Warm Skin

"Lydia."

Charlotte. Charlotte in the kitchen, Charlotte in the field, Charlotte in the bathroom and the bedroom and the living room. Charlotte.

She's not offering Lydia a cigarette or dancing in the sun and she's not doing Lydia's makeup or pushing out of some boy's arms. She's standing two inches away from Lydia, holding her forearms and staring too hard. This is hard. Lydia hasn't had to face seriousness with Charlotte. This is very hard. There's no smile or smoke or twirling. This is impossible. Why does Charlotte look so sad?

"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry."

She's got worry in her earthy eyes and a rose-colored frown that deepens every time she allows her gaze to skate over a cut marring Lydia's face.

"It's not your fault." And it's not. It's really not. The only thing Charlotte is at fault for, could ever be at fault for, is being too beautiful. Too magnetic. "Matty did it."

Charlotte bows her head because she still thinks. She still thinks she's to blame for the actions of some thick head, some asshole who thought she belonged to him. He didn't understand when Charlotte ripped away from him and he didn't understand when Charlotte nearly pressed her lips to Lydia's and not his. He didn't understand and he grabbed Lydia by the hair.

"He wouldn't have if. Y'know."

He grabbed Lydia by the hair and threw her to the side. He threw her to the side and let her face hit the rocks.

"But I got him back."

He let her face hit the rocks and she lost track of time and she remembers dizzying pain and slamming her fists into a perfectly sculpted jaw and soft hands on her shoulders, pulling her away.

"Yeah, you did." Charlotte sounds proud of Lydia — needless to say that the tone fills Lydia head to toe with sparkling warmth — and slowly begins to bring her head back up. Her hair is starting to frizz courtesy of the humidity. Lydia pulls an arm out of Charlotte's hand to touch it. "What's wrong with him?" And Charlotte's reaching up, too, running her thumb gently across Lydia's split bottom lip, tilting her head when blood smears. The color matches Lydia's lipstick. It's hard to tell them apart.

"Well," and even though Charlotte is truly asking herself, she deserves an answer. "He's a douche." Lydia shrugs then, trying to pretend that the cuts don't hurt, letting her fingers get lost in the mass of dyed blonde curls. "He just didn't get it, I guess."

"He just didn't get it," Charlotte sighs, letting her hand drop from Lydia's face. "There's nothing to get. I don't like him. I like you. What's so hard about that?"

Lydia could say, "Nothing." Lydia could very easily say, "Nothing." Instead of saying a single word, though, Lydia chooses to grab Charlotte by the cheeks, press their lips together in the most unnecessarily dramatic of kisses. The moment they touch, every good time she's ever spent with Charlotte flashes rapid fire behind her eyelids. Smoke in her face, spins in the field, makeup in the bathroom. Smiles on the bed, secrets on the sheets, heartbeats on the couch. Each good moment is only slightly tainted by the worry Lydia once felt: would she like me back? would she kiss me? would she touch me hold me think of me like i think of her? would she ever love me?

And maybe these worries plague her even in the midst of the best thing she's ever experienced thus far, but they don't distort the happiness. They intensify it. Because she can breathe easy now. Because she knows. The answer is yes. Yes to everything. Charlotte is kissing her back and holding her waist and she doesn't care about the blood beneath her lip or the friend tending to Matty and his bruised ego inside or anything, anything aside from Lydia.

"I feel like kissing at the pool like I planned would've been more romantic," Charlotte mumbles, her lips still partially connected with Lydia's. She pulls away completely before adding, "Sorry that got fucked up."

"It's okay." Lydia drags it out as she buries her face in Charlotte's bare shoulder, joy making her knees weak and her body heavy. She's supported only by Charlotte, which she supposes is how it's always been. "It's okay. It's okay, this is nice, too, I like this."

There's a moment of light silence, a quiet that isn't hard to weave through and is almost appreciated.

"We should clean your face up."

"We should."

But neither of them move. Neither really knows why, either; they're not afraid of going back inside and the sun is bordering on too hot and their legs are going numb just standing and hugging. Maybe it's because moving requires effort. Maybe it's because they don't want to let go. Not yet. Maybe, maybe they just want to enjoy right now because goddamn does it feel like they've waited forever for this.

"We could take your bike and ride to yours," Charlotte suggests, her face hidden away in Lydia's neck. It tickles when she speaks. "Clean you up there. You've got better supplies."

"Okay." More words muffled by warm skin.

"When do you wanna get moving?"

"Soon." Lydia doesn't quite know when soon is, but she knows it isn't close. She could stand here with numb legs and Charlotte's head on her shoulder for the rest of her life, all the best moments they've spent together on eternal replay whenever she closes her eyes. Kitchen. Field. Bedroom. Bathroom. Bed. Party. Now.

"Okay. Soon it is."

And if she can't stand there for the rest of her life, if Charlotte won't let her, then the end of the summer will suffice. Or at least the end of the night.