2022-05-31 - Sensitive Soles

"Summertime" (Beyoncé and Sam Cooke and Billy Stewart and DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince, but not Kenny Chesney).
"Summertime Magic."
"Summertime Sadness."
"Summer Nights."
"Endless Summer Nights."
"Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer."
"Hot Girl Summer."
"Summer Girl."
"Summer Love."
"Summer 2020."
"Summer in the City."
"The Other Side of Summer."
"Hot Fun in the Summertime."
"Cruel Summer" (Bananarama and Taylor Swift).
"I Know What You Did Last Summer."

...And the one that came out just a couple months ago, spring 2022, by that band they love.

Hit shuffle, hit repeat, open the Summer-side windows -- well, okay, the ones to plain old summer too -- and they're good to go.

Which is to say: time for chores. That's what the list says, and that's what they have to do. While their housemate-and-landlady's at work, Della and Jules get to deal with the main floor: the vacuuming, the mopping, maybe even a little dusting if they're lucky.

Della, in her jean shorts with a red kerchief tying up her Dutch-braided hair, wiggles out from partway under the sofa; she calls over to Jules, "Catch!" It's a purple plaid shirt, almost certainly for the Una basket.

Chores. Not Jules’ favorite pastime, but they need to be done. Moreover, it gives her a focus, and that’s something that’s very much appreciated these past few days. She sings along to the songs she knows, hums on-and-off the melody to those she doesn’t, and stays quiet altogether when the vacuum cleaner is running.

“What the heck.” Jules eyes the shirt she’s just caught with amusement. “How did Una lose this under there? That’s more the kind of thing I would do. Making out on the couch, losing items of clothing, you know what I mean?” Insert a sly look here, eyebrows twitching up.

"I do know what you mean," agrees Della, her own brows as arch as her tone. "Just make sure there's no fluid transfer down here, all right?" the last couple words muffled as she reaches down under the couch again. Except her arm isn't long enough, even with her shoulder squished under, so she swivels around... "And how would you guess Una would lose her shirt, anyway? Nothing as boring as having worn it as a jacket, please."

...and tries her leg. Next thing would be a broom handle, but instead: victory! Toes squeezed together, she retreats with... a sock. A sort of bulgy sock.

It used to be white.

“Ew, Della!” Jules adopts a scandalized look. “Not in shared spaces, please and thank you. Seriously, who do you think I am?”

Into the Una basket goes the shirt. “I’m going to guess something to do with baking. She was using it as an apron? Potholder? Still doesn’t explain how it got under the couch, though.” She eyeballs the next item suspiciously. “Not mine. Not it.”

"Juuuules Blaaaaack, Savior of Lobsters, Daunter of Flies," Della teases. "Apron. I like that. And do we have to explain how anything gets under the couch? It just sort of happens. Call it gravitational pull."

She picks up the sock between thumb and forefinger, not-too-discreetly wiping her toes off onto the carpet, and gives it a practice swing. It sways. It clinks, even, a little. "Are you suuuure?" Today, Della has no shortage of vowels.

“Finders keepers,” Jules says as Della swings the sock and it makes that telltale clink-clink. “Or, you know, make it a common fund and spring for ice cream for the three of us. Spill it, let’s see how much you got there.”

"'Losers weepers,'" definitely has a sarcastic tinge to it. Still, Della gets up and, after a second glance, collects a bowl to decant the sock's contents into: don't want grunge to spill out onto the carpet.

"It's probably just Chuck E. Cheese tokens," she supposes and, grimacing, unknots the sock where Jules can see. "I feel we should have an unboxing video." Not that she's going to stop.

It's not game tokens. Or... maybe there's one? But there're also a lot of other coins, none of them shiny, greenish copper and... that grayish smudge that just might mean silver. Or someone's very old Halloween candy.

Now Jules steps close to peer at the contents. She doesn’t offer up her phone to take that video—possibly doesn’t even have it on her at all, given the cleaning regimen they’re in the midst of.

“That looks like a nickel,” Jules says, reaching out to pick up one of the coins and examine it. “Some kid’s stash? Maybe Millie’s. Wouldn’t that be funny.”

"That would be amazing." It also would require looking at the sock more closely, which Della is loath to do, even For Science. Except... if it's Millie's sock, it has to be one of a drastically older Millie's, complete with striped ankles and, "Did they even have terry socks back then? What's the date?"

“What’s a terry sock?” That’s how useful Jules is when it comes to dating based on clothing fashions.

She squints at the coin, holding it at an angle as she looks for the date. “‘89,” she reports back. “So it can’t be Millie’s.” Jules looks disappointed. “Who hoards coins in a sock, anyway? This has always been in Una’s family, right? So some kid a generation ago? Assuming it wasn’t her grandmother.”

"Not 1889, is it?" Della checks rather wistfully. "And terry socks have the terrycloth-like loops on the inside, for sweat and sports and such: that kind." The boring kind. "Don't know. It might have been her grandmother."

Rather than immediately getting back to cleaning, Della sits back down, leaning against the couch -- but only halfway, her arms folding about her knees. "Have you heard anything more about her grandma? Or what she, Una, makes of it all? I've been wondering whether to ask."

Jules still looks relatively blank, muttering to herself in what would otherwise be internal commentary: “Like I’ve ever paid attention to the inside of my socks. All I care about is whether they’re clean or not.”

She too takes advantage of the pause to come join Della on the couch, collapsing at the other end with a whumph. “Not really,” Jules replies. “She doesn’t really talk about her family with me. Besides the part where her grandma’s dead, and from what I can tell she doesn’t get along with her mom, that’s pretty much all I know. And then how she gets embarrassed whenever The Asshole comes up. I keep wanting to tell her to chill, she’s not responsible for some dead dickhead. You?”

Humor brims in Della's expression at the mutter; she slides a glance to Jules as though she'd say something, but instead just extends her legs, the better to try and put her feet in her housemate's lap.

"Same. She isn't even responsible for all the current white guilt out there. Not that..." she glances out and away before confessing, "I always mind. It's nice, there being two of us. And I'm going to miss your saying what's on your mind. ...Well," with a laugh, "the rest of what's on your mind."

Jules tolerates it, even idly starts massaging Della’s left foot. “You’re going to miss it?” she repeats with surprise, looking down the couch with her brow raised. “You might be the only person. Though Mikaere didn’t seem to mind, if you know what I mean— I mean. Not just like that. He thought it was interesting, hearing how my thought process works aloud, even when I blurted out something about him being divorced. Which he’d never told me, but I knew thanks to you.” Jules shoots a mock-glare at her housemate, smile mitigating any harshness.

She continues to knead, winding her way back to Della’s initial remarks. “I like that you’re here. I was a little nervous about renting from a white woman, to begin with. I mean, Una’s fine. Better than fine. She’s great. But the idea of it, when I didn’t know her. I was nervous about you too, when you first showed up looking all fancy. What did you think of me?”

Della settles in, flexing her foot before relaxing it with a quiet, happy noise. ...And then she acquires a smirk, which becomes a snicker, right through the glare. "It is interesting. You are."

The rest doesn't get its reaction out loud just yet; instead, after her nod -- from a white woman -- and that smile that gathers over Una and great -- "I thought that we could get along. How relaxed we'd be, I didn't know.... That feels lovely, by the way. And I was glad then too. You aren't nervous now, about me and anything?"

Jules switches from one foot to another. It would be criminal to only massage one sole. “Nervous around you? No. Do I look nervous? I’m touching your damn feet,” she says, teasing. “I don’t know if I’ll ever really feel comfortable around people with lots of money, though. At least, not when it’s visible. I don’t think you show it off, though. I don’t think most people around here do. Still makes me feel awkward, though. Like with the ball. I get self-conscious about the stuff I don’t know, or sticking out, or making some faux pas because I don’t know any better.”

It really, really would -- criminal in a bad way -- and thus Della gives her foot over with alacrity. And then she's laughing again: "Fair." That, with a little extra wiggle. "I get that, feeling that way. And feeling not much like aski -- " she jolts, but she's also quick to clarify, "Good spot. Right. Not necessarily wanting to ask, if there's ever even time." She peers sideways at Jules, checking her expression for confirmation.

"I could demur that we don't, that I don't have lots of money, that is, but... That there are a lot of factors," and her shrug is a little awkward, even for being sideways. "And so on. Does Una feel like she has lots of money, having her own house? Although I don't know how much it's mortgaged. Anyway, you can always hit me up, though I don't promise to be right."

A small nod. Right.

“I’m pretty sure she owns the house free and clear,” says Jules, “given how long it’s been in her family. Anyway, I guess the point isn’t really do you have money or don’t you, but what kinds of things you know, what kinds of privileges you don’t even realize you have. Like—Ravn has a wine guy. And maybe you could say that me knowing my salmon is like him knowing his wine, but it’s not, because I catch my fish. Or maybe not me specifically, but my family and friends, and I worked at the hatchery. Blue collar stuff. Versus making a trip to Seattle to buy wine because, I don’t know, the selection isn’t good enough at the grocery store? And having the disposable income for it, not to mention how it’s a kind of cultural status symbol. Even if you don’t mean to flaunt it, and I don’t think he does, I’m not saying that. But it comes up and then I get defensive, and before you know it, I’m defending Walmart and the poor schmucks who drink stuff he wouldn’t touch, because you know what, that’s me.” Jules looks up from the foot she’s been working on to search Della’s expression.

“Different knowledge that comes with money creates different standards. I think that’s what I’m trying to say. So I become the person with low standards, and I feel judged. Or like I should judge myself and my family.”

"Mmm, if she'd had poor health, say, could've had to mortgage it..." but after that Della settles in and listens. The wine guy; the hatchery; getting defensive and Walmart. Her expression's focused, but not particularly detached. It matters.

Jules matters. And, "That sucks. I'm sorry." She doesn't mention Count Abildgaard, or Dr. Abildgaard for that matter. "Any idea what we could do better? Feeling like you should judge yourselves," gets a grimace, toes tensed tight to her soles.

“It’s okay.” Jules shrugs, then revises; honesty makes her do so. “Or maybe it isn’t, but it is what it is. Perdita told me to be proud of myself, before the ball, and I am. I think I’m just sensitive about it because it’s the first time I’ve really encountered it.” Her fingers coax those toes towards relaxation.

Della’s question has her thinking. Aloud, of course. “I think just being aware is enough. I don’t want to begrudge people their nice things. Good for them, you know? But I wish people would think before they speak a little more, especially if they’re talking down about something. For some people, that’s what they have, and they’re doing the best they can.”

Jules continues to ruminate, hands finally pausing, though they rest on Della’s feet, there in her lap. “It goes with race a lot, doesn’t it,” she says. “Race and class.”

First time -- Della's brows tilt up even as the afterimage of a smile -- proud -- stays on her lips; but then she's nodding, toes gradually uncurling in that communication that's not words at all.

"That makes sense. If I mess up, I hope you'll tell me, though you shouldn't have to." There's that smile again, wider. "I like seeing you proud." Della adds, "With some people, I'd ask if you want me to pass it along, but I'm guessing you'll handle it yourself, if you want to." But that's why she says it: so she can be corrected if she's wrong.

And... "It does." This time, when her feet curve, it's to take one of Jules' hands as though she'd hold it. "What was it like, at your school where you grew up? We were lucky to have a mix, I think. Though mostly 'middle class,'" whatever that means anymore, "and a lot of shades of brown."

Her nose wrinkles first, followed by the words, “I don’t want you to go out and talk to people on my behalf. You or anyone else. If it comes up, I’ll handle it. And some of it’s just me, you know? Not like people are doing something wrong.” Jules looks down at the feet in her lap, her hand held like that, and her mouth tilts into a smile.

“My school was super small,” she says first. “One campus for all the kids. So we all knew each other, more or less, and what the deal was with each other’s families. So everyone knew my grandparents were raising me, and sometimes that stank, but mostly it was okay. It was normal.”

The nose-wrinkle can't help but make Della smile, just a little. "Right," she murmurs, pleased for that too: they've found the same wavelength to be on, to lounge on, for all that the wavelength looks right now like an old -- comfortable -- couch. They have a plan.

As quietly, "Quinault kids?"

“Yeah,” Jules easily replies. “The school is on the res.”

No more to say about that, apparently, not even to mull over aloud, since she looks at Della and returns the question. “What about you? You said lots of brown kids, mostly middle class? So you didn’t feel like you were in the minority?”

Della's nodding -- the res -- and then she sighs, leaning back: not to dodge the question, just to stretch her arms back and remember back. "Not through junior high, anyway. Not that there weren't white kids, and there was the whole 'Are you this or that ethnicity enough,' and I'm just a -- I don't like to say mutt, but my family's from all over. And we had brown teachers, too. I missed that, later."

“I bet. It’s important to have teachers who look like you, who get you.” Jules has been nodding along too, in her turn. “My grandma was a teacher. I think I told you that before. But all the teachers, all the kids, they’re pretty much all from Taholah.”

"Yes. Absolutely." Though Della's not one; she's not paying it forward. Doesn't mean she doesn't get that smile, the one that comes up a lot when Jules brings up her grandparents -- well, when nobody's on a rush somewhere for something.

Even so: "Were they all... Taholah's the be-all, end-all?"

Jules’ smile pulls to the side as she considers the question. “Yes and no. There’s a lot of pride. That this is our ancestral land, and we’re still here to care for it. So leaving—it’s not like you can’t do it, but I think there’s also a deep sense that you shouldn’t turn your back on where you came from. People do leave, but most come back. It’s not that Taholah itself is anything special. But you don’t abandon your community or your nation. It’s like there’s something sacred about it, where in this day and age, we’re the caretakers of this land and these waters. If you walk away from that, then who are you?”

Della's listening; this time her nod is slow. And she admits with some chagrin, "Now I can't help but think about Moana. Not that it's the same! Hopefully the shorthand is more helpful than not?" Jules is the arbiter, though. "Or maybe it's just a catchy soundtrack. 'This tradition is our mission,'" that last part sung in her low, musical voice.

"She came back..."

“Something like that,” Jules agrees with a smile. “I mean, it’s not like you’re a total traitor if you move to Portland or something and make a life for yourself there. But it is different than mainstream American culture, I think, where people move all over the place for jobs or just because they want to. My best friend from home is in the navy. So she moves all the time. But she still comes home on leave and is part of the community, even if she’s stationed far away.”

Jules fusses with her hair, rearranging the ponytail; a few wisps have escaped, and it’s not as tight as she’d like it. “So it’s about the place, but it’s about the values too, how you live them if you do move elsewhere for awhile.”

Total traitor possibly shouldn't make Della's expression light up, but there it is. "Navy, huh? Due back anytime soon? That's interesting, about the values mattering even off and away. Though... not exactly surprising."

After another glance at Jules, she offers more: "My family liked to be up in my business. Scholarships could only take me so far, though, so there'd be the odd 'We just happened to be in your neighborhood, a few hours away,' drop-in. Never mind what else I might've planned for the evening. Day. Weekend."

“Not that I know of,” Jules says of her aforementioned friend, shaking her head. “She gets Thanksgiving off, I think.”

Then it’s her turn to listen. “Hah. Why haven’t they turned up here yet?” she wants to know. “Or is Gray Harbor sufficiently far that it’s too hard to just show up?”

"Thanksgiving feels like forever," Della says wryly. "My folks? Too far even for them, and once I heard about the Veil, I've been encouraging it to do its work. Sort of the opposite of my work," her weekly-ish trips just far enough out that she can do her job and not get too forgotten. At least, that's the plan. "Plus, my sisters have come up with grandkids, and..." she spreads her hands, a twist finding her mouth. "Priorities."

Speaking of kids, and breakups: "That reminds me, about Mikaere and the divorce thing. Does he know I told you?" Does he care?

“Grandkids always come first, don’t they.” Jules is wry too, given her own familial situation.

She’s still speaking in the same tone when she replies, “Of course I told him it was you. You think I’m going to be like, ‘oh yes, I know this because I stalked you online?’ That’s what a wingman is for. I threw you under the bus ASAP.”

Della's toes twitch. "That wasn't even a proper stalking," she complains with some humor. "That was basic."

"So did he care? That I confirmed that he appeared to be single?"

Jules looks as skeptical as ever. “Sure, you just pull up marital and divorce records on your average search.” Maybe one does; she’s never tried.

In any case, she shakes her head. “No, he just kinda laughed. I got super embarrassed, because that was one of those things that was supposed to stay in my head and not tumble out my mouth. But he said it was fine. Everyone’s got an ex, right? Even if not everyone has a divorced ex.” This, without fail, makes Jules think of Della. Another thought tumbling free: “Like you.”

It's after hearing Mikaere laughed that she murmurs quickly, mock-loftily, "'Google Firstname Lastname married' means I didn't have to get that far." This time. Thank you, unusual-for-here name! Although, "I'm sorry it was embarassing. At least now you both know you know so that's done with, right?" And as for Della herself, "Who knows, Una could have a divorced ex." Though surely Della's gotten curious and looked.

“See, I wouldn’t think to put ‘married’ into the search bar to begin with,” Jules fires back. “Because usually I take no wedding ring and being asked out on a date at face value.”

Apparently she’s over the embarrassment, because she’s grinning. “Yeah. I guess there was no good way to bring it up? Although it sounds like his ex is good friends with his mom still, aaaaaawkward.”

"Super awkward," Della agrees with a wince. "At least they're way far away. Does his mom know he's started dating again?" Which isn't quite the same as, 'About you?'

"And anyway, face value, schmace value. I seem to recall there not being date-asking prior to the great googling of 2022," even more loftily than before. "Just a stated desire to... talk. About converging beliefs." That isn't a giggle. No, it is.

A shrug. “Hell if I know.” That giggle? Jules tries to look stern and unamused, but it breaks down quickly. The turn of phrase has her snorting. Most indelicate and definitely amused.

“Yeah, well, when he first texted me, it was totally clear it was a date. You know, the little dot dot dots when you’re typing and then overthinking and then finally, ‘What are you doing on Friday?’ I just didn’t tell you because I wasn’t telling anyone and not making it into a thing.” To revive yet another earlier phrase.

With that sort of reaction, Della aims to capture the other hand: pounce!

And then... she's not looking at the vacuum; she's definitely not looking at the sock; but then she isn't quite, quite looking all the way at Jules, her smile turned up on one end. "That's cute," she says sincerely. "It's nice to hear now, anyway. An origin story, and all that. Like getting the superpowers but not."

Hand, captured! Jules curls her fingers around Della’s foot with a little squeeze. “What else do you wanna know that I wouldn’t tell you?” she asks with a grin. “Now’s the time, right? Give me another day or so and I’ll get to go back to full-blown denial.”

Well. With that invitation... Della wiggles her toes into those fingers, pulling her smile all the way back into place as though they were all connected. "Given that you talk about lots of things, most of the time..." yes, she wiggles her brows, so very stagily. "How about we start with, 'What would you like the excuse to tell me?'" Then, "You know, afterward, you can still pretend you've taken a dose with me if you ever want to."

The open-ended question has Jules blinking. It’s one thing to invite questions, apparently, and another to be given the open-ended option. “Oh man, I don’t know.” Her thinking is going to occur aloud, of course. “Are we still talking about Mikaere, or in general? Should I tell you something about my ex? That involves thinking about him though, and ehhhhhh maybe not, even if it doesn’t suck so hard now that I’m seeing someone new.” Take your pick, Della.

"In general," Della decides. "I don't want to make you think about your ex if you don't want to. Though while we're at it: what would it take, on your side, for you to move in with Mik somewhere?" Una's at work, not listening in, right? Right.

“Whoa. I was not expecting that.” And indeed, Jules does look a little stunned. “I take it back, no more questions.”

Except she can’t take it back. The question’s been posed, and now Jules has to think about it, around it, and all filterless. “Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe, for one, confirmation that this is actually going somewhere. It’s fine if it’s just fun for the summer. Really. I keep saying it’s fine, and I know what I got myself into. I know he’s not sticking around forever. Not letting myself develop feelings, nope, not even a little, squash that all down and don’t think about it. Um. You know how hard it is to actually stick to that? Anyway, back on track, actual question, moving in— I moved in way too early with Joe, and I did it because of the circumstances, so my brother could have an actual bedroom instead of sleeping on the damn pullout couch. And I thought it was fun at the time. It is fun at first, you’re with the person you’re in love with 24-7, and you try to ignore the little tics that annoy you, and then they get bigger. I don’t actually know Mikaere all that well, do I? Even assuming he were sticking around. It’d be fun at first, and then who knows, we might just piss each other off.” Her brow knits as she mulls this over, frowning, looking straight ahead instead of at Della. The anxiety seeps into her tone the longer she speaks.

So that's when Della's feet disappear, but only so she can fold herself up and scoot closer and reach for Jules' hands with her own, this time. "It's really hard," she murmurs, like she's been there. "Sometimes that happens." She'll rub her friend's hands with her own, if she can, if it seems wanted, as though she'd warm self-assurance right into her. In time,"'Blah blah communication blah blah.'" Isn't that what they all say? "I'm glad you're here and your brother has a bedroom and you're in a good place, whatever you wind up doing. I don't see how someone could not develop feelings, some kinds of feelings, really."

When Della draws nearer, Jules curls into her, head dipping towards the other woman. Her eyes are watery, though she’s blinking it back and concentrating hard on not feeling so much with little hums of agreement. “Yeah,” she says quietly, and that’s when the first tear slips out and down the side of her nose. She quickly wipes it away, stealing one hand back from Della. “I can’t do it, even though I’m telling myself I can.”

So Della puts her arms around her friend, giving her that support, resting her head against Jules'. "So, all right, feelings. Congratulations, human." Her tone stays quietly fond. "So now you've admitted it... It's not a bad thing, it's just what you've got, so you can figure out -- find out, maybe it's not a thing that gets figured -- how to play your cards."

“I’ll deny it tomorrow,” Jules says as threateningly as she can when she’s also quietly starting to cry. So many feelings, past and present, tangled up in the one response. “Hah, how to play my cards. I’m doing fine so far, right? So just keep doing what I’m doing, and have a life outside of whatever this thing is so I don’t get too tied up in it, and enjoy it while it lasts. I think those are the cards on the table.” Though not those she holds tight to her chest.

"Of course you will," Della says soothingly, smiling just a little. Her words drift. "Those all sound good. And you'll know what you're feeling and you can track it, you don't have to shove it down and pretend," even if she might anyway. "It doesn't have to be a game that's winner-takes-all. You'll always have a way to yourself and your cougar -- not that kind of cougar -- and sometimes you'll walk on air and sometimes you'll get snot on my sleeve," that's even more teasing than the cougar, "and you're playing for the same team right now, enjoy it." Pause. "I actually want him to be playing for your team, but same team if we're trying to be equitable," which she really, really doesn't have to.

Jules doesn’t cry much and doesn’t cry long. Just enough to acknowledge that those feelings are there and let them out a little. She stays leaned against Della, though. “My cougar’s pretty badass. I don’t think she’s mine, really, and that’s okay too. Which reminds me of something he said, the one time I did say something. I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, and he said, ‘I don’t need you to be mine like that.’ I think it’s better that way. Not being possessive. Except maybe I do want that sometimes, being someone else’s. I don’t know. Is that wrong?” She doesn’t lift her head to look at Della, though there’s enough of a question in her tone to indicate it’s not just rhetorical. “But being on the same team, that’s good too.”

"Of course it's not wrong. You aren't going to get your feminist card yeeted into the sun." Della holds her a little closer, just for a moment of reassurance before resettling. There's a smile right above Jules' ear. "I like it, but then, I like my someone else being mine at the same time. Not that everyone wants it to go both ways... but it's like wearing a seatbelt: you're stabilized enough that don't have to be as careful and wary on your trip, while you're wearing it, and it's your choice whether to unbuckle. Or, remember when you're a kid and you get told to 'Draw something' and maybe it's easier if there are some guidelines, like 'Draw something brown' or 'Draw your favorite imaginary hat'?" Jub-jub feather optional. "Being able to count on your someone lets a person relax and stretch and go further than maybe they would otherwise. Doesn't mean you sign up to exchange kidneys," and there's the smile in her voice again.

"But also, you know, we talk about a 'boyfriend' but what does that even mean to you, you two? Because sure, you don't want a boyfriend like your ex was your boyfriend; but maybe, with him, or a version of him, something else clicks. And maybe it'll click a different way as you go along."

“Click like a seatbelt,” Jules murmurs. She’s settled in now, comfortable as she leans into Della and invades her personal space. “Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe I don’t know what it means in any other way. I know what I meant when I said it—that I wanted to be my own person and make my own choices and have my own space, my own friends, that I wasn’t going to let my world revolve around another person. I’ve been there, done that. I think for him, it means no promises because he’s not in a position to definitively be able to keep them. No pressure, maybe? What does it mean to you?”

Now Jules sits up enough to look at Della. “Or what did it mean, when you were with Bella? Versus what it might mean if you met someone here?”

Where their hair intermingles, it's all black, but different shades of black. Della too seems comfortable; if she weren't, enough, surely she'd change it up. "Well, hm. In your shoes I'd -- "

Now she finds herself peering back at Jules, dark eyes to dark eyes, almost smiling. "Never let it be said I never answer your questions, when you get around to asking them."

"Bella." Bella, Bella, Bella.

"We counted on each other; we had each other's backs, come hell or high water. We faced in-laws together, once we could finally have them... No, actually, that's mostly a joke; I've a lot of respect for her parents, and her little brother's a sweetie. She was great with mine." Della thinks to add, "And yes, we were exclusive." What else? "Yes, we shared bank accounts. Yes, we paid off each other's student loans. Not that it started out that way."

"Someone here..." She doesn't quite laugh.

Jules manages to hold herself quiet as she listens, largely by keeping hold of her lower lip between her teeth.

“Not ready for that yet?” It’s sympathetic, followed by the beginnings of her related musings. “I have to think it’s different, once you get married or commit to someone like that. I’d wondered about that with Mikaere, with him not mentioning his ex-wife, if maybe that was something to do with the no promises and keeping it casual. But he didn’t seem like it was such a big deal, the other day. I asked if they were still friends because it sounded like it, and he said she’s more like an annoying sister. Which is totally weird to me, and I can’t really imagine it, but the point is, he didn’t seem like he’s not over her or something. But what do I know, about how it affects you afterwards. Do you still talk to Bella at all?”

"I wouldn't mind getting to know people," Della says carefully, though it's touched with humor for Jules so visibly holding herself back. She might have brought herself to continue, but --

Now she's leaning back against the couch, an arm still slung around her friend, laughter bright in her eyes for all that she doesn't set it free. "An annoying sister. I'm with you. That is an... interesting comparison. But good, the not not over her part; that's the important thing." And perhaps she just can't or won't help herself; "Did you happen to ask big or little sister?" Maybe a little laugh. Just for a moment. Before Bella.

Bella.

"Not often. It just took so long, splitting up our lives. And I want her to be happy, I do, and I thought I always wanted to know whatever there was to know, but it turns out that I don't necessarily want to see it." The look she gives Jules is rueful. "You know?"

“I didn’t, and I forget now if he said one way or the other,” Jules admits. “I was probably too caught up in shitting my pants.”

She doesn’t want to make this all about her, though. Jules captures her own lower lip again to remind herself to just listen. “Yeah, I get that,” she says once there’s a natural break for her to reply. “I think that’s why Joe was such an asshole when I ran into him. Except he made it about him, what I was doing to him, and not just letting me move on.”

All right, that Della can laugh with, really laugh, eyes warm.

Regarding Joe, though, "Of course he did. He'd do far better to copy Una: 'Everything's fine.' At least you got to parade around all hashtag blessed," that last decidedly impish. More seriously, "And your family. You have your family, and they aren't all, 'But why did you break up with him anyway, he was always such a nice boy.'"

At that, the imitation of their housemate and then the parading, Jules laughs too.

“Oh God no,” is her immediate and unfiltered answer when it comes to her family. She, too, sobers quickly. “My grandma wanted me to break up with him. She didn’t say so outright, because she knew I’d just get pissed at her, but there were times when she offered to give me the money so I could move out and get on my feet again. I was just too stubborn and proud to take her up on it, until the last straw, and then I finally did. She gave me first couple months’ rent so I could move here.”

"Pride is a thing," Della has to admit. "It's worse when they're right. It's the worst." She stretches, though there's only one little pop. "And here you are, here we are, fade to commercial." Except, no! "What did your grandpa think? Did he get in the way or just hide out and let you women deal with it all?"

“Good question.” It isn’t as if Jules hasn’t thought about this herself. She kicks out her feet and wiggles her toes. They’re still red with polish, though it’s worn by now. “I think he didn’t want to tell me what to do. And Joe was always good around my grandparents, too. Alex looked up to him for a long time. So they were never not friendly, though maybe a bit cool when things were bad. I didn’t use to tell them, tried to keep it to myself, but my grandma always knew.”

A smile quirks, unbidden. “Of course she did. I know that now.” Her finger taps the side of her head.

"Certainly safer to not tell you what to do," Della teases, leaning forward for just one more squeeze, just for now, before flopping back on the length of the couch. "Mm. Awkward." Not her: the situation. "Especially with Alex. And I suppose, no, can't see him talking back to Grandma Black. But..." she hesitates. "I thought people couldn't read minds? Is it just her?"

“I don’t think she could read my mind,” Jules answers. “But I think she could tell how I was feeling. So if I said I was fine, but really I was pissed as hell, she knew. She probably would’ve known regardless, but she has just that little bit extra.” Jules levers herself off the couch, announcing, “I’m getting a glass of water. You want one?”

She’s not done, though, saying as she goes, “Alex got better when he grew up more. He’s four years younger than me, and I got together with Joe the summer before senior year, so.”

"Oh Oh." A pause. "I'd like to do that. Just for that extra. And -- please."

Della could sit up. She could. But instead, calling down the hall, "Glad to hear that." And while she's at it, "What would you like to be able to do? That you've seen someone else be able to?"

Quiet from Jules until she reappears in the living room, two tall glasses of water in hand. “If I ever get stuck on the Other Side again, I’d like to be able to open a way out, like Ravn can. I know I can get in. I know it’s a lot harder to leave. Like maybe there are things in there that don’t want you to leave. It’s kind of creepy, thinking about it that way, isn’t it? Here.” She holds out one of the two glasses before settling back down on the couch.

“You probably could tell how people are feeling. Have you ever tried? You can try on me, if you like.”

Della eyes the glass with faux disfavor: that would mean sitting up. But then she practically bounces up, the quicker to settle in to take it. "I'd like that too, to be able to get home, especially from any old Dream. And..."

She holds a forefinger to her temple, but angled as though gauging, not straight on. "I sense that you're feeling... thirsty."

A burst of laughter. “Oh, come on. You’re not even trying. That’s easy.” Jules takes an exaggeratedly loud slurp from her water glass.

“It might be nice to be able to respond, if someone like you or Mikaere talk to me without words, too. I can think of instances when that would be convenient.”

Which means that Della gives her an exaggerated slurp right back. It's not the prime slurping sound Jules can manage, but it's not like little pigtailed Della hadn't had practice; then again, an incipient case of the giggles doesn't help.

Somewhat more seriously, "Definitely it would. I mean, I'd have to be able to talk to you without words to begin with, but it would be better two-way. Can you do the emotions thing?"

Jules shakes her head in the negative between sips. “No, I can’t do any of those things. I suspect I won’t ever be able to. I don’t know all that much about it, but it seems like it’s other paths, for me.”

"You might have the traveling thing, like Ravn? Or just wish you could? And the healing, let's not forget that. If I could sense those things, we could work up some sort of code, but as it is, I mostly seem good for collecting bric-a-brac," Della says cheerfully.

Wait for it.

"And basic googling, of course."

As long as her brows have that wicked slant anyway, "If we had eaten the special fruit," and had that same reaction, "what would you ask us?"

“I think maybe so,” Jules says slowly. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to open that door with the possession stick if I didn’t have it in me to begin with. But I’m kind of afraid to try again.”

Something for another time. The question Della poses has Jules looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I mean, I kind of ask whatever’s already in my head, don’t I? And I already asked Una personal stuff while under the influence—and she actually responded, shockingly, instead of dodging around it. What would you want to be asked?”

"I would be, too."

But then Della brightens, sitting up that much more; what she does say first, though, isn't it. "I don't know if I want to be asked anything in particular for me; it would be more for you, because you're someone I'd think would mostly ask to get to know me better, to live with me better -- all right, and curiosity just because! -- instead of as a lever in a bad way, you know? So if there were something like that, you could just ask, and I could tell you all of it or part of it or dodge like Una or just say no, and we would be fine." Should be fine.

But back to the beginning, wide-eyed, "What did Una say?" Is she going to hear instead from Beyoncé?

“I think—“

But whatever Jules thinks will have to wait. Della asks that question, and Jules goes wide-eyed, saying, “No, no, I can’t break her confidence, don’t ask me that right now, try again later when I can choose my words more carefully. I can’t talk about it now. We should get back to cleaning.” Her lips squeeze firmly shut, like so.

It must be tempting. It must be oh so tempting.

Of course Della's going to follow up. To ask another question.

Almost-immediately she does, dark eyes intent. "Jules. What's your favorite color today?"

See Jules look relieved. The subject change is so welcome, so helpful when she’s on the verge of falling into an anxiety spiral over her own lack of control. “Purple,” she blurts out, only to then look puzzled at her own self. “Why did I say that? I don’t really like purple.”

"Seriously? Interesting! What color do you like? Or maybe it's a particular shade of purple that you do like, or that reminds you of something, maybe?" Della's still leaning forward, still interested, apparently quite ready to follow that trail away from the spiral and away and away.

“I like red,” says Jules, smiling now. “Red and black and green. Dark green, forest green. Purple’s fine in nature, like the purply-blue mountain wildflowers—“

With this, she’s off and away, sharing her love of the Olympics at this time of year, late spring and early summer as the snow melts from the alpine valleys, peak wildflower season. Her storytelling carries them back into chores, eases them back into lighthearted sharing for the afternoon.