For a moment, the chaos of Vegas, the sharp edges of her own thoughts, even the ache Maggie had left buzzing in her veins — it all quieted. Just three women in a hotel suite, tired and full of honesty and grace.
Lillian excused herself first, thanking them both with a small smile before disappearing to return to her private room a few floors below. A few minutes later, Kiera stretched, yawned, and murmured something about checking in with her mom before bed. Gwen hugged her briefly, then watched the door close behind her.
And then it was just Gwen.
She poured herself another glass of water and carried it out onto the balcony. The night air was dry and warm, neon spilling up from the strip like restless lightning. Somewherebelow, a busker was murdering “Viva Las Vegas” on an electric violin.
Gwen sat heavily in one of the metal chairs, tucking one leg beneath her, the other stretched out. She took a slow sip of water, then another, as if hydration could calm the thrum in her chest.
But of course her mind went back there. The alley. Maggie’s mouth, soft and frantic against hers. The taste of tears and whiskey. The way her body had fit so perfectly against Gwen’s it felt like no time had passed at all.
Her fingers found her hair, tugging through the damp strands, pulling hard enough to sting as if pain might ground her. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, exhaling.
It had been wrong. Hadn’t it? They weren’t together. They’d said as much — lived as much — day after day in separate rooms, separate lives. And yet, the moment Maggie leaned in, Gwen hadn’t thought. She’d only wanted. God, how she’d wanted.
She closed her eyes, the memory replaying anyway. Maggie sayingI want you to kiss me.The way she’d said it twice, had been so sure.
Gwen scrubbed her face with both hands. Wrong or not, she couldn’t shake the truth humming under her skin: That kiss had felt like coming home.
And now she sat alone on a balcony in Vegas, waiting for a woman she wasn’t supposed to love anymore, wondering how she’d survive the rest of this weekend without falling apart completely.
It was another hour before the door clattered open, voices spilling in from the hall — Pete and Danica laughing too loud as they stumbled to their room, Izzy’s singsong teasing trailing after them. Then quiet again, the suite settling.
Gwen didn’t move from the balcony, her half-empty water glass sweating in her hand. She heard Maggie’s uneven stepsbefore she saw her — heels clicking, then the soft scrape as she kicked them off.
The sliding door opened, and Maggie stepped out, her hair mussed, her dress wrinkled, her makeup smudged into something softer. She dropped into the chair beside Gwen with a sigh, sprawling, the picture of messy exhaustion.
Without a word, Gwen reached behind her and slid a cold water bottle across the table. Maggie blinked at it, then at Gwen, then twisted the cap off and took a long drink.
For a while, they just sat there. The lights still pulsed below them, a wash of pinks and blues flickering over Maggie’s tired profile. The night air smelled faintly of smoke and sugar, the city still alive while the two of them let silence stretch.
Finally, Maggie tipped her head back against the chair and let out a sigh that was half a laugh. “What do you think Dr. Elowen would make of tonight?”
Gwen’s mouth curved, though it wasn’t quite a smile. Trust Maggie to invoke their couples therapist like an after-hours punchline.
She swirled the water in her glass, watching the condensation bead and drip. “Depends on which part of tonight you mean.”
Maggie gave a short laugh, no real humor in it. “Any of it. All of it. Take your pick.”
Gwen looked at her then, really looked. At the woman who was still half-wild from the night, still messy, still luminous, still the only person who could make her feel like this.
Her chest ached with the answer.
Gwen let the corner of her mouth lift, the safer edge of a smile. “Well, for starters, she’d probably say we have questionable impulse control.”
Maggie snorted into her water bottle. “That’s generous.” She sat forward, elbows on her knees, the bottle dangling between them. Her hair fell into her face, the bright lights ofthe strip streaking through the strands, and she glanced at Gwen sidelong. “But come on. You know what I meant.”
Gwen’s smile faltered. She swirled the last inch of water in her glass, listening to the faint rattle of Fremont below. “Yeah,” she said finally. “I know.”
The silence stretched again, thicker this time. Maggie’s question still hung there, unspoken but heavy.
The silence settled like Austin humidity in summer, thick and unrelenting. Neither of them moved. Neither of them said it.
And maybe that was safer. Maybe Dr. Elowen would call it progress — choosing not to claw at the wound when both of them were still bleeding.
Maggie cleared her throat, the sound rough in the quiet. “We should get to bed.”
Gwen nodded, her fingers tightening once around the empty glass before setting it down with too much care. “Yeah.”
