Chapter 8

EIGHT

C ricket presses Moriah into the couch and kisses her until any residual thoughts are wiped clean and overwritten with a low, warm static. She rides her thigh until she comes, moaning against Moriah's neck, and then presses slick fingers to Moriah's clit and pulls her to orgasm as well. They kiss, then, barely dressed and lazy in the late morning sunlight, until they doze off, sated and quiet and warm.

It's every modicum of intimacy Moriah has missed for the last few months— no, scratch that, years. And somehow, it feels effortless. It feels like she's allowed to have it, now. Cricket keeps reminding her, too— every time she starts to hesitate, or her fingers grow frantic, or she has to get up and check the stove once, twice, three times, Cricket just strokes her hair and tells her that she's still here. She isn't going anywhere.

Though, one thing sits in Moriah's mind, despite it all— Cricket is leaving, no matter what. After the awards ceremony tomorrow evening, she's going back to Caerlloyd, and they haven't discussed if this is…A Thing, or just something they're enjoying this weekend, and then…letting go.

Moriah hasn't ever really done casual, but if that's what Cricket wants, she thinks she might say yes, just for the chance to touch her again after this weekend.

"So," Cricket says slowly, right around noon, when they're dressed in light clothes and sipping lemonade on the couch. Woolf is curled up on Cricket's lap, head nuzzled against her thigh, and Moriah briefly has the thought that she's jealous. If she could curl up on Cricket's lap and take a nap, she thinks she would.

"So," Moriah echoes.

"I know you don't go out much."

Moriah freezes.

"No, come on, hear me out," Cricket says and rests her hand on Moriah's thigh. "I just thought, there's a park a little bit from here, maybe we could go for a walk and have a picnic. Get some fresh air."

The first thing that ripples through Moriah's body is panic. Sheer panic. She hasn't left her apartment for longer than taking the trash out, or tipping her Instacart shopper, in…years. The one exception was riding in Simon's little sedan over to his place to help him pack up and load into a U-Haul bound for Maine, and after that, she didn't leave her bedroom for twenty-four hours.

"We don't have to if you really don't want to, but…I think it might be good for you. We won't have to talk to anybody, or go inside anywhere."

The second thing Moriah feels is hope. Maybe, with this ray of sunshine, with the beautiful, charming woman who calms her mind and makes her coffee, she could take a walk down the road. Maybe it's time.

"Okay," she says, like it's easy. Cricket smiles, and it is.

Cricket packs most of their picnic. Moriah tries to help, but Cricket gently shuffles her out of the kitchen with a kiss and points her in the direction of the living room.

"I want to do this for you," she says, "so sit, and do something relaxing for a few minutes."

So, Moriah picks up her crochet project and tucks her legs underneath herself on the yellow couch. She's on maybe her hundredth granny square of a seemingly endless project, but the repetition is calming. Three double crochets in each gap, and then three more, ad infinitum. One, two, three.

One, two, three.

By the time Cricket is done preparing their picnic, she's finished a whole square, tucked it into the tote bag she's storing the project in, and gotten halfway through a second. The yarn she's using is variegated— it changes colors over the course of the skein. From purple, to pink, to orange, she chose it online because it reminded her of a sunrise. Now, it reminds her of Cricket.

"Alright, I think I'm just about set," Cricket calls from the kitchen. She steps into the narrow hall between the kitchen and the living room and hoists up a cooler bag. Moriah finishes her count— one, two, three— and hides the project away again. If she leaves it out, Woolf will dig through the bag and when they get back, the entire project will be strewn about the apartment and the yarn will be unwound across the floor.

Moriah stands and turns to Cricket. The woman is wearing different overalls today— dark green, ribbed fabric, and Moriah briefly wonders how many outfits Cricket even packed for a one night trip— over a tank top, with a flannel tied around her waist.

Moriah, in turn, is wearing another long skirt over leggings tucked into wool socks. The weather said it was going to be sunny but chilly today, so Moriah pulled on a sweater, one she crocheted during the pandemic, and tied her hair back with a silk bandana. They match, in a way; Cricket's green overalls to Moriah's grey-green striped sweater, and Cricket's light flannel to Moriah's pale, patterned skirt.

While they had dressed, Moriah watched Cricket pull her orange hair into a braid, just one down the side, and kissed her against the sink before leaving her own down. The choice definitely had nothing to do with the way Cricket kept tucking it behind her ear, or brushing a strand out from in front of her face.

"Shall we?" Cricket asks when Moriah has her boots on, and Moriah takes a long breath, snags a mask from a barely opened box near the door, and nods.

Locking her door behind her feels foreign, and walking down the steps with no plan to return within the next five minutes makes her grip the handrail even tighter. When they get down to the mailboxes, Moriah hesitates.

( Woolf, trapped in the apartment, flames rising higher and higher, the stove left on, the stove left on, the stove left on, the stove —)

"I have to check the stove," Moriah says and begins to turn, but Cricket catches her hand and doesn't let go. With the other, she pulls out her phone and swipes to the photos app. Then, she shows Moriah a picture of the stovetop.

It's switched off.

"I took this right before we left," Cricket says. "And I watched you lock the door."

Moriah lets out a long breath. She doesn't let go of Cricket's hand, but instead reaches out with the other to grip the doorknob. She turns it—no, that's not right.

( fire, fire, smoke and ash, burnt support beams crashing down, fire —)

She turns it. She turns it.

She opens the door.

The first step onto the sidewalk doesn't end the world, so Moriah keeps walking.

It's odd to consider the things she has missed when they've been ten stairs and a flimsy door away. The trees, quivering in the wind, golden brown leaves fluttering to the ground and collecting in damp gutters. The fence across the street, struck through with ribbons in places, declaring the winner of the Homecoming football game this year. The car on the curb that has been there for months, the tire completely flat, now with over a dozen citations stuffed underneath the wiper.

The air tastes different, somehow, than it does on her balcony. Fresher, maybe, bouncing off of the lingering puddles from Thursday's storms where they sit nestled in the crevices of the road. A bird hops across the asphalt and takes a sip from one.

"It's nice out," Cricket comments. She hasn't let go of Moriah's hand, and it isn't like Moriah is going to any time soon.

"It's…crisp," Moriah replies. "One of the first real cold days so far."

"Really? It's been chilly for a bit up in Caerlloyd," Cricket says and swings their hands. Forward, backward, like a grandfather clock's pendulum.

"Yeah," Moriah says. "It's been a balmy autumn down here."

There's something about the mundanity of the moment. Two women, holding hands, walking down the sidewalk. A leaf falls on the cement ahead of them and Moriah steps on it as they pass. Cricket's smile is wide and effortless.

Life, briefly, feels vibrant, like through 35mm film. The light shines through stained glass, glints against the lens.

"Thank you," she says suddenly. Cricket doesn't ask the obvious question— for what ?

Instead, she just squeezes Moriah's hand, offers her a smile, and tugs her through a gap in the fence.

"This is the park I wanted to go to," she says as they squeeze between two bushes, still thick despite the surrounding trees growing nuder by the day. "This isn't really how you're meant to get in, but—"

"Cricket!" Moriah laughs, a rush of adrenaline turning in her gut. It doesn't send any compulsions tingling through her fingers, so she follows regardless, smiling widely.

"What! It's public property," Cricket says. She turns around and winks. "Just not a public entrance, I think."

Then, she disappears through a gap in the shrubbery, hand slipped easily from Moriah's own. Moriah lifts a branch, careful not to prick herself on the sharp edges of the leaves, and ducks through as well.

As she blinks the sun out of her eyes, Moriah's mouth falls open. The ‘park' Cricket picked out, where she wanted to take Moriah for a picnic? It's fucking picturesque.

Surrounded by drooping trees with strong branches and draping leaves is a small, flat patch of grass, perfectly shadowed by the thick trunk of an enormous oak. Beyond the small, secluded corner, mostly blocked off by trees and shrubbery, is a small pond with a family of ducks paddling across its placid surface. There aren't many people around— Moriah spies one person running through, headphones in and head down— and it feels just open enough to breathe, while closed in enough to feel cozy.

"Cricket," Moriah whispers. She turns around, and Cricket has already laid out a quilt on the ground with the basket on top of it.

"Yeah?" Cricket replies and steps up to Moriah. Their height difference— only a few inches— feels more tangible than ever, here in their secret garden. Moriah leans down and kisses Cricket firmly. Cricket grips Moriah's waist, a protective warmth, and Moriah kisses her again. Hopefully, every word she can't find will make its way to Cricket through the embrace.

When they pull apart, Cricket is flushed red and grinning.

"So, you like it?"

Moriah shoves her playfully and drops to her knees on the quilt, swinging her legs to the side to sit without flashing the non-existent everyone else in the park. "I'm not entirely sure you're real," Moriah admits and holds Cricket's hand when she sits as well.

"I'm very real," Cricket says with a shy little smile and presses Moriah's palm to her chest. Her heartbeat, steady and strong, thuds under the warm skin, and Moriah can't help but kiss her again.

"And I'm very lucky," she murmurs, and means it. For once in her life, she has been given something good. She has to believe that.

"Not lucky," Cricket retorts as she starts pulling mismatched glass containers out of the cooler. "Deserving. Beautiful. Kind, and soft, and strong."

Moriah chews on her cheek and accepts the Pyrex from Cricket. "Can I say something?"

Cricket pauses with a thermos of lemonade in her hand. "Of course, Mo."

"I'm glad your awards ceremony got postponed," Moriah confesses.

A smile spreads slowly across Cricket's face. "Y'know what?" She leans in, setting the container down and using the same hand to cup Moriah's cheek. "I am too."