One

Thud. Whoosh. Roar.

“Folks, welcome to Hartford, Connecticut. The local time is 2:23pm and holding steady at a crisply seasonal 64°.” The pilot’s voice continues to drone on though the tinny, somewhat static-plagued airplane speakers; the standard airline farewell speech, delivered in a tired but not unkind-sounding baritone.

I feel a pat on my hand from the lady next to me, and I start. “You can open your eyes, dear, we’re here.”

I crack first one eye, then the other open and sigh, smiling apologetically through my mask at my six hour seatmate before slowly loosening my grip on the armrest between us. I’m fine going up in planes and fine being in the air, but landing still makes my brain scream. I roll my neck, attempting to banish the tension in it, glancing out the closed window as the plane slow-rolls off the runway toward the gate.

I didn’t have to say anything; the lady — warm, older, very much looking like someone excited to be visiting grandchildren as she’d told me earlier — smiled kindly and patted my hand again. “You remind me of my Lana,” she says, not for the first time. “She can’t really deal with plane landings, either.”

I chuckle weakly. “Truly a kindred spirit.”

A gentle bump as the plane nosed against the gate, and an eager rustle of people standing to fetch down their carry-ons from overhead compartments and hustling to disembark. I am in no rush to squeeze myself into the press of people and remain seated, waiting until the crowd thins out. My seatmate says her goodbyes and stands, expertly sweet-talking a very tall young man behind her to fetch down her bag from overhead. She departs with a wave, which I awkwardly return.

More people press forward from the back of the plane and I sigh, resigned to a bit more of a wait. I quietly fish out my phone, switching it out of airplane mode. It immediately lights up and hums with incoming texts, though my attention is caught by one thread in particular, which makes me smile.

Bradley Airport, once I escape the plane, is tiny compared to SFO, and utterly unremarkable aside from the familiar olfactory assault that greets me as I head for the exit. Sure, there was better coffee to be found in California by far, but nothing quite says “welcome back to New England” like the miasma of burnt coffee and pumpkin spice emanating from the Dunkin Donuts conveniently placed next to Gate 1. Aside from the still odd sight of a handful of people hurrying through in masks and the absence of the inexplicable sunglasses shop I remembered being next to the TSA checkpoint, the airport hasn’t changed since the last time I flew out to visit half a decade ago.

I sigh. I really should call my mother, but I had scheduled this visit for friend funtimes and not family check ins, and besides I’d have to explain why I left the boys and Gary back across the country… which is not a conversation I want to deal with right now. Instead I shake off the guilty pang, adjust my grip on my suitcase and abruptly turn around, heading back towards the Dunks. We have a couple of them out west, but the handful of times I went, it had felt wrong chasing my guilty pleasure caramel swirl iced with a blueberry glazed donut with palm trees in line of sight. Time to welcome myself home properly.

When I finally make it downstairs to baggage claim, iced coffee and white bag in hand, most of the people on my flight had come and gone, and only a few suitcases are left to march their way around the carousel, my slightly worn blue canvas cube among them. Of course, I barely have time to note that before an excited whoop catches my ear, and I turn around to see two women behind me, both grinning hard enough to be obvious behind their masks.

I blink. I’ve seen both of them in my computer so many times at this point I’ve lost count, but it is another thing seeing them in real life, in three dimensional space. The shorter one — Rose — is lovely: somewhat taller than I am (not that that’s hard), all warm tawny curves under ripped black jeans and a well worn Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt, giant brown eyes and curly hair that extends out from her head to fall in aggressive ringlets down both shoulders, reflecting the same energy of Rose herself bouncing on the balls of her feet and waving excitedly. 

Her companion, though…

I’d had so many video calls with Esmé over the pandemic, witnessing through my screen as she nervously stammered over telling me her new name, then watching as hormones slowly softened the face I’d once known intimately into someone new yet still familiar. Somehow I still wasn’t quite prepared to see her in person. She’s still fucking giant — I can’t help remembering all the times I’d jokingly grabbed a step stool just to look her in the eye back in the ancient history when we were together — but somehow in the last little while, the height had become less of an awkward burden, and she now carries herself with a willowy, queenly grace. The hair hasn’t changed much — the pink streaks are new, and it tumbles somewhat further past her shoulders than I remember, but it still falls in thick brown waves. She probably still puts absolutely zero effort into it, something that used to infuriate me. Her eyes, still all long lashes and dark amber depths, crinkle a bit more at the corners, but the vaguely haunted expression in them that used to break my heart on a daily basis… isn’t quite gone, but it’s definitely offset by the deep twinkle in them. 

She looks more relaxed and happy than I’ve ever seen her.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, looking up at her. “Aren’t you just the most gorgeous girl on two coasts?”

“And that with a mask on,” quips Rose, giggling.

Esmé turns a rather violent shade of pink at both comments, but holds her arms out to me. “Not quite sure I can pick you up and swing you like I used to,” she warns in a voice that’s still low, but softened to a resonant contralto by no doubt hours of practice.

I put my coffee down, drop my bag, and jump into her embrace despite the warning. She wobbles a little with surprise, but then her arms lock around me, tight and sure. Still way stronger than she looks. “See, you still got it,” I giggle. 

Esmé puts me down, and I turn back to Rose. “Ms. Thomas.”

Rose giggles. “Mrs. Randall,” she answers in kind.

I wince a little inwardly, but manage to cover it. “It’s great to finally meet you in person.”

“I know right? Stupid panopticon.” She steps towards me. “I’m assuming a hug is okay?”

I nod, and she folds me into an embrace that feels like hugging a warm sunbeam. “Welcome back to the land of puritanical liberalism,” she says cheerily. “Grab your bag and let’s get out of here. I think there’s a cat hair in my mask and it’s driving me bonkers.”

I laugh, and grab my case off the carousel, pivoting fluidly towards the door as I drag it behind me, noting that Esmé has picked up my coffee and Dunks bag. “Relatable complaint,” I say, heading for the terminal exit.

Rose groans and claws her mask off as soon as we get outside, sniffling and inspecting the inside of it with a wryly annoyed twist to her mouth. “I love them dearly, but wow do they get hair everywhere. These are supposed to be black jeans.”

I grin; the jeans in question are certainly not haired up enough to change their base color, but a fair amount of fuzz clings to them nonetheless. “Cats, plural? I’ve only seen the fuzzy orange one on camera.”

Rose frowns a little then her eyes go wide. “Oh no,” she whispers before bursting into giggles.

“What did I say?”

Esmé also de-masks, revealing one corner of her mouth has kicked up and the corresponding dimple is on full display. “Both cats are fluffy and orange and incredibly hard to tell apart.”

“Ohhhh,” I breathe. “My bad, I just always assumed there was only one. Considering you always refer to whatever cat onscreen as Captain fluffbutt or jackass.”

“To be fair, I can tell them apart and I can confirm it truly does not matter.” Rose grins. “But yeah, there are two of them. Pinky and the Brain. I apologize for them in advance; They’re very cute, but they’re assholes.”

“So… cats?” I snort.

Rose tilts her head at me, then glances up at Esmé with a raised eyebrow. Esmé just grins back down at her. I inhale sharply, recognizing the deep dimples in both her cheeks, realizing that I had missed them. “What?” I ask, curious about the little glanced exchange between them.

Rose shakes her head as she hustles across the street to the short term parking garage, us following closely behind her. “Nothing,” she says on the other side. “That’s usually what Esmé says whenever I describe anything the cats do that’s annoying.”

“Ah.” I glance up at Esmé. “Did you ever tell her about Crowley?”

She winces, no doubt remembering that time the bearer of that name sent her to Urgent Care. “Ugh. Is that hellbeast still around?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, he refuses to die.”

“I take it Crowley is Saoirse’s furry asshole?”

“Thought you weren’t supposed to mention someone’s asshole until the second date,” Esmé says, earning herself a dramatic eye roll.

I scoot to the side, out of the way of passing cars, and pull my phone from my pocket, holding it out for Rose. The lock screen is graced by a black cloud of fur with a surly expression in his yellow eyes. “This is the beast that gouged Esmé so badly she needed two stitches.”

Rose smiles at the picture and glances sidelong at Esmé as she packs both my suitcase and backpack into her trunk. “Did I miss a scar?”

“Ehhh you can’t really see it anymore.” Esmé flushes a little. “Besides, I don’t think you’ve ever taken a close look at my ankles.”

“Fair enough. How old is the hellbeast in question?”

“We don’t really know. Last estimate we had from the vet, pushing 20.”

Rose whistles as she shuts the trunk. “Refuses to die indeed.”

“He’s mellowed out in his old age,” I chuckle. “It’s been years since he’s bitten anybody.”

“How wonderful for him,” Esmé grumbles.

I shrug. “If you want to bite anyone, teeth are kind of required.”

Rose shakes her head with a grin. “You hungry?” she asks me. “Plenty of places between here and home we could stop on the way. Most of ‘em have outdoor seating.”

I close my eyes, thankful for the consideration. Too many fights of late had been over Gary’s vehement disdain for any pandemic protocol that inconvenienced him, which was literally all of them. “I’m good,” I say, waving the Dunkin bag at her. “This’ll tide me over until later.”

“All right.” She shifts her gaze to Esmé. “I’m driving this leg too,” she says, firmly.

Esmé’s mouth twists a little but she nods and switches over to the passenger side of the car with no argument, while Rose and I get in from the other side. “Connecticut and you still aren’t friends, huh?” I observe, buckling myself in next to a somewhat faded teddy bear nestled into the center of the seat.

“Not even a little bit,” Rose answers as she smoothly backs the car out of the space and turns around.

Esmé looks exasperated but amused. “Not allowed to drive when both of us are in the car anymore,” she notes.

Rose flips down her rearview mirror and catches my eye. “Was the road rage strong with this one when y’all were dating, cause…” Her eyes widen, and she briefly makes a noise with her teeth that sounds like an aggressively annoyed cartoon kiss.

“I’m not that bad,” Esmé protests.

“Yes, you are,” Rose and I simultaneously retort in the same tone of voice before we both explode into laughter. 

Esmé deflates a bit in her seat, the edge of her lower lip catching in her teeth. “Here less than five minutes and you’re ganging up on me already?” she groans. The side of her face I can see from the back seat has a deep dimple visible, though, so I know she isn’t actually mad.

“I mean, we could turn around and I can get back on the plane if it’s too much?” I tease.

“Not allowed. Been waiting three years to meet your ass, you don’t get to go home until I buy you dinner and get thoroughly sloshed with you,” Rose laughs as she merges onto I-91, glancing behind her to check her blind spot before gunning the motor. The car obediently zooms forward. 

Esmé had mentioned Rose’s lead foot at some point. I’d thought she was exaggerating at the time, but Rose quickly proves otherwise as we begin whipping past other cars. I am suddenly very thankful I can’t see the speedometer around the seat.

“Sweetie,” Esmé murmurs, unable to keep the amused note out of her voice. “Drive the speed limit, not the highway designation.”

Somehow as fast as Rose is going, a bright blue Dodge Charger roars into the lane to our right, rockets past us, and crosses back into the lane in front of us, rapidly disappearing into the traffic ahead. Rose takes one hand off the wheel to make an emphatic “why?” gesture at the vanishing muscle car. “I’m fine. I’m clearly not the fastest one on the road.”

“Ehh, you could still slow down a bit.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Rose slips back into the center lane, blinker ticking, and I feel the car slow and downshift. Still hustling for sure, but no longer in danger of breaking the sound barrier. 

“Thank you.” Esmé shakes her head. “Don’t understand how you speed like this and have never gotten a ticket.”

Rose snorts. “Maybe it’s because I don’t drive up other people’s tailpipes when I do.”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Rose and I say, again simultaneously.

Esmé sinks a couple inches further down in her seat. “It’s just gonna be like this all week, isn’t it.”

“This is why most people don’t let their ex and their current become friends,” I say, playfully poking Esmé’s shoulder. 

“And exactly why most people should,” Rose adds. “Who better to tag team roasting you when you need it?”

“Well, I probably wouldn’t put it like that.” I laugh, feeling myself blushing a little. 

“Rose would,” Esmé says. “Best get used to that. There’s nothing this woman can’t make sound weirdly sexual if she tries.”

“One of my many marketable skills,” Rose acknowledges without a shred of shame. She flips the mirror down again and treats me to a saucy wink. “I can stop if it’s too much though.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” I smile back. “Round the clock tween and talent management generally doesn’t allow for the fun kind of raunchy, so it’s actually kinda refreshing.”

“Fun raunchy, it is!” Rose crows. “Hey Siri, play ‘The Bad Touch’ by the Bloodhound Gang.”

Esmé sighs. “Fucking hell, Rose,” she murmurs as the song thumps loudly out of the speakers, shaking her head as Rose bounces in the driver’s seat, singing along. By the third chorus, we’ve joined her. 

This week was going to be fun.

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