Eliza Lentzski's Blog, page 7

Bittersweet Homecoming

The inside of my head is an anxious place to be these days. My fiancée can attest to this. In the hours, days, weeks surrounding any new novel, I obsessively check my social media and Amazon to get a sense of what you've thought about a new story. 

 Bittersweet Homecoming was a gamble. On a surface level, I experimented with a different verb tense. This may not see like a big deal, but all of my other novels have been written in the past tense. The new tense sets the mood and feel of BH .

More anxiety-causing, however, has been the deception at the center of the story. I make my characters imperfect because we all have flaws. But it's a thin line between a character having flaws and making decisions that make a character unlikeable. 

Bird's-eye-view of Grand Marais, MN

But beyond the things that keep me up at night, Bittersweet Homecoming is a love-letter to my hometown and the people who still live there. I didn't grow up in Grand Marais--where the majority of the story is set--but the place where I'm from is very similar. As Abby says, it's a slower pace of life. People make eye contact and say hello to strangers. BH is a commentary about the role of technology and communication in relationships today. 

I'm excited (and anxious) to hear what you think.

Eliza

Sneak Preview: Bittersweet Homecoming

They say you can never go home again, but sometimes you have no choice. A phone call in the middle of the night and news of the death of her sister’s husband has Abigail Henry catching the next flight back to the small hometown she hasn’t visited in nearly a decade. Nearly everything and everyone looks untouched by time, but it's Abigail herself who has changed. A love story by genre, Bittersweet Homecoming grapples with that one basic question: Can you really ever go home again?

Bittersweet Homecoming

Prologue

I've been meaning to change my cell phone's ringtone for a while now.  Whenever it goes off in the middle of a meeting I'm embarrassed.  First, because you'd think after it happening so many times that I'd remember to put it on silent.  Second, because it's some horrendous hip-hop song that's so not me. Now, deep rattling bass that instead sounds reed thin coming through the tiny speakers on my cell phone, shakes me from my sleep.

The glowing numbers on my bedside alarm clock inform me that it's just past 3:00 a.m. I can't imagine who'd be calling me at this hour, but when I see the name blinking back at me on the screen of my cell phone, it feels like my heart has stopped dead in my chest. It's 5:00 am in Minnesota. I instinctively know there will be no good news when I hit the answer button.

"Hello?" My voice is foreign to my ears, like there's cotton shoved in the canals that distorts everything I hear.

"No, it's fine," I tell her. The voice is familiar, but the sound of her tears is not. I’m transported back to our childhood. She’s remained sixteen in my head, but I know she’s twenty-six or twenty-seven now. I haven’t seen much of her lately. Grown, graduated, married, no kids. 

A slender arm moves to drape over my waist. "Baby, who is that?" Her lightly accented voice is garbled by sleep.

I put a finger up to my lips to keep her from saying anything else. Her usually unlined brow crinkles, but she obeys my wordless plea.

"Don't worry about the time,” I say. I'm gripping the phone so tightly, I'm sure it'll crack under the pressure. "What's wrong?"

The voice on the line breaks. It shatters and falls apart. I can only make out every other word, which are punctuated by sharp sobs. But I understand just enough to confirm my suspicions.

Words of consolation get caught in my throat. “When’s the funeral?” I ask instead.

I pause and listen to the facts.

“I’ll be there.” I pause again and suck in a deep breath. “I love you.”

The woman next to me in bed looks startled by my words—probably because I’ve never said them to her, and she’s been my girlfriend for nearly half a year.

Without another word, I hang up and carefully return my phone to its normal location on my bedside table.  My movements are slow and deliberate. I'm numb.

“What’s wrong? Who was that?” she asks me, suspicion creeping into her normally carefree tone.

“That was my sister,” I say.  I run my hand over my face.  “Her husband died.”

“Oh no,” she laments with a heavy sigh.

I pull myself out of bed, a full-sized mattress that takes up nearly all the floor space in my one-bedroom LA apartment. I turn on the lamp on my bedside table. The base is in the shape of Mickey Mouse and Disney characters are screen printed on the lampshade. I've had it since childhood.

I find a suitcase in my bedroom closet and begin throwing clothes into it.  It's summer in LA, a season I don't think I'll ever get used to, but back in my hometown the temperatures will just be getting over seventy degrees. I pack jeans and short-sleeved shirts and throw a bathing suit in there as an afterthought—not that it's ever warm enough to swim in Lake Superior.  Not that I think this trip will warrant a trip to the beach.

"You're packing now?" my girlfriend asks incredulously.

"The funeral's tomorrow. I have to catch a flight to Minneapolis and rent a car."

She chews on her lip and nods after a moment as if to say the math checks out. "Do you want me to come with?"

The question, whose answer should come so easily, makes me pause my disorganized packing. "To Minnesota?"  It's like she's asking me if I want her to go to the moon with me.

"No," I decide finally. "You should stay."

I don't look in her direction because I'm afraid of the hurt or the disappointment I might see on her pixie features.

"Are you sure?"

I nod vigorously, still not making eye contact. I shove a handful of underwear into the suitcase, not bothering to count out the days I'll be gone. Because I honestly don't know; I've never had to do this before. What's the proper amount of time to stay and grieve when your little sister has just lost the love of her life?

CHAPTER ONE

With the sunroof open, my long hair whips around my face. I know the wind is going to horribly tangle my already chaotic mane, but the slightly chilly breeze is refreshing. It’s too hot in southern California. Air conditioning leaves me feeling refrigerated and disconnected from the outside world, so being able to drive with the windows and sunroof open is a special treat.

It’s about a four-hour drive from the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport to my hometown. The trip takes me down a curvy, wooded county highway along the shoreline of Lake Superior, heavily traveled by semi-trucks and RV campers. I usually find the winding highway an adventure, but this is a sobering trip. I’m not on vacation; I’m going to say a final goodbye to the husband of my only sibling. Adam wasn’t even thirty yet—the innocent victim in a drunk-driving accident.

I haven’t seen Adam or my sister in at least ten years, minus their wedding a few years ago. I’d been the Maid of Honor, but I had no right to that job. Emily had friends in her life with whom she was infinitely closer, but my sister is a sucker for tradition and social etiquette, which means that I was the one in the pink dress giving the toast at her wedding reception.

Lost in thought, the drive goes by quickly and I find myself in my hometown: Grand Marais, Minnesota. Population, just under 1500. It’s summer—tourist season—so I’m forced to drive at a snail’s pace through the heart of the tiny downtown district. The town has been untouched by time. Some of the storefronts look a little different—new coats of paint and updated signs—but for the most part it’s exactly as I remember. One side of the street is local businesses—T-shirt shops and ice cream parlors. The opposite side is an unobstructed view of Lake Superior. Before I was born, the city passed a zoning law that kept the lakeshore undeveloped. The city marina and a few grandfathered-in businesses dot the lakeside, but other than that, there’s nothing between you and the view of the lake.

I pass my dad’s store on Main Street. The hand-painted storefront sign is faded from age and sun exposure: Handyman Henry’s. He’s the town’s handyman and our last name is Henry. It’s not very original and a little on the corny side, but it gets the job done—kind of like my dad.

When my parents first got married, they lived in the apartment located above the shop. When they had me, they moved to the house where my dad still lives. The three-bedroom, one and a half bath, A-frame house is filled with memories, both good and bad. Most of my friends in Los Angeles can’t fathom having lived and grown up in the same house since birth to high school graduation, but that’s what small-town life is like.

Between the cross-country flight and the drive from the Twin Cities, it’s late in the evening by the time I reach the long driveway to my father’s house. The tires on my rental car crunch loose gravel, and the vehicle bumps in small grooves made by time and run-off water. The front porch light is on and a warm glow from other lights inside the house illuminates the walk from my car up the wooden deck and to the front door.

I still have a key and I’m sure my dad hasn’t had need to change the locks since I graduated high school, but I still knock anyway.

The door swings open, and my dad stands on the other side of the door. “Where’s Emily?” I ask. I drop my suitcase in the front foyer.

“Adam’s parents’ house. They’re hosting the wake this evening.”

My dad looks tired. He looks thinner than I remember him being, too. His jeans are baggy and the red flannel shirt he wears is a size too big. The man frozen in my memory banks doesn’t look like this.

“Why isn’t it at the funeral home?” I ask. My hometown is so small there’s only one funeral home, and the funeral director and the undertaker are the one and the same.

My dad frowns. “There’s no public viewing of the body."

“The car accident.” My stomach sinks when the realization hits me. “Adam was . . .” I trail off.

“He was practically unidentifiable.” My dad’s voice drops a little, and I can tell he’s working hard to keep his emotions in check. Fathers don’t often like the men who marry their daughters, but I knew my dad had really liked Adam. There wasn’t much not to like. “They used his dental records to identify the body.”

I clench the keys to my rental car. “I should head over there. Do you want a ride?” I should probably freshen up and change into something more appropriate for a wake, but I just want to hug my sister.

“I’ve just come from there,” he says. He grabs my suitcase before I can stop him. “I’ll put your bag in your room.”

I should hug him, but he’s already a few steps up the staircase. I hesitate in the front foyer and watch him lug my suitcase upstairs. I’ve been away for too long. But now’s not the time to apologize for that.

 + + + 

Adam’s parents live only a few houses away from my dad, but the properties are so spaced out that it ends up being more efficient to drive there. The street in front of the Harvester home is lined with cars, other folks coming to pay their respects, I assume.

I find a spot to park on an adjacent street and make my way to the two-story brick colonial. The Harvesters are one of the wealthier families in town with Mr. Harvester being bank president and Mrs. Harvester perpetual president of the Parent-Teacher Association.

I don't know either of them all that well even though Adam and Emily dated forever. They’d been high school sweethearts, attended college in Duluth, and had gotten married soon after graduation. I used to joke with Emily that the best part about marrying Adam was that she didn't have to change her initials.

The house is all lit up and I can hear the muffled sounds of conversation coming from inside. I knock on the door instead of using the doorbell and am immediately greeted by someone whom I don't recognize. She's a tall woman with stick straight black hair cut just below her ears.

“Come on in,” she says, ushering me inside and closing the door behind me. “Emily’s in the back.”

I nod my thanks. I wonder if she knows who I am.

The house is filled with people, all of whom wear some shade of grey or black. I'm decidedly not dressed for a wake. I'm wearing my most comfortable jeans, t-shirt, and hooded zip-up sweatshirt. It makes me rethink my decision to come straight over to the house. Some of the gathered mourners look toward me as I begin to walk through the house, but after deciding that I’m no one of interest, they return to their respective conversations.

The Harvesters have a lovely home. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve driven by the house more times than I can count. My ears are filled with the quiet din of hushed, polite conversations and the scent of casserole dishes perfumes the air. Pictures of Adam throughout the years, and quite a few of Adam with my sister crowd the walls and flat surfaces. Adam was an only child, a star athlete, and an overall nice guy, the pride of his parents.

Before I get too far into the house, I run into Adam’s mother in a hallway. She’s a tall, thin woman with a pronounced nose. Her black dress reaches below her knees and a black shawl is draped over narrow shoulders.

"Hello," she greets. She presses a crumpled tissue to her nose. "Thank you for coming." Her eyes are shiny and red.

I take her hand in mine. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Harvester.”

“Thank you . . .” She trails off and her eyes narrow momentarily, as though she recognizes me, but can’t place a name to a face.

I had been all but invisible in high school, which is hard to pull off in a school system of less than two hundred students. I didn’t play sports, and I wasn’t in any after-school activities like drama, or band, or even Bible study. My closest friends had been books and the sour-faced librarian at the public library.

Emily had been the pretty and popular one. She’d had a boyfriend since she was eight years old, she’d played basketball and had run track in high school. She’d never been a great brain—that was my department—but she’d gotten solid enough grades to get into the local state college in Duluth where she and Adam had stayed after graduation. It was close enough to Grand Marais that coming home for Thanksgiving or Easter wasn’t a big deal, but far enough away that they weren’t back in town every weekend. She’d gotten a job as an insurance underwriter and Adam had had his own accounting firm in the small city.

I clear my throat. “I’m Abigail Henry.” I don't think I look much different from when I used to live in town, but it's been a few years.

“Emily’s sister,” she breathes. She throws her arms around me in an unexpected hug and I freeze from the gesture. “It was so soon, so unexpected. We never got to say goodbye.”

I pat the space between her shoulder blades. I can feel the bones of her back beneath my palms. She’s so thin, so frail, one tight hug would have her ribs collapsing. “H-have you seen Emily?” I ask.

Mrs. Harvester pulls back from the hug and wipes under her eyes, collecting her ruined mascara on her long, boney fingers. “She’s in the parlor, by the piano.”

The parlor is near the front of the house, so I'm forced to change directions. Between the baby grand piano, straight-backed furniture, and a line of mourners, the room is stuffy and crowded. Over the top of people's heads, I spy my sister. She looks good. She looks calm. Strong. She gives hugs to people and consoles those who break down. I feel myself relax. Maybe this won’t be so horrible. Maybe I won’t cry, either. The line starts to dwindle, and I get closer to the front.

When our eyes finally meet, her face crumbles. “Hi, Abs,” she says in a tiny voice.

I skip the two people waiting in front of me and wrap my arms around her. I feel her give in to body-shaking sobs, and her hot tears spill on my shoulder and neck. “Thank you for coming,” she routinely mumbles through her tears.  

I hug her tighter. “There’s no way I wouldn’t be here for you,” I say in the strongest voice I can muster.

She points in the direction of the piano. “He’s inside there,” she sniffs, gesturing to a worn basketball sitting atop a small, raised platform. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. I knew Adam had been cremated because of the severity of the accident, but I didn’t realize that using a sportsball as an urn was even a possibility. I guess I don’t think about death too often.

There’s a framed photograph of Adam's handsome, goofy, smiling face beside the unconventional urn. He’s wearing one of those wacky winter hats like the characters in the movie Fargo wear.

"I like that picture," I remark.

"Me, too," she sighs.

I know there’s others waiting for their chance with her, so I give Emily a quick squeeze and pull away. “I’ll see you back at the house, okay?”

She nods wetly and wipes at her face. She takes a deep, racking breath, preparing herself for the rest of the receiving line.

 + + +

My dad’s house is silent and empty when I wake up the next morning. It’s a two-hour time difference between the West Coast and Minnesota, so when I wake up at 9:00 a.m., my body thinks it’s only 7:00 a.m. There’s a note from my sister posted on the refrigerator that she and my dad have left for the church already and that the funeral is at noon.

My cell phone has a string of missed text messages from my girlfriend, Kambria, each full of emojis and well-wishes, and I don’t know what to do with it. It's too early to call or even to text back so I let her messages go unanswered. Kambria is sweet—maybe a little too sweet—for a city like Los Angeles. Although a Midwesterner by blood, I’ve grown harder after a decade of living away from my roots, more cynical, and less eager to trust new people into my intimate circle.

I have nothing to do until the funeral so I decide to go for a run in my old neighborhood. Along with the bathing suit I'll never wear, I had the foresight to pack running shoes and workout clothes. It's a beautiful morning, perfect jogging weather. A strong breeze blowing off Lake Superior whips around me, and it takes my breath away. I see Mr. and Mrs. Harvester driving down the road, probably on their way to the church. They both raise a hand in greeting, and I do the same as their car passes.

I clean up after breakfast and head over to the church. There’s still an hour before the funeral is scheduled to begin, but the building is packed. There’s a long line of grievers heading toward the altar where I see Emily and my dad. Seated in the front pew is my ninety-two year old grandmother. She immediately recognizes me even though I haven’t seen her in at least a decade. Her face lights up, but there are tears in her eyes. “Abigail,” she exclaims. “You’re so tall!”

The Harvesters flank Emily on one side, and my dad and I cover the other. The number of mourners lined down the center aisle is even greater than the day before, and I don't know how we're going to get through them all.

"Thank you for coming," I murmur to each person as they shake my hand and express their condolences. I don’t know what to do with my hands when they’re not on the receiving end of a handshake or thrown around someone in an awkward hug. I flatten my hands down the front of my dress’s skirt and tug at the neckline.  I didn’t know what to wear to the funeral. Most everything I own is black, but my dresses are of the cocktail variety since my agent Claire insisted I have them in my wardrobe for networking purposes. I’m probably dressed okay, but standing next to Mrs. Harvester, who’s dripping in black gauze and pearls, makes me feel underdressed.

Death is a funny thing—not funny ha-ha, but funny awkward. Funny—what’s the proper etiquette for this kind of thing? Funny—fuck, why can’t I find the right words or get my tear ducts to produce at least a few tears so I don’t look like a total, heartless robot? I’d rather be sitting with my grandma and holding her hand or not be here at all. It’s a display of emotions that doesn’t come naturally to me. I watch my sister out of the corner of my eye. I don't know how she has the physical or emotional energy for this. I'm drained by the time mass begins.

The funeral opens with “On Eagles Wings,” which has an Pavlovian impact on everyone seated around me. You hear that song, and you immediately cry. The priest is the same officiate who married Emily and Adam in this very same church only a few years prior. When he speaks to the congregation, he talks about how hard he thought this was going to be—to give this homily. “But if you want to see hard,” he says, “think about Emily.” I haven't cried yet, but his words make my resolve crumble. No one should be a widow at age twenty-seven.

Every funeral in my hometown church is followed by a luncheon in the church basement, and the menu is always the same—biscuits and scrambled eggs with bits of country ham mixed in. I hate those eggs. They taste like death.

The burial is much harder than the funeral. I’m standing next to Emily. It’s just the two of us. We’re staring down at the tiny square hole where a camouflage-painted metal box rests. Inside is the basketball that contains Adam’s ashes.

“I wish I could just jump in that hole and be with him.”

I hold her harder. I’ve never considered myself to be good with death. I don’t have the words that seem to come so easily to others. I open my mouth, however, and do my best.

“He’s not really down there,” I murmur. “He’s in the grass now. He’s in the flowers. He’s in the breeze. He’s all around us.” I kiss her temple. “I love you,” I whisper into her hair.

Her body shakes harder. “I love you, too, Abs.”

“You’re strong, Em,” I tell her emphatically.

“I don’t feel very strong right now,” she whimpers.

“I know,” I murmur, squeezing her again. “But you are. I know you are.”

After the burial we all head to a local brewpub for a celebration “like Adam would have wanted.” The crowd from the funeral and the burial has mostly been replaced by people closer in age to Emily and me. As I stand at the bar, a girl with whom Emily and Adam went to high school comments how the gathering feels like everyone is back together and we’re getting ready to start senior year. I don’t point out the fact that we’re drinking at a bar. Paltry details. Everyone’s high school experience was a little different, I suppose.

Emily has disappeared, and I worry that she’s slipped out and gone home or back to the cemetery. At dinner my dad assures me that she’ll be fine, however, so I concentrate on filling my growling stomach with planked whitefish. A storm is blowing in from the lake, but I’m not worried because the outdoor patio at the restaurant has a roof and plastic sheeting separating us from the elements. I’m thankful any inclement weather decided to wait until after the burial. Nothing would be more miserable than replaying that day’s events with dark storm clouds overhead and pelting rain.

Over my dad’s shoulder I spot a brief flash. I can’t be sure if it’s lightning or just the flashbulb on a tourist's camera. And then comes the rain. I don’t know if it’s actually raining hard because the patio roof is tin—to give the impression of a tropical island, I suppose—and it makes a loud racket. The wind picks up, and I can see the sheet of rainfall dancing across the surface of Lake Superior.

Our waitress comes back to ask how our food is. I give her two thumbs up—my mouth is full of coleslaw and the rain bouncing against the patio roof is so loud, I doubt she’d actually hear me.

“Wow,” our waitress openly admires, staring past us toward the lake. “Look at how bright it is; you hardly ever see the purple.”

I turn to look at what she’s talking about. Cast across the midnight blue clouds is the most vivid, picturesque rainbow I’ve seen in quite a while. In a few minutes, the entire staff is out on the patio to admire the rainbow. Passers-by stop and take photos of the sight.

Within a few minutes of the rain stopping, a second rainbow appears alongside the first. It’s fainter than the first, but definitely a second rainbow. With the lighthouse, harbor, and lake in the foreground, it’s awfully impressive.

It’s such a small thing, this rainbow after the storm, but the words I told Emily earlier echo in my head: He’s everywhere now.

He’s in that rainbow.

And in that moment I realize that my sister has many more storms to weather. But at the end of the rain, there’s always a rainbow.

 

 

 

Prologue: Bittersweet Homecoming

A/N: Compared to Fragmented or even DCMH, Bittersweet Homecoming is an uncomplicated romance story. But as you have probably noticed, nothing I write is entirely uncomplicated.  

Bittersweet Homecoming

Prologue

I've been meaning to change my cell phone's ringtone for a while now.  Whenever it goes off in the middle of a meeting I'm embarrassed.  First, because you'd think after it happening so many times that I'd remember to put it on silent.  Second, because it's some horrendous hip-hop song that's so not me. Now, deep rattling bass that instead sounds reed thin coming through the tiny speakers on my cell phone, shakes me from my sleep.

The glowing numbers on my bedside alarm clock inform me that it's just past 3:00 a.m. I can't imagine who'd be calling me at this hour, but when I see the name blinking back at me on the screen of my cell phone, it feels like my heart has stopped dead in my chest. It's 5:00 am in Minnesota. I instinctively know there will be no good news when I hit the answer button.

"Hello?" My voice is foreign to my ears, like there's cotton shoved in the canals that distorts everything I hear.

"No, it's fine," I tell her. The voice is familiar, but the sound of her tears is not. I’m transported back to our childhood. She’s remained sixteen in my head, but I know she’s twenty-six or twenty-seven now. I haven’t seen much of her lately. Grown, graduated, married, no kids. 

A slender arm moves to drape over my waist. "Baby, who is that?" Her lightly accented voice is garbled by sleep.

I put a finger up to my lips to keep her from saying anything else. Her usually unlined brow crinkles, but she obeys my wordless plea.

"Don't worry about the time,” I say. I'm gripping the phone so tightly, I'm sure it'll crack under the pressure. "What's wrong?"

The voice on the line breaks. It shatters and falls apart. I can only make out every other word, which are punctuated by sharp sobs. But I understand just enough to confirm my suspicions.

Words of consolation get caught in my throat. “When’s the funeral?” I ask instead.

I pause and listen to the facts.

“I’ll be there.” I pause again and suck in a deep breath. “I love you.”

The woman next to me in bed looks startled by my words—probably because I’ve never said them to her, and she’s been my girlfriend for nearly half a year.

Without another word, I hang up and carefully return my phone to its normal location on my bedside table.  My movements are slow and deliberate. I'm numb.

“What’s wrong? Who was that?” she asks me, suspicion creeping into her normally carefree tone.

“That was my sister,” I say.  I run my hand over my face.  “Her husband died.”

“Oh no,” she laments with a heavy sigh.

I pull myself out of bed, a full-sized mattress that takes up nearly all the floor space in my one-bedroom LA apartment. I turn on the lamp on my bedside table. The base is in the shape of Mickey Mouse and Disney characters are screen printed on the lampshade. I've had it since childhood.

I find a suitcase in my bedroom closet and begin throwing clothes into it.  It's summer in LA, a season I don't think I'll ever get used to, but back in my hometown the temperatures will just be getting over seventy degrees. I pack jeans and short-sleeved shirts and throw a bathing suit in there as an afterthought—not that it's ever warm enough to swim in Lake Superior.  Not that I think this trip will warrant a trip to the beach.

"You're packing now?" my girlfriend asks incredulously.

"The funeral's tomorrow. I have to catch a flight to Minneapolis and rent a car."

She chews on her lip and nods after a moment as if to say the math checks out. "Do you want me to come with?"

The question, whose answer should come so easily, makes me pause my disorganized packing. "To Minnesota?"  It's like she's asking me if I want her to go to the moon with me.

"No," I decide finally. "You should stay."

I don't look in her direction because I'm afraid of the hurt or the disappointment I might see on her pixie features.

"Are you sure?"

I nod vigorously, still not making eye contact. I shove a handful of underwear into the suitcase, not bothering to count out the days I'll be gone. Because I honestly don't know; I've never had to do this before. What's the proper amount of time to stay and grieve when your little sister has just lost the love of her life?

Loving Day

If I were to ask you when interracial marriage became legal in the United States, what might you say? 1865 after the end of the Civil War? Hah. How about the early 1900's? Nope, try again.

How about 1967?

On this day, forty-eight years ago, in the landmark case Loving vs. Virginia, the United States Supreme Court declared Virginia’s anti-miscegenation statute unconstitutional, ending all race-based legal restrictions on marriage in the United States. Today, the Loving decision is used as a legal precedent for same-sex marriage equality, which the Court will rule on by the end of this month. 

The story begins in 1958, when Sheriff Garnett Brooks burst into the Central Point, Virginia home of Mildred and Richard Loving. Their crime: Mildred was black, Richard was white, and they were married. They pointed to their marriage certificate on the wall, but Sheriff Brooks replied, “That’s no good here.”

Judge Leon Bazile berated the couple, saying, “Almighty God created the races, white, black, yellow, Malay, and red, and he placed them on separate continents, and but for the interference with His arrangement, there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

The Lovings had a choice; they could go to jail for one year or leave the state. They moved to Washington, D.C., where it was legal for them to be married, but they went to court. Nine years later, on June 12th, 1967, the Supreme Court struck down all state laws banning interracial marriage. The Court ruled that anti-miscegenation statutes violated the equality clause stated in the Fourteenth Amendment. 

In the Court's unanimous decision, Chief Justice Earl Warren wrote: Marriage is one of the "basic civil rights of man," fundamental to our very existence and survival.... To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State's citizens of liberty without due process of law. The Fourteenth Amendment requires that the freedom of choice to marry not be restricted by invidious racial discrimination. Under our Constitution, the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State.

Just as Brown vs. Board of Education (1954) overturned Plessy vs. Ferguson (1896), Loving vs. Virginia overturned Pace vs. Alabama (1883), which upheld the right of states to ban interracial marriage.

So today, in between your episodes of OITNB, take a moment to reflect on the Lovings. We still have a ways to go towards total equality under the law, but as the song goes, sometimes all you need is love. 

Eliza

Lesbian Book Club podcast

It's officially June, although Mother Nature pays no attention to the calendar, and I'm focused  on writing the upcoming novel, Bittersweet Homecoming. The premise of this new story has been bouncing around in my head for the last five years, and I'm excited to finally be writing it down. You'll all be privy to sneak peaks along the way, but in the meantime, enjoy (I hope) this podcast interview I did with The Lesbian Lounge's Clare Lydon. We talk about the Winter Jacket series, Don't Call Me Hero, and cheese.

 Lesbian Book Club Podcast with Clare Lydon

Without a little rain...

April showers bring May flowers. 

When I originally conceived of Hunter and Elle (you can read their origin story in my anthology Love, Lust, & Other Mistakes), I had no way of knowing that over two years later, they'd still be going strong. Winter Jacket 3 takes Elle and Hunter on a new adventure, and I'm most proud of the evolution of the characters themselves in this new novel. Barring a disaster, there will be a Winter Jacket 4 (May 2016). 

The student/teacher genre is as old as Sappho herself, but the inspiration to try my hand at the pairing came after watching the 2010 film Bloomington. I've already lamented elsewhere how Hollywood seems to have it out for lesbian ladies in film, and Bloomington is no exception. 

Writing for a series like Winter Jacket, which has amassed a passionate readership over the past few years, is honestly terrifying. In the grand scheme of things, if one of my books flops or doesn't find an audience, it's simply back to the drawing board for me. But the stakes are infinitely higher when you're writing in a series. Readers expect certain things from these characters and naturally want all the romance and sunshine I can provide. But I also don't want to play it safe with these characters, because where's the fun in that? 

I've always said you can't truly enjoy the sunshine if it never rains. Spoiler alert: it rains a lot in Winter Jacket 3, and I can't wait to read about what you think.

Happy reading,

Eliza

Winter Jacket 3: SNEAK PREVIEW

CHAPTER ONE

There are signs everywhere if you know what you’re looking for—signs that tell you you’re doing something wrong. Go back. Detour. Choose again. Do not collect two hundred dollars when you pass Go. But I hadn’t paid attention to the warnings, too blinded by ambition and the desire to experience something new. Simply put: I was making a terrible, horrible mistake.

It was at an off-season ski resort in Colorado where Hunter began to second-guess my decision to move to California.

Her pale blue eyes were watching me when I woke up. A window was cracked open in the hotel room, and the translucent curtain fluttered from an outside breeze, struggling to block out the early morning sun.

“G’morning, love,” I said groggily.

Her mouth twitched in one corner. "I keep hoping you'll change your mind."

I sat up in bed and rubbed roughly at my face. The bed was serviceable, but far from the luxury resort I had been expecting when we’d checked in. I hadn’t made any reservations or done any research on places to stay along our route from Minnesota to southern California. Not having a schedule allowed us to stop periodically and take in things like the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, but we also risked staying at underwhelming hotels like the one we currently found ourselves.

We’d stopped in the ski resort town the previous night. Because it was the off-season for the mountain town, rooms and rates were reasonable even at the fanciest of ski lodges. I had been hoping for ski resort luxury, but the section of the hotel where they’d put us looked as though it hadn’t been updated since the 1990s. The room description called it a junior suite, but it better resembled a king dump. I hadn’t seen any bugs, but that wouldn’t have surprised me. The cream-colored carpeting was worn and stained. The formica countertops in the kitchenette were peeling at the edges and a foreboding scent was coming in the direction of the refrigerator. I hadn’t been brave or foolish enough to seek out the foul-smelling culprit. Our patio had no furniture, unless you counted the two metal folding chairs I found propped against the wall, not that we had a mountain view to tempt us outside. It was probably the only room in the whole resort that didn’t look out onto the mountains that surrounded the quaint town.

"We've been over this," I said.                   

"I know we have. And I know I said I'd support you either way," she sighed, "but I think I underestimated what that would mean for us with you in California."

"We'll only be apart for a short while, Hunt. It's just a few months." The words I spoke were for myself as much as they were for her. I was giving Troian from the end of August through December—the entire length of my sabbatical—to see if I had a future in writing for television.  "I want to be scared," I said. "I want to be challenged. I'm not saying teaching is easy, but it's too easy to dial it in now that I'm tenured."

She threw the comforter off her side of the bed, and I watched her pad away. “I’m going to take a shower," she called over her shoulder.

I stared at the doorway through which she’d disappeared with knots in my stomach. Even if I had been invited to conserve water with her as was our tradition, the shower was too small for the both of us. I'd probably have a hard time washing my own hair later without bruising my elbows.

My cell phone was on the bedside table. Despite the early hour, Troian answered my call after one ring.

“Are you here?” she demanded, the excitement audible in her tone.

“No. I’m in Colorado.” We’d been on the road for two days. Another day and a half of driving and we would reach Los Angeles.

“Hurry up.”

"I need more time with Hunter. I'm not ready to give her up."

“What does that mean?" Troian asked. "Are you still coming out here?"

"Yeah, I am." I glanced in the direction of the bathroom. "We're just taking a few days detour if that's okay."

"As long as those 'few days' don't turn into a week."

It was going to be very strange having Troian as my boss, but I knew our relationship was solid enough to withstand any boss/minion conflicts—or at least I hoped it would be.

"Remind me why she's going back to Minnesota?" she asked.

I shoved the hair off my forehead. "Because that's where her life is," I explained. "Her work, her family, her friends."

"But not her girlfriend."

I didn't need this from my best friend, too; Hunter had made the same argument too many times.

"I've gotta go," I said. I didn't want to have this conversation for the umpteenth time.

"When are you getting here?" Troian pressed. “I need to give human resources a heads up so they’ll have the keys to your apartment ready.”

I quickly did the mental math. "Four days."

Troian's sigh rattled in my ear. "Make it five. Come find me at the lot on Saturday to get your keys. We'll start you bright and early on Monday."

"Thanks, Boss," I smiled into the phone.

The shower turned off in the bathroom, but I had one more phone call to make.

 

Hunter tossed her duffle bag into the backseat of my car. My trunk and most of the backseat were filled with all the belongings I anticipated needing over the next few months. Most of my life remained in Minnesota, however.

“How many states are we tackling today?” she asked. She had been uncharacteristically quiet after her shower as we'd both gotten ready for the day. The knots in my stomach had intensified with each passing moment.

“None.”

Her eyes squinted as she regarded me. “What? Why?”

“I thought we could hang out in Colorado for a little longer. I called Troian and told her not to expect us for a few more days.” I paused to lick my lips. “Unless you want to keep on going until we get to Los Angeles?”

Hunter glanced in the direction of the hotel where we’d spent the previous night and chewed on her lower lip. I could tell she was weighing staying additional nights there into her reply; I could practically see her internal struggle play out on her facial features. Getting to Los Angeles sooner meant her leaving. But staying in Colorado, if I intended on making her stick it out in this relic of a hotel, might not be preferable. But Hunter was too polite to tell me she thought this hotel was a dump.

I started to laugh at her indecision.

She put her hands on her hips. “What’s so funny?”

“I love you, that’s what.” The grin on my face made my cheeks hurt. “Get in the car.”

 

We drove out of the small ski town that morning, happy to have the resort area in the rearview mirror. The terrain became progressively hillier and a thick fog settled on the county highway. Visibility was limited, and Hunter, sensing I was having a hard time concentrating on the road in front of me, stayed cautiously quiet. Her curiosity about where we were headed next couldn’t remain stifled forever, however.

She peered through the passenger side window at the clusters of evergreen trees beyond the car’s window. “Where are you taking me, Ellio?”

“Why? Are you nervous?”

“People disappear out here.”

“Just trust me,” I smiled, flipping on my blinker and turning onto an unpaved road. The in-car navigation system turned on and off as we ventured deeper into the woods and far off the grid.

A few miles in, the canopy of evergreen trees parted to reveal bright blue skies. It was almost as if we’d gone through a magic portal to another land. There was no sign of the fog that had earlier plagued our drive.

I heard Hunter's quiet murmur of approval as she craned her neck to get a better view of the horizon. We’d seen plenty of mountains in our drive across Colorado, but nothing like these purple mountains majesty. It was almost enough to make a cynic like myself feel patriotic.

We passed a few mailboxes that appeared unaffiliated with any houses before we came upon a small log cabin set a few hundred feet back from the road. When I slowed down in front of a driveway, Hunter turned away from the view outside. “Who lives here?”

“We do. For the next few days at least."

“You rented a house for us?”

“I rented a cabin with a mountain view,” I corrected.

"When? How?" she marveled.

"When you were in the shower I called the rental place that manages the house we had last Christmas in Malibu. It was a long shot, but it turned out they had an available property not too far away."

Even though we had another hundred yards until we reached our destination, I stopped the car in the road. I hadn’t seen another vehicle in the past half an hour, so I assumed it would be safe. Hunter unfastened her seatbelt and scrambled out of the front seat. I turned the key in the ignition to stop the car and joined my girlfriend outside.

“You look like you’re about to burst into song,” I noted with a wry smirk. She was slowly spinning in the center of the gravel road with her arms spread out like wings and her chin tilted towards the sunny, clear blue sky.

“Can you blame me? This view is straight out of The Sound of Music. I expect Maria Von Trapp to run across the field any second.”

“It is quite the view," I smiled.

Hunter dropped her arms at her sides and turned to me, her face lit up with happiness. It made my heart flutter inside its cage of ribs to see her so happy and to know that I was the reason behind it.  It honestly still seemed improbable, if not impossible, that we’d made this relationship work.

She strode purposefully toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. She leaned in, her soft mouth just centimeters from my own. “Can’t get enough of this view,” she murmured. Her sweet breath felt warm on my face.

I closed the short distance between our mouths and hungrily took her bottom lip in between my upper and lower teeth. I sucked the pouting lip into my mouth and heard the quiet growl that radiated deep in her throat.  I pressed my lips solidly against Hunter’s upturned mouth and darted my tongue out between my teeth to swab at her bottom lip.

My wandering hands found themselves in the small of her back and they toyed with the bottom hem of her pastel-colored top.  My fingertips felt the heat of her pale skin, and I wanted nothing more than to feel the expanse of that heat, naked and pressed against my own body.

I paused when I heard the wolf-whistle.  I reluctantly pulled myself away from Hunter’s addictive mouth and looked past her head to see a group of hikers, about four or five of them, standing at a distance and collectively giving us two thumbs up.

“We have an audience,” I groaned under my breath. We were in the middle of nowhere and we'd still managed to attract a crowd. “I think we’d better invest in some curtains.”

“And a fence,” she added.

 

The cabin was modest in size, but more than enough room for the two of us, with a generous loft upstairs populated with overstuffed furniture and a ping-pong table. On the ground level was an open concept kitchen, a dining room table with four chairs, and a living room complete with a potbelly woodstove. The first floor was also equipped with two bedrooms, one which I assumed was the master because the double bed faced a walk-out deck. 

Hunter flopped down on the bed in the master bedroom, and it made a terrible groan. "I guess this means no acrobatic sex," she laughed.

I sat down on the edge of the mattress and held my breath as I sank deeply into its uneven springbox mattress. "Not unless we want this thing to break." I gave a few experimental bounces, and the springs shrieked and groaned in response. "But there's plenty of other surfaces in the other rooms," I grinned.

Her clear sapphire eyes sparkled. "You know I love a good challenge." Her voice was rich with warm, honey tones.

She hopped up from the bed before I could vocalize my own challenge. "I need to lay down for a bit," she announced. "I didn't get much sleep last night." She unfastened the button of her jeans and pulled the zipper low enough that I could see a hint of the red lace underwear that hid underneath her pants.

“That’s not fair,” I groaned.

She looked to me, eyes round with confusion.

“You can’t parade around here looking so edible,” I clarified.

The confusion softened on her face, and she gave me a knowing grin. “It’s almost like I’m doing it on purpose.” 

While I contemplated the knotty pine ceiling of the lofted cabin, Hunter napped beside me in the master bedroom. Her hand had snaked its way under the waistband of my pajama pants, and her fingers were curled around the top of my underwear. Her warm fingers rested against my hipbone. It was an innocent gesture, and I tried not to think about how good it would feel if her hand just happened to shift and touch me in a more intimate place. It took all of my willpower not to roll my hips or wiggle in such a way that would relocate her hand.

I hadn't been in too many relationships much longer than the one I currently enjoyed. This was the sweet spot of the relationship. I never understand those love songs that promised the listener that it would feel like "the first time." My first time had been awkward and uncomfortable. Familiarity was what I craved—when you no longer felt self-conscious being naked in front of your lover—when you no longer stressed about if she liked the way you touched her, or if it was too much, or not enough, or just plain not good at all. The honeymoon phase might have been over, but that didn't mean I still didn't get butterflies when she did something adorable or that my body temperature didn't spike when I admired the gentle swell of her backside in a pair of skinny jeans.

After Hunter's nap, we found a small convenience store on a county highway and bought enough groceries to last the few days we'd be staying at the cabin. That night I cooked dinner on the gas grill outside—chicken breasts smothered in a spicy BBQ sauce and steamed vegetables in an aluminum pouch.

Long after the sun had dipped behind Mount Meeker in the distance, Hunter and I sat outside on a wool blanket and stared up at the complex swirls of distant galaxies sprayed across the inky black sky. I didn't take the view or my girlfriend's hand in mine for granted. Like Hunter, the night stars would soon be taken away from me when I arrived in Los Angeles.

After our first night at the cabin, it rained our entire stay, which was fine with me. I hadn't envisioned us hiking to the top of Long's Peak or neighboring Mount Meeker. And the weather gave us an excuse—if we even needed one—to stay holed up in the cabin, sleeping late into the morning and not bothering to change out of comfortable pajamas. Warnings about potential flooding kept me from entirely relaxing, but I was mindful to enjoy our time together.

The mountainside cabin was a vast improvement over the ski resort straight out of the 1990s. The days were overcast, but the change in location was like sun rays poking through the most stubborn of clouds. There were no neighbors in sight, which simultaneously frightened and invigorated me. I made fires in the woodstove in the living room, and Hunter worked the French press when the antiquated contraption frustrated me. It was symbiosis at its best. 

The morning we were slated to leave and continue on to Los Angeles, I drank hot coffee outside on the deck. The wrap-around porch provided a stunning view of Mount Meeker. Fog rolled down the mountainside like thick puffs of smoke. There were two birdfeeders on the property and viewable from one of the picture windows. Birds of all sizes jostled for the prime real estate. The morning air was brisk, and I pulled up the high neck of Hunter’s running jacket that I wore just a little bit more.

I felt her presence behind me before I ever heard her soft footsteps. The wooden deck creaked beneath her feet.

"I could get used to this," she announced. Her arms wrapped around my waist, and she rested her head on my shoulder.

"No cell phone reception, no wireless, and no TV?"

She smiled and pulled me in tighter against her. "Doesn't it feel like we're the only people on earth? No responsibilities or commitments, except to each other."

“It is nice,” I hummed. “So what do you think? Did you like the Malibu beach house or the Estes Park mountain cabin better?”

“I think you spoil me.”

“It's nothing that you don't deserve, love."

“You should stop being so damn accomplished so I can treat you once in a while," she said, although her tone let me know she wasn't really cross with me. "Tenured professor and now television writer?"

I ignored her words. "Why do you always smell so good?" I twisted at the waist and nuzzled my nose in the hollow of her throat.

"You're imagining things."

"You smell like new." I pressed my lips against the sweet spot in the nape of her neck.

"New what?" she asked, a smile in her voice.

"Just new," I sighed into her skin.

After breakfast, we packed up our belongings and closed up the cabin for the next lucky couple. I took the first driving responsibility of the day, and Hunter returned to staring out the passenger side window. As we started down the long dirt driveway, I made furtive glances in the rearview mirror back at the cabin. I went over a mental checklist to make sure I'd remembered to pack everything like my toothbrush and my cell phone charger, never once considering that maybe we'd left our final happy memories behind.

 

The remainder of the road trip was bittersweet. We switched off driving responsibilities every few hours over the last day and a half of the trip so the other person could appreciate the scenery. The landscape changed dramatically as we drove farther southwest. The mountains remained, dominating the horizon, but wilderness and tall skinny pine trees were replaced with stratified red rocks and eventually the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.

Podcasts filled the extended silences, and when we ran out of things to listen to, we played games of willpower like who could last the longest listening to Christian talk radio on the AM dial. If it had been a regular vacation, I might have actually enjoyed myself after we left our Colorado cabin. But both Hunter and I knew what was going to happen when we arrived in California—she'd board a plane back to Minnesota, and I would stay behind.

If Hunter hadn’t accompanied me on this trip, I would have flown directly to Los Angeles where a chauffeur holding a sign with my name on it would have been waiting for me in baggage claim to take me to my new apartment. But because of the road trip, I had to look up Troian at the studio to get the keys and directions to my new home.

Pickfair Studios had been named after two of Old Hollywood's original movie stars—Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. The production buildings sat on a twenty-acre lot set in the sprawling hills of Burbank, a few miles north of downtown Los Angeles.

The studio's mechanized gate was closed when we arrived, exhausted and sweaty from the second half of the trip. A large, barrel-chested man stood in the security booth, reading a book. He barely looked up from his novel when I stopped my car at the gated entrance.

"Hi, there," I greeted in a cheerful tone that belied my exhaustion. "Elle Graft to see Troian Smith? I'm a new writer on the—."

I stopped my introduction when the gate slowly lifted even though I hadn't seen the guard move a muscle. My car continued to idle as I awaited his instructions or if he had any questions for me to verify my identity. Instead, he curled two fingers and beckoned me to drive through the gate.

I shifted into drive and slowly pulled forward, expecting his lack of interest to have been a joke. But the gate didn't come crashing down on the hood of my car and the security guard didn't chase after me as I looked for a place to park.

"That was weird," Hunter murmured from the passenger seat.

"No doubt," I agreed, finding a parking spot in a visitor lot. Because it was a Saturday, the lot was relatively empty. "Remind me to ask Troian about this place's security procedures."

It was hot that day, and the mid-afternoon sun beat down on us as we walked from the parking lot in the direction of Troian's trailer. People on golf carts zipped by, talking loudly on their phones, and expensive-looking equipment was unloaded from the flat bed of trucks amongst the chaos of shouted directions. I had been on the lot once before, a few months prior, but I had been a visitor then. I saw everything with new eyes now that I was an employee.

Hunter's hand was slightly sweaty in mine. She had grown conspicuously quiet the closer we'd gotten to the studio. In a ponytail, t-shirt, and jeans, she was effortlessly beautiful, but the grim look on her face had me worried.

"Hey," I said, squeezing her damp hand, "is everything okay?"

"Just a little tired from the drive, I guess."

I slowed our gait enough so I could kiss her cheek. "We'll get the keys from Troian, and then we can relax the rest of the day," I promised. "We'll both feel more normal after a shower and some food."

She nodded tightly. "Yeah. Okay."

Troian's office was a trailer that had always reminded me of the modular classroom my grade school had utilized when there were too many kids in the 4th grade. Her name and the words “Head Writer,” were etched on the outside of the door. I knocked and heard my friend's muffled voice on the other side of the closed metal door. I waited and listened for a moment; I didn't hear a second voice, so she was either talking to herself or on the phone. I tentatively opened the door and popped my head inside.

Troian sat at her desk with her cell phone pressed to her ear. The scowl on her face lifted when she saw me in the doorway. She pressed a finger to her lips, but waved us in.

"No, I know, Jackson. I completely agree with you," I heard her say as we filed into the office. "The episode isn't where we want it to be. But you don't have to worry," she said to whomever was on the other line. "We're not scheduled to shoot that episode for another month." She stuck her tongue out at me and ran her palm over her face.

"End of next week? Are you sure?" She paused and grimaced. "She does? Well of course then; whatever Jane wants." Her free hand clenched into a fist, and she bounced it on her desk.

Hunter touched my elbow to cull my attention. She raised an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged in return. I had no idea who any of these people were or why my friend looked so stressed out.

"Uh huh. Yeah. Okay, I will." Troian ended her call and set her phone on the desk with a long sigh. "Took you long enough," she finally greeted us.

"It’s a big country," I said with a shrug. "It takes time."

"To fuck in every state, yeah,” she snorted. “I'm sure that does take time."

"We only did it in states that end in the letter A," Hunter deadpanned.

Troian grinned for the first time since we'd shown up. "It's good to see you, too, Hunter."

Hunter pressed her lips together and her body language grew rigid. “I don't know if I should hug you or punch you.”

Troian's eyes widened. "Why the hell would you do that?" I was sure she meant the punching part, not the hugging option.

"You're the reason she's staying in California."

Troian held up her hands. "It's not like I put a gun to her head. She's a grown ass woman who makes her own decisions. Don't take this out on me."

I laid my hand on Hunter's shoulder. "It's been a long day of driving," I said, trying to defuse the situation before the fists began to fly. "I just need my apartment keys and then we'll be going."

"But I made dinner reservations for us," Troian remarked with disappointment.

I glanced between my girlfriend and my best friend. Hunter continued to stare stonily ahead, completely switched off. "We'll have to take a rain check," I decided.

I collected the keys and the address to my new apartment and guided Hunter toward the exit with my hand firm in the small of her back. Troian continued to look incredulous about the conversation. Hunter, however, looked deflated.

 

I hadn't known what to expect in regards to my new housing arrangements. When Troian had first moved out to California, the studio had set her and Nikole up with a multi-million dollar property. But Troian was the showrunner, and I was a lowly staff writer.

The apartment complex was conveniently located only a few minute's drive from Pickfair Studio. I had heard nightmarish things about Los Angeles traffic, mostly from Troian, so I was thankful I would be living relatively close to where I worked.

My apartment was on the third floor of a multi-unit complex, a cluster of smaller buildings with an outdoor pool and community gym on the grounds. The structures themselves lacked character, but the property looked clean and it was in a safe neighborhood, so I really had nothing to complain about except that I'd have to start saving quarters for the basement laundry room.

Beige carpeting and a blast of air conditioned air greeted us when I unlocked the door to my new home.

"Not exactly a palatial mansion, huh?" Hunter observed from behind me.

Immediately to the right was space just large enough for a square table and four chairs. To my left was the living room, crammed with worn, but serviceable furniture. Straight ahead was a small galley kitchen. It reminded me of someplace I might have lived in college.

I pulled my first suitcase inside. "Yeah, but it's free," I reminded her. "Can't be picky."

Pickfair was taking care of my housing just as they had done for Troian and Nik. I hadn't been concerned about paying rent, but knowing a furnished apartment would be waiting for me had been one less thing to worry about as I'd prepared for this new chapter of my life.

Hunter dragged a second suitcase inside from the hallway. "Well at least if you choose writing over teaching," she quipped, "I'll know it's because of the job itself and not the glamorous lifestyle that comes with it."

"Come here a second," I said. I wrapped my fingers around Hunter's wrist and pulled her to me.

We hadn't talked about what had transpired in Troian's office. I didn't want to make a big deal about it, but I also didn't want to let the moment pass without mention.

My hands rested lightly on her hips. "Are you okay?" It was the second time I'd asked her that question.

She chewed on her lower lip. "It's a lot to take in," she said somberly. "Everything is happening so fast."

"I know, love." I leaned forward and pressed my lips to her forehead. I didn't have the words to make it better; I was feeling the same way.

She sighed and her body sagged into mine. We stood like that in the foyer, crowded with suitcases and the apartment door still open, until she gently pulled away.

There was a smile on her face, but it looked out of place. "Let's finish unpacking your car."

Further exploration of the apartment produced a single bedroom and bathroom, both carpeted with that same beige carpeting found elsewhere in the apartment. A Venetian blind covered the solitary bedroom window, blocking out a view of the parking lot. The queen-sized mattress left little room for anything else than a wooden chest of drawers. On the bureau I found a stack of books on writing for television along with a note from Troian: I figured you'd break in the bedroom first. Gross.

"There's stuff in the fridge," I heard Hunter call from the other part of the apartment.

I left the bedroom, half worried she was referring to food that a previous tenant had left behind. Instead, I discovered Troian had left us a second surprise: a bottle of champagne and a charcuterie plate.

"Now that's more like it," I approved.

Hunter investigated the contents of the kitchen cabinets until she found something we could drink out of. They were narrow juice glasses instead of champagne flutes, but like the rest of the apartment, they would serve their purpose.

I popped the cork on the champagne bottle's and poured us each a glass of the bubbly beverage. It was a warm evening, so we brought our drinks and the tray of cheese and cured meats onto the balcony, which connected to the living room via a sliding glass door.

The balcony overlooked the apartment complex's parking lot which was filled with individual carports, one for each residential unit. There were two plastic chairs out on the platform along with a rusted coffee can, empty except for about an inch of rainwater.

I shut the sliding glass door behind me to keep in the refrigerated air. "It's not quite the Colorado mountain cabin," I observed, "but this isn't so bad." In the distance, as if on cue, came the shrill howl of a police siren.

Hunter stood beside me and we peered across landscape in silence. It would be a few hours until the sun set. Instead of stars, I imagined the sky would be lit up with the neon signs of fast food restaurants and gas stations when it got dark.  

Hunter gripped the balcony's ledge in one hand and her glass of champagne in the other. "Are you sure about this?"

"No."

Everything about this place was foreign to me—the job, this apartment, even the weather didn't feel normal. And in the morning, the only thing that made sense would be going back to Minnesota. But I had to do this. I owed it to myself to at least give it a try.

Hunter turned toward me and raised her glass. "Here's to new adventures."

That night I stared at Hunter's peaceful features as she slept beside me. I didn't want to fall asleep and waste these final moments with her. I wished she could have spent more time with me in California, but we'd used up all of our extra days in Colorado. I started work on Monday morning and she had to get back to the hospital. The road trip was over.

I stayed awake for as long as my body would allow, memorizing her beautiful face in the dark and listening to the evenness of her breath. Eventually, the time between each blink became longer and longer until the inevitable moment when I closed my eyes and they refused to reopen.

 

The next morning, Hunter was soft but solid in my arms. The blinds were drawn, but early morning sunlight crept through the vinyl slats. She shifted on the mattress, and when her backside pressed more firmly against my front, I felt a familiar warmth originate from my core and expand. I lightly raked my fingernails down the length of her arm.

“Don’t,” she quietly protested. “You’ll make it too hard to get up.”

I ran my palm across her front, detouring my travels at her underwear, dipping just beneath the elastic band. “Then you’d better get out of bed," I breathed into her ear, "because I’m starting to have other ideas.”

She laughed, and I felt it vibrate through my bones.

“I’m serious, Hunt,” I growled. “Move your body or you’re staying here with me.”

She arched her back, a subtle movement. “Move my body?” she purred. “Like this?”

I groaned low, deep in my throat. I clutched at the top of her underwear and pulled it upwards, making the material taut against her sex. She felt it; I heard the hitch in her intake of air.

“Don’t play with me,” I warned.

She spun in my arms so our noses grazed. If possible, her body had grown even warmer than before. If I didn’t let her go now, I would surely be burned.

"What time is your flight?" I knew the details of her flight, having memorized her return trip, but I felt like I needed to acknowledge what would be happening soon.

She tucked her chin to her chest and burrowed closer to me. "Too soon."

Soon after, we dragged our bodies out of bed and began the robotic routine of getting ready for the day. She had a late morning flight time that would have her back in Minnesota late that afternoon. The car ride to the airport was silent except for the sporadic directions from my in-car GPS. Sunday traffic was relatively light, and we arrived at Los Angeles International Airport more quickly than expected.

I parked my car in short term parking and escorted Hunter from the ticket counter to the airport security check-point--as far as I could go without buying a ticket for myself. We embraced, realizing there was nothing left to do but to say our goodbyes.

"I don't want to do this." Her fingers curled around the hair at the base of my neck. "Is it too late to change your mind?"

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against hers. I breathed her in, memorizing how she smelled, how she felt in my arms. "I'll visit as often as I can," I promised with closed eyes, "and whenever you get time off, I can bring you out here. It's only a few months," I reminded her and myself. "And we can talk on the phone and on the computer all the time."

She released a shuddering breath. "Okay."

"I love you, Hunter. We'll make this work," I said with conviction.

She pulled back and gave me a watery smile. "I love you, too." She swallowed and looked more fragile than before. "I guess I should go through security; we're only delaying the inevitable."

I nodded because I couldn't say another word. It hurt all over. I was too afraid if I tried to speak I'd start to cry. I could fall apart later in private, not in one of the busiest airports in the country.

She hugged me tight a final time and whispered in my ear. "Go be great, Ellio."

Monday Music Muse

Happy Monday, everyone!

The weather is warming up in the upper Midwest and the snow is starting to melt. I’m over a hundred pages into the next installation of the Winter Jacket series, and I’m excited about where this next journey will be taking Elle and Hunter.

I’ve written novels in a number of different genres—psychological thrillers like my latest, Fragmented; the military-police drama of Don’t Call Me Hero; the paranormal fantasy in Drained; survival in the frozen apocalyptic world of Apophis; and straight up romance novels whose characters are trying to survive crushing on the one person they’re not supposed to want.

For all of my stories’ differences, however, they have one thing in common: they’re stories about love. Regardless of the genre listed on the book cover, at their core, all of my books are romance stories. I write about love, and about the need to be loved.

And for every couple represented on the page, there’s a song. Music has always been my biggest Muse. There’s nothing like a well-chosen playlist to set the mood for a scene I know will be particularly emotional. It may not always be about the lyrics, but at least melodically these songs set the stage for these characters’ relationships with each other.

If you like my writing, but you’ve yet to read one of my novels because you typically don’t read stories outside of a preferred genre, this is my challenge to you to give them a try. The world or the mental space in which many of these characters occupy might not resemble the one you or I live in, but just like Winter Jacket, they’re all about love. 

Happy reading (and listening)!

Eliza

Fragmented - Harper and Raleigh, "Run" by Daughter

Daughter's melodies and lyrics always put me in the perfect mood to write. Check out other singles like "Home" and "Youth." 

Will you stay with me, my love
For another day?
'Cause I don't want to be alone
When I'm in this state
Will you stay with me, my love
'Till we're old and grey?
I don't want to be alone
When these bones decay 

Drained - Morgan and Riley, "Strangers" by Seven Lions, Myon, & Shane 54 ft. Tove Lo 

I tapped my co-author of Drained, Nica, for this one. From start to finish, this song’s lyrics are perfection for these two characters. Give it a listen and you'll find out why. 

Second Chances - Reagan and Allison, "Clean Getaway" by Maria Taylor 

There's something really haunting and wistful about this track - like running away from your past to create a new life for one's self, but not being entirely sure that you want to abandon that place and the people you knew. 

Don't Call Me Hero - Julia and Cassidy, "Half about Being a Woman" by Caroline Smith

From the artist: "The other side of strength. As women, we have this wonderfully complicated duality in us - sometimes we feel strong, and sometimes we feel weak. We often resent our vulnerabilities, but have to face them in order to move on and shamelessly accept ourselves. This is what being a woman is all about."

Apophis: A Love Story for the End of the World -Sam and Nora, "Eavesdrop" by The Civil Wars

Although no longer together, The Civil Wars remain one of my favorite bands, particularly to write to. There's something about this single that conjured images of desperation in an end-of-days scenario, but with a kernel of hope for better days because love exists

Winter Jacket - Elle and Hunter, "Clarity" (acoustic) by Zedd ft. Foxes

The lyrics to Zedd's "Clarity" couldn't be more perfect for a couple like Elle and Hunter, and the acoustic, pared down version is powerful and lovely

You are the piece of me I wish I didn't need
If our love's tragedy, why are you my remedy?
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?

Date Night - Sydney and Zabe

Zeds Dead's remix of Massive Attack's "Paradise Circus" is a switch up from the types of songs that usually inspire me. In this case it wasn't so much the lyrics that compelled me, but the combination of ethereal vocals and crunchy bass.

 

 

 

Happy Valentine's Day! (Or Friday the 13th!)

Scavenge

Set between Winter Jacket 2 and 3

Warning: NSFW

+++

It was hot.

Sticky.

Wet.

Oppressive.

Minnesota wasn’t known for having unbearably humid summers, but I’d been in my on-campus office all day with not even an oscillating fan to circulate the stale air. With no students on campus over the summer months, the university had no reason to turn on the air conditioning, and I was suffering the consequences of that frugal decision. My cut-off shorts stuck to my thighs, and I wiped at my forehead with the bottom hem of my tank top to catch the sweat that had accumulated on my forehead.

A piercing wolf whistle had me tugging my shirt back to its original place. "Looking good, Professor Graft."

My friend and mentor, Emily, grinned at me from the doorway of my office. "Trying out a new diet or is that what dating a foxy young thing does to your body?" she asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

Her words and whistle had me blushing furiously, but I'd been working for so long in the stuffy office that my face was probably already flushed red.

Emily was incredibly attractive. There was no better way to express it. When she’d first been assigned as my teaching mentor when I was a new hire, I’d been intimidated by her. She was beautiful and smart and sharp-witted and tenured and everything I wanted to be. Luckily I’d gotten over my little crush though so we could be friends.

"I, um."

“Don't answer that,” she waved me off. "But speaking of your significant other, you two still owe me a dinner date,” she clucked.

“Were you serious about that?” I had all but promised Hunter that it would never happen.

Emily shrugged. “Maybe if I can pry my husband away from his fantasy baseball team. Seriously, fantasy football I can understand, but what kind of sports geek has a fantasy baseball team?”

“Keep me updated on that,” I laughed, feeling my embarrassment slip away.

“What is all this?” she asked, gesturing to the disaster that was my office. Piles of books surrounded me like a fortress.

“Just trying to decide what stays and what goes.” I never would have thought choosing which books I could live without for half a year and which needed to make the trip to California would cause me an existential crisis.

Emily picked up one of the hardcover books that had been on my ‘Maybe’ list. “You are planning on coming back from your sabbatical, right?”

“Of course.” Even if things in Los Angeles went better than expected, I’d still have to come back to pack up and sell my house.

“When in doubt, always bring Winterson.”

I smiled broadly. “Thanks, dear mentor. What would I do without you?”

"I envy you this break." Emily sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "I know every semester is the same length, but why do some feel longer than others?"

"Hey, don't even complain," I interjected. "You just got back from sabbatical last year."

She wrinkled her nose. "I know. Take it from me, Elle, enjoy this time off. It'll fly by, and before you know it, you'll be back here toiling away with the rest of us."

I bit my lip and nodded, but I didn't say anything. Emily didn't know—none of my faculty friends knew—that if everything went well in Los Angeles that I would be resigning.

My phone rattled on my desk and Hunter's face popped up on the screen. "Sorry,” I apologized, picking up the vibrating phone. “I should probably take this."

Emily smiled knowingly. "I'll leave you to it then. See you around, Elle."

I gave her a parting wave, and Emily disappeared from my doorway. Hunter's call continued to ring. "Hey, babe," I answered. "What's up?"

"Are you still in your office?" she asked.

"Yeah." I surveyed the damage. "But I'm close to finishing up."

"I left you something in your desk."

I spun on my heel and looked at the aforementioned piece of furniture. "You did? When?" I thought I had cleaned it out only a few days prior.

"Look in the top right hand drawer."

"Where are you?" I asked. "Your voice sounds echo-y."

"Just look in the desk drawer, Dr. Graft.”

"You're being awfully secretive," I remarked. Despite my curiosity, I did as she instructed and opened the designated drawer. In my experience, good things tended to happen when I followed her directions.

In the top drawer I normally stored old essays and blue books that had been graded but hadn't been claimed yet. Since it was summer though, the drawer was empty—or at least it should have been. A cream-colored envelope sat alone inside the drawer. The paper was thick like that used for wedding and graduation invitations.

"What is this?" I asked, pulling out the envelope. The words "Clue One" were written on the front. I should have waited for her answer, but I immediately ripped into the sealed envelope instead.

Inside the envelope was a thicker piece of paper. I pulled it free from the envelope and recognized Hunter’s handwriting. "The words on these pages brought us together. Figure it out and we'll come together again soon," I read aloud. "What's this about?"

"I thought you should have a proper send-off before you left,” she responded. “Who knows when you'll be back on campus again."

"Is this a scavenger hunt? Are you going to make me run around campus all day looking for clues?"

"Maybe." I could hear the smile in her voice.

I ran my hand over my face. "Babe, I've got so much to do before we leave on Friday." I had underestimated how much time and work went into moving across the country and I was starting to feel overwhelmed by the whole process.

"I thought you might say that. Look in the second drawer."

My desk should have been entirely cleaned out. But she'd already surprised me with one envelope. I pulled out the drawer directly beneath the one where I had found Clue One. It was empty as well, except for a manila envelope.

How had she gotten access to my office? I wondered. Who had she charmed and convinced to let her into the locked room?

"Is this Clue Two?" I chuckled, juggling my phone, the original envelope, and now the second larger one.

"No. Think of the second envelope as … incentive."

The larger envelope was sealed with only a metal fasten, and I dug around inside for what it contained. My fingertips slipped over lace and I pulled whatever was inside free from the oversized envelope. I now held a pair of dark red underwear with black lace trim, delicate and flimsy.

Hunter’s voice dropped in my ear: "I was wearing those this morning. Now I'm not. Come find me, Professor Graft." The phone clicked and the dial tone sounded in my ear.

+ + +

After the initial shock of being in possession of my girlfriend’s underwear had worn off, and I had stopped obsessing over the details of how she had gotten into my office that morning without me knowing, Hunter’s first clue had me marching in the direction of the university library.

“The words that had brought us together” could have been a number of things. She'd been my student once, and it could have been any of the books I'd assigned in class. But more likely it was Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, the author after whom I'd named my cat. I’d let Hunter borrow the book once upon a time and we’d spent hours at Peggy’s bar discussing the lesbian subtext between the main characters. That wasn’t the first time Hunter had impressed or surprised me, but it was the first night she’d kissed me.

Walking into the library, I was greeted with a blast of cool air. Few buildings on campus were open year round, but the library, student union, gymnasium, and a few administrative buildings like the admission’s office stayed open.

The library was more silent that day than usual—like a vacuum had swallowed up any noises in the vicinity. I was a frequent visitor to the building because of my discipline, and I’d been able to procure a job for my mom there only a few months prior because of my connections. She’d quit since then, however, after making the decision to move back to my home state of Michigan and help my younger sister raise her new baby.

I consulted the online card catalogue briefly to find the call numbers associated with the book I sought before traipsing down to the lower level stacks where the literature books lived. As I silently traveled the long, narrow shelving units of books, it didn't evade my notice that Hunter herself might be waiting for me, not The Bell Jar. But if she had gone to the trouble of setting this up, I doubted I would get away so easily with only one clue. I was probably the only person on the sub-level floor. The stacks were sparsely populated when school was in session, let alone in the summer.

It would have been a lie, however, if I didn’t admit to fantasizing about fooling around with Hunter in the stacks. It was probably every bibliophile’s dream. I thought about my girlfriend’s long, lean body trapped between my body and a bookshelf, her backside pressed against rows of books that threatened to topple over. I thought about her perched on a sturdy wooden study table with me between her parted thighs. I could practically see the strain on her face and the way her teeth dug into her lower lip as she struggled to stay quiet.

Damn it.

Even if I had wanted to call Hunter's phone and demand she tell me where she was hiding, I wouldn't have any cell service in the belly of the library. I'd just have to think of this scavenger hunt as foreplay and make her pay for it when I finally tracked her down. I shook off the haze of lust that wrapped around me like a tight blanket in order to focus on the classification labels on the ends of each shelving unit that would direct me to Sylvia Plath’s novels.

I ran my fingertips along the line up of books at eye level. There were multiple copies of Plath's most famous novel on the shelves, but my eyes settled on the familiar spine of the same edition that I owned. When I pulled the book from its place, an envelope in the familiar cardstock fell from its pages.

I couldn't open up the second envelope fast enough. I read the next clue inside my head, in case someone else actually was in the library basement with me. "Dr. Graft, how does your garden grow? Find my next clue, and you'll be one step closer to having something to feast on."

I grinned, immediately knowing the answer. Doug Witlan, a tenured biology professor, had constructed a raised garden on a corner of campus with one of his advanced biology classes a few semesters ago. Student workers tended to the garden in the summer and early fall months, and the harvested food was donated to a local food pantry.

I tucked the clue card into my bag and replaced the book on its proper shelf. I was tempted to linger a little longer in the library and enjoy the air conditioning, but Hunter's underwear was stashed in my workbag, and I was eager to return them to her.

The campus garden was a short walk from the library on a small plot of land near the building that housed the Math, Business, and Economics departments. Even without the scavenger hunt, gardening and flowers and freshly tilled soil would always remind me of my girlfriend. I did a cursory scan of the raised beds. Where would she have hidden the third clue?

It was early in the summer season and new green shoots broke the soil's surface. Miniature corn stalks crowded the center of the plot and the beginnings of prickly cucumber and pumpkin plants wound around the garden's perimeter. Neat little rows of carrots, radishes, and something that looked like leaf lettuce each had markers at one end of their respective rows. The paper seed bags were attached to popsicle sticks that had been stuck into the ground to identify each plant. I crouched down for a closer look. Maybe she'd attached the next clue to the back of one of the markers.

The click-clack of pointed heels striking against concrete drew my attention away from my search for clue three.

"Elle?"

I turned my eyes away from immature leaf lettuce and the green stocks of carrots and radishes to find Jessica Merlot's black stilettos beside me. Her shapely legs were at my eye level, and I quickly scrambled to my feet.

"Oh hi, Dean Merlot."

I brushed away at the dirt that stuck to the bare skin of my knees and self-consciously ran my fingers through my ponytail. Despite the summer heat, Dean Merlot was dressed as impeccably as ever. Her sleeveless grey shell showed off thin, toned arms, and the material of her black skirt clung to shapely hips and stopped just above her knees. Without my similar armor of pencil skirt and blouse, I felt vulnerable and ill-prepared for a conversation.

"It's just Jessica," she gently corrected as she'd done every time before.

"Hi, Just Jessica," I routinely replied.

"What's this?" At her words, I discovered Hunter's next envelope. It had been taped to a peace garden stake that lined the perimeter of the vegetable garden.

I reached for the envelope, but missed. Jessica Merlot now held the next clue. She flipped the envelope over and read the words written on the outside. "Clue Three?" Her face scrunched in confusion.

"It's, uh, that's mine."

"What is it?" she asked, waving the envelope.

"Nothing really. Something left over from the semester." I couldn't very well tell my boss that I was on a hunt to find my girlfriend who was hiding somewhere on campus and that her underwear were in my leather briefcase.

"I'm glad I bumped into you," she said, ignoring the envelope for a moment. "We haven't had the opportunity to really talk since the end of the semester."

My eyes flicked back and forth between the Dean's face and the dirt-smudged card in her hands. "I've been busy preparing for my sabbatical."

"Oh, I know." She tapped her fingers against the cardstock.

What Jessica didn't know was the reason for the sabbatical. To her and the rest of the university staff, I was taking the semester break because it was something guaranteed in my contract that would let me work on projects to eventually promote me from Associate Professor to Professor. I was keeping the detail that I was moving across country to write for a TV show from my work colleagues. The school was already too much of a fishbowl without them knowing those things.

"Will you still be around, using your office this fall?” she asked. “Or are you really leaving?"

"I haven't decided yet," I lied. My job was protected because of tenure, but I didn't need to give this woman another reason to make my professional life difficult. "I've obviously never had a sabbatical before, so I need to figure out what environment will be most conducive to getting work done."

Jessica made a humming noise. "Well, I hope you won't be a stranger."

She slowly handed me the envelope, and I pushed down the urge to yank it from her hands. Our fingers brushed as the exchange was made.

"Enjoy your sabbatical, Elle."

"Thank you," I said, bobbing my head in gratitude. "I'll do my best."

I waited until the Dean had put enough distance between us with her departure before tearing into the newest clue. "The only place in winter you won't need a jacket."

I wondered if this was purposeful, this clue-led trip down memory lane: first Plath's book, then gardening, and now the comment about a winter jacket. It had been Hunter's blue winter jacket that had started this all. Even the answer to her riddle brought back memories of time spent with my girlfriend.

I left the campus garden and all but skipped in the direction of the Life Sciences building. Attached to the building were two small greenhouses that served as ecosystems, one tropical and the other arid. As her clue suggested, regardless of the temperature outside, the greenhouses remained balmy.

It reminded me of Nikole's greenhouse across town. When she and Troian had left for California, Hunter had continued to care for the tiny seedlings Nikole had planted before Troian had gotten the head writing job for the television show I'd soon be joining. Hunter hadn't been able to take off for Spring Break with me to someplace warm, so she'd surprised me with a picnic in Nikole’s greenhouse.

I tugged on the handle to the science building’s main entrance, but the door didn't budge. I tried the next door with an equal lack of success. They were all locked. I took a few steps backwards and peered up at the building, as if expecting it to reveal the answer to me. I checked Hunter's clue again. This had to be what she was talking about. I had to get inside this building.

I dug around my school bag until I found my cell phone. The number for campus security was programmed into my contacts, and I pressed the buttons to call their offices.

"Campus security," a raspy-voiced woman answered. "This is Connie."

"Hi Connie, this is Professor Elle Graft. I'm trying to get into the Life Sciences building, but it's all locked up. Could you possibly send someone over to let me in?"

"Have you tried using your campus ID?"

All of the campus buildings and even some of the inner doors were connected to card readers that eliminated the need for heavy key rings and bolstered campus security.

"I'm English faculty," I said. "I don't have access to this building."

I expected her to ask why I needed to get into the science building, but the question never came. It was lucky because I didn't have an appropriate answer.

"I'll send someone right over, Professor."

Time passed slowly as I stood outside of the Life Science building, waiting for campus security to show up and let me inside. I wondered how many more clues I would have to chase down before I found Hunter. All of these detours were beginning to frustrate me, but the giddy feelings reappeared when I saw the campus security vehicle pull up near the curb where I stood.

A man wearing the dark navy blue campus security uniform stepped out of the driver’s side. “Professor Graft?” he asked.

I nodded, confirming he’d found the right person. "Hello."

A massive key ring was attached to his hip, and it tangled with each step closer. I wondered at the need for so many keys because of the new keycard system, but I kept the question to myself. If I didn't question him, perhaps he wouldn't question me.

"How’s your day going?” he greeted.

"Better now that you’re here," I returned with a charming smile. "Thanks for the help."

"It's no problem. Around this time of year it's nice to get calls. Breaks up the monotony of the days, ya know?" He swiped his card over the ID reader and the front door audibly unlocked. “Is that all you needed?"

"Yep," I confirmed, pulling the entrance open before it automatically relocked. "Thanks again for your help."

I was curt and dismissive, and I wondered if he had directions to stay with me until I left the building, but I was sure he was anxious to return to the air conditioning of his running vehicle. "Okay. Well, call if you need us again."

Once inside, I had to stop my search a few times to consult floor plans posted at intersecting hallways. I knew the building had greenhouses, but I didn’t know exactly where they were. The only time I had occasion to go inside the science building was for all-faculty meetings. The science building had the largest meeting space—a lecture hall reserved for the largest biology classes—but those meetings were rare—once a semester if that.

My sandals flip-flopped down the empty corridors of the abandoned building. All of the classroom doors were closed and the lights were turned off inside them. Most of the overhead lights were on motion sensors and I walked in relative darkness down windowless hallways until the overhead lights flickered to life. It was eerie, more so than the silent library. I was used to the hushed whispers and quiet of the library, but buildings that held classes were always teeming with activity.

Before I could spook myself too much, one of the classroom doors opened and I found myself being tugged inside by the front of my shirt. The door shut behind me with a loud, jarring noise that echoed in my ears.

The room I’d been pulled into was a small laboratory classroom populated with nine long tables, two elevated stools assigned to each table. Lab stations equipped with natural gas outlets, Bunsen burners, beakers, and other glassware lined the perimeter of the classroom.

"This isn't the greenhouse," I astutely observed.

Hunter's hands remained fisted in the front of my tank top. "There was one more clue for you, but I couldn't wait."

I took in the sight of my girlfriend from her leather sandals to the breezy cotton skirt that fell just above her knees to the spaghetti-strap camisole that showed off the dangerous v-cut of her defined collarbone.

“How did you get in here?” I asked. “The building’s locked.”

“I know people,” she grinned. The hands at the front of my shirt tightened and she pulled me closer to her.

I kissed her, soft and fleeting. Her lips parted for me to deepen the embrace, but I pulled away. “I liked your clues.”

“You didn’t think it was too cheesy?” she worried.

I ran my hands up her bare arms. “No. You’re adorable, Hunt.”

“Are you ready for your prize now that you’ve found me?” Hunter’s grin returned and she released her grip on the front of my shirt.

I licked my lips and lowered my voice to a rough rasp. “I’ve been ready since I found the first clue.”

Hunter maintained eye contact as she carefully walked backwards until her backside bumped against the edge of the nearest lab table. She set her palms flat on the table and lifted herself up to sit at its edge. She smoothed the material of her skirt beneath her and beckoned to me with a curling finger.

I obeyed her wordless request and stalked closer until I stood before her. “I understand the significance of the book and the garden and even the greenhouse, but is there something special about this classroom?”

“Not yet,” she smiled at me. “But ask me that question again in a little while.”

Her answer had me laughing. “Is this your plan?" I ran my hand down the center column of her neck, down her collarbone, and between her breasts. She arched her back and leaned into my touch. "Make some new memories, screwing our way across campus?"

"Maybe."

"That sounds like an awfully ambitious check list."

"Luckily I have a girlfriend who turns me on with just a look."

"I thought you had to work today." Leave it to me to be practical at a moment like this.

"I switched shifts with Darcy.” Her breathing shallowed when my hands rounded her full breasts. “I also owe her a six-pack."

I walked my fingers across the exposed skin at the top of her tank top. "Sounds like a good deal."

"Too much talking."

“I agree.”

Her smooth legs were too much to continue to ignore. My hands slid up the pale flesh, unobstructed by any clothing. “I love it when you wear skirts, baby,” I growled quietly, looking deep into her bright blue eyes.

My hands continued their journey up those irresistible stems, and I stopped when my fingertips brushed against where her underwear should have been. A quiet whimper fell from her parted mouth, and I smiled knowingly at the slight blush that crept onto her face. 

"You weren't kidding,” I remarked. My fingers slid through her ready arousal. She was warm and swollen, and I couldn't wait to taste her.

"About my underwear or about being turned on?"

"Both."

I leaned forward and pressed my mouth against the flushed skin of her bare neck.  “God, you’re wet,” I murmured into her. 

My mouth continued to travel, and I kissed along the hollow of her neck. She pulled off the elastic band that held my hair in a ponytail and ran her fingers through my wild waves, slightly tugging at the roots. 

I bit her neck where it met the gentle decline of her shoulder. It wasn’t as hard as I would have liked, because I knew it upset her when I marked her for everyone to see. Apparently at twenty-two, she was already too old for hickies.

I rubbed my hands along the insides of her smooth thighs and her legs parted a little more for me. With one hand at the nape of her neck and the other still under her skirt, I leaned her backwards, slowly reclining her until her back rested flush on the lab table. Thankful for the formidable size of the desk surface, I pulled myself up on the table as well.  I crawled on my knees and positioned myself between her legs, so our hips bumped against each other’s.

As I hovered over her, she lazily stroked my bare arms, the muscles twitching underneath my tank top.  “I love you, Ellio,” she crooned.  She reached for me and pulled my face down until we were kissing again.  It began as languid as her touch, but I knew the hunger that burned in both our bellies.

I couldn’t help myself when my lower torso began to grind into her pussy.  Hunter groaned when the rough denim of my cut-off shorts rubbed against her naked sex.  I thrust hard into her and she gasped, one long sweet breath rushing from her lungs. 

She wrapped those long, slender legs around me, forcing us tighter together.  We pushed and pulled and ground against each other until I was breathing heavy and could feel the sweat pooling in the small of my back. The building was hot, but she was even hotter.

Needing to feel more of her, I slid a hand in between our bodies. I shoved the cotton material of her skirt out of the way, bunching it up around her slender waist.  She gasped again when my fingers slid through her slick folds. She arched into my touch, silently demanding to feel more of me as well.

My fingers found their way to her seeping hole, and I gathered her arousal, swirling my fingertips around the entrance of her sex.  Not wanting her clit to feel left out, I spread some of the thick juices on the throbbing bundle of nerves.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, her eyes rolling back.

I grunted as I pushed two fingers into her tight, unrelenting channel.  She was so tight around my fingers, it was a miracle I didn’t cum just from the feeling of her insides pulling at me.  “Hunter,” I whimpered.

I grabbed onto her hands with my unoccupied hand and held both of her arms above her head.  I pinned her wrists against the lab table, which felt cold and hard in comparison to the warm, soft body beneath me.  I began a slow, even rhythm with my fingers.  I could feel and hear her getting wetter with every thrust. The clicking noise in the classroom was music to my ears.  I kept my gentle, but insistent hold on her wrists with my free hand.  Our sweaty foreheads pressed together.  I pressed my lips against her open, gasping mouth, and I could practically taste her as she groaned into my mouth.

I quickened my pace inside her and her surprisingly strong legs tightened around my hips like a vice.  “Yes, Elle,” she moaned and pressed her mouth into my neck.  “God, your fingers,” she babbled. “Don’t stop.”

When her teeth scraped against my neck, I almost lost my control. She pulled her hands free from my hold and raked her fingernails down my back, having wiggled her hands under my thin tank top.  I arched my back, loving the rough touch and I thrust into her a little harder.

I wormed my newly free hand under her top, forcing the material to release its hold on her sweaty, damp skin.  I grabbed onto a well-proportioned breast.  Panting, I felt like a prepubescent boy reaching second base for the first time.  Not bothering to unsnap the undergarment, I slipped my hand beneath the underwire of her bra and rolled an already tight nipple between two expert fingers.

“Fuck,” she chanted, slamming her eyes shut.  “Fuck … fuck, baby.”

I could feel her tightening even more around my two fingers; she wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer. “Just let go, baby,” I softly urged.  I kissed and licked at her collarbone, tasting the saltiness of her skin.

With each penetrating thrust, my thumb bumped into her aching clit, and I felt her stiffen against my body.  I buried my fingers deep inside her and rubbed the bit of flesh with the pad of my thumb.  Her pussy spasmed around my saturated fingers, swallowing me repeatedly as she cried out.  I continued to rub relentlessly until I felt the quivering and pulsing stop.

My body collapsed on top of hers in exhaustion.  Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy, but the small, satisfied smile on her curled up lips let me know I had done my job well.

I gently kissed her sweaty forehead and pushed away some errant strands stuck to her skin. “Good?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

She hummed her approval and carnally rolled her hips into mine. I couldn’t help the loud groan that fell out of my mouth; I was so worked up, all she needed to do was touch me and I’d pop.

A sweet smile crept onto her lips.  “So where’s next on your list?”

+++

FIN

 

Fragmented: The Story Behind the Story

I've had Fragmented knocking around inside of my brain for years--literally years. It began when my girlfriend and I were watching High Tension, a French horror film, in my old apartment in Chicago. The movie's storyline actually has nothing to do with the story of Fragmented, but it triggered the motivation to write it. I won't spoil the plot twist at the end of the movie, but the lesbian subtext that my girlfriend and I had inserted into the movie (as we do for nearly every heterosexual movie or tv show we watch) actually turns into context by the end of the film. 

"Huh," we said to each other as the film's credits panned down the television screen. "Who does a gay chick have to blow to get a happy ending around here?"

Don't get me wrong—I love a good twist at the end of a story. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to be blindsided by a storyteller with an ending I never saw coming. And I don't necessarily believe that queer characters require a "happily-ever-after," especially if it feels forced (see my co-authored novel, Drained). But in my humble opinion, there's not enough happy endings in queer stories, and the biggest perpetrator of this has been the movies. Let's be honest: you'd probably never waste your time on the majority of contemporary lesbian films if it wasn't for all those sweet, sweet lady kisses.

Believe me. I've seen them all. I'm just as guilty as you are.

What I find more problematic than the over-the-top acting and the high-waisted jeans, is that too often by the end of the film, one of the main characters loses her job, gets arrested, goes crazy, dies, or marries a man. I won't take the time to list here all the sad queer films that have been produced in the last few decades because life's too short (Lost & Delirious, I'm looking at you). 

These contemporary films mirror the typical endings you'd find in lesbian pulp fiction written in the 1950s and 1960s at the height of McCarthyism and the Red Scare. It wasn't until Claire Morgan's 1952 novel, The Price of Salt (whose film adaptation is due in movie theaters this spring under the title Carol, and stars Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara as the story's protagonists, and I CAN'T WAIT), that a lesbian couple had even a semblance of a happy ending at the end of the story. But even after Morgan's novel (the pen name of The Talented Mr. Ripley's Patricia Highsmith), happy endings for queer couples were far and few between due to censorship and national attitudes towards homosexuality. 

This is why in my own writing, Elle doesn't lose her job after pursuing a former student, why Sam goes after Nora, why Allison finally Comes Out of the Closet, and why Sydney leaves her own wedding. In some small way, I feel an obligation to make up for all the unhappy endings we've endured over the years. 

Because of my aversion to lesbian tropes (i.e. lesbian as mentally ill, lesbian as serial killer, lesbian as nymphomania) and unhappy endings, I wrote two endings for Fragmented. And to be honest, I struggled in the decision of which to use as the official, published ending. To remedy this internal struggle, you'll find a link to the alternate ending on this page as an Easter egg. 

I'm eager and nervous and excited and a panoply of other emotions to hear what you think of this latest novel. Thank you all for your continued support.  

Stay warm,

Eliza 

Residing in the attics of our brains one finds an assortment of things: personal baggage, photo albums spilling with childhood memories, and family skeletons. Harper Dawkins has locked and sealed the door to her personal attic by moving out of state to attend college and dropping all contact with former friends and family. She’s even changed her accent.

Be normal. Fit in. Blend into the crowd: it’s all she’s ever wanted. But Harper’s about to discover that while you may be able to divorce yourself from your past, you can’t run away from yourself.

In this psychological, romantic thriller, Fragmented blends high tension with the pursuit of an unlikely romance.