Page 144 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
“Me, too. It’s nice being excited for what’s next.”
Skye sifted fingers through Celene’s hair, stoking an irrepressible purr.
God, being in love and receiving it in kind. This relieved her of the tension that accompanied her at busy gatherings.
Though when Skye’s smile wobbled, Celene reached up. Her palm grazed a small sprig of flowers slotted into her hair.
“Smooth aster,” Skye breathed. “Where it belongs.”
Celene hadn’t cried at a wedding, and she wouldn’t start now. There was one thing she couldn’t let the day pass without trying. She clutched Skye’s hand, momentarily stunned at how it yielded into Celene’s hold, her trust palpable. Before overthinking it, she pulled Skye from her seat, and they lightly trotted from the tent, heel clicks inaudible once they’d crossed onto grass.
Pausing, Celene peered past the crowds holding plates and deep in conversation. Gaggles of children dirtied their dress clothes, kicking soccer balls, and playing fetch with Dr. Kibble, MD, in her snazzy bowtie. She tightened her hold on Skye and maneuvered around them all. To the wilder, more tree-dense area, away from the activity.
She recalled what she’d envied of Elise’s wedding—the moment Celene witnessed, of the newlyweds sharing a kiss in the dark corner, too wrapped up in each other to wait. It’d looked romantic to sneak off like that, she could finally admit. An instance she’d aspired for, she’d wanted to recreate.
Skye caught on quickly, pressing her back onto a tree and roping Celene in with a light tug. Blocking them off from everyone’s view.
Words unnecessary and honestly, unwanted, Celene cradled Skye’s cheek within her hands, thumb tracing the bone structure she adored so much. Sharing a stare worth more than twenty years of distance until they slanted their mouths into a kiss. Lavish and tender, the kind to fade out the chatter and the elevator versions of the last few decades’ songs.
She breathed in honeysuckle and vanilla, sliding her hands over slippery fabric as Skye’s arms looped around Celene’s neck. Branches high above intermingled, the winds caressing leaves in a way utterly peaceful, utterly present. And the two of them would have stayed like that, lost in each other, unless Celene’s phone chimed within her handbag.
“It’s time,” Skye murmured, her half-covered lips whorling into a grin. “Let’s say bye to June and Zini on our way out.”
Celene nodded into one more kiss. As momentous as weddings were, nothing relieved her more than leaving them. She’d save all that staying energy for when it was their turn.
Then, they’d have their own bem-casados.
One driveand wardrobe change later, Celene and Skye weaved through the To-Be-Decided Vale-slash-Florentine home, double-checking everything before leaving for their two-week trip. Triple and quadruple checks were part of Celene’s previous routine, since she’d pressured herself to leave no stone unturned. Because on solo flights, she could only blame herself for a mistake.
Interestingly, the beauty of a relationship wasn’t only a numbers game. Skye picked up on Celene’s tendency to comb through her scroll of a list and the irritability that caused.
“Astronomy tours, eco-friendly hikes,” Skye whispered. Lightly, she massaged Celene’s temples, whistling out a melodious trill with every rotation. “Guided visualization. Spas. Evenings sipping tea in our casita.”
Acquiescing, Celene shut her eyes. “This is a vacation.”
“That’s right. A vacation. Torelax.”
More than relaxation. They could do that right there in Yielding, boasting a trove of methods for tranquility. This trip to Arizona would lead them to discoveries, a different climate, red rock formations to journey through, and, surely, critters for Skye to befriend. Thalia’s recommendations on historical tours sealed the deal, too, with about a thousand different avenues to meditate. Plus, Celene made backup plans, packing consciously for any inclement weather that came with the desert.
Yes, this was more than a getaway. It marked a turning point for them to break out of their bubble and be a couple out in the world.
“Thank you.” Celene exhaled, pressing a kiss before they got back to loading Skye’s car. “I love you.”
Declaring the sentiment through words more than actions still gave Celene’s heart a start. Not as much, though, as the breathlessness in how Skye often replied, “I love you, too.”
Celene rode on that thrill as she rolled a suitcase down the deck stairs in soft thumps, awed by how far she’d come. Her failures in partnership had rendered Celene disillusioned, totally unable to imagine being loved equally. She wouldn’t pity her old self, but she’d utilize that as motivation to keep going. To not sell herself short.
“Luce is a bit of a poison thumb,” Skye muttered, smiling at deer trimming the grass around Boob Mountain. “I askedZander to pick Heart up from her tomorrow. The guy’s apartment is practically a greenhouse.”
Heart. Their living fuchsia. Celene couldn’t decide what was more gorgeous—the organic one or the sparkling, handcrafted creation catching all streams of light in her reading nook.
No, that was a lie. Heart could be re-potted. If anyone broke the Forever Fuchsia, their lives would be at stake. She’d already designated hiding places for all of Skye’s statues for eventual visits from the Vales and their brood. And she wasn’t as repelled by the idea of them coming by as the days passed.
After the last bag had been tidily settled into the car, Celene jogged back into the house for a final sweep and to grab their portable tea bottles. Yet, she got sidetracked seeing Skye facing the fireplace mantle, admiring their framed childhood photo. She did that often, staring for long minutes at the seasonal trinket bowls, Luce’s mosaics, or Thalia’s paintings. With a gentle smile, a silent display of admiration.
“I’d given you a pretty neat braid,” Skye said about the picture’s aster hair. Celene leaned close, wrapping an arm around her hip. “Who used to fishtail your hair every day, though?”
“Mm.” Celene squinted in thought. Not her mother, not Byron. Surprised at the unearthed memory, she groaned, “My god, mysister. Elise. She could do a tidy fishtail braid since she was like, six.”
