here. Not like she’s ever tried it before, but if there were ever a time to start… ugh. 

April lets go of her hand and Sterling holds back a pathetic whine at the loss of contact. She now remembers there are others at the table—Mom’s regarding her with squinting eyes, volleying in the same way Blair’s were, but her mouth is twisted at one corner. Gonna tuck that one away to overanalyze later. Dad’s all but licking his plate clean, pretty much oblivious to his surroundings. Blair’s elbows are on the table, chin propped on the bridge formed by her fingers laced together, her eyes gleefully absorbing all of the delightful… awkwardness, probably. 

“Anyway, great pie, Mom!” Sterling, at long last, brings that one forkful to her mouth and thinks only of flaky graham cracker crust, creamy key lime, and her comfortably full stomach. She doesn’t think any lower, she doesn’t think any higher. She will not further embarrass herself at this table. She’s got this. 

Miraculously, the rest of dessert is uneventful as well. Chatter resumes, April contributing when necessary—politely recounting her day to Mom and Dad when asked, exchanging barbs with Blair—but Sterling feels the rhythmic bounce of April’s knee beside her and knows she’s done doing the whole group socializing thing. 

She sets her fork on her plate. “May we please be excused?”

“Sure thing, darlin’. Y’all have enough?” Mom asks. 

“Yes ma’am,” Sterling and April reply in unison. 

Chairs scrape the floor, pulled out, pushed in, and Sterling ignores the gymnastics routine in her belly when April grabs her hand (again!) and drags her upstairs to the bathroom. April’s always been direct like this, bossy, but it’s never affected Sterling like this. 

Rummaging through the cabinets isn’t something April needs to do. She knows where everything is, so she goes straight to where the nail polish remover is kept, hooks her fingers around the neck of the bottle, and sets it on the counter. Then she squats to the floor—Sterling’s not noticing how nice those jeans look on her, nope—opens the cabinet under the sink, and fishes out the q-tips and cotton balls. It’s quick. It’s efficient. It’s hot. 

April stretches her hand out and waves it towards herself. “Give it here,” she commands, but there’s still a softness Sterling knows only she gets to witness. 

At this point, Sterling would do anything April asked, like steal from the church’s tithe basket, or arrest her big stupid idiot father, or give her the answers to help cheat on a test. Not that April would ask her to do any of that, but. If she asked. Sterling would be game. So it makes it easy to step forward and give April her hands. 

Well, it was easy to do, let’s see if Sterling can survive the subsequent events.

April unscrews the bottle, the sharp scent of acetone filling the room, yet somehow all Sterling can register is the delicate floral of April’s honeysuckle perfume. She’d bought it for her after April had offhandedly mentioned she loved the smell of honeysuckles. Tireless research and a few hard-earned allowance twenty-dollar bills later, Sterling gifted it to April for her birthday. 

Her hand is in April’s again, and this time it’s being held in reverence rather than revulsion. That makes sense. April exceeds expectations on any task, puts 150% into it, if not more. Of course she’d channel that type of respect and care into a task which requires such meticulousness. 

It looks so right, her hand curled into April’s palm. Blair’s right about one thing: it’s easy. A soaked cotton ball glides across the back of her hand, Blair’s “mistakes” erased instantaneously. She could be imagining it, but April’s hands might be trembling as she moves to hold her fingers? Understandable, if so. It takes a lot of concentration. A q-tip cleans up the untidy edges of her nail beds, one by one. She can’t tear her eyes away, watching April operate with surgical precision. 

Done with one hand, onto another. Sterling has held hands with April Stevens on countless occasions, but she’s never watched their hands move together. Exist together. Be together. If it’s so fascinating watching April’s hands do something as mundane as removing nail polish , God, just imagine how… well, is fascinating the right word to describe what else Sterling wants to see these hands do?

Whooooooa. Dangerous, dangerous territory to have these thoughts in such close quarters. She might even be so stupid as to say—

“You’re amazing, thank you.”

Okay, that wasn’t too bad. Definitely could have been worse. 

April stops, sets down the q-tip, and meets Sterling’s hopefully-not-dilated-at-all eyes. “It’s always a pleasure to correct Blair’s blunders,” she says with a teasing lilt, her pupils wide and dark, most likely from the low lighting in the room. Sterling’s hand is still perched in her palm; April is still holding it like it’s something precious. And, yeah. They’re best friends. Of course they’re precious to each other. 

“She means well.” Sterling shrugs. 

“Yeah,” comes April’s simple and uncharacteristically succinct response. 

If they stand staring into each other’s eyes any longer, Sterling might do something stupid like analyze the exact shade of blue April’s eyes could be called. All these years, and she still can’t place it. Or she could be an even bigger idiot, dummy, peabrain, imbecile… and tell April exactly how she feels. It’s going to hurt keeping it in. It’s going to hurt letting it out. There’s no way April feels for her to the same extent. For now she’ll settle on the best version of the truth she can give. So what if it might warrant further explanation? That’s for Future Sterling to worry about (and worry about, and worry about, and worry about…)

“Hey, A?”

“Yeah, Sterl?”

“I love you.”

Sterling would gladly be blinded by that bright, gleaming smile. Any day. 

“I love you, too.”

April lifts Sterling’s hand to her lips, then thinks better of it, gently turns it, and brushes a featherlight kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. 

Sterling doesn’t hold back a shiver this time, certain she can continue to blame it on the air conditioner or the heat or whatever makes sense at the moment. She doesn’t know. For all she knows, it could be April degrees. 

But like, April’s really really really smart. She’s got to know the effect she has on her. Right?

…Right?

Chapter Text

   1) We take care of each other. 

   2) You and Blair get along. 

   3) You’re Mom’s favorite.

   4) You’re Dad’s “third daughter.”

   5) You sometimes know what I need before I do. 

Telling the whole dang truth shouldn’t be so hard. Sterling loves the truth. Honesty is a beautiful thing, even (especially?) April’s brutal brand of it. It’s been, like, four days, and she’s been trying. Good Lord, she has, but it’s never the right time to tell April how she feels. 

After the mangled manicure moment—the… almost-sorta-kinda confession?—she could still see the trace of panic in April’s eyes, something April would obviously never admit to, but still agreed to retreat to Sterling’s quiet room to be eased back to earth by the stable, if not heavy, beat of Sterling’s heart at her ear and the firm, grounding touch, rooting them to each other. 

Sterling knows April can’t stand the uncertainty and anxiety that comes from a string of unanswered texts—which is why she always makes sure to respond, even if it’s a reaction while she’s otherwise preoccupied, but she can’t help that her phone was upstairs during dinner when she assumed April was also otherwise occupied. 

Which has to be why April held her just a little tighter that night. 

   6) No one knows how to relieve your worries like I do. 

Ugh, her words don’t feel like enough. She’s really tried in person, but every time she opened her mouth to say so, something happened to stop her in her tracks: Blair burst in with Chloe’s leash looped around her wrist, yelling an invite for a walk around the neighborhood; Mom poked her head in to let April know that the dessert they were baking together was ready for the next steps; or, most embarrassingly, even when they were alone and nothing was in Sterling’s way, it was just… her tongue suddenly felt weighty, mouth dry, head empty. April would go to fetch her a glass of water in those cases, suspecting dehydration—bless her heart. 

So Sterling’s decided to write out her reasons. 

If she knows her best friend, which she does, April will want an explanation to help wrap her head around it. April is analytical, always needing to see the proof, the objectivity behind the subjectivity. 

   7) We are academic equals. 

She just doesn’t know how many reasons will suffice, and she sure as heck doesn’t know how long it will take her to come up with them. 

Is there an expiration date on professing your feelings for someone once you’ve realized it’s a thing? Particularly when that someone is your best friend of eight years? And that someone carves out time in her busy schedule to entertain the male classmates her stupid, relentless dad shoves onto her? But also, when that someone has been carving out time in said busy schedule for only one guy lately? 

   8) We fit really really well together. 

   9) Like, we have a respectable height difference and I don’t tower over you. 

Luke’s first date with April was supposed to be the only date. That’s just how it went with her. She’d go on the dang dumb date to appease her dang dumb dad and then never see that dude again, except to wave awkwardly and avoid eye contact when she’d see them in the halls.   

But a movie date to see the latest Star Balls— Battle— Trek…? movie or whatever turned into casual texting, turned into hugs in hallways, turned into plans to play mini golf this afternoon. They invited Sterling to come along, but she was stuck between wanting April all to herself and not wanting to be the pathetic third wheel, so she politely declined. 

Has April forgotten about when they both tied for “most popular” in the fifth grade? Luke asked Sterling out first, and when she rejected him, he turned to April, who was practically attached to her hip, and asked the same thing. An indignant April, hand gripping Sterling’s firmly, tore him a new one—of what, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t pretty, and innocent bystander Blair later told her it was definitely a new butthole. 

It makes sense that Sterling would give him a chance years later—giving people the benefit of the doubt is kind of her thing—but it doesn’t make sense that April’s suddenly enjoying Luke’s company, creating space for him in her life when that space is usually reserved only for Sterling. She’s never dealt with April having a boyfriend before, and the timing… couldn’t be worse, honestly. 

It’d be okay, bearable maybe, if Sterling hadn’t come to terms with her very real feelings for April. Platonic friend jealousy sucks, but it’s tolerable, a fact of life. Normal, not-infatuated friends go off and get significant others and allocate time and energy to them. It happens, or so she’s heard. It’s fine. It can be annoying, like a random bug bite you discover upon waking up, but it eventually fades.

This… this pervasive crawling, itching, burning just beneath her skin at the thought of April actually being with someone else is— God, it’s not cool. 

In the margins of her notebook paper, she’s absently drawing little hearts, interspersed with several question marks. The list could easily be typed on her phone, but this feels like something she needs to give the full weight of actual pen to physical page. Problem with that is… it gives the full weight , so she has all these thoughts and feelings and reasons to get out of her head, a literal love letter posed in a way April’s brain is bound to appreciate—but every stroke of her pen, every scribble, every number, followed by a curve, followed by a truth, a fact, an observation… just seems to fall flat. 

Is this her brain’s way of holding her back because these feelings might be bad or wrong? Should she scrap the whole thing and push it all back down? There’s so much she could stand to lose: a best friend who’s like everything rolled into one—a confidant, a study partner, not to mention, like, the best cuddler. She has that in Blair, sure, minus the study partner thing. With April, it’s all that and more—or like, it really could be. 

Sterling shifts, registering the bland taste of plastic on the tip of her tongue. Without realizing it, she’s been chewing on her own pen cap, and lying on her stomach, propped on her elbows, feet kicked up in the air while she pores over her notebook. April’s been rubbing off on her, unfortunately not in the ways she’d truly pref—

Wow, brain, are we really still doing this? Will I ever know peace?

   10) I literally can’t stop thinking about you in so many ways. 

   11) How our fingers slot together is nothing short of a miracle.

Her pen dances across the page now, words flowing faster than a typical writing instrument can keep up with. It makes everything scratchier, more illegible, but she’s got to get out her raw, undiluted thoughts while she’s having them. 

   12) When you hold me, I feel it everywhere. 

   13) I can tell you anything; ironically, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to tell you. 

   14) There’s this twinkle in your eye when you look at me and that has to mean something. 

   15) There’s no one else I want correcting my grammar, even though I have a much better grasp on it now. 

   16) Feeling your lips on mine, sparking fireworks in my chest, would ignite something beautiful and magical and dangerous in me. 

She reads that last one over, her eyes widening. No, nope, no no no, that one is way too forward. She doesn’t want to scare her off; she’s got to ease her way into showing April where her mind is going. Ink swirls, crisscrosses, squiggles, obscuring any hint or clue as to what number sixteen might have once said. Even when it’s completely covered, she keeps going, pen almost ripping through the flimsy paper made flimsier from her assau—

“Whoa, Ted Bundy!”

Blair is still here? Wow, Sterling really is in her own little world if it’s news to her that Blair hasn’t moved from where she’s hanging upside down on the hideous paisley-patterned armchair in the living room—a position Mom and Dad would undoubtedly chide her for if they weren’t tied up in a tennis tournament at the club, as they are on alternating Saturday afternoon, whether as spectators or players. 

Almost like an illustration ripped directly from a comic book panel, all of Blair’s facial features are flipped and looking at her while she’s still holding her phone up with both hands, Fruit Ninja’s “Game Over” screen taunting and blazing, screeching red against boring brown from across the room. 

Sterling welcomes the break from her trip down the rabbit hole, but she winces and responds before her defiant dirty mind is able to touch that one, “Ew, Blair, that reference was so uncalled for! He was a nasty, nasty man!” She shudders, her shoulders hoisted to her ears. “Gross, gross, gross. Not even comparable!”

“Okay, okay, but you’re being nasty to that poor former tree. What did it ever do to you?” Blair blinks and shakes her head, probably uncomfortable from all the blood rushing to it. Her eyes almost cross as Sterling can only assume she spots the notebook. “What’s that? Can I see?” She doesn’t wait for Sterling’s reply as she lets her phone fall and slinks from the chair to the floor, still fully upside down, her neck bending at what can only be a painful angle as she somehow goes from that kind of dizzying vertical to horizontal. 

From there, she turns over and army crawls until she’s mirroring Sterling, and Sterling’s making a futile attempt to cover her work. 

“What? Nothing—I, it’s nothing at all, just something silly I’m writing and I’m—”

But Blair’s already pried her fingers away from the words Sterling’s still not quite satisfied with, her very visible amusement growing ever more visible as her eyes scan the page. 

“Oh my God, Sterl, this is how you’re gonna tell her?!” And she’s reaching for the pen. 

Sterling huffs. “Nothing else is working! And she’ll appreciate that I’ve put thought into this!”

“True, the bitch loves her evidence, but come on. These are so weak!” Blair taps the pen against the first part of the list. “She already knows what she means to our family. This list, if you do plan to give it to her, should be about what she means to you.” 

Sterling sighs, hanging her head. “Of course I know that, but it’s not that simple, Blair. It all feels so big that when I try to put it into tangible words, when I try to quantify or describe my feelings, nothing’s coming out right.”

“Well, I mean,” Blair uses the edge of the pen to circle the last part of the list Sterling had just written in a frenzy, “This makes me wanna barf, like full-on blow chunks across the room, but it looks like a good start for someone who maybe sorta is into you.”

Sterling cracks a hint of a smile until Blair’s finger is jabbing the mutilated number sixteen. “So what was so incriminating about this one, Mr. Bundy?”

“Blair, stop.” But a blush is spreading from her throat up to her cheeks anyway. “Just something about how it might feel to kiss her,” she mumbles. 

“She looks at you like she wants you to ride her face, and you’re worried about telling her you want to kiss her?!”

“Blair!”

“I’m serious, Sterl! Skip the wordplay and just kiss her already! Better yet, get to boning!”

“I can’t, Blair! She has a boyfriend!”

“Has she said Luke’s her boyfriend?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Exactly.”

“But they hang out a lot—”

“Yes, and who does she always come back to?”

“And she already has so much to do, but she’s making time for him and—”

“And whose uptight ass shows up at our house at the end of the day?”

“At the very least, they’re dating, so—”

“Soooooo, what? Plenty of people are dating, Sterl. That doesn’t imply, like, exclusivity. Until she says that’s my boyfriend—which like, it’s Stevens, she sure as shit doesn’t seem like the type—you’re still in the game!” Blair’s eyes lower to the page again. “Is that what salty number nine is about?”

“First of all, not a game. She’s not a prize to win, she’s a person I love.” Sterling clears her throat and runs her finger over where she had gotten, yeah, admittedly kinda salty. “But, uh, yeah.” She rolls her shoulders as best as she can in this position. “In my defense, he’s like, two feet taller than her!”

Blair snorts, still regarding the words on the page, tapping the pen. She gets this crazed look in her eyes, as she’s wont to do, and starts scribbling onto the page; when Sterling goes to glance down, a slight tingle at her hip draws away her attention. 

She wiggles her phone out of her pocket to find a text from April. First, a selfie. April’s found the best lighting possible, even with the high afternoon sun beating down on her. Sterling can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses that take up almost half her face, but her mouth is open mid-laugh, flashing her perfect, pearly whites and making Sterling wonder what could have made April this happy in her absence. 

Then, totally as an afterthought, she spots Luke several feet in the background at what she knows to be the last hole on the course, head thrown back to the sky, putter held with both hands far above his head. His antics were obviously funny enough to amuse April, so Sterling must be missing something. 

She was so absorbed in the photo that she failed to notice the words below until now. A simple miss you, wish you were here. 

Yeah, Sterling wishes she were there too, but without Luke. Sterling wants to be the one to take April out, help her experience this carefree, happy side of herself outside the walls of the Wesley household. Would that even be attainable? Would they be able to have a public relationship, especially given the tyrannical way her dad treats her dating life? Would that even be something that April wants? Sterling is so busy considering logistics that she’s forgetting to take into account April’s feelings. Some part of her must feel something, too, if she’s texting Sterling during her date. Or, like, is that just a thing friends do? Sterling hasn’t really had close friends outside Blair and April. 

Still, she’s at a loss for how to reply. This sentiment would usually be welcome, but the addition of Luke churns her gut. She can’t not say anything, though. She double-taps the message, her thumb hovering between the like and love reaction. It shouldn’t feel so monumental, choosing between these two things, like April would ever read into it. They’re best friends, of course they love each other—so with that, she taps the heart. 

She chews her lip, tries to think of something to say in addition to the acknowledgement. She types out several things: I miss you too; I would’ve come too if it were just us; Yeah. Can you come over? But again, nothing feels right, so she backspaces everything and turns her phone face down on the floor. 

Without looking up from the sporadic lines and scratches she’s adding to the page, Blair asks, “why didn’t you go with them?”

Sterling scoffs. “Luke mansplaining how to hold a putter was the last thing I wanted.” Although, despite being captain of the golf team and judging from that picture, he doesn’t know how either. 

“And…?”

“And what? That’s it!”

“Sterling, I know you’re not actually lying to me.” She sets down the pen and fixes Sterling with a narrowed stare. “You’re very bad at it.”

Sterling freezes, and there’s this niggling ache radiating from below her ear to the apex of her shoulder. 

“Fine, I didn’t want to… impose,” she says through gritted teeth, which only serves to spread more tension from her jaw down her neck. 

“Nope, that’s not it either. Come on, Sterl, who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Okay, I- I didn’t want to play third wheel! I didn’t want to- to sit off to the side and hide my feelings while he could so obviously be out and happy with her! What’s normal, what’s accepted for her, when I’m here and I have been and, ugh, too stupid to realize what we could have!”

Sterling’s chest is heaving by the time she finishes blurting out all of that right in Blair’s face. 

Blair lets a shy smirk—if a smirk could be such a thing—curl onto her mouth. “So maybe my contributions aren’t the most helpful?”

Sterling looks down, Blair’s scrawl unintelligible to most but perfectly legible to her, and reads the additions:

   17) You’re in my bed most nights soooo liiiiike, maybe time to take advantage of that??????

   18) Sex style!!!!!

Nineteen is just a literal drawing of two fingers held up in a peace sign with a tongue between them, and it takes up the rest of the page. It’s oddly… life-like? Accurate? Certainly recognizable, and Sterling can’t quite place exactly what it means, but she has an inkling, which sets her face on fire and sends her mind into a tailspin over what that could mean in relation to April and the bed they share on a regular basis. 

Sterling can’t possibly show this to April. It’s a clearly a rough draft, that’s all it is, and she’ll have a chance to clean it up and say all the things she needs to; just her words, no random sketches in the margins and definitely no Blair-facilitated filthiness, even if… she wouldn’t not be open to those things. 

But, uh, maybe not the best coming from Blair?

“Great art, Blair, but not the message I’m looking to send.”

“You’re telling me you don’t want to murder her pu—”

“Drop the serial killer analogy, oh my gosh!” Sterling interrupts as she shudders, trying to shake off the bad feelings from the tip of her spine to the soles of her feet. “It’s like, super creepy.”

Blair opens her mouth to retort, but promptly closes it when Sterling’s phone buzzes again, another text from April: Mind if I head over?

Something loosens in her chest—a knot, previously so gnarled and ropey and uncomfortable—at I instead of we. April wants to come over, just her, ditching her date with Luke to spend time with Sterling. 

It’s a formality, she knows. April will end up here no matter what, but it’s sweet of her to ask, like always, even if she does practically live here. 

And although Sterling wants to flood her with a bunch of excited gifs and emojis—a habit April is more than used to by now—she doesn’t want to seem too eager, too desperate for April’s attention and company, so she settles on: Not at all, see you soon. 

When she resurfaces, Blair’s still looking at the screen. “She’s coming over,” Sterling says as if it’s not something that happens all the time, as if saying it out loud will help dissipate the stress and worry and tension that’s hung over her all day. 

“I see that,” Blair says, heaving herself off the floor with a grunt and making her way toward the kitchen. 

“Where ya going?”

Blair grabs Chloe’s leash from the hook where it’s hanging on the wall, the sound of it bringing their dog pitter-pattering into the room, sitting dutifully at Blair’s feet. “To make myself scarce. Even I know not to disturb a crime scene.”

“Blaaaaaair,” Sterling whines, putting her face in her hands and wishing Blair wouldn’t beat a bad joke to death—gosh darnit, now she’s got her doing it. 

“In all seriousness—”

“Is that something you’re capable of?”

“In all seriousness,” Blair talks over her, louder this time, “it’s a beautiful day,” she clips the leash to Chloe’s collar, “so Chloe and I are gonna go stretch our legs and enjoy it.” Chloe gets a nice scratch behind the ears. “And you’re finally going to tell Stevens how you feel, so we can quit this whole… woeful, unrequited love bullshit.”

And Sterling has no way to argue with that, so instead she gives a petulant huff. 

“Love you, twin!” Blair starts heading for the foyer, her shouts still echoing along with the click-clack of Chloe’s nails into the living room as she goes, “You’re the light of my life! The reason I breathe! My heart would stop without you!”

Sterling allows herself to grin over Blair’s dramatics, yelling, “Love you too!” just before she hears the door close. 

Alone again with her thoughts, feelings, and reasons. Sterling drags her fingertips along the grooves in the page, tracing each letter—from the beginning where her handwriting is still bubbly and perfect, like she was more concerned with the presentation of the words rather than the meaning; then the next where she all but lost control of her handwriting, feelings trumping penmanship; and finally Blair’s contribution, almost just scribbles, followed by her wild art. The act of physically writing with pen to paper, though it doesn’t always yield the smoothest, most coherent results, comes with an authenticity, an honesty that she can’t deny. It’s tactile, it’s personal, it’s—

“That can’t be comfortable.”

Sterling’s attention snaps up at the same time she fumbles to close the notebook, flinging it under the table, and pulling herself up and holding her knees to her chest. 

How long has April been there? Why can’t Sterling seem to keep track of peoples’ comings and goings today—or, er, at least here-ings? Did April see her notebook, even from where she’s leaning against the entrance between the kitchen and living room?

People as gorgeous as April should come with a warning label: may cause heart palpitations, dry mouth, and excessive feelings of euphoria. Who told her she could be there, against the wall, arms crossed over her chest with a smirk Sterling wants to kiss right off her beautiful face? And she highly doubts April’s dad would let her leave the house dressed in shorts as short as those and a tank top with some pretty thin straps. Not that she’s complaining! The outfit shows off how sun-kissed she’s gotten from her afternoon outdoors, and Sterling squeezes her knees tighter to herself when she thinks, So come over here and make me comfortable. 

Comfortable? Sterling doesn’t think she’s been truly comfortable since before her dirty thoughts boiled over and Blair pointed out that it was more than that. Every moment she and April have shared since then, in the before times they would always be a comfort, but now they’re more charged, crackling with something that’s always been there. Her head has been spinning ever since. Part of her wishes she could go back to the before times, live in ignorant bliss as April’s best friend and nothing more. 

“How,” Sterling swallows, suddenly very thirsty, “how’d you get in?”

“Blair let me in as she was leaving,” April shrugs, grin widening. 

“Right.”

So she’d been here, not saying anything? Maybe she’d watched Sterling the whole time, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was she thought Sterling was doing? Could she have spotted the vulgar drawing from where she was standing? Surely she’d have something to say about it, surely she wouldn’t just stand there, surely she’d put Sterling out of her misery, and- and—

Somehow April ends up crouched in front of her, a hand on her shoulder, concern painted all over her face.  

“Sterl, you’ve been acting really strange lately—even for you. Could we—” then she pokes her fingers into Sterling’s shoulder, more deliberate, “Hang on, your shoulder is more like a boulder. Turn around. Let me get these knots out.”

Powerless, that’s what Sterling is to April Stevens. With her commanding yet gentle tone, her encyclopedic knowledge of the human anatomy and its trigger points, and her eyes— God, those eyes—virtually begging Sterling to let her help, to take away the pain Sterling now does indeed feel pulsing up and down her neck and shoulders. 

April’s face is mere inches from hers. She could do it. She could lunge forward and close the gap, find out how those lips might feel on hers. Would they be softer than the rough lips she’s kissed before, those of boys who obviously neglect lip balm in whatever minimal self care they practice? She’s never kissed a girl. How different could it be? Will it change her life, the very core of who she is? As if reading her mind—but no, she couldn’t, it’s not like she’s Blair—April darts her tongue out to drag slowly, tantalizingly across her bottom lip. It’s dry in here. Yep, that’s it. Perhaps it’s her turn to offer some water. Then those lips are moving, forming words, and Sterling doesn’t know what she might have missed. 

“What? Huh?” Eloquence isn’t exactly on the menu when April’s presence has Sterling choking on all her words. 

But April just fights a smile, rolls her eyes, and repeats, “Turn around.”

So Sterling obliges, because why wouldn’t she? She releases her knees and turns her back to April, sitting up straighter and stretching her legs out, one ankle over the other. 

Massages have happened between them before: one sitting cross-legged behind the other, fingers pushing into tense muscles, a simple give and take of relief. Now, as April claims her place, legs bracketing her, front pressed flush to Sterling’s back, a delicate hand makes a home on her left hip while a precise hand probes the tight spots in her neck and shoulders.

Heat. Hot, hot, hot. Burning. To be fair, it’s relatively roasting today here in Atlanta, warranting Sterling’s choice of her own shorts-tank top combo, but she knows this absolute combustion has much more to do with the way April’s knees are pressed to her thighs, skin to skin, and that left hand is just under the hem of her shirt, and when April says, “How’s this?” with her warm breath puffing against the nape of Sterling’s neck, Sterling has to bite back a whine, a whimper, anything that would clue April into the fact that she’s enjoying this much more than any best friend should enjoy a massage from the other. Instead she just nods and manages a weak, “S’good.”

April’s technique is usually more clinical, finding the exact trigger point and prodding that one area for thirty seconds at the time, resting, then going for another thirty seconds until Sterling feels it loosen. Today, her hand is all over, and Sterling’s silently thanking God for giving her the idea to put her hair up in a messy bun this morning, as it grants April more access. Fingers pushing into her shoulder, up the side of her neck, thumb brushing the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and Sterling bites back more reactive noises when April playfully pinches her earlobe before moving back down to her shoulder. Her fingers grip Sterling’s hip harder, probably for support as she finds more and more knots to unravel, but Sterling’s the one who feels like she’s unraveling. 

Touching isn’t something they’ve ever really had boundaries for, but in Sterling’s mind this could almost be considered intimate. Would it be weird if she put her hand over the hand on her hip that’s inches away from driving her crazy and likely into an ecstasy she’s never experienced? Would it break April’s concentration as she’s so clearly focused on the goal of releasing tension? Just as Sterling lifts an unsure hand to test the limits, April switches hands, right hand now on right hip but trailing higher, stopping just at the bottom of her ribcage. Left hand works left shoulder, and Sterling could cry at how much better it feels. 

But like, come on, is this a joke? Is God laughing at her right now? Blair sure would be. She can’t dwell on this, there’s got to be something, anything to distract her from the way April’s making her feel like a pool of molten lava. 

“So um,” Sterling lets out a soft ahhh as April finds a spot in her shoulder that sends relief all the way down her arm, “did you have a good time with your boyfriend?”

“My boy—?” April’s hands stop moving completely, which only makes Sterling more aware of where they are. “You think Luke is my boyf—?” But she can’t stop that sentence either as she rests her head on Sterling’s upper back and Sterling feels her vibrate with laughter. She’s glad she’s not facing April because 1) this is nice, the unimpeded contact, and 2) she’s really embarrassed for assuming when apparently it’s not the case. 

“I just thought—”

“Sterl, Luke and I are just friends.”

“Then why do you keep going out with him?” Sterling feels and hears the pout, and she doesn’t love that it sounds like when she was, like, five, and complaining to her parents that Blair got to play with the toy they got for their birthday when she hadn’t gotten a turn yet. 

April reaches around for Sterling’s hands and Sterling lets her, lacing their fingers together. “If my dad thinks I’m going steady with someone—his words—then I don’t have to go out with anyone else. Luke and I discovered we have things in common, and,” Sterling feels a shrug, “he’s nice enough. Now I can focus on things that matter more to me.” She squeezes Sterling’s hands and hooks her chin over her shoulder. 

Is this a moment? This feels like a moment. Is it the moment? Is it time to say something? To say, April, I love you, but like really love you, like in love with you, so much that it frickin’ hurts and I hope to God you love me back. 

Before she can say anything of the sort, April’s releasing her right hand, and just as she’s about to mourn the loss, tentative fingers land on her jaw, slowly turning her head to the side. She feels the stretch in that muscle group, but it’s a mystery why April felt the need to resume the massage in the middle of their conversation. 

Then she realizes how close their faces are, like, cheeks brushing, and she almost forgets to breathe because April’s breath is coming in short little spurts and the hand she’s still holding is squeezed so tight and—

“Sterling, I—”

A rattle from the front door, and Sterling doesn’t move, doesn’t dare break what this might be leading to, what it could become. Blair wouldn’t care if she walked in and saw this, in fact she’d probably celebrate, so in the interest of making both her and her sister happy—

“Girls! We’re home!”

Mom’s voice is at best a comfort and at worst a warning. Right now, it’s the latter as it launches Sterling and April apart and onto the couch, a respectful distance between them. They weren’t really doing anything wrong, but it felt like enough of a thing that they both obviously didn’t want parental figures barging in on it. 

In their preppiest Polo attire, tennis rackets still in tow, Mom and Dad greet them with big smiles. 

“Hey, puddin’ cups!” Dad says, swinging his racket to rest on his shoulder. “Where’s Blair to round out this unstoppable trio? I was thinkin’ I’d cook up some barbecue as a late lunch.”

“Out for a walk with—”

As if summoned, there’s a different kind of racket in the foyer as Blair returns with Chloe. “Sterliiiing! I’m back! Hope y’all are decent!”

Chloe bounds into the living room, leash dragging behind her, as Blair shows up to complete this inopportune Wesley family reunion. 

Sterling chances a glance at April instead of looking anyone else in the eye. A foot of space sits between them, but it feels like several continents. She was so close, they were almost there, closer than she’s gotten all week, but now…

Now, Sterling has never once considered committing a felony, but she could kill her entire family for crashing this revelation. 

Chapter Text

Sunday’s a funny day of the week. Is it the end? Or the beginning? Calendars show the week going like, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, so that’s one point in favor of Beginning. Sterling’s always thought the week began with Monday—‘cause like, Sunday is technically part of the weekend, right? Also, Monday is when the school week starts. Two points in favor of End. But like, who’s she to argue with calendars? And does Jesus really care whether He’s worshipped in the beginning or the end of the week?

He probably doesn’t care about that—contrary to popular belief, worship can and should happen anytime and anywhere—but Sterling’s almost positive He cares about the (totally empty) death threat she just for a teensy tiny millisecond (nanosecond, even!) thought toward her family.

Dear Lord, Sterling prays silently, tuning out the rest of the church as Pastor Booth leads them in prayer to open the service, please forgive me for wishing to inflict a gruesome, painful, unnecessary murder on my loving family. It’s not their fault they came home at, like, the worst possible moment.

A sensation prickles over her skin, a familiar one, and she knows why before she even raises her bowed head to find April eyeing her from across the pews. They do that sometimes, ever since they were kids—catch each other’s attention to make a silly face, a challenge not to laugh, so as not to be shushed or scolded by their parents.

Except April’s features aren’t screwed up into something silly—no crinkled nose, no crossed eyes or stuck-out tongue—though it’s something still too familiar, lips parted and eyes glossed over, the morning sun shining through the window and bathing her face in light. She offers her a small wave, which seems to startle her from whatever trance she’d entered. An almost imperceptible twitch of her shoulders, a little sheepish grin, and April’s facing the stage again. Sterling resumes her one-sided chat with God.

And please give me the strength to deal with whatever this is or isn’t or will become, or… you get the point, she finishes lamely, then remembers to add, Oh, and Amen.

Pastor Booth is finished with his, too, likely blessing the day and the service and all of God’s creations. Or, like, the ones the church actually agrees with.

“Beloved!” He bellows, owning the stage with his presence both easygoing and charismatic.

“How many of y’all’re waitin’ for somethin’? It could be a whole mess of things—that XBox game, that text message, those test results—and could be some of those are a given, maybe there’s not a question in your heart as to when those things will happen, but for others,” he wags a finger, “if you’re uncertain about something and can’t wait for the answer, leave it in God’s hands.

“That’s right, brothers and sisters, PATIENCE! It’s called divine intervention for a reason. You pray, and you pray, and you pray, and if it’s meant to be, God will give it a lil’ nudge. You can trust Him!”

Is that all Sterling has to do? Just… wait? Be patient? Leave it in God’s hands?

That goes against everything a very proactive April would want, and she definitely wouldn’t want to leave it all up to a man, either. Why wouldn’t she expect the same of Sterling? When April wants something, she goes for it. Debate captain? Secured. Fellowship leader? They both went for it, already knowing they’d make a great team and being pretty confident that Ellen would feel the same. And she’s working on several college applications already, but Sterling knows that once the early acceptance letters start rolling in, April will have her pick of whatever school she wants.

But is Sterling what—rather, who April wants?

Yesterday’s events—after yet another almost—point to a big, unfortunately platonic-shaped no.

For starters, April left promptly after their early dinner.

Well, no. That’s not what started it. And honestly, the rest of it could have been her imagination. Sterling knows April, knows she would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. Still, over the afternoon, other subtle changes in April’s behavior compounded the growing lump in Sterling’s throat, the pit deepening in her stomach: walking on Blair’s right instead of Sterling’s left when they took Chloe for another trot around the neighborhood; keeping her intense stare locked on the TV screen when she and Blair played their silly, violent game; flinching away when Sterling’s hand accidentally—accidentally?—brushed her thigh while they ate.

Not so subtle? Something she wishes were only her imagination? Jerking her arm out of Sterling’s reach, which has never happened for any reason.

Shortly after the almost-getting-caught—the almosts just keep adding up!—and directly after a bathroom break, Sterling sprinting up and down the stairs to stow away her notebook (the incriminating one, the one with Blair’s photorealistic art and Sterling’s scribbles and everything), they met back up in the living room. Sterling hates remembering it, but it keeps playing on a loop in her head, like this:

April’s mouth wobbled into an almost uncertain smile, one that didn’t really reach her eyes. “Went for a quick run, there, Sterl?”

“Nothin’ like,” Sterling cleared her throat, clutched her chest to catch her breath, “like some impromptu cardio to get the ol’ heart a-thumpin’.” Which was true, but not entirely—her heart had already been a-thumpin’ for other reasons, but the moment had passed… or what could have maybe possibly been the moment.

Was it even real? And if it was, could she recapture the energy of it? Could it carry into more almosts? “Here, feel.” Before Sterling got a hold of her hand to guide it to where her heart was going a mile a minute, April snatched it away like she’d been scalded, the same way Sterling did that one time they went to a Japanese steakhouse and she didn’t believe the edge of the hibachi grill was actually hot.

Ouch.

“No, sorry—no, I-I get it. No need for the tactile.”

…So maybe it wasn’t the moment at all.

Pushing that giant bummer to the back of her mind wasn’t really happening, at the end of the day. The letters and numbers and symbols in her open textbook blurring in and out with her wavering focus told her that much.

Pre-interruption April, post-interruption April, how she acted before and after. The mathematical equations weren’t the only things not adding up. Something happened, some switch flipped, that instantly made Sterling… repulsive…? At worst. Avoidable, at best. To April.

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t. And there was no way she was gonna even begin to be able to wrap her head around it. Or maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was some secret, third thing right in the middle of nothing and everything that could still be life-changing. Like, maybe it was something.

Letting those thoughts swirl around without vocalizing them, without having a sounding board, wasn’t doing her any favors.

So she trudged into Blair’s room, collapsing face-first onto her bed. “She hates me,” she told the comforter instead of Blair.

“Who? Stevens?”

“Yeah,” though it probably sounded like a grunt.

“The same Stevens who worships the ground you walk on?”

“Sure?” Another grunt, but with more of an upwards lilt.

“Who ranks you second only to Jesus Christ herself?”

Sterling lifted her head to find Blair all comfy amongst her throw pillows, iPad in her lap. “Jesus was a man.”

“Jesus had some serious enby energy, at the very least. Like a she-they situation. Or they-she. One of those.”

“Was it the long hair, or the gown, or the sensible san— nevermind.” She hoisted herself to sitting, crossing her legs. “You don’t think she was being, like… weird, today?”

“Who, Jesus?”

“No, April!”

“She’s always weird. But I dunno, maybe a little more than usual?” Blair squinted, rubbing her chin. “I assumed y’all had finally scissored or whatever and were trying not to be too obvious. Or at least she was. If your eyeballs were sentient, they would have undressed her, which like. All for body positivity, but eh, I don’t need to see that.”

“Gross, now I can’t stop picturing my eyes but with like, little arms and legs.”

Blair giggled. “Just skittering around with their lashes waving everywhere!”

“The only protection they would have, really.”

“I’d knit them tiny hats and scarves.”

“You don’t know how to knit.”

“I’d learn!”

“Okay, but, we—April and I, in case you’re still pretending not to understand context clues—almost kissed. Or, I thought we did.”

Blair flung herself from her pillows to shove Sterling’s shoulder, iPad sliding off her lap and thumping on the bed in the process. “Why didn’t you lead with that?! When? How? What? I’m in an information desert and I’m thirsty for the deets.”

“But you just said you assumed we did it…?”

“I was obviously joking. Spill! Or—don’t spill, pour generously! Make my cup runneth over!”

“Okay, so it was right before you and Mom and Dad got home, and April was giving me a massage—”

“A massage? What kind of massage leads to an almost kiss? Was she like, on top of you…? Like, facing you, or…?” Blair shook her head. “Can’t picture it.”

“Well, it was— urgh, can I just show you?”

“Alright,” Blair shrugged.

“Okay, so…” Sterling grabbed her shoulder, turning her around so she could recreate a very loose approximation of the massage from earlier that day.

“Hey, can you get this one spot here?” Blair pointed between her shoulder blades. “I pulled it at practice last week, and it’s been a bitch and a half.”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with, like, trapez-zuhh-zi— going all trapeze artist? From the furniture earlier?”

“Eh, that might have exacerbated it.”

“Okay, so she was giving me a massage.” Sterling spent good time working that one spot before poking down Blair’s ribs for the fun of it, grinning when she gave a little giggle and swatted at her hands.

“Now, like, imagine my chin is here.” Sterling tapped her shoulder.

“Your chin is crazy sharp, so thank you for not actually doing that.”

“Rude!”

“Sorry, love you!”

“Then…” Sterling nudged Blair’s chin towards the shoulder where she was presumably resting in this reenactment.

“Hooooooly shit!” Blair scrambled away, whipping around to face Sterling. “She did almost kiss you!”

“See my dilemma now?” Sterling threw her arms up.

“And you didn’t go fap ASAP?”

“Literally what do you mean by fap?”

“You know.” Blair flicked her finger back and forth in the area surrounding her pelvic region. “Well, it’s technically for penis havers, but I’m within my rights to reclaim it!”

“Ew! Why would you want to reclaim that?”

“Because it rhymes?”

“That doesn’t make it any better!”

“Would you prefer diddle in a little?”

“No! I hate that equally, if not more!”

“So you don’t have sexy gay thoughts to diddle yourself about?”

“…I’m leaving!”

“To go fap?”

“Still hate that word!” Sterling called, her voice echoing off the walls in the bathroom.

With her head clearer—or more jumbled, really, but she’s used to that when it comes to Blair—she was able to finish her homework and go to bed. And no, she didn’t plan to fap or diddle herself, but in April’s absence, when her mind started wandering, so did her hand.

It started at her hip, first lightly, then remembering April’s hand exactly there—how it’d pressed, purposeful and warm—gripped tighter. Then, she experimentally, slowly, dragged her fingers up to her ribcage, testing if it would stir the same heat with her own hand. As she played the moment over in her head, it did, emboldening her to deviate from reality, tracing the same path back down to her hip, dipping just past her shor—

BOOM. The clap of thunder dislodges Sterling from her daydreams, or her daydream within a daydream, or her daydream within a daydream within a daydr—whatever. The layering of daydreams isn’t important, not when her heart is pounding against her chest, as if it’s begging for more impromptu cardio, for the chance to run as far as possible from this even more impromptu summer storm.

As she does in any storm, she seeks out April. During one of their first sleepovers, after Sterling had won April over in the third grade and softened her, a massive one struck Atlanta. Lightning, thunder, the whole shebang. And she shut down. So she learned early on in their friendship that April was more than willing to comfort her through them. As kids, just a quick hug and an immediate redirect to discuss whatever show they enjoyed. As they grew older, though, the love and trust growing with them, April picked up pretty quickly on Sterling’s need for physical touch. Held her close, cocooned both of them in a blanket, raked soothing fingers through her scalp, told her all about whatever book she was reading at the time—anything to distract Sterling and make her feel safe.

Darkened, angry skies cast a muted film over the church and all its inhabitants, but once she gives a shaky smile to the one she cannot stop thinking about, to the head-tilting, eyebrow-scrunching concern April’s sending her, she’s rewarded with an open, brilliant smile that lights up the whole room (or maybe that glow lives only in her imagination—in which case, great job imagination, keep it up!).

Reconciling the faraway look of yesterday’s post-interruption April with the caring look of today’s church-going April, and even more than that, the not-so-imaginary-slash-definitely-imaginary touch of her private fantasy’s April… it’s, well, it’s a lot.

There’s some semblance of truth in the saying “sweating like a sinner in church.” Said sweat could be a result of Sterling’s irrational fear of thunderstorms, but she can’t deny that the perspiration she swipes from around her hairline is partially due to… well, it’s technically a sin, masturbating, isn’t it? She’s never read a Bible verse that actually condemns it, though it might as well be a sin. But it’s not one of the big ones, like don’t kill or don’t steal or don’t, like, be a generally awful person. This particular sin isn’t hurting anyone. It feels good! If God didn’t want His children exploring their own bodies, He wouldn’t have made it feel so good.

Lightning flashes in quick succession, a strobe effect dancing through the church, and Sterling knows what’s coming, but isn’t prepared. Her breath hitches, she gulps, and—Blair’s hand slides into hers, squeezing, right as it’s thunder’s turn, as it seizes control for what’s only a handful of seconds but seems much, much longer, growling, roaring, quaking, assaulting her eardrums.

Sterling stares at her lap, the hand not holding Blair’s clutching her purse. The pink of the flowers in the pattern of her dress is dull just like everything else in the room, well, except—

Her phone buzzes through the leather. She meant to silence it. Can she be stealthy about this? She can’t be sure as her hand shakes when she flips her purse open and glances down to find a text from April: Riding home with you and Blair, staying the night. No arguments.

As if Sterling would even begin to argue with that…

If only it were for the reasons Sterling wanted. April’s only offering—no, demanding to come over so she can fulfill her best-friendly duties of distraction. Yeah, April knows that Blair is always there to help, but they have some silly rivalry over who’s best at blocking out the biggest, scariest storms. And of course, April refuses to be anything but the best.

What if Sterling told April the best way to distract her would be to finish what she started yesterd— yeah, no, she hears it. Way too forward. Still trying to maintain a friendship here if she’s misinterpreted the whole thing.

The phone gives another quick buzz before she toggles it into silent mode.

Oh, right, the text. She taps it with her thumb and gives it a heart react. No need for a full reply, no need for April to risk another text when her overbearing dad is hovering beside her.

Her fingers tighten around Blair’s hand as she waits for the worst of the storm to pass.

***

Socializing after service normally happens under the awning outside the entrance, fanning out along the sidewalk and into the parking lot, but the continued rain leaves people inside, milling about down the aisles and among the pews. On days like this, it makes more sense to let the crowd die down and trickle out instead of pushing through people and risking some sort of bottleneck and having to fake your way through a conversation with someone’s grandma who thinks you’re just such a nice girl and will make some equally nice boy happy someday.

But Sterling doesn’t want some nice boy. She knows who she wants her someday with.

Does April get the same sensation when Sterling, well, observes her? Skin tingles, goosebumps but in a good way, heat flushing the back of her neck? The heat might burn a little hotter right now as she sees Luke amble over to the Stevens’ pew, as he squeezes himself into the small space to stand awkwardly at April’s side while she and her dad exchange words around too-tight smiles.

How is the flame not radiating off her and, like, engulfing him? It should be white hot as Luke, all six-foot-whatever of him, traps her in a hug with his gigantic, meaty arms. April’s head rests on Luke’s chest, which must be awkward for her and not as nice as when it nestles comfortably into Sterling’s neck when they hug.

Just friends, just friends, they’re just friends, but that mantra is hard to internalize when April cranes her neck to kiss him on the cheek, and Luke squats to her level to receive it.

Just friends, just friends, just friends—who is this mantra even for, when April gives her the same treatment? But, like, not in public. Never in public.

When they separate, Mr. Stevens claps Luke on the shoulder, grasping it as he reaches out to shake his clammy hand.

Sterling’s relationship with Mr. Stevens is lukewarm—no pun intended—on a good day. He tolerates her as April’s best friend as long as she doesn’t pose a threat to her studies or her future. So, like, because they’re Honors students on the way to hopefully respectable colleges, he allows it.

He would, um, definitely not allow it if he knew the kind of thoughts she’s been having about his little girl. Blech, it’s gross just thinking that term. Before she pulls a face and gives away that she’s fully spying on this whole… Stevens-family-plus-Luke-Creswell-for-some-reason moment, she turns back to Blair.

“April’s coming with us,” she blurts.

“Ga—” Sterling’s eyes go as wide as she can make them, throwing sirens of Mom and Dad are right there as pointedly as she can. “—I mean, okay!”

“Our golden child’s comin’?” Dad says like Mom’s told him he can open one present on Christmas Eve.

“If she’s lucky!” Blair says brightly.

Sterling taps Blair lightly on the stomach with the back of her hand, a warning to cut the sex joke crap.

Blair yelps, like that even hurt a little bit. “Like if she doesn’t have anything else going on!”

“She sure is a busy gal.”

“We’re always more’n happy to have her,” Mom says, leaning her head on Dad’s shoulder and thumbing the lapel of his blazer before adjusting his tie.

“And I’m always happy to join you all.”

That voice, like a lullaby tinkling sweet notes into Sterling’s awareness, makes her grateful she’s still in church so she can thank God directly in His own house for sending this angel to visit her.

Heaven—or at least Sterling’s corner of it—must smell like honeysuckle, a bubble of delicately sweet floral surrounding her as April grips the corner of the pew and leans forward to be heard over the din of competing conversations when she says, “Ready to go?”

Blair’s keys jingle when she pulls them from the pocket of her cardigan. “See y’all at home?”

“You betcha,” Dad says, bringing a shy smile to April’s face, as if after all these years, the extent of the family’s acceptance still catches her off guard.

***

It’s still raining.

Rain has never been the issue. Rain provides a white noise that Sterling’s brain likes. Rain is probably the reason Sterling spent so much time daydreaming about daydreaming rather than listening to the sermon. It’s the chaotic, unpredictable smacks of thunder that Sterling’s brain doesn’t like, and those (thankfully) seem to have passed.

So, technically, there’s no practical reason for April to want to come over, besides like, the principle of not going back on her word.

To recap: Rain? Good for brain. Thunder? Bad for brain. Was she prepared for either of them? No. Does she even have an umbrella to get them to the car without getting soaked? Not even one of those retractable ones that you can get at Ross and they like, flip inside out at the weakest gust of wind.

The Weather app was the last thing on her mind this morning. She got up an hour early, trying on every dress in her closet, wanting to wear the perfect outfit to see April. It’s not like April hasn’t seen all her dresses. Heck, she helped her choose most of her dresses, particularly the one she settled on today, a vibrant blue reminiscent of the sky before it went all… grey and gloomy. April said it brings out her eyes.

If she’d thought to check the Weather app, if Blair ever bothered to check the Weather app, one of them would have grabbed an umbrella. But as it stands, there is no umbrella, and the three of them are too stubborn or anxious to ask to borrow one.

The Volt isn’t parked too far from the church’s entrance. Eyeballing the distance, Sterling estimates they’ll be unprotected from the rain for, like, fifteen seconds? Maybe ten if they walk quickly, or as quickly as they can in church shoes.

Shouldn’t be too bad, honestly. It’s not pouring, but it’s not sprinkling either. They’re bound to get wet either way, but Sterling’s growing accustomed to that state around Ap— holy crap, brain, shut up!

April grabs Sterling’s arm, just above the elbow. “Let’s go.”

And their feet are moving, and the rain is cold, and April’s hand is warm, and then they’re at the car. Before her fingers brush the door handle, there’s that flush up the back of her neck.

Despite the rain, despite the promise of shelter literally at her fingertips, she turns to find April’s chin tilted up to look at her. “Hi,” she murmurs, raindrops collecting like pearls in the dip above her lip.

They roll past her lips, and her tongue swipes out, as if to catch them. What if Sterling caught some herself? What if, in the most inappropriate venue at the most inappropriate time, Sterling let this be the moment? What if she surged forward, hands clinging desperately to April’s waist, and pressed curious, wanting lips to likely warm, hopefully inviting ones, and… well, instead she just replies, “Hi.”

“Hey-ooooooo,” Blair interjects, popping up on the driver’s side and flinging the door open. “Are y’all getting in or what?!”

“Or what,” Sterling mutters as she opens the door, gesturing for April to go in first.

Blair rapidly shakes her head when they’re all in the car, water spattering everywhere, the same way Chloe does after she gets out of the bathtub before anyone has a chance to towel-dry her.

“Blair!” Sterling and April shriek in unison. They may have spent longer than necessary in the rain, but Sterling didn’t expect the rain to come with them into the shelter!

“What?” Blair says like she hasn’t done anything wrong, then narrows her eyes at her backseat passengers. “Does this look like a stretch limo? I ain’t your damn chauffeur!”

Sterling says, “Should I get you one of those fancy hats?” at the same time April says, “It’s a well-documented fact that sharing body heat prevents hypothermia.”

Sterling snorts, not being able to resist playing contrarian to April, but pinning the hat thing for later because Blair would look totally cute in one. “It’s literally still, like, 80 degrees out. It’s not like we’re gonna catch our deaths.”

“Yeah, Stevens, and for sharing body heat to work it has to be skin-to-skin.” Blair wiggles her eyebrows.

April coughs, clearing her throat. “Perhaps in more extreme cases, but considering we were exposed for mere minutes, I don’t believe we need to implement such drastic measures.”

“Ah, so you admit it’s not that serious?”

Sterling sees a stray water droplet drip past April’s temple, and this one, she catches with her thumb. April turns her head, causing Sterling’s hand to slide down to cup her burning cheek. Hypothermia obviously won’t be a problem here, not even a little bit, so she lets her hand slide all the way off and back into her own lap.

That hand isn’t alone for long, April’s fingers threading through her own. It’s obviously different than when Blair holds her hand. Blair’s hand is always safe, and so is April’s—but April’s is also… wild, in a way Sterling doesn’t know how to explain. Their hands once again look right together, perfect, and that contentment tinged with a certain sense of danger builds in Sterling as she strokes her thumb across this hand that may as well have been made for her.

April wordlessly squeezes tighter, scoots closer.

“Y’all are just—okay, yeah, fine, you win, I’ll drive with you both in the back, or whatever. But, seatbelts! Precious cargo and all.”

April sighs and scoots away maybe like, an inch or two, enough to reveal the buckles for them both to click the belts into, then she’s right back to where she was before.

“I meant Sterl, but I guess you are too, Stevens,” Blair teases as she starts the car and joins the other cars trying to exit the parking lot.

Is this the same April who fully rejected her last night? Like, she barely hugged her before leaving, and now she’s holding her hand like it’s the only thing she wants to do for the rest of the day. And it very well could be. Whatever she witnessed between April and her dad must have had something to do with spending the afternoon, the night with her, and she fought that battle to be with her.

Are there other battles April would be willing to fight just to be with her? Like, actually be with her?

If that’s even what she wants. Sterling’s really great at getting ahead of herself.

April whispers something, pulling Sterling from her thoughts. She’s not sure what she said, but she might’ve heard one word.

“What’s that about a miracle?”

“Huh? Oh! Um, that the- the storm stopped before the service ended is a miracle.”

“Gosh, yeah...”

***

“Should we, uh, get out of these wet clothes?”

April raises her eyebrows at Sterling’s blunt words, spoken the second they cross the threshold into the house and Blair clomps up the stairs to do exactly that.

“What’s the alternative? I for one don’t want this soggy dress clinging to me for the rest of the day.”

“No— no alternatives.” Sterling gulps. There’s an alternative where they remove the wet clothes but don’t replace them with dry ones, or any ones, for that matter.

“Come on, you dork.” And April’s hand is in hers again, leading her up the stairs and into Sterling’s room. The door clicks shut behind them. Privacy is important when changing clothes, after all, she tells herself as she turns the lock on the bathroom door as well.

April digs through the drawer she’s claimed, the one where she keeps changes of clothes for any overnight stays.

Sterling’s hip bumps April’s, for which she mumbles a sorry when she pulls open the drawer under hers to fish out a shirt and shorts.

They retreat to opposite sides of the room, turning their backs to each other. Sterling wiggles out of her dress. The lack of noise rushes into her ears. She should say something. They’re alone. They’re finally alone. They’ve changed clothes in a room together before, they do it all the time. They can make conversation. This isn’t awkward. But she’s fully dressed and, still, no one’s said anything.

April’s leaning against the desk chair, staring at her feet.

“Can I, um… may I have a hug?”

April’s eyes snap back up, anchoring Sterling to the spot. “Do you even have to ask?”

Sterling digs her thumbnail into a cuticle, watching the crescent indentation form around her nail bed. “I mean, things have been kinda—”

All five-foot-two of her very best friend and possible love-of-her-life collides with her front, face instantly tucked into her neck, where it belongs. Those deceptively small but strong arms wrap around her, pulling her body close, closer than she can remember April ever hugging her. Or maybe they’ve always hugged like this, leaving no room for anything but unconditional love between them.

It’s easy to return the hug, to let her hands rub a well-traveled path up and down April’s back. She even lets her fingers dip beneath the hem of her shirt—one that smells like a mix of laundry detergent and cedar from sitting in the drawer for a while—grazing the dimples in her lower back, to which April puffs a breath against her neck, and there’s the tickle of her voice, but there’s no way Sterling would understand her.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.” April nuzzles her nose into her neck, and Sterling definitely imagines a soft but deliberate puckering of her lips right there. Right. There. She still has to suppress a shiver.

“Hey, Sterl?”

“Yeah?”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“What?” She pulls back, hands still on April’s waist. “Of course, I mean, yes, absolutely, 100% without a doubt. Why, um…” She searches April’s face. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just in case there’s anything…” April’s eyes dart down to Sterling’s lips, “pertinent to reveal.”

Sterling swallows. This feels like an invitation. She could tell her how she feels. It’s the perfect time for it. They’re alone. It’s just them in this room. Then again, their lips are very close together. This would probably be better conveyed via action. Right? Right. Just a few centimeters and they would be—

Knock knock.

“Girls, I’m getting ready to make brunch. Y’all wanna give me a hand?”

MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sterling wants to frickin’ shout, is so deliriously furious about the disruption that she almost wishes her mom wasn’t even her mom, but she keeps all that confined to a silent scream bouncing off the walls in her head.

***

“Blair can’t help because she’s, in her words, overcome by the Holy Spirit, and it’s truly in God’s hands as to when she’ll be ready.” Mom’s at the stove, seasoning and stirring the diced potatoes for the hash browns she’s making.

“Five bucks says it’s whenever the food is,” Sterling says, cracking an egg into a shallow dish. She and April are on French toast duty.

“Sweetheart, it’s not very Christian-like to gamble on your sister’s faith,” Mom says, “or her hunger.”

It ultimately wasn’t so bad, getting stopped short of another almost. The closer she gets—the closer they get, like with their lips—the more sure she is that her brain hasn’t been playing tricks on her. April wants this, too. All they need is more time alone together. Besides, she was getting hungry anyway. For actual food, she reminds herself, before any dirty thoughts start to crop up.

Sterling bumps April’s hip with hers again, not apologizing for it as she reaches down to ensure the griddle is plugged into the island. Needs time to preheat.

April bumps her hip back, harder, and wow, now’s really not the time to wonder how else she might play rough.

Yeah, confirmed, there’s not time for it as April’s hands make quick work of cracking the remaining eggs into the dish, uncapping the cinnamon and vanilla to sprinkle in simultaneously, and unscrewing milk to pour it in before whisking it. Quick, efficient, hot. As always, and Sterling’s only just learning to appreciate it like that.

Once it’s at the proper consistency, April sets the whisk down and hesitates. That’s odd. A finger swipes through the mixture—Sterling doesn’t remember reading this in any of the directions—and something cold and slimy drags across the tip of her nose. April’s finger stays there. Sterling’s eyes meet hers, her jaw dropped, too flabbergasted to retaliate. April’s mouth is twisted into a smirk, of course, one brow quirked, an obvious sign of come get me.

Oh, she’ll get her. The open bag of powdered sugar calls to her, draws her in to scoop a handful, taunts her to pat it into April’s cheeks, and—

Mom catches her by the wrist before she gets to that part, redirecting her back to the sugar bag so she can dump her handful in.

“That’s enough, girls.” Stern, but fair, and probably amused, too, if that twinkle in her eye is any indication.

April drops her hand. “Sorry, Debbie!” She snatches a napkin from the holder and wipes the goop from Sterling’s nose. “We both know Sterling’s a bad influence on me.” The same napkin cleans her own hands. “Won’t happen again.”

While April is preoccupied with that, Sterling catches this, like… extra glint, in Mom’s eyes. It wouldn’t be so easy to read if there weren’t also a small smile and raised eyebrows.

Brunch is excellent, and Sterling would be five bucks richer if anyone had taken her up on her bet: Blair doesn’t make an appearance until the food is ready.

***

Dad drags his napkin from his mouth to his chin, then balls it up and sets it next to his empty plate as he leans back in his chair.

“Wanna be my extra set of hands in the woodshop today, April?”

“What’s struck your fancy this time?”

“I was lookin’ online and saw somethin’ like, a dog ramp that folds down into a dog bed. Chloe’d love it, I think. Be good for her joints.”

“And you need my help?”

“I need your expertise, April!”

“Expertise? Anderson, I’m flattered, but it doesn’t require expertise to be competent with one’s hands.”

Sterling chugs the full glass of water that had been pooling condensation into the tablecloth until now. The table where she and April share meals with her family is not the place to think about all the competence April could demonstrate with those hands.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. I’m jonesin’ for a helper, and far’s I’m concerned, you’re the best there is in this house!”

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Blair says all monotone, knowing full well that the one time she actually tried to help him with a project of that magnitude, she almost nicked her fingertip with the miter saw.

“You don’t mind, Sterl? There’s nothing else you and I should be doing? No assignments? Fellowship lessons? Anything?”

“Not that I… know of?” Sterling tilts her head and ponders at the ceiling.

Oh, maybe that wasn’t the right answer. April’s got another one of those too-tight smiles, and it’s so rare that they’re directed at Sterling.

Oh! Oh? Oh… no, this is just Sterling’s imagination acting up again. April doesn’t actually want to help, but it could be for a multitude of reasons: she’s tired, she’s full from brunch, she suddenly realized she’s allergic to sawdust, her horoscope told her working with her hands today wasn’t a good idea. It could be any of those! Well, maybe not the horoscope thing. She doesn’t really believe in it. But this doesn’t necessarily mean that she wants to spend alone time with Sterling instead. Okay, it probably does? And how would that differ from usual? They love alone time together! April loves kicking back and being her full self with Sterling.

Holy frickin’ crap, this was so much easier in the before times.

***

Just when Sterling thinks she can have some alone time with April before dinner, Blair wants to play that frickin’ game.

Do they ever stop? Is there a way to beat the game? Maybe Sterling will buy them a new game for Christmas—one of those where you’re a little cartoon representation of yourself and run around a quaint, magical village picking flowers and going fishing and buying things and decorating your house. She’d imagine herself and April living together in the village, in a house designed by them both, living free of judgment with their only responsibilities involving the aforementioned activities. Yeah… that’d be a fun one to watch.

But she’s not even watching the game today. Sterling went to sit in her usual chair, but April patted the cushion beside her, and who is Sterling to say no to such a request?

So… here they are, thighs pressed together, but Sterling can’t take her eyes off April’s hands clutching the controller. Her… competent hands, thumbs relentlessly smashing buttons, tendons popping into view, and—God, what an annoying time to have just discovered the joys of masturbation.

***

Dinner scrambles Sterling some more. When April uses her left hand to take a drink of water, her right pinky brushes Sterling’s. Sterling freezes, not sure she meant to, not sure if this affection is allowed at the table. Surely it was an accident, but April’s touch is so light, tracing tiny circles on her finger, and that doesn’t happen by accident. So she lets their pinkies hook together. It feels like a promise, but she’s not yet sure of what.

***

She made it! They made it. It’s finally time for bed, somehow the only time they’ve managed to be alone together since the most recent almost kiss.

They’ve brushed their teeth, they’ve taken their showers—how the heck did she survive that?—they’ve changed into pajamas. They’re set. The lights are out. Sterling’s tucked into April’s side, arm thrown across her stomach. April’s arm is around Sterling. How they usually are before getting into actual sleeping position.

“I really enjoyed our day together.” April sounds gravelly with sleep, and, oh no. It’s only a matter of time before she slips off to dreamland. Sterling has to tell her. But they have school tomorrow! What if it makes this whole, like, disruption, and then April’s grades will drop, and Mr. Stevens won’t let her see Sterling again, and—

April shakes her shoulder lightly. “D’you hear me, Sterl? I said—”

“I enjoyed it, too, A.”

“I adore you,” April says, the delirium of sleepiness drawing out the adore. It’s so cute.

“Love you too,” Sterling chuckles, stretching to kiss April’s cheek. Only—instead of the smooth skin softened by her nightly moisturizer, which she expects, which is totally normal in the parameters of the Sterling-and-April friendship, which is really, truly, honestly what she intended—her lips catch the corner of April’s mouth, the most miniscule bit of lip balm now coating a fraction of her own.

April uses a special lip balm, one that’s not a chapstick, but it comes in this yellow tube with a red cap and you squeeze the stuff out and apply with your finger. The smell took some getting used to, some kind of cool mintiness, but more green with a bit of floral, sitting on this underlying creamy note. Almost vanilla-y, but more of the creamy aspect than the sweet.

And she always applies it before bed, says brushing her teeth dries out her lips, so she has to. It never occurred to Sterling that she’d actually taste it tonight. She doesn’t even know if she’ll taste more of it because…

Neither of them has moved.

Sterling’s pulse thunders in her ears, and she’s not a fan of this kind of thunder either. This thunder spells uncertainty—regular thunder always passes, but will this one? This thunder shakes her up inside, unsettles not only her brain but her heart. This thunder makes her desperate for a resolution, even if it’s not the one she wants.

No words. No actions. No resolution.

She inhales deeply, holding it, grasping it for dear life, as she moves her lips to… to- to completely cover April’s. Her exhale crawls up her throat, coming out her nostrils, quivering and uncoordinated no matter how hard she tries to control it. She mentally apologizes for just, like, breathing on her.

No one speaks. No one moves. No one resolves.

This could be bad. This could be very bad. Maybe April is frozen because she’s just being polite and trying to find the words to let Sterling down easily. No one’s ever just—not kissed her back. This is so weird. She definitely screwed up. There’s still a way to salvage this. Apologize. Grovel. Beg to pretend this never happened.

She retreats to safety, tucking her face into April’s neck.

“Sorry, omigosh, sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her words come out a string of continuous trembling, eventually devolving into only ss-ss-ss-ss when her breathing goes erratic. She squeezes her eyes shut and wills her tears to stay in their ducts. Lord Jesus, this is already embarrassing enough as it is.

“Sterl,” April taps her behind the ear, but Sterling just keeps trying to vocalize more sorrys. Now April really will hate her, and not in that melodramatic way from before when she knew she didn’t really hate her but didn’t know how else to articulate the rejection.

“Sterl, come on, hey,” she tries again. They can still be friends. If she apologizes early and often, they can go back to how they were before. The physicality of their whole thing will probably suffer, and she can pretty much kiss sleepovers goodb—oh, God. No. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She’d rather have April in her life in a limited capacity than not at all. Really, it’s great. She knows now that it can’t be, that it really was her idiotic, overactive imagination this whole time. Better to know it now, long before she started doing something stupid like plan their lives together.

“Sterling,” April says, voice finally hitting that slightly deeper, commanding tone. Sterling can’t not raise her head, but she also can’t meet her eyes. If ever she were going to turn in an assignment late to a teacher, to Ellen for instance, there’s this heavy sigh and I’m not mad, just disappointed kind of parental vibe she would expect. She braces herself for something like that from April.

“Look at me,” April directs.

The dim orange tint from the street lamps filters through the narrow space between the closed blinds, but Sterling doesn’t have time to study the way it stripes April’s face before April’s lunging forward and connecting their lips again.

It’s hungry, this kiss, but not anywhere close to a hunger for food. A hunger to resolve the wondering, the frustration, the days (weeks? months? years?) of latent chemistry. Fireworks don’t erupt in her chest. No, this is more like an atomic bomb, detonating all at once and creating a mushroom cloud, so she had the dangerous part right. Beautiful and magical, of course, in a way that something so explosive, so reactive, can be such a spectacle. Hopefully it won’t be as destructive.

April’s lips are softer than she could ever imagine. April uses just enough tongue. April’s teeth scrape Sterling’s bottom lip as she attempts to nip it. April kisses her like she’s never been kissed before.

Not one racy film could have prepared Sterling for how this feels. Not one underdeveloped pen cap fantasy could have made her ready for the way April’s tongue slides with hers, how her teeth nibble her lip, how just frickin’ good her mouth feels.

The novelty must wear off for April, or breaths have to be taken, but after a few minutes the hunger gives way to tenderness. Soft kisses to savor the way their lips fit together. A thumb stroking Sterling’s cheek. A move to break apart. Something between a whine and a sigh when April tries to sit up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she chuckles, rolling them over so she’s on top. April perches herself on Sterling’s hips. Is this a straddle? This is a straddle. Of all the affection they’ve shared, there’s never been a full-on hip-to-hip straddle. April holds Sterling’s gaze, or Sterling thinks she does, from what she can tell in the dark. All she knows is she already wants more of those lips.

“Gotta say… glad to see you’ve finally caught on,” Sterling swears April purrs at her.

“Wha—” but there’s not a question Sterling can form before April’s lips are back on hers, before April’s tongue is plunging back into her mouth, and Sterling knows everything she tastes for the foreseeable future will pale in comparison to April’s spearmint toothpaste combined with whatever makes April taste like April.

Anything she feels will pale in comparison to April’s hips rocking against hers, her hands bunching up the fabric of Sterling’s shirt. These competent hands don’t roam, and they don’t wander. They don’t make any move, really, except to flex and flex and pull Sterling’s shirt tighter against her. If they did wander, if they did move anywhere above or below where they are now, it would be impossible to keep herself quiet. Whimpering is never something she’s done when making out with someone, but it’s no surprise that making out with April is special like that.

No, but really, Sterling finally caught on? That means… the feelings Sterling has had for less than a week, April has had for…?

She slows the kisses, letting her lips linger with some extended pecks before she grazes her finger along a soft cheek and pulls back to press their foreheads together.

“How long?”

April leans in to kiss her again, but Sterling turns her head so it lands on her cheek instead.

“How long?” She repeats, grabbing at April’s waist and giving her a gentle push.

April sighs, but resituates herself. They end up on their sides, facing each other. Probably good for them to take a beat anyway.

“Is this included in the things that matter more to you?”

“What?” Sterling’s eyes have adjusted to the dark by now, so she can tell April’s still looking at her lips.

“You know, you said yesterday that now you can focus on things that matter more to you.”

“If I say yes, will you please let me kiss you again?” She brushes their noses together, obviously wanting to tempt Sterling.

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe.” Smirks are just as infuriating in the dark when someone’s trying to avoid a conversation.

“Have you wanted to do this all week?”

“Honestly, Sterl, I know you’re just looking for reassurance even though we’ve spent the last fifteen minutes ravaging each other’s mouths, so to put you at ease once and for all, my answer is unequivocally yes.”

“But when did you—”

April smacks her hand over Sterling’s mouth, a miscalculation in the dark effectively silencing her, but the slight sting makes Sterling weirdly tingle in places she’s trying to suppress for this discussion.

“Sterling Pearl Wesley. We literally just confirmed our mutual attraction to each other. We have the privilege of sharing a bed where we can explore said attraction. Don’t you think we should take advantage of that?”

The words from Blair’s contribution to the list scrawl through Sterling’s head. “Wait, did you—”

April lowers her hand from covering Sterling’s mouth, running the lightest touch across her jawline, those tingles now overtaking her face instead. “I did, though I don’t think I’m quite ready for the sex style part,” she giggles.

Sterling joins in, albeit nervously. “That one wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh, you mean it wasn’t your idea to illustrate the universal signal for cunnilingus? I’m shocked.”

Sterling’s laugh gets less nervous, fading to silence as she assesses the meaning behind April’s confession. “I can wait, you know.”

April releases a heavy, minty sigh. “Me, too.”

“And, remind me, you’ve already waited how long?”

That light touch becomes a tickle, catching all the sensitive spots in Sterling’s neck as she lets out a little squeal. Begging God not to let anyone come check on them.

“Let’s talk about that later. I just want to—”

“Keep kissing?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“If you promise we’ll talk about it.”

“Sterling…” April’s hand slips into Sterling’s hair, scratching calming, disarming nails through her scalp. “We have all the time in the world to talk. Let me—let us, have tonight.”

Sterling’s never been good at arguing with April. “You know I love you, right?”

“You tell me daily, yes.”

“No, like, I’m in love with you.”

“It’d be unfortunate for me if that weren’t the case.”

“Tell me with words that you love me, too, or I’ll… I don’t know, take up the whole bed and make you sleep on the couch,” Sterling jokes, playing with the collar of April’s shirt.

“The one right over there? That’s not too steep a threat. That couch is rather comfortable, perhaps overly so, if you take into consideration—”

“April,” Sterling cuts her off, going for the commanding tone but failing miserably, a squeak on the first syllable giving her away.

“Fine, if you insist, and you need to hear it out loud despite the obvious signs, I am, indeed, in love with y—” And Sterling’s the one to connect their lips this time.

And they’re kissing, kissing, and kissing some more. Kissing until the lip balm is all kissed off. Kissing until Sunday probably becomes Monday, sleep fighting to claim her. Kissing while she fights back until she can’t, until April pinches her side and—when Sterling yelps herself awake—says, “Might be a good time to go to sleep.” And yeah, with the static building in her head, the blissful nothing of the night effortlessly whisking her away from the best thing that’s ever happened to her, it probably is.

It’s okay though, because Sterling has a feeling they can keep kissing when they wake up and it’s still Monday, and the next day when it’s Tuesday, and even Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, if April is cool with that.

Oh, shoot. What was that internal debate from this morning? Sunday. End? Beginning?

Rolling over to let April be the big spoon, sinking into her arms and molding to her body like she always does, joining their hands together, feeling April’s breath steady and even at the back of her neck, the last thought Sterling has is: It’s kinda both, in the best… possible… way.