Chapter 9

NINE

" T ell me about Caerlloyd," Moriah asks, an hour later, when they're both stuffed full of sandwiches and fruit. They're lying on their backs, gazing up at the ever-shifting clouds, head to head, with their fingers tangled against the stitched fabric. Moriah feels high, almost— like she's floating on a kind of joy she had forgotten how to feel.

Cricket's fingers tense in hers, but only for a moment.

"Well," she says. "I was born and raised there. My parents were both born there. It's all I've ever known, really, I don't…It's the most beautiful place in the world, I think, but I don't know anything else."

Moriah squeezes her hand. "You've left before, though? You're in Boston, now."

"Barely," Cricket replies. "The farthest I tend to go is Portland, and that's maybe only once a year. I've never been farther west than Pittsburgh. I love New England, I don't have any need to leave."

"I went on vacations out west, but I don't have much of an opinion either way," Moriah says. "But, I mean, from what Simon has shown me, Caerlloyd is pretty picturesque. Is it really right on the cliffs? Basically overlooking the Atlantic?"

"Yep," Cricket confirms, then pauses and lifts her hand to point at a cloud. "That one looks like a wiener dog." Moriah hums in assent and Cricket tangles their fingers again. "The storms make it a bit precarious, in the winter especially. I don't have a car, because most of my time is spent walking down the main street, and I don't have anywhere to park it to get it out of the snow. I have a bike."

"I do too," Moriah admits. "It's in the storage in the basement. I used to…I used to ride all over the city. It has a little basket."

"Maybe we could go riding together sometime," Cricket suggests, and Moriah isn't struck with panic. Instead, she's filled with hope.

"Cricket," she says and rolls over onto her stomach so she can look at the other woman. Cricket's cheeks are a little pink from the sun, and Moriah mentally notes to offer her aloe vera gel when they get back. "After this, when you go back to Maine…"

Cricket's face grows serious and she rolls over too, relinking her hand with Moriah's. "I'd like to give us a shot," she says firmly. "If you don't, that's…"

"I do! I do," Moriah interrupts and squeezes Cricket's hand. "I really, really do."

Cricket's face splits in that same sunshine smile. "Fuck, I'm glad you do," she exhales. "I know it's a bit of a trek, but…Actually, hang on." She shifts so she's sitting criss-cross on the quilt and pulls out her phone. She unlocks it and taps for a moment. Moriah doesn't look at the screen, content to just watch Cricket's face as she messes with it. A hair in her eyebrow is skewed the wrong way, and she reaches up to smooth her thumb over it.

The woman's eyelids flutter and she flashes Moriah a little, soft smile. Then, she turns her phone around.

"Remember what I was saying about that oil sommelier with the real estate boyfriend?" Moriah snorts, but nods. "I've been thinking for a long time about opening another bed and breakfast, this time in Massachusetts. I've found some real fixer-upper properties up north that would work, and it means I'd be near the city a lot."

Moriah looks at the screen, where Cricket has pulled up a picture of an old, paint-peeling, floorboard-creaking Victorian mansion. It's old, and definitely needs some love, but there's an ancient, wide-trunked tree in the front yard, a swing on the porch, and a dark red door.

"This one is in Haverhill, it has an Amtrak stop, so I could come visit…pretty often," Cricket says softly. "Don't feel like this is because of you, I've wanted to do this for a while. My parents left me a decent chunk of money when they died, and I've just been trickling a little of it into the B there's still a couple inches' gap between the doorframe and the door itself so Woolf can come and go. Now, though, Moriah pushes it open all the way.

Her bedroom is her safe haven. It reflects everything she finds comforting, everything that relaxes her, everything that tugs the tides of her mind toward calm waters. Her bed has a queen-size oak bed frame she found on Facebook Marketplace six years ago now. It's covered in pillows, stuffed animals, and layers of quilts and blankets, and above it is draping fake greenery attached to the ceiling.

The windows are covered in similar gauzy curtains as the rest of the apartment— enough to know she isn't being watched, but not enough to block the sunlight from coming in. She only has one bedside table, between the bed and the window, with a vintage Tiffany stained glass lamp sitting on it that she found massively underpriced at a thrift store.

The floor is almost entirely covered in rugs, most of which she got for altogether too much online, but they matched the vibe, so it was worth it. Strung around the ceiling are fairy lights, automatically turned on with a timer plugged into their outlet.

The only other furniture in the room is a large dresser painted amber with a long table runner across the top, a small shoe rack holding a few pairs of boots and sandals, and a full length standing mirror. Though the room is small, definitely not big enough for anything besides the minimal furniture it hosts now, it's idyllic. Calming.

"Ohh," Cricket whispers as they enter. The fairy lights twinkle across her face, casting her in liquid gold, and she drags her fingers over the topmost quilt on the bed. "It's so fucking cozy in here."

Moriah snorts and sits down on the bed. "It's my favorite place," she admits and grips the fabric. "It's safe in here."

Cricket nods, and something in her eyes tells Moriah that she really, truly understands.

"Shall we, then?" she murmurs and straddles Moriah's hips, kneeling on the bed. She kisses Moriah— not quickly, not messy, not dirty. It's sweet, and soft, and honest.

It's home, really. It's love.

The two women curl up under the quilt together. They nap through the rain, and whisper secrets to each other in the cover of darkness. After the sun sets, they curl up together and watch videos on Cricket's phone until Moriah begins to drift off.

They sleep there, arms around one another, and Moriah dreams of honey-sweet kisses and freshly brewed coffee.