Chapter 7

SEVEN

M oriah wakes as the sun comes up with a warm body still entangled in hers.

They aren't naked— not anymore. After they both collapsed, sated and sweaty, Moriah had suggested a midnight shower, which led to another orgasm each, and Moriah pulling on clean underwear and a tank top just to return to the couch bed and curl up against Cricket. They slept there, and Moriah's mind didn't wander. It didn't try to convince her of the secret evil of her actions. It didn't thrum with unwanted thoughts, prickling at the inside of her skull.

She just…slept.

Now, with sunlight streaming through the fluttering curtains, Moriah detangles herself from Cricket, tugs the quilt back over her soft, warm body, and pads quietly into the kitchen.

Woolf follows, trailing behind Moriah with her tail waving back and forth, then darts over to her gurgling, empty water fountain and meows. Moriah huffs out a quiet laugh and grabs the plastic souvenir cup from the New England Aquarium from beside the sink. She fills it with water and pours it into the fountain, careful not to spill any. Woolf headbutts her hand and ducks her fuzzy head to drink.

Moriah hums to herself as she gets the french press off the drying rack and turns it upright. She selects a mason jar of beans— a similar light roast to the one Cricket chose, that she used to get from a local stand at the farmer's market, and now gets in the mail every few weeks. After measuring out four tablespoons— twice what she makes most of the time, except on Mondays, when she has two cups in the morning— she pours the beans into the small crank coffee grinder on the counter.

She glances back into the living room, but there's no sight of Cricket yet, so she sets the grind to coarse and cranks the handle around a few times. It's a relatively quiet little device— a large selling point, on the Amazon listing she found over a year ago now— but she still winces as the beans are broken up into smaller chunks. After a minute or two, she checks the grind.

Nodding in satisfaction, she sets that aside and picks up the kettle. She turns on one of the burners on her gas stove and sets the water to boil.

Then, she goes over to the tiered fruit bowl on the breakfast counter and selects a banana, a mango, and a peach, and grabs a mason jar full of granola from one of the cabinets. Her fridge— a luxury, in the kind of cruddy apartment building she lives in— is on sabbath mode, so she opens it. The lights don't turn on, but the flood of cool air feels nice. She pulls out a tub of yogurt and sets about prepping two small bowls with yogurt, fruit, granola, a drizzle of local honey, and a glob of chia seed jelly.

Moriah used to not be able to eat chia seeds. The texture of them, even in jelly, reminded her mouth too much of little, wriggling creatures, and her traitorous thoughts wouldn't let her get a meal down without supplying images of maggots and mold in her throat. Through the power of therapy and exposure, she's gotten used to it— she did the same with mushrooms, a few years ago. She didn't like the idea of her palate being limited, she still doesn't.

After she pours the boiling water over the coffee grounds and fits the strainer into the top of the french press, Moriah sets the two bowls in the fridge and walks back into the living room.

Cricket is up, now; she's standing by Moriah's bookshelf again, staring at that same shelf.

"Good morning," Moriah says softly and approaches the ginger from behind. She's wearing that same oversized t-shirt and a pair of boyshorts that hug the curve of her ass gorgeously. Cricket doesn't respond, and Moriah steps closer. She reaches out with one hand and touches Cricket's waist.

"Oh!" Cricket startles and spins around, pinning a smile to her face as soon as she sees Moriah. Something else slips away, and she reaches up to cup Moriah's cheeks. "Good morning, Mo."

"You alright?" Moriah hums and looks at the shelf. It's her non-fiction and poetry shelf, and there are a few little tchotchkes: a glass otter Simon got her on the same aquarium trip she got the novelty cup, years ago now; a solved Rubik's Cube, also from Simon; a playbill from Fun Home, at the Circle in the Square Theatre in 2013, right before she left New York City for Boston, and a few more from other shows.

Cricket glances back, and her gaze lingers again.

"My dad," she says finally. "He had a Rubik's cube when I was a kid. He learned how to solve it, and he'd have me jumble it up for him, so he could fix it. I was impressed every single time."

Moriah smiles. "I never could figure it out. Simon hyperfocused once and taught himself how, and came back with this. Then, he lost interest, and told me to keep it."

Cricket's lips twitch, but that look returns to her eyes, something wistful and quiet, something like loss.

"Are you okay?" Moriah says softly. Cricket opens her mouth to answer, a pink tongue darting out to wet her plush lips, but then the timer for the french press that Moriah set on her phone back in the kitchen begins to ding. "Come on, I made breakfast." Cricket smiles, but it still doesn't quite reach the corners of her eyes.

They eat matching bowls of yogurt at the breakfast counter together.

Cricket keeps trying to play footsie, and Moriah almost drops a slice of peach on the cat's head when she loses her balance trying to dig her toe into Cricket's calf. Cricket laughs until snot is pouring out of her nose, and Moriah doesn't once waste time overthinking or obsessing. Instead, she finds herself oddly at peace— maybe it's the oxytocin from the orgasms last night, maybe it's Cricket's soothing presence, maybe it's the peace she sometimes feels on Shabbat after sleeping especially well on a Friday night.

Maybe it's just…healing. Coping.

"Did you have any plans for today?" Cricket asks after they finish their cups of coffee. Moriah stills.

"Uh, not really," she says. "Read a bit, probably. Water my plants."

"That sounds nice," Cricket says and rests her palm on Moriah's thigh. She looks through ginger eyelashes, half-lidded eyes, their emerald green lighter than Moriah has ever seen in the pale morning light. "I thought, maybe, we could…" She drags her fingers higher up Moriah's thigh, brushing the hem of her panties.

Moriah reaches out and cups Cricket's jaw in her palm. The woman's skin is velvet and flower petals, with just the right amount of give under her gentle grip. Moriah pulls her in and kisses her before she can think twice about it, but damn if her mind doesn't circle back regardless.

"Cricket," she murmurs as she finally, finally hesitates.

It was always going to end, the peace. The quiet in her mind. She doesn't get to live without the violence she projects echoed back, pinging through her brain like a furious wasp. Who is she to want more than this? Who is she to—

"Moriah," Cricket replies, firm and grounding. She puts her hands on Moriah's shoulders. "Look at me."

Moriah realizes belatedly that her breath is caught in her throat, blocked by the wad of anxiety, the visions she's fought with her entire life.

"Mo."

Moriah blinks away the tears brimming in her eyes to see Cricket's face, open and honest, eyebrows pinched together.

"Cricket," she whispers, and pulls herself away. "I'm sorry."

Moriah stands, startling the cat curled up between her feet, and rushes into the bathroom.

"Fuck," she hisses into the mirror. Cricket, with her sunlight smile and gentle hands, doesn't deserve to get dragged down into her shit. There's a reason she hasn't dated in months, the same reason she told Frank when he asked.

She isn't good for people. Her brain fills itself with violence and unwanted cruelty, visions of blood and battery, old wounds made fresh every time she forgets to lock the door, take the kettle off, wash her hands long enough. She pulled Simon down when he was in Boston, even with his own issues, and now she's dragging Cricket into hell with her, all for a moment of intimacy.

"Moriah," Cricket says from outside the bathroom door. Her voice is muffled by the thick wood, but not muffled enough to be unintelligible. Moriah, back to the door, sitting on the tile floor, turns her head to the side and allows her cheek to press against the cool semigloss paint.

"I'm sorry," she croaks.

"For what, Mo? If you don't want to, it's okay," Cricket says. "I know I come on strong, I always have. It's okay if you want me to pull back."

"No," Moriah gasps and has to bury her face in her palms, tapping trios on her temples with trembling fingertips. "I want you to stay, that's the problem."

Cricket is quiet for a long moment, and then begins to speak, quietly and evenly.

"When I was nineteen, my parents died," she says. "They hit an icy patch on the road. It wasn't anybody's fault, not really, but I blamed the world. I was violent, and angry. I still am. I…I hold everything inside, so I don't hurt the people around me. I keep my grief in my chest so nobody knows I'm struggling."

"Why are you telling me this," Moriah whispers.

"Because I know what happens if you keep all of those feelings inside," Cricket replies. "They turn into blades, and they get you from the inside. The best thing I ever did for that anger was let it out."

That's the problem, Moriah wants to scream, but she can't. The words all feel wrong, her brain feels like it's stuffed with packing peanuts. Every fourth thought feels wrong, out of pattern, offbeat, off-key. Trapped in an eternal midnight, in a bathroom with no windows, fire licking at her ribcage.

"I'm going to be right here, Moriah, whenever you're ready," Cricket says and Moriah feels the body weight of another settle against the other side of the door. A shadow fills the crack between the tile and the wood.

Cricket begins to tap on the door. One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three. Pause.

Moriah times her breaths with the rhythm. Slowly, the bees in her mind begin to settle and return to the hive of her thoughts. After another minute, Moriah slides her fingers under the gap in the door, and Cricket's slide between hers.

"I'm sorry," Moriah says after another minute.

"For what?" Cricket says, like it's that simple.

Maybe it is.

"I really like you, Cricket," Moriah confesses.

"Can I tell you another secret?" Cricket replies, and Moriah can't help the smile that spreads over her mouth. Her eyes still hurt, red and rubbed raw, but something inside soothes the hurt. Something she hasn't felt in a long time.

"Yeah," Moriah whispers.

"I really like you too. I have for a while, if I'm honest, since I came down to help Simon move. I thought about you…a lot. More than I probably should've, after only one meeting."

Moriah smiles even wider, and a laugh tumbles out of her mouth without warning. It bubbles up out of her chest and into the stagnant air, and before she knows it, she's doubled over in laughter.

"Is there something funny about that?"

"I've had a crush on you for about as long," Moriah replies through giggles. "I thought…I thought you were so competent. So butch."

"And you don't now?" Cricket laughs back.

"No, no, I know you are. I just…I also know now that you have a soft side," Moriah replies. Cricket's fingers twitch against hers.

"I thought you were this…unapproachable, city femme, who wouldn't like a girl who smells like fish," Cricket replies. Moriah snorts.

"You've never smelled like fish to me," she says. "Bruce, on the other hand…"

Cricket cracks up then, laughing full-bellied and hearty, and Moriah grins. Her chest feels lighter again. There are still things rattling around in there, but they're less wasps and more…

Well, crickets.

"I'm going to open the door now," Moriah says quietly. She hears Cricket move, scooting away from the door, and she reaches up and pulls on the handle. The door swings open.

Cricket is still there.

"Hello, beautiful," she murmurs and reaches up to tuck Moriah's hair behind her ear.

"Hello," Moriah echoes, and Cricket smiles.

The sun comes up.