Yerba Buena

by Nina LaCour

The bravado he’d shown in the lawn chair with his magazine would undoubtedly return one day soon, sure to charm tons of guys. Maybe all it would take was a row of palm trees and some ocean air, and he’d have his old smile again.

“Oh,” Sara said. “The Emilie who sits with Jacob.” They dropped each other’s hands. She wanted to deny it but couldn’t. Wanted to say it wasn’t like that, didn’t mean anything, but what did it actually mean? “It’s all right, I get it,” Sara said.

There was only so much grieving allowed when it was over someone who was never really hers.

She drove to Yerba Buena feeling as though she were visiting an old friend who loved her. Time had passed and they hadn’t called each other as much as they should have, but they still knew each other well.

met—the way she’d snuck a glimpse of Sara at work right here at this bar, in the restaurant that morning. How right Sara’s hand had felt in hers when they shook. And how Sara had heard about the breakfast table, made the logical assumption, and put a stop to what might have begun. Emilie wondered if Sara remembered her, too. Hoped she didn’t, so she’d have a second chance at a first meeting.

She learned that Old Tom was Sara’s favorite kind of gin, that she was from a town up north, farther north than the Bay Area, but she didn’t name the town and Emilie was crushed by a need to know all of her.

The streets were quiet and they didn’t speak. They listened to their footsteps on the sidewalk, a faraway car alarm, their breath. At the intersection of Sunset and Marmont, Sara, as though without a thought, took Emilie’s hand. Their fingers laced together. The light changed.

They shook and Sara wanted more of her. She noticed Emilie’s blush—undeniable—and knew that more could be hers. But then she remembered what Megan had said when they’d arrived. “Oh,” Sara said. “The Emilie who sits with Jacob.” Had she misinterpreted the blush, the way Emilie had watched her? Maybe not, but it didn’t matter.

Emilie felt a swell in her chest. She’d been right. The way they’d flirted at the bar, how they’d walked to Sara’s apartment hand in hand, the way they’d made each other moan and gasp when they were in bed—all of that was real. What happened after was terrible, but it was a mistake.

She lifted her glass, and around the table, everyone else lifted their own, and Emilie felt that she saw Sara more clearly as their glasses clinked, and she craved, as she always did, to know her better still.

What a gift it had been, each time she’d arrived there, all those wild birds greeting her as she stepped into the house. What utter joy it had been—to kiss Emilie, to hold her close, to stand barefoot on the floorboards, to share meals, to wash dishes. And how lonely it was now—how horrible it was—to drive away.

Just as Spencer had as he straddled his bicycle, and Grant had when she moved into the apartment, and now Emilie had, too, saying goodbye to her on the steps. It gutted her—how easy she was to let go.

“I loved your sister,” Sara said. “You know that. I’m still in love with her.” “Yeah, I know. That day when we all split up to find her? I still think about the look on your face. The way you stood there as we were talking. How you said you’d go into the woods. I knew that if she was still alive you’d be the one of us to bring her back.” “I was sure I would, too,” Sara said. “I couldn’t believe it when she wasn’t there.”

Sara had paced the floor, had told Emilie about her life, had eventually curled on the mattress, fallen deeply asleep. Emilie had watched Sara’s breath steady, her chest rise and fall, had felt a love so vast it terrified her. She needed Sara to stay.

A swell in her chest, a longing. She read the description to be sure. Yerba buena. “The good herb.” Native to California, especially abundant on the coast. Fragrant leaves, white flowers from spring to summer. Carefully, she tore off a single leaf and placed it in her mouth. It was subtle and sweet and just the faintest bit bitter.

“I want to tell you everything.” “Okay.” But she knew it already. Saw how Sara stood straighter. Saw their future, unfurling, across the clear blue sky. Let me in? Sara would ask, and Emilie would open the door and lead her into her house. She’d show her both bedrooms, the guest studio, the dining room that overlooked the city. They would talk. They would take off their clothes. They’d rise together in the morning, the two lost months behind them.

They would understand each other, make room for each other. Each of them driven, each of them in love.

Time of her own, no one to tend to, until Sara returned, and Emilie took her back, and they continued the dance. So right while it lasted. So sweet, and bitter, too. Emilie had suffered enough heartache already. Surely, there were wiser choices. Surely, she knew enough to know better. But here was Sara, now, on her doorstep, just as Emilie had hoped. Here was Sara’s hand, reaching for hers. How warm, how right. “Let me in?” Sara asked. And Emilie opened the door.