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That first night together, they lost themselves in the confines of that bed. Hours passed as their bodies intertwined, sweat forming and cascading down in a mix of salty and sweet raindrops. Yet, even in their exhaustedly trembling state, they couldn’t resist each other’s allure. That’s what their relationship was from the very beginning: spontaneity and passion. From the very moment they met, they craved each other. They had to have the other, and they did again, and again, and again.
The very next day they went out to dinner, and then the next day to the park, and then again the day after that, until they decided after just a couple of months that it would just be easier to live with each other than waste the time traveling to each other.
Typical Uhaul lesbians.
Their first shared apartment sat above an old Chinese restaurant downtown. It was a modest space, with just one bedroom and one bathroom. The scent of lo mein permeated the sheetrock, and the floors creaked under the weight of their footsteps. Despite its imperfections, it was their home–a place they could call their own.
They didn’t have a desk or office. They barely balanced paying their student debt on top of groceries and rent. Instead of silly things they’d have time to worry about later, after a long day of meetings and teaching, they laid next to each other on their cheap couch, sinking deep into the overly plush cushions while one read the paper and the other huddled over a novel. That was the comfort that became a need more than a simple want.
***
Despite now having a spacious home to spread out in and a desk to sit at, Julia still chose to sink into those cushions, desperate to feel that content tranquility again–of having nothing and having everything at the same time.
With a growling stomach from unintentionally fasting throughout the day, she made her way to the kitchen. Julia could cook. Oh, she made the most incredible dishes like Tuscan white bean and garlic soup, seared scallops and spinach beneath a pomegranate glaze, or her famous saffron risotto. She could easily own her own restaurant, entirely self-taught, too. She could make the most amazing meals, but she didn’t anymore. It was something about cooking for one, as if her enjoyment of the food alone wasn’t worthy of the time it took to make it.
Instead of reaching for a sauté pan to sear the salmon waiting in the refrigerator, she grabbed a ceramic soup bowl and poured an unhealthy serving of Fruity Pebbles into it. Instead of making anything for herself, she spent the rest of the night creating Keegan’s favorite appetizers for their girl’s day tomorrow: caprese salad, baked crab and artichoke dip, jalapeno poppers, shrimp cocktail, and of course, chicken wings. They’d spend the day planted in front of the television, yelling at referees while picking at snacks. Julia couldn’t wait for the reprieve.
Like each Sunday, she woke before her alarm. It was the same routine every week. She grabbed the vacuum and began cleaning in the kitchen. Her house was always spotless–Martha Stewart could eat off her floors. Julia was raised as a homemaker since she could walk, her mother’s voice still nagging in her ear that her plates still weren’t clean enough as she scrubbed them once more.
That might be one of the many reasons why she hadn’t invited her mother to New York for Thanksgiving the last few years. The last time she saw her, she was enjoying her very expensive retirement community in South Carolina. She spent her time ogling at the orange bachelors and tanning her pruny skin on the beach. She took pleasure in frustrating the staff with constant reminders of how different things were in her day, emphasizing the greater respect that was supposedly given to those with gray hair. She fought with her nurses instead of her family. That’s where Julia hoped she’d stay. Frankly, it’s the best money Julia’s ever spent.
The one time she actually visited her in the last couple of years, she sat on the beach across from her. Veronica never aged. Her perfectly styled gray hair seamlessly blended with the occasional strand of blonde that defied the passage of years–her face far too tight to be in her late seventies. That’s the power of Botox and a bitchy attitude, apparently. It was August, the last time she saw her. Summer vacation officially began, and the air was disgustingly humid. Julia planned a two-night stay, using the excuse of scheduling reports to cut her visit short.
***
“Where’s Marin?” Veronica asked, bringing a wrinkled hand to her sunglasses-covered face.
Veronica delicately speared another forkful of salad, her focus still fixated on maintaining her appearance. Even in her advanced age, she cared too much about what others thought of her body. Oh, no! Couldn’t possibly have that piece of cake! No, no, no, Julia, this salad is more than filling. Do you see these almonds? It was as if she believed Julia would be billed by the pound for her mother’s eventual demise from that resting bitch face.
Ocean waves caressing the shore and the gentle rustling palm trees overhead drowned out Julia’s thoughts. They could’ve met in the dining hall. Even more convenient, they could’ve sat over Zoom–perfectly protected in their own states–and chatted like they usually did, pretending to enjoy the other’s company.
Veronica could’ve done anything other than drag her daughter hundreds of miles away with guilt weighing down her suitcase, just to sit across from her on a beach, forced to apologize for her tone to the poor teenage waiter who was told the wine just wasn’t at the right temperature. It’s 105 degrees, Veronica. What did you expect?
She would give up her first-born child over seeing her disappointment in person, that sad look in her eyes. She carried that weight like an anchor around her heart. Being a superintendent wasn’t prestigious enough for Veronica Jenner’s only daughter. A lawyer? A doctor? Sure, that would’ve done it. If she married a man that was one of those things? Well, hot diggity damn. She would’ve had her mother’s approval over Mount Everest.
“Marin couldn’t make it,” Julia responded, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “She had a big week at work.” She lied. She always did.
“Mmm,” her mother said as she nodded, bringing the condensation-covered glass to her lips.
The wind whipped around them with the beat of the waves, but she was ready with her hair securely pinned back; unlike Julia, who wasn’t prepared for a casual lunch on the beach. She was in her usual flying attire–a navy suit with a white button up underneath. Her brown loafers–gold accent buckles matching the buttons on her jacket–were already filled with sand, itching every toe. Her thighs were sweaty from the cotton-wool blend of material, cooking in the summer sun. Veronica didn’t even offer the chance to change before having someone whisk her luggage away to their visitor’s wing.
“What are you doing these days, mom?” Julia asked, silently mouthing the words thank you as the waiter placed a scotch on the rocks in front of her. She didn’t even have to ask. It was as if the short few times she visited, they knew.
“Oh, you know,” she hummed, lifting her glass and gazing towards the ocean as if posing for a photo. The drama. Already?
“Actually, I don’t know,” Julia admitted. “What’s the activity this week? Pickleball? Bingo? Oh! Are you learning the harmonica?” Her voice was between glee and sincerity, and Veronica couldn’t place it.
Julia knew her mother picked the ‘hippest’ place she could find. It had the newest facilities and the best view money could buy. She never even called it what it was: a retirement community.
She’d her friends, laminating over the wild nights they used to have roaming the streets. She’d chuckle, never a laugh, and claim that everything on her retreat was exactly up to Veronica Jenner’s standards. They’d visit her, sitting in her suite or lounging in the hot tubs while smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. They’d allow her to pretend it’s a vacation, and then they’d leave.
Julia would take any chance she could at reminding her mother of the very thing she hated so much: aging. It was the least she could do–a subtle rebellion, if you will. It wasn’t a lavish getaway. It was her home for the foreseeable future.
“Very funny, Julia,” she scoffed. “I haven’t seen Marin in a very long time.”
“She’s a busy woman.”
“Too busy for her mother?” Veronica gasped, far too dramatic for the circumstance.
