Maggie snorted. “Better than her glitter glue era.”
Gwen smirked. “You’ve taken over that one, right?”
“Ceramics is not glitter glue,” Maggie said, mock-indignant, though her chest warmed at the acknowledgment. Because a year ago she hadn’t believed she’d ever return to any of it — art, joy, softness. Now she had clay under her nails and paint smudges on her jeans again, and somehow Gwen didn’t just accept it, she made room for it.
Maggie tipped her head against Gwen’s. “You’re thinking pancakes tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“I may have bribed the children with them,” Gwen admitted. “But yes. Pancakes.”
“Chocolate chips?”
“Strawberries, if Pete doesn’t eat them at midnight.”
Maggie laughed softly into her shoulder. This was the good part. The part where life wasn’t dramatic or fragile, just full of small things that stacked into something bigger.
She thought of Vegas and Michigan a year ago, of meddling friends and shared suites and jealousy and string lights and swans and forced laughter. Back then she hadn’t trusted her face to remember how to smile. Now it was second nature.
Gwen’s sleeve was pushed to her elbows, firelight catching the ink along her forearm. The window, the vines — it looked softer now somehow. Not because it had faded, but because Gwen had softened, too. The edges didn’t remind Maggie of defenses anymore. They were just lines on skin, part of her.
Maggie’s gaze drifted to the petals of her peony where it peeked from her sweater cuff. The colors had dulled a little, but the shape still held. Once, she’d thought Gwen’s tattoo meant permanence and hers meant change. Now they looked like parts of the same story — structure and bloom, frame and color, two halves finally learning how to share the same space.
Gwen noticed her looking and smiled, small and knowing. “What?”
“I love you,” Maggie said. “I love us.”
“I love you,” Gwen said, leaning in to kiss her.
The fire faded to glowing coals. Maggie should’ve gotten up to add a log, but she stayed. Gwen’s weight pressed warm against her side, her hand covering Maggie’s knee. Upstairs,the floors creaked once, then stilled. Outside, snow slid off the deck railing.
Maggie let the book slip shut in her lap and pressed her lips to Gwen’s hair. A year ago, she’d been afraid to want this — afraid of what wanting could cost. Tonight, she wanted everything: the noise, the quiet, the people they loved tramping in tomorrow with wind-pinked cheeks, the way choosing each other had started to feel less like a gamble and more like a sure bet.
In the end, love wasn’t what they’d lost. It was what they chose, again and againand again.
Pete named the conversation “Cabin Fever (Unmedicated)“.
Pete
rolling out shortly. Gladys is vibrating. pray for us.
Danica
She’s vibrating because you gave her half a Pop-Tart.
Pete
she DESERVED it
Maggie
Is it even dawn? How are all you people awake? Our kids aren’t even awake yet.
Izzy
Cabin’s gonna smell like wet pop-tart dog in approximately 4 hours.
Kiera
Quinn just asked if Gladys is allowed in the sled. I said no.
