Page 78 of Saving Graces
Cassidy lowered her eyelashes and smirked at her via the mirror. Kinsey rolled her eyes and looked away. This was right up against the weird line they sometimes skirted, where Cassidy absolutely knew Kinsey found her hot and she seemed to like it. There was an added edge to it now though, with Lane maybe out of the picture and the two of them spending all their days and nights together. It was more than a little confusing.
“What’s happening with that woman you were seeing?” Cassidy asked her. Apparently it was a little confusing for Cassidy too. Kinsey swallowed.
“It’s over,” she said, a small wedge of pain flaring in her chest. “I wanted more than she could give me. I still want more. It sucks.”
“I’m sorry,” Cassidy turned around, touching the back of Kinsey’s hand. “She’s completely crazy, if that helps at all.”
Kinsey sighed.
“Well,” she said, “so’s Lane.”
Her words hung in the air for a beat, until a the knock on the door saved them. Ten minutes to show time.
On stage that night, Cassidy seemed to sparkle a little bit brighter, as if thoroughly aware of all the eyes on her body, not all of them coming from the front of the stage.
Later on the tour bus, Kinsey lay awake on the tiny cramped bunk bed. The shudder and sway of the bus on the highway kept her staring at the ceiling, while Cassidy slept on, just above her. What if… Kinsey let herself imagine it, just once. Her and Cassidy, giving in to the energy between them: kissing her, taking her to bed, their creative energy now fueled by sex as well as friendship. The two of them, a band but so much more. It felt dangerous to contemplate, but sometimes, like tonight, almost inevitable, that maybe one of these nights they might end up crossing a line that Kinsey wasn’t sure they should.
When Kinsey finally fell asleep, she dreamed of Rosalie. When she awoke she couldn’t quite grasp the edges of it, just a hazy memory of those eyes on her face, those lips on her skin, her voice soft in her ear, saying something she badly wanted to hear, but she wasn’t sure what.
The dream carried her through her day, an added wistfulness as she daydreamed out the window, remembering what was and thinking of what could have been. The Cassidy daydream was one thing, fueled by unresolved sexual tension and non-stop proximity. The Rosalie daydream however, felt naggingly real. She could still taste the idea of it: Rosalie beautiful and sleepy-eyed in the morning, clutching a coffee in Kinsey’s bedsheets; Rosalie there as she got off the tour bus, impatient to take her back home to her bed; Rosalie as Kinsey surprised her at work, so cute and uncomfortable in case anyone saw her as she stole a quick kiss. It was still hard to realize none of it was ever going to happen.
And meanwhile, Cassidy was right there.
That afternoon they unlocked the door of their motel room to find there was only one bed.
“Oh,” said Cassidy, hesitating and Kinsey fought the urge to clap her hand over her own eyes and groan. She pretended not to notice, pushing past Cassidy to fling her bag down as always, unpacking just enough to get her through that night.
On stage that evening, Kinsey found herself thinking about it far more than she should. One bed. She smashed her drums harder. Both of them recently unattached and a little bit miserable about it. Kinsey imagined how good it would feel, in the moment, to melt into another warm body. And oh god, what a body… she watched Cassidy shining under the spotlight, her pretty voice belting out lyrics Kinsey had written, her back arching, the crowd loving her. Oh shit.
During the cab ride back they were quiet, conversation dying as they gazed out opposite windows at the passing street. Kinsey thought of Lane, their face radiating pain as they asked her not to fuck their girlfriend as soon as she had the chance. She thought of Rosalie, the kiss that felt like a goodbye and the conflict in her eyes. She thought of the phone number she still kept, not saved in her phone but scrunched down in the front pocket of her suitcase, Savannah’s emphatic underlining like she was telling her not to give up.
Sliding into bed, Cassidy forwent her usual long baggy t-shirt, in favor of a small white tank top that hid absolutely nothing and a pair of panties. Kinsey listened to her friend breathe as she switched off the light, plunging them both into darkness. Her heart pounded in her ears and her mouth went dry. She swallowed.
“Goodnight, Cassie,” she said, her voice firm as she turned her back, and clutching her pillow hard in her arms, she - eventually - went to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You seem different,” Shelby said, two weeks after Rosalie’s return from Vermont. In her absence, Shelby thrived in her heightened role, improving at least three different systems that Rosalie had been meaning to get to for years. The center had never worked better, humming right along like a well oiled, near-perfected machine.
“How so?” Rosalie asked. Had her time away been peaceful? Not exactly. But she couldn’t quite say it hadn’t been reviving all the same. A split-second image of Kinsey, naked above her, flashed into her mind. Reviving was certainly one way of putting it.
“Like that.” Shelby waved her hand at Rosalie’s face. “You’ve got something going on in there. All daydreamy, happy, and sad all in one. Are you in love?”
“What?” Rosalie panicked. “Absolutely not.”
Shelby looked at her face, amusement sparking in her eyes. She cocked her head. “But there is someone.”
“Actually,” Rosalie corrected her, “there’s not.”
And that unfortunately, was quite true. Kinsey would have left without so much as a goodbye that last cold morning in Vermont. If Rosalie hadn’t happened to walk down those stairs at precisely that moment Kinsey would have disappeared forever before Rosalie had even a chance to… stutter and kiss her goodbye. She sighed. She’d not known what exactly to do with that once last chance she’d been granted and now here they all were.
Shelby raised skeptical eyebrows. “Uh huh.”
Without Kinsey, Rosalie’s last week in Vermont had dragged. Savannah tried to be gentle with her, but Rosalie could feel her friend’s exasperation below the surface.
Lane was doing even worse than Rosalie. Ever the professional they went through the motions every day, playing with Tucker, snuggling Emmeline and taking the kids long walks to give Savannah her time. Away from the children though, Lane was a shell of themselves, hiding away in their own suite and avoiding everyone as much as possible.
Around Lane, Rosalie walked a fine line. The part of her that had once taken professional responsibility for Lane wanted terribly to boss them into a chair and prod them to unburden their aching fear and worries on her like they had begrudgingly as a teen. She wanted to fix them, to find a way to get the light back into their eyes.
