Chapter 10

Sometimes, Bebe made it very difficult not to love her.

Take now, for example. It was another Monday night, their usual date night. They were having dinner at some old-school red-sauce joint complete with fresh mozzarella made in-house and cranky waiters who barked to each other in Italian. Bebe was listening intently as Mel yammered on about nascent ideas she had for the cocktail competition.

"So there's kind of a Wall Street boardroom thing going on there that might be fun to play with in a whiskey drink. Except I don't want it to be super spirit-forward. Accessible, right? Something TV would never put on their menu because we ‘want to attract a certain clientele.' I want people who wouldn't normally drink bourbon to try it and say, ‘Damn, that's a good drink!' And if TV won't let me do it at work, I'll do it for this weird contest." Mel gestured wildly with her fork to underscore her point.

Bebe's eyes flicked down to her chest. "Oh, Sweetheart, you've got something on you." She pointed to the blob of marinara on Mel's heather-gray shirt.

"Ah, shit." Mel put down her saucy fork and picked at the stain. "Every time."

"Not to worry." Bebe produced a Tide pen from her purse with a triumphant cry. "I always come prepared." She leaned over the table and scribbled the tip of the pen across the stain, right over Mel's sternum. The tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. "Almost… there. All gone." She capped the pen and smiled, still leaning close.

Mel had no choice but to kiss her right in front of a busboy.

Afterward, they strode down a Chelsea avenue arm in arm, their breath misting in the air. "Where to now?" Mel asked. They'd been taking turns choosing date-night activities, and tonight was all Bebe.

"That depends," Bebe said. Her arm squeezed Mel's in the crook of her elbow. "We can hop on the subway and go back to my place…"

"Love your place," Mel said, then bit her tongue. She had to stop using the L-word for every damn thing. It was starting to look suspicious. "It's very convenient." Great save.

Bebe kept talking like she hadn't heard Mel, though she gave her a sly sideways glance. "Or we could go to your place…"

"That is also a great place." They'd had two sleepovers at Mel's apartment so far, and Mel was getting better at hosting. She'd even bought real hand soap for the bathroom instead of her usual move: filling the old dispenser with water, swishing it around, and praying for the best.

"Orrrrrrr…" Bebe drew out the word like a purr. "We could go look at some art. Any interest?"

Mel tried not to make a face, but she couldn't help it. She screwed her mouth to one side. "It's hard to beat going back to my place. Or yours." She paused. "What kind of art are we talking about?"

"Kade's," Bebe said.

"Oh." Mel was getting used to the fact that Kade was not some uncredited bit player in Bebe's life. In the beginning, she had tried to forget the fact that she was dating a married woman, but Kade was as much a part of Bebe's life as her job or her jokes or her opinions on restaurants. It was impossible to expect their name to be completely excised from conversation. Still, Mel wasn't sure how to act when they came up, and she certainly didn't know if viewing their art was an appropriate date idea. "So it's, like, on display somewhere?"

"Yep," Bebe said. "At a gallery not far from here. Tonight's the opening night, and I thought, you know." A shrug. "Free drinks if nothing else."

"Hold on." Mel stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to goggle at her. Bebe had to stop, too, since their arms were linked. "Your wife is having a gallery opening tonight? And you're on a date with me instead?"

Bebe waved her free hand airily. "I've been to dozens of their opening nights and I'll probably attend a hundred more. Kade doesn't need me at every single one, honestly." She caught Mel's doubtful look and elaborated: "We've spoken about it. They genuinely don't mind. They're always overwhelmed with people they need to talk to at these things, so it's not like they'd have much time for me, anyway. You don't have a lot of free nights, so when we were scheduling this date, Kade told me to go ahead."

Mel frowned. "I can't imagine being married and not having my wife at an important event like that."

"Well, you're not Kade," Bebe pointed out.

Mel's brow bounced upward. "That is very true." She couldn't think of anyone she was less like than the aloof artist.

Bebe shrugged. "Look, I thought you might find it interesting, but if you'd rather not go, that's fine. There's always my place. Or yours." She swayed closer, their hands joined together between them, breath misting in the cold.

Mel stole a quick kiss, then bit her lip in thought. She felt kind of guilty for taking Bebe away from Kade's opening night, even accidentally. On the other hand, extending her date with Bebe into Kade's domain felt like the kind of thing you'd do if you were serious about integrating yourself into someone's life. Decidedly un-casual.

She was overthinking this. Kade was Mel's metamour—the paramour of her paramour, a word that Daniel had gleefully taught her—and she should have at least a civil relationship with them. And their art was fucking cool, so why not drop in? Might earn her some brownie points with Bebe, show how chill she could be about worlds colliding.

"Or we could go back to my place after we look at some art," Mel said in what she hoped was a smooth way.

Bebe squealed in delight but managed to muffle most of it in the thick scarf around her neck. "That sounds perfect. Come on, it's this way." She tugged Mel by the hand down a narrow street.

Mel was only familiar with art galleries from her time as a freelance events bartender. It was customary for a gallery opening to have an open bar—usually very brief and very cheap, but the temptation of free sauvignon blanc and vodka sodas was enough to get asses in proverbial seats. People would stare at the ugliest paintings in the world as long as they had a complimentary drink, in Mel's experience.

The gallery Bebe led her to was much like the ones Mel had worked at in the past: glass storefront, white walls, and a lot of people milling around with plastic cups clutched in their hands. Mel held the door open for Bebe, and together they entered the warm, crowded space. A kid wearing a black vest with a he/him pin took their coats and hung them on a rolling rack that served as coat check. There was a small table set up in a corner with a beleaguered bartender slinging drinks to patrons five deep.

"Do you want something?" Bebe asked, indicating the long, messy line of people waiting.

Mel grimaced at the selection of middling wine lined up at the table's edge. "I'd rather sip on my own spit," she muttered. Then, realizing that was probably not the classiest thing to say on a date: "Uh, I mean—if you're going to have one, sure."

But Bebe was already cracking up, her smile wide enough that her polite fan of a hand couldn't cover it. "I hear they do a great cup of saliva here, actually," she managed to say between giggles. "I take it you have experience with these open bars?"

"Yeah, from the other side of the rail. Not my favorite era." She grimaced. "Sorry, I can turn off the bitchiness, I promise."

"Are you kidding? Why would I want that?" Bebe turned her head to check out the room, which gave Mel a chance to hopefully get over her blushing without being seen. "I think we should start over here," Bebe said, pointing at a wall and using her free hand to hold Mel's. "Work our way through the exhibit chronologically."

Mel craned her neck to try to spot a head of red hair in the crowd, but she couldn't get a fix on it. "You don't want to say hi to Kade first?"

"Nah," Bebe said, leading her confidently through the room. "They'll have their hands full with schmoozers. We'll find them when we find them." She paused in front of the first frame, a small square only slightly larger than a cocktail napkin.

It was a sketch of what might have been a round area rug. Or a pizza. Mel tipped her head to the side and squinted at it. She felt completely out of her depth. It was hard to appreciate something when she didn't know what it was supposed to be. She read the tiny white card pinned to the wall next to it, but it was no help. The title was Hers, and it was a print from a copperplate etching, whatever that meant, made this year.

"You know," Bebe whispered in her ear, "I didn't get this stuff at all. Not at first."

Mel turned her head. "Really?" Bebe seemed so cosmopolitan, so put-together. "I kind of assumed you must have been born with an innate understanding of, I don't know, all the postmodern artists and their seminal works."

Bebe laughed. "No, I was born with an innate understanding of the Comstock Laws. Art came later." She faced the etching again, smiling faintly. "Kade was very patient with me. They explained it in a way I could understand."

Mel looked back at the tiny picture. "Mind passing along the info? Or is it top secret?"

Bebe laughed. "Not secret in the least. Look." She pointed at the picture. "See how the lines are a little janky? That's because Kade didn't draw this directly onto paper. It's a print. They took a piece of copperplate and coated it with this—I don't remember what it was called, exactly. Black stuff."

"Black stuff." Mel nodded sagely. "The professional term."

Bebe grinned. "Then they scratched this design into it. Did you ever do crayon art as a kid where you layered a bunch of colors over each other, then used the end of a paper clip to scratch a picture into it?" She pretended to scratch with an imaginary tool.

"Yeah," Mel said slowly. The distant memory from elementary school came flooding back. "I'd always do a black layer on top. It made it look cool, like rainbows underneath."

"Same principle. Except then Kade takes the plate and gives it an acid bath."

"Definitely didn't have access to acid baths in first grade."

"Pity. The acid eats away at the copper that's been exposed, and Kade's left with essentially a stamp. They can ink the stamp and make prints like this one." She indicated the artwork with a little twirl of her hand. "What we're looking at is the product of all that work, not the work itself. They are intentionally showing us the print without its matching plate." Her face softened as she regarded the etching, her head cocked to the side. Mel was transfixed by her and it in equal measure. "It's the culmination. The child, not the parent. The parent is somewhere else, invisible to us."

"Hers," Mel said, finally understanding. She looked at the etching again, now that she had some background clues. The roundness of it could have been a belly or a breast. "Is Kade's mother—?"

"They're estranged," Bebe said, quiet and a little angry.

"Literally not in the picture." Mel felt that with her whole self, thinking of her own parents over in Jersey. The tiny cocktail napkin of a drawing seemed larger now. It encompassed a feeling so complicated, so huge, Mel could easily see herself in it. "Is all art this good once you learn a thing or two about it?"

"No," Bebe said in a lighter voice. "Some of it gets worse."

They shared a laugh, Mel's hand seeking Bebe's. Their fingers twined together and squeezed. They might have stayed there in front of the print the whole night, delighted with each other, but a loud bang from the other side of the gallery interrupted the moment.

Mel looked over at the bartending station and saw the staff member rushing to grab a bottle of red wine that had fallen onto the floor. It hadn't shattered, thank god, but there didn't seem to be enough paper towels in the world to stem the tide of cheap merlot. The staffer looked overwhelmed, eyes puffy and red, lower lip trembling, frantically mopping up the mess on their hands and knees. She was young, no more than twenty-three, with a blunt blond bob and a she/her pronoun pin on her black vest.

"Oh, goodness," Bebe whispered, full of sympathy. "Poor kid."

Mel's heart twinged. That had been her, ten years ago: overworked, underpaid (in some instances, totally unpaid), tired, hungry, and on the verge of having a nervous breakdown because her life was a mess and so was her station. Someone had to give the kid a hand.

Ah hell, Mel thought.

She looked at Bebe, already cursing herself for what she was about to do. "I'm really sorry about this, but can I press pause on our date? Just for a few minutes? I'm having a great time, but—" She gestured helplessly at the red wine mess.

Bebe blinked. "Oh!" She tucked her lips in and nodded sharply. "Yes, of course. Go ahead."

Mel let out a relieved breath. "Thanks." She pressed a quick kiss to Bebe's knuckles before letting go and approaching the disaster zone. Dozens of guests were standing around the bar, vulturelike, unwilling to give up on their free drink even though the bartender was clearly in crisis.

"Hey." Mel went to one knee next to the wine puddle and gently took the roll of paper towels from the bartender's shaking hands. "What's your name?"

"What? Uh. Dahlia," she said, sniffing.

"Dahlia, I'm Mel. Here's what's going to happen: we're going to get this cleaned up, then you're going to take a twenty-minute break. Get some air, walk around the block, whatever it takes to calm down. I'll cover for you, okay?" She mopped up more merlot and stuffed the soaked paper towels in the small trash can hidden beneath the bar.

"Huh? But—" Dahlia's eyes filled with more tears. "Sorry, I'm fine. Really."

"You're not fine," Mel said. "You're dead on your feet. You probably worked a wedding or some bullshit earlier today, then had to run over here to set up all on your own, right? Because the events company you freelance for is run by morons who are always short-staffed."

One tear ran down Dahlia's cheek. "I haven't even had time to eat anything today," she whispered.

Mel shook her head. This fucking business. Sometimes she couldn't stand it. "Seriously, go. Take the twenty." She finished cleaning up the last of the wine. "I can handle things while you're gone."

"I don't think I'm allowed to do that," Dahlia said. "I'm not supposed to leave the setup unattended—or, like, with a stranger."

"What's the worst that can happen? I make off with thirty bucks of shitty wine while you're gone? I steal the"—Mel glanced at the sad jar on the bar top—"two dollars and change you got in tips? Trust me, your boss isn't here, and no one's going to tattle on you."

Mel could see the wheels turning behind Dahlia's red-rimmed eyes, the calculus of the exhausted. "Okay," she said. "Just twenty minutes, though."

Mel stood and offered her a hand in rising. "Take however long you need."

Now the kid really looked like she was going to start sobbing and never stop. Another tear rolled down her face, hurriedly wiped away. "Thank you? I don't know what to—"

"Don't say anything. Beat it." Mel shooed her toward the door and then took her place behind the makeshift bar. One quick glance at her wares—ugh, even worse than she'd imagined—and then she pointed at the guest closest to the front. "Red or white?" she barked.

The crowd pressed closer, growing now that some of the people who'd had the decency not to loom while Dahlia was flailing came back. Mel lost herself in the act of pouring scant measures of wine into clear plastic cups over and over again. A couple bills found their way into the tip jar, which Mel acknowledged with a grin, knowing they'd all be Dahlia's at the end of the night.

After a few minutes, the worst of the mob died down, and Mel took a moment to check for any sign of Dahlia through the gallery windows. There she was, standing on the sidewalk in a heavy down coat—with Bebe. Mel watched as Bebe pressed a round foil-wrapped packet into the kid's hands, her head bent close as she spoke. Mel couldn't hear what she was saying to Dahlia, but the kid was nodding through tears. She unwrapped the thing Bebe had given her—a bacon, egg, and cheese, it looked like—and tore into it. Bebe put a hand on her shoulder, still murmuring what could only be an inspired pep talk, because the kid stood a little taller as she chewed.

Had Bebe overheard them talking about Dahlia's shitty day? Or had she known somehow what the kid needed to feel better?

Mel's chest filled with warmth. God, that woman was a marvel.

Mel paused in the middle of unscrewing the cap off a fresh bottle of shitty Chablis. She examined with great trepidation the quality of the warmth inside herself. It wasn't unfamiliar. In fact, it felt very much like—

Oh. Great.

She like-liked Bebe.

This wasn't supposed to happen. These were supposed to be her training wheels, her practice run to get back into dating. This wasn't supposed to be anything serious. And even if it could be, it was way too soon. Way too fast. For god's sake, Bebe was married to—

A redheaded figure appeared directly in front of the bar. "Kade!" Mel yelped.

"Hello, Mel." Kade was wearing fuchsia eyeliner, a sleeveless black jumpsuit, and a frown. "Do you… also work with the catering company?"

"No, no! I'm just pitching in for a minute." She glanced back at the window, but Bebe had disappeared. Dahlia stood alone, polishing off her BEC. "Long story. Can I get you a drink?"

"I'll have some water, please, if you have it," Kade said.

Mel dug a bottle of Fiji—oh, sure, splurge on the fucking water—from an ice chest. "Congrats on the show, by the way. Your stuff is pretty cool." She winced, still wrist-deep in ice. "Sorry. Probably not the most enlightened review you've ever gotten, huh?"

"Well," Kade said, accepting the water bottle with regal poise, "I've had worse." It was hard to tell if they were being facetious or not.

Before Mel could form a response, Bebe appeared at Kade's side. "There you are, Darling!" she said, embracing them with a happy bounce. "I was showing Mel your etchings. They're so wonderful." Without missing a beat, she dug a fifty-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it in the tip jar. She winked at Mel, quick as a flash. "Dahlia's had a rough time of it, poor lamb. I think she'll be back shortly, though."

"Who's Dahlia?" Kade asked.

"I'll tell you later. Now go mingle." She gave her wife a gentle push, and Kade went with minimal grumbling. Bebe turned back to Mel. Her eyes were as bright as a thousand streetlights. "You're a hero, you know that?"

"Eh." Mel busied herself with pre-pouring a few more cups of wine for people to grab. "It's not a big deal. What's twenty minutes of my time?"

"To some people, everything." Her face softened into something Mel could hardly look at directly, it was so affectionate. It made her want to blurt out things she couldn't possibly share, not now. Not ever. "Absolutely everything. That's why I like you so much, Mel Sorrento."

Mel was screwed. There was nothing she could say to that that wasn't dangerously close to the truth, so instead she said nothing. She watched the soft look on Bebe's face slide into concern. Possibly disappointment. Definitely that.

"I'm back," Dahlia announced, reappearing at the bar. "Thanks for the coverage." She looked much better, albeit a little embarrassed.

Mel sent a silent prayer to whatever saint oversaw huge fumbles. At least the awkward moment was interrupted. "No worries. Take it easy, okay?" She gave up her spot and moseyed back to Bebe's side. Bebe's hand dangled there, and Mel considered clasping it and dragging her deeper into the gallery, but it felt like the moment for that had passed. She tipped her head toward the back wall instead, feigning an upbeat tone. "Want to show me more of this art stuff?"

"Yeah," Bebe said, her voice edged with the same strained bubbliness. "Sure thing."