The Start of Something
It’s six in the morning. Much too early for anything, by Carmilla’s standards, especially in the summer. Laura’s curled up against her underneath her dark blankets, the way they always seem to end up when one of them manages to sneak out of the house and into the other’s after dark. This is the only way she likes to sleep, with Laura’s fingers curled into fists in her shirt. The distant shrieks of seagulls combing the beach and the shush of the incoming tide fall on two pairs of deaf ears.
But it’s Sunday, and Laura’s phone reminds them rather noisily of this fact, filling the previously quiet bedroom with a shriek of sound akin to a police siren. While Laura scrambles to snooze the offending object, Carmilla half-heartedly attempts at sitting up before falling back onto her pillow with a huff. She opens one eye to see Laura rifling through her closet. “Lauura…” she half-whines, an elongated, two-syllable plea for her to ignore prior engagements and go back to sleep at least until noon.
But it’s Sunday, and that means church. Being the daughter of a pastor doesn’t allow for much leniency on the Sabbath, Carmilla knows, watching through half-lidded eyes as Laura gives her a pointed look and hurriedly dresses in one of Carmilla’s less colorless shirts and a pair of her jeans. Coming out or no coming out, Sunday means church.
She sits up as Laura reaches for the doorknob, preparing to tiptoe past the other occupied rooms in the house. “Are you okay?” She asks, and the look in Laura’s eyes is enough to pique her concern.
“Yeah,” Laura whispers, and she doesn’t sound especially sure, but Carmilla lets her go anyway.
She's just gotten back to sleep, much more fitfully without Laura pressing into her side, when her phone buzzes angrily on the bedside drawer. She scrabbles for it with lazy fingers.
Creampuff (7:38 am): Can you come meet me down by the beach?
Carmilla (7:39): Yeah, hang on
Carmilla (7:42): Everything okay?
Carmilla (7:43): I thought church didn’t get out for another half hour
Laura’s curled in on herself in the wet sand when Carmilla finds her, shoes long since flung and forgotten on higher ground. She kneels next to her as Laura turns her tear-stained face toward her.
“Hey, creampuff,” she whispers.
“Hey.” Laura’s voice is almost swallowed up by the sound of the waves.
“Any particular reason you’re skipping out on church? Didn’t think the pastor’s daughter was allowed to do that.” She’s hoping for a weak smile, but she doesn’t get one.
Laura sniffs and swipes at her eyes, but she’s still quiet and choked. “He was up there, calling it an abomination, and I just,” she exhales shakily and it breaks Carmilla’s self-proclaimed black heart, “I just couldn’t listen anymore.” Her hands twist and tangle in her lap as she falls silent.
Carmilla sighs and offers her a hand. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s go cheer you up.”
The sun is high overhead when they reach the diner. They usually only come to The Wallflower (a rather fitting name for its usual customers) after dark, but Laura looks like she could use some high-fructose corn syrup (it always seems to work). The bells above the door ring softly as they enter, and the sounds of soft music seep from the ceiling speakers.
It’s blessedly dark inside, a sharp contrast to the world outside the cafe windows, where the too-close sun lords over burning asphalt and sweltering, heavy air. Laura sinks wearily into a corner booth, sitting with a huff on the worn leather, and Carmilla slides in beside her with a brief, furtive glance. Within a few moments, two familiar gingers are bustling over in too-large aprons.
Perry at least pretends to be taking their order while LaFontaine sits across from them. “Hey, guys. Didn’t expect to see you two here before nine-thirty and-” They frown. “Laura, you okay?”
Carmilla feels Laura stiffen beside her and slips a hand into hers. It’s been a rough enough morning without impromptu-coming-out, she decides, even to another LGBT person. “Just a shitty morning at church. You know how her dad gets on Sundays…”
LaF nods sagely. “Yeah.” Their eyes darken, and it seems like they’re going to say something else when Perry snaps her pen against her pad of paper and clears her throat.
“Sus- (LaFontaine gives her a pointed look) LaFontaine, don’t you need to be working? And are you two going to actually order anything or just sit here?” Her bird-of-prey gaze softens when she looks over at Laura, who mutters something about waffles. The two of them hurry back into the kitchen and Carmilla is left there, a red-eyed Laura gripping her hand like a vice, afraid and unwilling to let go. She shifts a bit closer wordlessly and Laura’s forehead presses into her shoulder.
“Thanks,” she mutters, muffled by Carmilla’s T-shirt.
“No problem, cupcake. You should come out when you’re ready, not when you feel like you have to.” Laura nods and they fall into a comfortable silence until Perry and Lafontaine return with a stack of waffles and copious amounts of maple syrup.
Carmilla watches, eyebrows raised, as Laura drowns her food in syrup. “How do you survive?” She asks incredulously. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you eat a vegetable.”
Laura only shrugs. It’s enough of an answer, she supposes. Whatever keeps Laura floating on happiness a little longer, she tells herself, because chances are soon everything will fall to shit at some point.
When they leave the cafe and begin to wander up the streets, Laura still clings to Carmilla’s hand and she’s struck by how familiar it feels, how right. She has to keep reminding herself to stop when her mind drifts to what if it could always be like this and maybes, remind herself that Laura’s not hers. They’re friends, and she can be okay with that.
She can be okay with that, she tells herself, but it gets harder and harder to believe it.