The door opens almost immediately. Samantha Kingston looks as put together and composed as ever. Not a hair out of place, not a crease where there shouldn’t be one. Her eyes flick briefly to the flowers, then back to my face.
“Adaline,” she says. Just my name as a greeting would be strange if she was anyone else.
“Samantha.” I plaster on a smile.
“You didn’t need to bring anything.” She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I wanted to.” No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire, and I sure as hell didn’t want to bring her flowers. She takes the flowers and passes them off to someone behind her without comment. It’s one of the many maids I haven’t met yet.
“Come in,” she says, already stepping aside.
The house no longer smells like freshly baked cookies that Juliette and I made in our underwear, but rather bleach. Nothing lingers, no warmth, no evidence that anyone ever relaxes. I step inside and feel that familiar awareness settle over me, the sense that I’m being evaluated simply by standing still.
Juliette is already here. I see her before I hear her, curled slightly into one of the chairs in the living room, phone in her hand. When she looks up and sees me, her face softens instantly, smiling brightly at me. My Juliette, my safe haven that makes this absolutely worth it.
“You’re here,” she says, walking over to me and enveloping me in a tight hug.
“Yeah.” I beam, hugging her back. You’d think we hadn’t seen each other in decades. Her hand squeezes mine once before she lets go.
We move into the dining room together. I take the seat I always take, instinctively. Juliette sits beside me. Samantha sits across. The table is already set, even though no one is eating yet.Everything is aligned perfectly, like someone spent far too long making sure nothing was off by even a centimetre. For a while, it’s fine.
Painfully fine.
Samantha asks about the weather. About traffic, even though she knows there isn’t any. About nothing that matters. Juliette answers easily, laughing in the right places, visibly relaxing, and I smile at that. I know their relationship has come a long way.
“And work?” Samantha asks, turning her attention to me.
“Busy,” I say.
She nods. “Hospitality usually is.”
Juliette smiles faintly. “She’s exhausted all the time.”
“That kind of work requires stamina,” Samantha says. “Discipline.”
I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that, so I don’t.
“And Oxford,” Samantha says after a moment. “That must feel very close now.”
“Yes.” It was closer than ever.
“You must be excited.” Her tone seems happy, but her expression doesn’t match.
“Yes.” I smile.
“You’ve worked very hard,” she adds.
Juliette beams at me, pride written plainly across her face. “She really has.”
Samantha smiles at her daughter, warm and genuine. “I’m sure.”
Then she looks back at me. The smile stays, but it tightens slightly at the edges.
“I’ll admit,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table, “it took me time to adjust to Juliette being gay.”
Juliette stiffens. “And now?”
“And I have,” Samantha says. “Adjusted.”
