Page 118 of Windlass

“You forgot a candle,” said Stevie, trying to modulate her voice.

“No, I didn’t.”

Stevie licked her fingers and pinched the wick of the nearest taper. It sizzled out. “This one right here.”

Angie laughed that low, devastating laugh she reserved exclusively for torturing Stevie and came around the table to stand before her, flicking on the lighter in the scant space between them. Stevie felt its heat on her cheeks. Angie’s eyes glittered above her bruised lips, giving her an almost fey quality.

Angie’s hair didn’t slide between her fingers as easily as it had done prior to Stevie thoroughly tangling it, but Stevie cupped her face and kissed her gently. Angie returned the kiss with equal gentleness, none of it chaste. Her mouth gave beneath Stevie’s, pliant and nearly feverishly warm. Stevie pulled barely far enough away to lean her forehead against Angie’s.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, Angie,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “It kills me.”

Angie’s hand slid beneath her vest to rest on the plane of her stomach. “Try not to die yet.”

“But I want you.” Stevie stroked Angie’s cheek with a thumb. “Again.”

“You can have me again after dinner.” Angie brushed her lips against Stevie’s lightly, then nipped her lower lip. Stevie stifled a moan. They were, after all, in public.

“Not enough.”

“You can have me whenever you want.”

“No more two times a week?” Stevie asked. Angie pulled slowly away, though her hand lingered on Stevie’s stomach.

“You mean the rule we followed, like, twice?” Angie lit the extinguished candle as she spoke.

“I tried. It’s not my fault.”

“Yes, you’re totally innocent.” Glancing over Stevie’s shoulder, presumably to see if anyone was about to enter the room, she smiled. “Stormy.”

Stormy was wiping her hands on a tea towel with a rather terrifying rabbit detailed in toxic shades of pink when Stevie turned around.

“Yes, love?”

Leaning into Stevie to talk over her shoulder, the movement both intimate and casual, Angie said, “Could you please make my girlfriend a drink?”

Chapter Eighteen

Morgan called up to Lilian and Ivy as the rest of them laid dinner out on the table. Angie pretended to be absorbed in the braided loaf of freshly baked bread steaming in the basket before her, which would have been distracting under most other circumstances as would the steaming mushroom risotto, grilled summer squash, and the number of other dishes on the table.

Angie’s chest tightened with an unfamiliar contentment. The emotion didn’t have much space to work with, given the other emotions crowding her interstitial spaces. Stevie was hers. She wanted to release the years of longing with a high scream, long and loud enough to shatter the windows. A terrifying happiness threatened to overwhelm her, threaded through with excitement for Ivy and Lilian.

She glanced at Stevie again. Happiness emanated from her face, more so than a friend’s engagement might inspire. A full body radiance lit her from inside, shining from her eyes like a lighthouse, bright enough to obliterate even the smallest shadow. Angie had wrought this change. She wished she could paint it.

She waited for the prick of unease to steal over her own skin as that light bathed her. It did, but only in passing, the light, quick step of a harmless insect moving about on its business. She was afraid, yes, now she had something even greater to lose, but it was fear, not panic. She could handle fear. Mostly she felt alight. Lana was wrong. Angie would never grow tired of seeing Stevie like this even if she could also never believe she deserved her.

Taking Stevie’s hand beneath the table was the most natural thing in the world.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of the prodigal lovers. Ivy came down the stairs first. If Stevie was a lighthouse, Ivy was a detonated bomb. Angie almost had to shield her eyes from the joy in her smile.

“Hey, slowpokes,” said Stevie.

“Hypocrite,” Stormy coughed.

Stevie’s counter was overridden by Ivy’s explanation. “Stars were gorgeous. We got distracted.”

Lilian followed, silent and stunned, her lips twisted in an irrepressible smile. Angie had never seen her look so helplessly happy. Was this the true meaning of commitment? Not only to promise to stand by someone, but to promise to stand by someone despite one’s own failings?

Unbidden, the thought came to her of Stevie asking her why she often drew in ink. Pencil encouraged too much perfectionism for a first draft she’d told her. Better to draw over the mistakes and let them act as a guide.

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