Eulerville

Please note that this story contains references to both the historical rape of a minor and previous parental sexual abuse. While obviously neither is depicted, people who might find such references upsetting should read with caution.

This work is part of my Community Pool anthology series. Each entry in the series has its own main characters, though some people appear in more than one tale. The connective tissue is provided by a public swimming pool, located in Marshall, an East Coast college town.

The story is a stand-alone sequel to Abby's Sapphic Deliberations and features its protagonist, Abby Taylor, and her colleague Melissa Mansour. If you are interested in learning more about the people of Marshall, CT, you can also take a look at A CP Primer.

Thank you to HelenL, redgarters, and PennyThompson for both beta reading and their helpful suggestions. Please check out their excellent work.

EULERVILLE

A story about trying to take the next step

Saturday, August 29

A fifteen-minute drive from the center of Marshall, and nestled on one bank of the Connecticut River, was Eulerville. It was a town that often seemed frozen in time, at least architecturally. Its narrow streets were crowded with brick and stucco houses - generally the grander ones - interspersed with more modest clapboard dwellings in pastel colors. Pride flags fought for space with 'hate has no home here' yard signs. Sometimes it appeared that there were more antique stores than residents - and more coffee shops than either.

While Eulerville was a charming place to visit at any time of year, in October it fully revealed the beating heart of its community. In October, virtually every house was decorated for Halloween. In October, folks drove from all over the state - and indeed from adjoining ones - to walk Eulerville's streets and marvel at its demonically devised displays of goblins, ghosts, and ghouls. In October, Grant Wood had to cede the term American Gothic to a small, folksy Connecticut town.

But that was all in the future. It was now a late summer Saturday and I was heading for Eulerville for more gustatory reasons, specifically ice cream. And I wasn't alone. I still hadn't fully gotten used to that feeling; it was an unaccustomary sensation, no matter how pleasant.

It had been my companion who had told me about Eulerville. "You'll love it," said Melissa. "I do."

Having done my research - which was as extensive as you might expect from a scientist - I had a detailed mental image of the place, bolstered by online photographs. But now we had entered the actual town and charming was definitely the word.

"We used to always try to park down by the bridge," said Mel. "I mean when my mom used to bring us here."

I could hear the unhealed pain in Melissa's voice at the obvious parental omission. Her parents' divorce - and the traumatic central reason for it - had burned her soul. Burned her soul in a way that I felt totally inadequate to address. I briefly touched her hand and got a tight smile in return. "I'm OK, Abby."

Then more brightly she said, "Oh look, there's a space right there."

I backed in and we both got out. I joined Melissa on the sidewalk and she extended her hand. We were still working stuff out, but holding hands was OK. And frankly if we couldn't hold hands in this environment, where could we?

The sun was bright, and the air warm, but there was a breeze and it wasn't too hot to take a walk.

"The ice cream place is right at the other end of Main Street," said Mel. "Let's walk down to it and then back by the river, OK?"

I gave her hand a little squeeze and replied, "Sure. Lead on."

Together, we walked up from the riverside into the town, passing funky cafes and eclectic boutiques, and turned left onto Main Street.

There were a lot of people around, sitting at the outdoor tables of restaurants, peering into the windows of stores, or - like us - just wandering and taking in the vibes. And yet there was a sense of serenity. People smiled as they passed us by. It was even cooler here, the overhanging buildings shading the narrow road.

"You feel it, right?" asked Mel, and I really did.

"You should see it in October," said Mel, her eyes shining through her round glasses. "We have to come back."

The implication of a shared future warmed my heart, but also set lepidopterans flapping around in my insides. How best to describe my feelings? Confused? Nervous? Hopeful? Conflicted? All of the above?

"Abby." Melissa's voice broke my thoughts. "You still here?"

"Yeah, sorry. I... well, you know..."

I guess she did. It had been six months since Valentine's. Six months since my colleague and I had shared our first - and only - kiss. Six months since Mel had told me about her childhood trauma. Six months since we'd agreed that we were both kinda emotionally overwhelmed and that taking things slowly was a good idea. Six months of friendship and hanging out and having lunch together in the work cafeteria. Six months of me wanting more, but not knowing how to request it.

Admittedly the time had been punctuated by Melissa having to return to the San Diego office for over two of those months. The colleague whose maternity leave she had previously covered had resigned. What our employer, Connecticut Biolabs, needed was Melissa back on the West Coast while they recruited a replacement. Embryonic sapphic relationships weren't a corporate priority, it appeared. I'd even asked about whether I too could be temporarily assigned to San Diego, but it wasn't an option.

I wasn't sure whether it was just my rather overactive imagination, but it seemed to me that Melissa had been a little more... distant since her return. It was always so hard figuring people out. And often much too scary to ask.

"Abby!" This time Mel's tone was sharper.

"Sorry," I replied again, now in some embarrassment. Mentally I added yet another item to the list: Things Abby Taylor needs to work on. It was a long list.

"They have nice coffee here," said Melissa, now sounding rather more positive.

The line didn't seem too long, and the aroma - toasted nuts, blended with dark chocolate and burnt sugar - that wafted out of the place was enticing.

"Sure," I replied. "Oh! They have chocolate croissants. I like chocolate croissants."

"But the ice cream," began Mel. "Oh, what the hell, OK."

"We could have ice cream too," I added helpfully.

"Yes, we could," she smiled, and we headed into the shop.

Fortified with baked goods and caffeinated beverages, we felt able to contemplate the final push to the ice cream shop. As we walked northward, the stores and eating places began to give way to houses. Even outside of the Halloween season, some brought to mind a less macabre version of the Addams Family house. Gothic ornaments and finials abounded, alongside wood shingles and mid-Victorian stucco. And still the queer-ally regalia dominated; love is indeed love, and science is indeed real.

As we progressed, we passed the taller, grander houses and came upon low-rise terraces with open loggias. The external spaces housed strollers, or kayaks, or inflatable toroids to go tubing on the nearby river. Some residents sat on their verandas, smiling at the world passing by. Finally more modern brick buildings made an appearance. Art galleries, bakeries, and yoga studios.

One of these housed our destination, a hanging sign announcing, "Over The Moooon," in script above a painting of a cow's head.

"Here it is," said Mel.

Inside was cool and we seemed to have avoided the rush as only two people were ahead of us, while a line formed behind. I selected two scoops of peanut chocolate in a cup. Melissa went for a cappuccino waffle cone. Rather than consume our treats inside, we left the shop and took a side alley toward the river. Here a dirt track ran between the backs of another row of houses and the water.

We took our time, enjoying the sun and the tranquility of the setting, the only disturbance being the occasional cyclist or dancing butterflies.

But the heat was problematic for our ice cream. Mel in particular was struggling with hers dripping down the outside of the cone. She tried to address the issue by lapping at the wayward rivulets, but only succeeded in daubing her chin.

I'm not sure why, but I said, "Let me help you," and almost subconsciously I pushed my lips to her chin, collecting the errant cream. And the next moment, I'd moved up an inch to kiss her lips. It felt natural. It felt good. And - for a second at least - she reciprocated, before suddenly pulling back with a "Please don't do that."

Crushed, I apologized, saying I didn't know what had come over me. But of course I did.

We completed our walk in silence. But in my head I repeated, 'It's OK, Abby. It's OK, Abby. It's OK, Abby.' The familiar mantra stilled my racing heart just a little.

On reaching the car again, Melissa said, "I'm sorry, Abby. You didn't do anything wrong. I was too abrupt with you. My father... I... I'm just..."

"No, I'm sorry," I interjected. "It was too much, I had no right. Can... can we... forget about it?"

Mel smiled weakly and said, "Of course."

As we got into the car, I thought that it was going to be tough for me to forget about it. To forget about what I wanted. But not even in the same ballpark as what Melissa had to deal with. I had to remember that. To prioritize her feelings over my own impulses. That's what friends did, right?

But I wanted to be more than friends.

Sunday, August 30

I decided that Melissa needed some space. It was the weekend before the Labor Day holiday and one of the last opportunities to visit the Community Pool before it closed. My Sunday plans were thus settled.

To be frank, I wasn't the best of swimmers. Enough not to drown if unexpectedly immersed, nothing more. But the people I had gotten to know since moving to Marshall mostly had something to do with the pool. As the name suggested, it was a pillar of the community, or rather the center of a spider web of connections.

Aside from Mel, the first person to befriend me when I moved into the area had been Riley Sullivan. Officer Riley Sullivan-Johnson to use her full name.

Her brain worked in broadly similar ways to my own. Pure happenstance led me to join her neurodivergence support group, one that met in the pool complex. And, as I waited to have my membership card scanned, I saw Riley's wife. Harry came up and said 'hi,' her movements as graceful as ever and her long brown legs accentuated in lifeguard shorts.

"All ready for school to restart?" I asked. Harry was a science teacher at Marshall High. In summer she ran the pool for the recreation department.

"As if," she said with a grin. "I normally have my shit together by around week four."

A little more seriously, she went on. "How are you doing? You and... Mel?"

"It's going OK," I replied, applying the most optimistic interpretation possible.

"Right," said Harry, clearly doubtful. "Oh, while I remember, Riley is organizing this soirée," there was humor in her rather elevated choice of words. "You are invited, and Mel is as well, if..."

"I'll ask her," I said.

"Good. It won't be for a while. They've had some mystery illness at the station and Riley's been pulling double shifts. One of us will text you when we set a date. Anyway, I have to get back to work. Enjoy your swim and I hope you can come. Both of you."

I found a spot, took off my dress and swam a few laps in my modest one-piece. My aquatic form was as awkward as ever, but at least it was some exercise.

I settled on the recliner where I'd left my stuff and pulled out my Kindle. As I read a Nature Protocols paper, I tried hard not to think too much about Mel in a bikini.

Saturday, September 5

Melissa had a conference in Boston the following week. I attempted to focus on my lab work involving some particularly uncooperative HEK 293 cells. Tissue culture was such a bitch. Mel and I kept in touch via texts. Neither of us mentioned ice cream.

On Friday afternoon, she'd messaged me to say that she was about to drive home. She'd also asked whether she could cook for me on Saturday. That had seemed like a lovely idea. I'd accepted immediately, hoping that my Eulerville faux pas was something we could put behind us.

Her final text before commencing the hundred-and-forty-mile journey had been:

I miss you

She'd said seven o'clock. By six-thirty, I couldn't occupy myself any more in walking around Mel's block for a fourth time, and instead buzzed the videophone.

"I knew you'd be early," came her cheerful reply to my tentative salutation.

A few minutes later, she was opening her door and I was extending an arm bearing a bottle of Pinot Noir.

"Come in," Melissa said. "We can chat while I cook."

Her apartment was nice. Not spacious, and with just one bedroom, but modern and clean and functional. I approved of all that.

We chatted about work, the latest cutbacks, our collective opinion that the new CEO was out of his depth. Then we moved on to what was becoming our shared circle of friends.

Soon enough, food was ready. We sat and toasted each other's health before starting to eat. Mel had made a branzino dish with a homemade sauce and zucchini rice. It was lovely, and I told her so.

She'd also baked a chocolate cake, which she said we could eat on the couch while watching a show on Apple TV that we both liked.

I moved from her kitchen to the living room. But, when Mel came in bearing plates, instead of handing me one, she put both on the coffee table.

Sitting down, she turned to me and took both my hands in hers. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I had hopes. Hopes beating out a pattern in the staccato rhythm of my heart.

"Abby," she began uncertainly, "in Eulerville, I... well, when you... you know. I... I didn't mean to freak out. It's just..."

"It's OK," I replied. "We said to go slow, I was... pushing. I know... I know about your... situation."

Situation? What was wrong with me? Repeated paternal sexual abuse was not a situation. A small girl's life being systematically destroyed wasn't a situation.

But Mel was still speaking. "I... I want to try. It's just... difficult for me. And it's not only... well you know. It's... well it's fucking Chloe as well. I tried with her and... it didn't mean to her what it meant to me. Then you...?"

The memory of Melissa's face that day was burned into my consciousness. Her earnest worry about my safety after the Pride attacks. And how it had morphed into betrayal when she saw that her ex had spent the night with me, our shared trauma leading to a shared bed.

After many months of hurt, Mel and I patched together our friendship, but it wasn't as simple as that. It was never as simple as that. And guilt and shame about my own role in exacerbating her intimacy issues were both heavy weights.

I realized that Melissa was still talking. I really had to focus more. To be in the present more.

"I want to... oh, fuck, Abby! I want you to kiss me."

In her eyes was pleading. Even I could tell it wasn't just for me. It was for the curse to be lifted. For her to be able to connect with another human again. To not be scared. To trust even.

I wanted to release Mel from her bane. I wanted to release myself from this Neverland of perpetually postponed pleasure. And yet I was uncertain.

I knew how deep her hurt was. I knew because she had trusted me enough to try to explain. And I didn't want to jeopardize whatever category some external observer might ascribe to our relationship. I was plagued by doubt and confusion. Battling with arousal and urgency.

But Melissa seemed more certain. She placed her glasses on the coffee table. And when our lips met, I was sent reeling by her heat, her intensity, her need. My own desire rose to mirror Mel's and I gripped her, pulled her to me. Was it too much? Yet all she did was sigh and kiss me more fiercely.

Her tongue was in my mouth and her hands were in my hair and our chests both rose and fell as our hearts beat in synchronicity. And...

And I felt her stiffen. And I felt her hands go limp. And I felt her pull back. There were tears streaming down Melissa's face. I had never seen her so distressed.

Wordlessly she mouthed, "I'm sorry." And her silence was like a scream.

Her makeup was blurred, her nose was running, and she began to sob and shake.

"Can... can I hold you?" I asked, my voice a husky tremor.

She nodded and I embraced her tightly. Trying to ease a pain I knew couldn't ever be eased. Trying to ease my own, much less significant, heartache.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I told myself that Mel was not rejecting me, that she just wasn't ready. That her past was a block to her present. But my rationalizations felt hollow. It felt like rejection. It felt like a slap in the face.

I felt like an awful person. What sort of friend thought about their own needs when another person's were so obviously greater? My juvenile emotions were ugly and self-centered and I didn't want to be that person. And yet I couldn't suppress the hurt eating away at my insides.

As I lay, looking at my bedroom ceiling, other thoughts and memories filled my head. Ones that reliably appeared when anything else was wrong in my life. The Pride Parade. The wanton attack on it. The man. The hate in his eyes. His beer-breath. The glint of his handgun. The crack of a shot. And the sheer terror. The certainty that this was the end. If not for Riley. If not for my friend.

The symbolism of a homicidal homophobe being incapacitated by the leg-shot of a lesbian policewoman was not lost on me. Officer Riley had literally saved my life, and Chloe's of course. Chloe who had first intervened when the guy cornered me.

Chloe. I'd only seen her once since reconciling with Melissa. She'd stopped attending the ND group, but no one seemed to know why. To me she was still an avatar of impregnability, but maybe what we'd both been through at last year's Pride had undermined even her apparent insouciance.

I knew that she didn't do relationships, only hook-ups, but the memory of our fevered, post-traumatic coupling lingered, mingled with its catastrophic aftermath. I wanted that heat again. But I wanted it with Mel.

Part of me - a selfish part - wanted to scream that it wasn't just Melissa who was traumatized. It wasn't just Melissa who was broken. But I told myself to put these childish feelings to one side, to be a grown-up. To be what Mel needed me to be.

I must have eventually fallen asleep sometime after two. And my final thought was maybe Riley could help me again. Maybe she could save me again.

Thursday, September 10

I'd messaged Riley but, as Harry had indicated, she was still ultra-busy at work. We agreed to meet after Thursday's support group. She'd arrived in uniform, which had never happened before, and, I supposed, was a testament to the additional pressures on her time. I began to feel bad about bothering her.

The coffee shop we frequented closed at nine, so that was also a limiting factor. As we walked to it from the pool complex, Riley asked, "So what's this about?"

I decided to be blunt. "It's me and Melissa."

"You two seem to be getting on great," she replied. "Not that I've seen you much. I hope you can come this Saturday."

"We plan to," I said.

"So what's up?" Riley could be equally blunt.

"We... well, we're good friends. But..."

"But you want more than that, right? And you're not sure she does?" Riley was very perceptive at times.

"Yeah. It's just..." It was slowly dawning on me that I couldn't really explain about Mel without betraying her confidence. And talking to someone else about another person's traumatic experiences - particularly familial ones - without their permission felt like violating Mel for a second time. Shit! What to do? I could be such a doofus.

"It seems the hamster is working overtime in that big brain of yours," observed the officer. As I said, she was perceptive.

"Yeah... I... I'm only now realizing that I can't explain. I... I'm sorry for wasting your time. I know you are crazy busy. I... we should forget this."

As I spoke, we reached the door to the coffee shop. "It's OK, Abby," said Riley soothingly, echoing my own talismanic palilalia. "Let's have Hailey make us both a drink and we can chat. Doesn't have to be about anything big or important. Just two friends, OK? Would that work?"

"Friends. Yes. Yes, that would work."

We went in, Riley signed 'hello' to Hailey behind the counter and she signed something back that I assumed was a variant of 'how's it going?' My knowledge of ASL was close to zero, unlike my companion's fluency.

We sat. Hailey brought our drinks. I clumsily signed 'thank you.' And Riley and I chatted, like she said.

It was nice. More than nice. But it didn't solve my problem. Somewhat reluctantly, I told myself that only I could do that.

Saturday, September 12

The car dropped us off in front of Harry and Riley's house. We stood by their door, neither of us pressing the buzzer. It was unconscious, but I realized that I was holding Mel's hand. I turned toward her and she did the same.

"We OK with this?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mel said, conveying the opposite impression.

Still neither of us moved.

It wasn't so much Harry and Riley. We had dined with them before and I'd entertained them and Mel at my apartment. It was more that there would be other people coming to dinner this evening. People who we didn't know. Four women, two couples. Or at least, "couples." The bunny ears had been apparent when Harry had called to confirm arrangements a week or so ago.

One pairing, both single parents, was more established. The other was apparently just beginning to figure stuff out. I could identify. Harry and Riley loved to take people under their wings.

In the background, Riley's voice had made things more explicit by adding, "Come for the food, stay for the counseling," which generated a stern "Riley!" from her wife.

Now on their stoop, I said to Melissa, "It's not really counseling." To me, it sounded more like I was trying to convince myself. "It's... um... support and... um... sisterhood."

I felt Melissa squeeze my hand, I extended my forefinger, and summoned our hosts.

Harry let us in, saying that the others had already arrived. Seated around the living room were her guests. I could just see the top of Riley's head as she bent to attend to something in the kitchen; the first floor was mostly open-plan.

On one couch sat two women, probably in their mid-thirties, one notable for her scarlet hair and the tattoos that her sleeveless dress revealed. Her companion was perhaps less remarkable, but had a kind face.

"This is Kayla and Amanda," said Harry.

The literal redhead was Kayla. "It's a moms' night out," she said, raising her wine glass to us.

"And this is Rachel and Marissa," continued Harry, gesturing at a second couch.

If the first pair was somewhat older than me and Mel, the second seemed younger. A lot younger. And - as they stood to greet us - both impossibly tall and... What was the phrase? Conventionally attractive. Rachel was a brunette and Marissa a blonde. To my eyes at least, they looked more like models than the proto-lesbians that Harry had mentioned.

"And this is Abby and Melissa," continued Harry. I awkwardly raised my hand when she mentioned my name.

The two young women's words were polite, deferential almost. And both seemed terminally shy as they shook our hands, Rachel in particular. We later learned that she was a Ph. D. candidate and her friend was in her third year at Marshall College.

Kayla was less restrained and, before I knew what was happening, her arms were around me. "Oh... we're doing... OK..." I stuttered, feeling my face redden. Mel fared no better.

Mandy - as she insisted we call her - was more reserved, but I felt a genuine warmth emanate from her as we briefly pressed palms.

Riley had been facing away from us, focused on our food. Now she turned, looking a little flustered and blowing a stray hair out of her face. "Intros done?" she asked. "If so, I could use some help."

Harry went to assist her wife, pausing en route to ask, "Wine? A soda? Water?"

"Two wines, red please," I called after her.

"What?" I asked Melissa, not comprehending her frown.

"It might be nice," she whispered, "to let me say what I want."

"Why?" I said, confused and feeling it had all gone wrong. "You prefer red wine."

Mel said nothing, but pushed her glasses up her nose. I knew this wasn't a good sign.

"What would you like to drink, babe?" It was Kayla asking the question.

"Um... red would be nice," replied Mel.

Harry had been a silent observer, but now simply said, "OK. I'll be right back."

Kayla patted a space on the couch next to her and Mel went and joined the two older guests. Rachel moved left, Marissa moved right, and I sat in between them, feeling very dowdy and self-conscious alongside these two fine-looking women.

But the wine that Harry returned with helped. As did a refill. As did my growing realization that the other four were all nice. Though quiet, Rachel had a dry sense of humor. Though a little brash, Kayla was disarmingly real. Mandy seemed quick to see the best in everyone and everything. Marissa? As for Marissa, she was a scientist!

Before long we were chatting and laughing. Though, even someone like me could see that there were times when Rachel was distracted, almost to the point of not being present. Should I say something? I never knew what the protocol was.

But then it was time to eat.

Dinner was a rather improvised affair. Harry and Riley had clearly pushed two tables together and - despite the cloth covering both - their heights were obviously not the same. Surrounding these was a motley assortment of chairs.

"We don't normally have such a big crowd," said Riley, totally unabashed. No one seemed to mind, so I decided that I wouldn't either.

The food was simple, but good. A green salad with a lovely vinaigrette to start. Chicken chimichurri with sweet potatoes to follow. Then ice cream from a local artisanal store.

Feeling relaxed and a little buzzed, we returned to the living room, now commingled, rather than segregated into pairs. Our discussions were equally relaxed, with no trace of the therapeutic intruding.

"Yeah, I felt like punching him myself," said Kayla. She was regaling us with a story from her latest hair appointment.

"He really just asked whether the assistant had met any sexy men on her European trip?" asked Marissa, wide-eyed.

When Kayla affirmed the truth of this, the younger woman went on. "And he's, like, in his seventies?"

"No age limit on being a douche," observed Riley.

The conversation momentarily lapsed. Maybe Kayla abhorred a vacuum, but she ended up asking, "Did you hear about Colin Robertson, the old high school swim coach? His mugshot was in the news. Apparently he's been arrested for preying on girls at some private school in Hartford. Didn't you know him, Harry?"

The mood suddenly changed as if there had been a power failure plunging the house into darkness. Harry looked at the rug and mumbled, "Yeah, I knew him, we were... colleagues, but I don't think..."

A clear voice cut across her. One that even I could tell was as a result of a superhuman effort to control surging feelings.

"He raped me. I was fifteen. Maybe if I had gone to the police, like Harry said, then maybe..."

It was Rachel speaking. The effort was finally too much for her, and she lapsed into silence. No one knew what to say. Harry sat motionless, head bowed.

Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw Mel standing and walking to Rachel. She crouched down on her haunches and took both of the other woman's hands in hers. Wordlessly, the two of them locked eyes. It seemed like minutes went by, then they hugged with a ferocity I didn't know my friend was capable of.

Kayla was openly crying, and wordlessly mouthing, "I'm so sorry."

Marissa was staring at Rachel with an expression that made her own astonishment and horror abundantly clear. 'She didn't know,' I thought.

Riley had gone to put her arm around her wife.

Mel and Rachel broke. Trembling with emotion, Rachel said, "It wasn't your fault, Harry. I wasn't brave enough. I should have been. Those other girls..."

Now Riley spoke and I could hear the police training in her voice. Hear her authority as well as her compassion. "It's no one's fault except the perpetrator. You were a victim, that's all. There but for the grace of God..."

Mel turned to me, tears in her eyes, and I maybe began to fully understand. Not just intellectually, but for the first time... viscerally. My attacker had been abstract. An avatar of hate. Melissa's had been personal. He couldn't have been more personal.

"Perhaps if you had been here then," said Rachel to the officer.

"He's not your responsibility," said Riley. "Nor yours," she added, squeezing her wife.

Looking around at the stunned group, she went on. "Well, we could talk, or we could call it a night. What do you want to do, Rachel?"

In a quiet but now steadier voice, Rachel replied, "I think I'd like to go home. Marissa, can we...?"

We disbanded, sharing hugs. I couldn't think of anything to say to Rachel, so just held her tight for a few seconds. Maybe it was for the best. What difference could words possibly make?

She and Marissa left first. The blonde supporting her friend, Rachel with her head on Marissa's shoulder. I guessed they had a lot to discuss. I guessed that Mel and I did too.

Harry said she wasn't feeling well and went upstairs. We understood. As Riley showed us out, she clearly felt compelled to say, "It was all before I knew Harry, but she did everything that she could. She got him removed from Marshall High. She tried to get him put on a list, but without an actual crime report... And I understand Rachel's point of view too. My department was... well, let's just say that things have improved a lot since then."

She shook her head as she spoke. "And there is no statute of limitations on the sexual assault of a minor in Connecticut, so maybe one day."

I had never associated the word grim with Riley before today, but it was apposite for her next words. "Anyway, it looks like justice has finally caught up with the bastard. I hope they throw away the key."

Outside, Mandy and Kayla said that they were going to walk to Kayla's house, and we waved them goodbye. We'd left in such a rush that neither Mel nor I had ordered a car. I pulled out my phone. Someone would be with us in five minutes.

As we stood, I ventured, "Did you want to...?"

"Not now," said Melissa, taking my hand. "I just want to know you're there. That's all."

Hand in hand we silently waited.

Melissa didn't want to talk in the car. Instead she composed a message to Rachel. It was probably a better use of her time.

She didn't want to talk when we reached her apartment. She said she wanted to be alone. What could I do but respect that?

I watched her walk to the entrance to her building. Part of me felt such sympathy for her and the burdens she bore. The things she had been through. Part of me thought that I should give her space, let her talk to me when she wanted to. But a growing part of me was selfish and petty and even... angry. Part of me wanted her to lean on me, to need me. For me to be the one she confided in.

And I had to acknowledge as the car headed for my home, part of me wanted to fix her. I knew it wasn't like that. But knowing didn't stop the feeling.

As I opened the door to my place, my phone buzzed.

I didn't say goodnight. Sorry ❤️

I replied, unable to bring myself to add an emoji. But I went to sleep feeling just a little better.

Tuesday, September 15

Mel broke the bad news to me in person.

"There's not much I can do about it, Abby. The woman they hired is supposedly struggling. She said that it was easier when I was around to help her."

"But you did," I interrupted. "For the last two weeks you were in San Diego, you did."

"Apparently not long enough," said Mel with some asperity. "Not according to my Executive Director, anyway."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. I know it's crap. I have to go. Or resign, I suppose."

"Well, don't do that," I exclaimed. "How long?"

Mel shrugged. "As long as it takes is what he said. I don't know, probably at least a few weeks."

"Can you come home on weekends?"

"If it's anything like last time, I'll be exhausted. I don't know. Maybe. Look, I'm already stressed out about this and you're not helping much."

"Yeah, sorry. I can get like that. Of course you have to go." A thought occurred to me. "They wouldn't let me take a temporary assignment last time. But I have a lot of days that I haven't taken. I could..."

"Abby, you're not taking PTO to puppy-dog after me to California. You're just not. It sucks, but it is what it is. I'll be back before you know it."

The next day she was heading for the West Coast.

Friday, October 9

Thinking back to that awful Friday evening, I tried to analyze how things had gone wrong.

While she was away, I'd found that Mel had left a void. Much more so than when she was in San Diego earlier in the year. I questioned what that meant. Was what I felt for my... What were we? Friends? Surely not just friends. I decided that I wasn't going to figure this conundrum out right now. Was what I felt for Mel changing? Deepening maybe?

And the longer she was a continent away, the more the feeling grew. I wanted more than just friendship. I wanted all of her. But that feeling, my own needy feeling, had led to disaster. A disaster entirely of my own making.

Were there any excuses? Maybe I'd had too much time to think during the three weeks of her absence. Maybe I wasn't taking Mel's problems into consideration. Maybe I just missed her terribly and didn't know how to say it. Maybe I'm just a moron. Actually, there is no real doubt about the last speculation. It's settled science.

How had I managed to reduce what should have been a happy reunion to ashes? It was something I still didn't understand.

It had all started so well. Tears and smiles as we embraced in baggage claim. Me driving her from the airport to her apartment. I'd been thinking of raising the subject with her. But she'd made a totally offhand comment that had prompted my ND brain into thinking now was the moment.

"If I have to go to San Diego one more time this year, I'm going to need a therapist," she'd said with an air of resignation.

Apparently that was a good opening for me broaching what I should have realized was a super sensitive topic. I should have realized if I had more than two brain cells, that is.

Instead I launched into my ill-thought-out and unasked-for recommendation, like a particularly unaware apatosaurus in a glassware store. "So, speaking of therapists, I've been meaning to talk to you..."

What the actual fuck was I thinking?

I replayed the rest of our disastrous conversation in my head. It must have been the hundredth time. The scene now came with a director's commentary.

Her words, her anger-filled words. And I couldn't possibly have made things any worse, even if I had tried.

"What gives you the right to tell me how to live my life, Abby?" She rammed her glasses back up her nose forcibly.

Mel had been apoplectic. I'd never seen her like this before.

Instead of backing off, like any normal person would do, a streak of stubbornness - or maybe of self-destructiveness - led to me remonstrating with her.

"What's so bad about the idea of therapy? You have a problem with... you know, intimacy. It's best to do something about problems. I always..."

"So I'm a problem, am I?" said Mel with fire in her bespectacled eyes.

"I didn't say you were a problem. I said you had a problem."

Yeah - as I mentioned - Abby Taylor is a moron.

"Same fucking thing. And you just love fixing problems, don't you? You with your super glue and your sanctimonious 'only I can pick up the pieces' shtick. People aren't little puzzles for you to solve."

"You don't solve puzzles with glue, you..."

Why? Just why?

"Fuck you, Abby. I knew when I saw that skanky bitch Chloe slink out of your apartment, reeking of your pussy. I knew it could never work. How fucking stupid was I to try again?"

"She showered. We both showered."

This was the absolute worst. They should make this into a case study for people who craved a shitty breakup.

Mel looked at the ceiling and screamed her frustration.

In retrospect I could see her point of view very clearly.

Still, I continued to dig the hole that I had been standing in even deeper.

"We could do it together... I mean therapy. Not sex. That's the problem, so not that. We could do couples therapy, right?"

"We're not a fucking couple, Abby. And we never will be!"

People talk about a knife to the heart. This was a halberd. A richly-deserved, rusty halberd, coated liberally with Clostridium botulinum.

With that, Melissa insisted that I leave and part of me never expected to hear from her again.

As I sat in my stationary car, tears streaming, rocking back and forth in agitation, and trying not to hyperventilate, I also thought that the punishment was no more than I merited.

"It's not OK, Abby. It's not OK, Abby. It's not OK, Abby."

And people claim I'm smart. They say having a Ph. D. means you're smart. I'm not. I'm so... fucking... stupid...

Saturday, October 17

For a week after our cataclysmic argument, there was nothing. Mel never came to my building at work, or at least managed to avoid me if she did. She never replied to my messages or calls. It was like Groundhog Day, except for me clearly never learning from my past mistakes.

Then, early one Saturday morning, I got a message. I saw Melissa's name and sat bolt upright.

I overreacted - again. I'm sorry - again. My costume arrived. Would you like to see it? If you don't hate me.

I was so happy to hear from her that the contents didn't even register with me at first. I'd already consigned our friendship to the long list of things that Abby Taylor had messed up. In this case, for a second time.

Coming to my senses, I hurriedly replied that of course I'd love to see Melissa's costume.

She said that she would pick me up and I waited - a little nervously - outside my building. I wasn't sure why I couldn't just drive to her place. Then seeing Mel was the important thing. Nothing else mattered.

Melissa pulled up and I got in. She greeted me with a brief hand squeeze and we moved off. Her apartment was in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?" I asked, wondering what this could have to do with Halloween costumes.

"Is it too tropey to say, 'You'll see'?" she replied, eyes on the road.

When we left Marshall, I soon recognized the roads. We were heading for Eulerville, though why was a mystery.

I was happy to be close to Mel. I told myself not to worry about anything else.

But clearly she felt that she had to say something. "Most of the decorations will be up already. I thought it would be cool to take a look in the daytime. And... well, we could come back after dark on the thirty-first. Um... would you be my Halloween... date?"

I knew the weight behind her final word and could feel my heart fluttering and my mouth drying.

"Sure," I replied.

'Sure? Is that all you've got? Help out the poor woman!' I admonished myself.

"I mean... I'd... love that."

Mel said nothing, but, even in profile, I could see a smile had crept across her face.

"What's this got to do with your costume?" I asked.

"Again, you'll see."

We pulled off the road and into a small lot next to a large building that could have been the holotype of late-Victorian Gothic, complete with pointed-arch windows, semicircular shingles and polychrome masonry. It was on the edge of Eulerville, with just two more buildings to its right before woodland.

"Where are we?" I asked. It was a perfectly reasonable question.

"It's an inn," replied Mel, "I thought we could use it as a base while we explore." She paused, not looking at me. "And it's somewhere that I could get changed."

I had a lump in my throat and could say nothing in response.

"They know we are coming," said Mel, her brightness of tone feeling slightly forced. "Shall we go take a walk?"

"Um... are we, like, staying?" I managed to say, my voice in a higher register than normal. "I... I don't have a change of clothes, or toiletries, or..."

"Up to you," replied Melissa. "Let's just go for a walk, shall we?"

We got out. She took my hand and we made for the center of town. Pretty much immediately, the decorations began to appear. They were not cursory. They were not half-hearted. They were intentional and spoke of planning and effort and pride. It felt like neighbors were locked into - apparently good-natured - competition.

Pumpkins abounded. Ghosts twisted in the light breeze beneath ornate porticos. Witches - one of them animatronic - mounted broomsticks. Skeletons grinned at passersby. Vampires leered from coffins. Werewolves glared, teeth bared.

Then there were the theme houses. Only a few of the dwellings had front yards; most abutted the street. But an exceptional one's lawn was covered with mini-tableaux. Each from a Disney movie. Each with its protagonists as little skeletons. It must have taken days to assemble.

From the windows of an imposing brick building - one whose latter-day architecture was at odds with its surroundings - emerged long, inflatable octopus tentacles - purple with yellow spots.

Another porch featured a beach scene. One skeleton brandishing an actual surfboard. Another occupying a recliner under an umbrella. Two smaller ones wearing inner tubes. The inventiveness of the locals seemed unbounded.

It could have been cheesy, but the clear humor and underlying earnestness of the displays was disarming. Once more the word charming was the first that came to mind.

"It's adorable, right?" said Mel, a more relaxed smile on her face.

"Yes. Yes it is," I replied. And indeed it was. I almost began to forget the inn. Almost.

We took our time, pausing to examine the different scenes, soaking in the fun yet relaxed vibe. We walked up the right-hand sidewalk until we reached the stores. Then we walked down the left-hand one to return to... our lodgings. As we approached the inn, I began to feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up.

The inn was family-run - apparently since 1864 according to a sign proudly displayed in the small lobby. The interior was dominated by richness. Dark hardwoods, walnut maybe. Saturated maroon wallpaper with intricate gold patterns. Polished brass. Decorative tiling. The whole nine yards. I felt we were stepping back in time. We rang an antique-looking call bell and the woman who appeared identified herself as the owner.

Formalities complete, she asked, "Do you have any bags?"

"Just this," replied Mel, holding up a duffel. "It's just the one night."

The word night had me struggling to suppress a gasp.

As we ascended the wrought-iron staircase, Mel whispered, "You're my size. I brought some extra clothes. And a toothbrush. You can borrow my stuff. If... if you want to, that is."

"I understand," was the best I could manage in reply.

She stopped halfway up and turned to me. She'd been adopting a light, unserious tone, but that now changed.

We reached the room and Melissa stopped in front of the door. "Listen, I know I've been... difficult. I know I've been giving you mixed messages."

I opened my mouth to say something, but she hushed me. "Let me finish."

Very visibly, Mel inhaled and exhaled. Then the words tumbled out of her as if she only had a set time to fit them all in.

"I really like you. I really like the idea of us. And I know my shit gets in the way. And I know it's unfair and that you've got your own shit to deal with. Not that it's a competition. I know I'm a nightmare. I hate myself most of the time. And I've wanted to... But... there's a blockage. I can't. I've tried. But... I had an idea. Will you... forgive me. Will you trust me?"

Melissa's look was imploring, her eyes glistening even in the dull interior.

Robbed of the ability to speak, let alone speak eloquently, I simply nodded. And we entered the room. Our room.

"So," said Mel, a forced brightness back in her voice. "Want to see my costume?"

"Sure," I replied hoarsely.

"I... well, there's a whole outfit. I... to be honest, I'm not really sure that I can carry it off. But... but there is this one thing. Close your eyes, OK? No peeping."

I did as she told me, squeezing my lids tight, denying my obvious impulse. I heard a zipper being pulled. I heard footsteps, and - more faintly - another zipper, then shortly afterward footsteps again. My breathing was labored. I felt I was beginning to perspire.

She released me, simply saying, "OK."

In front of me was Mel. Mel dressed just as she had been before, save for one thing.

Self-consciously, she touched her face. "I thought..."

She didn't need to explain what she thought. To someone with my neural wiring, the meaning was immediately obvious. A physical manifestation of a familiar psychological tic.

"Catwoman, right?" I blurted. The black, skin-tight, one-piece mask covered the top half of her head - her eyes blinking behind holes; I assumed she had put in contact lenses - and topped by a pair of feline ears.

"Yeah," she replied quietly, "Mel isn't here, it's Selina, OK? Um... meow."

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Melissa said, "I know it's weird. I'm sure you think it's weird. But... when I tried it on... Well, I felt different. Actually, maybe I 'felt' is wrong. Maybe the meaning of 'I'... shifted. Shifted enough to... well, to make me feel... different. Does that make any sense?"

It did, in a way, at least. After years of filtering what I said and what I did to fit the expectations of others, it made some sort of sense. But...

Mel broke through my thoughts. "You can... kiss me... if you still want to." Her voice was faltering and filled with doubt.

And I wanted to kiss her. I wanted that so bad. Yet I wavered uncertainly. Was this healthy? What were we doing? But... but I wanted to make things OK for her. I wanted that more than I could say. If this is what she needed, then fuck my misgivings. I could do this.

I moved to her. I did it slowly as if trying not to startle some skittish critter. "You say stop if you need to stop," I said. "You're safe. It's all good."

"Call me Selina," Mel replied, "Selina wants you to kiss her. Selina wants you to undress her."

This was crazy, right? I didn't want Selina. I wanted Melissa. But was this the only way? I took a deep breath and I made a decision.

As I put my hands on Mel's cheeks and looked into her eyes through the holes in her mask, I felt her stiffen again. I moved my hands away, but then she relaxed. "It's OK," she breathed, "I think it's... working."

She parted her lips and tilted her head slightly to one side. I did the same, and we sort of melted into each other. It wasn't fierce. It was comforting. Like finally reaching home after a long journey. The smell of the plastic mask was in my nostrils, but that was unimportant. All that was important was us.

We must have kissed for many minutes. Time wasn't really a thing. To be with her. To really be with her - whatever name she chose to use - was everything. I felt golden. I felt softly vibrant. I felt... completed.

And when Mel pushed me back, I knew it wasn't a rejection, it was just a pause.

"I've wanted that for so long," she said, her voice breaking and her mask not concealing the glinting tears. "Selina wants you to take her clothes off."

She undid the first fastened button of her blouse, and nodded at me in encouragement. Encouragement I really didn't need. Even Mel's third person dissociation wasn't enough to stop me.

But this wasn't my area of expertise and I fumbled and we giggled like two women a decade younger. And we kissed again and she helped me and then I helped her to do the same.

When we lay on the bed together, both naked save for Mel's vizard, it wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It was natural and right and almost dreamlike. I could do this. I could do this for her... and for me.

I felt an urge to ask Mel to take off the mask. But I knew that was selfish. I knew what it meant for her. And I knew this was OK, a price worth paying. So worth paying.

With a slight twinge of guilt, I tried to recall what Chloe had done to me, how she had done it. And I did the same. With fingers, with my tongue, even briefly with my teeth. Soon my actions and Mel's responses became more flowing, more organic.

My feline friend purred and then hissed and then caterwauled. And then it was my turn. The tenderness with which she went down on me somehow wiped away the incongruity of a pair of plastic ears between my legs.

And when she pushed me to the cliff's edge... and then over into a turbulent and yet soothing orgiastic ocean, I knew that nothing mattered as much as being with her. Being with all of her... or so I tried to convince myself.

Later we went out to eat. Holding hands as we walked had a new resonance given our earlier intimacy. Wandering back to the inn, the air now cool, Mel said quietly, "Thank you. You know. For not being weirded out. Maybe I won't need..."

"Hush," I said, "All that matters is us. I don't care if we have to be a troika with Selina. I just care about you. Got it?"

Mel said nothing, but squeezed my hand tighter.

Saturday, October 31

For actual Halloween, we'd booked the same place. I realized only in retrospect that it had been important to Mel that we carried out her experiment somewhere other than her apartment. Somewhere without visual reminders of who she was.

In the last few days, we'd crossed that Rubicon and Mel had also spent the night at my home. Or rather Selina had. I tried to tell myself that the mask was necessary. That to be with her, to really be with her, was all that mattered. And yet...

Our room was different this time, but it had the same vibe. Mel had taken her courage in both hands and was getting into her catsuit in the bathroom. She was too embarrassed to let me watch.

A Batman costume might have been logical, but I wasn't really a fan of macho superheroes. Instead I pulled on my flight suit, with its name tag reading 'Arroway.' I suspected that few people would get it, but Jodie Foster seemed to be an appropriate model for a rookie lesbian.

I thought Melissa looked amazing, but I guess I was somewhat biased. I doubt I could have carried off the clingy Lycra, but Mel had the body for it. She twirled and, with a gasp, I realized that she wasn't wearing any underwear. "All for you," she said rather shyly.

Self-consciously she also donned a leather jacket. Last Halloween had been unseasonably warm, but my watch said it was fifty-eight outside. I trusted the thermal properties of the T-shirt I had on under my suit and we headed out.

Many of the decorations were illuminated, and they had a more ethereal feel in the surrounding gloom. But Main Street was busy with people admiring the houses or taking selfies in front of them. I recognized many of the exhibits, though some seemed to have become even more elaborate in the intervening time.

And then, halfway up the road, I recognized something else. Or rather someone else. It was actually a couple. The brunette was tall, her hair twisted into buns on either side of her head. She was wearing a white, flowing robe, and was very pretty. She could have been Rachel's cousin.

But it was the blonde who drew my attention. Even taller and with short hair, cut close on either side of their head. Blue eyes that were piercing even on a night street. Their attire was also familiar. Black pants and a black vest over a cream shirt. A heavy belt with a holster - conspicuously empty of its customary blaster.

As I took these details in, the pair was upon us, and I felt Mel's hand tighten its grip on mine.

"Hey, kid," said the Han Solo clone.

"Hey, Chloe," I replied.

It surely wasn't so very much of a coincidence for some Marshall people to have the same idea as us. But Chloe, why did it have to be Chloe?

"Looking good, Abby. You meant to be a Ghostbuster or something?"

"Or something," I replied. I nodded toward the other woman.

"Oh, this is Taylor," said Chloe.

"Tyler," corrected her companion, seemingly without rancor. "Mom and dad wanted a boy. And you are...?"

I heard a voice saying, "I'm Selina, pleased to meet you."

"Abby," I added on autopilot and suppressing the urge to run.

"Likewise, how do you two know Chloe?" Tyler asked.

This was not a good question.

"We've both been you," said Mel flatly.

Chloe's initial confused look was one that Harrison Ford himself would have approved of. Then the lightbulb went on. "Mel, is that you under... that?"

"She said she's Selina," I interjected defensively.

"It's OK, Abby," said Mel.

Addressing Tyler, she went on. "Chloe and I were... friends for a while. Maybe we could be again. Friends that is."

I felt pride welling up. I'd thought this was going to be a trainwreck, but now Chloe was smiling and saying, "Sure, I'd like that. But we'd better get going, I promised Tyler's old man that she'd be home by ten."

Tyler punched Chloe's upper arm quite hard. "That's her trying to be funny," she said. "It was nice to meet you, Abby and...?"

"Mel is fine," replied Melissa.

We each continued in our respective directions. From behind me drifted the words, "Don't get cocky, kid." And then they were gone.

"One more dragon slain," said Mel with emotion in her voice.

I wondered to myself whether we might add to the number of deceased mythological reptiles before the night was over.

We made the full circuit up and down the road, and were glad to see our accommodations appearing again.

Playfully, Mel whispered in my ear, "I think Dr. Arroway might appreciate some alien probing. What do you think?"

I expressed no particular objection and we covered the remaining distance briskly. But even as we hurried, different thoughts were swirling around my head. Confusing and confused thoughts. I understood what I wanted to do, what I had to do. But... did I have the courage?

Some minutes later, I sat on our bed waiting. Melissa returned from the bathroom. She was totally naked. Totally naked apart from the obvious. The ubiquitous. She was smiling radiantly, as if she had solved a problem. But I didn't think about it that way any longer. I couldn't.

My desire for her did battle with my higher mental functions. For once the latter won. For once I was brave enough to think that my opinion counted for something.

"You're beautiful, Melissa," I began, saying nothing but the truth, "but... can we talk?"

Even behind her mask, I could see Mel's face had fallen. "Don't... don't you... want me?"

"Always," I replied with further honesty, "but can we take a moment. Please. I really want to talk to you."

With an obvious reluctance, Mel came and sat beside me. Was I crazy? We could be using the bed for much more fun things. But I knew I had no option, not if this was going to work. To really work. And I desperately wanted it to work.

So I began the speech. The speech I'd scripted and edited and deleted and rewritten so many times. The speech that lacked any conviction to my own ears as I said it. But the words I knew I had to say.

"My whole life I've pretended to be something that I'm not. Every waking hour. Every day. Even... even with other people like me. Even with Riley. It's... exhausting. And... and I want to be me."

I took a breath and then plunged on.

"And I want you to be you. And you can be. I don't want some perfect version of Melissa Mansour. I want the real Melissa Mansour. The one with scars. The one with open wounds. The one who has so much hurt inside but also so much love."

I stopped momentarily, shocked at my unscripted use of the last word. But then something inside impelled me to go on. Foolishness maybe. My own needs. Plain stupidity.

"And I think I love you, Mel. And I think you love me too. Would you please let me be the one who sees the real you?"

Several eternities of silence later, Melissa made the tiniest of affirmatory movements with her head.

Maybe it was what she already wanted to do. Maybe my faltering, ineloquent, inadequate words had been the nudge she needed. Maybe she was doing it for me.

Whatever Mel's motivation, she whispered, "I think... I think I... might love you too, Abby."

Our eyes met, and I so wanted what she said to be true. But... maybe I still needed a sign. Maybe selfishly, I still needed a sign.

Without looking away from me, Mel breathed, "I... I want to... try."

And she started to peel off the mask.

THE END

Author's note

If any readers are concerned about the well-being of Rachel and Marissa after the revelation in this story, well, so am I. Accordingly, I've begun writing a sequel to The Goddess, which commences with Rachel narrating the dinner scene at Harry and Riley's place.