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They’re getting too old for this. Despite the fact that Cynthia Zdnowski has yet to reach a full three decades on planet Earth, they feel as though they’ve lived enough for half a dozen lifetimes and they’re certainly too old to sit in a club bursting with noise and bodies and the smell of alcohol. They’re not even on the dance floor but the press of bodies is too much, too grating on their nerves.
The bartender drops a tray of drinks in front of Cynthia and they grin politely, taking it before she can make another advance. She’s been all over them all evening, and were they a few years younger they might have gone for it, would have reveled in the attention. As it is, they’re more than a little uncomfortable and make their way back to the table.
Pressed into a booth is their saving grace: the Pink Ladies. It’s the first time since Christmas that they’ve all ended up in the same city for any amount of time and Jane had demanded a hang out. Cynthia (and the others, Olivia most of all) was helpless to refuse and that’s why they’re out drinking instead of curling up on the couch in their tiny ass apartment with Nancy taunting their love life (and lack thereof).
They’re therapist would say it’s good they’re not alone, but they fired their therapist three months ago.
It’s simple to weave through the crowd of bodies to the table and when they arrive, drinks in hand, the Pinks cheer and the evening gets a little better.
“Budge up, Facciano,” Cynthia grumbles, sliding in next to Jane with little trouble. They normally would have taken a spot by Nancy, but the girl is squished in the very middle of the round booth, shoulder to shoulder with Hazel and Olivia. The booth is meant to seat 4 comfortably—it just about manages 5.
“Alright everyone,” Jane says, scooping her drink into her hand. Her words slur a little bit and Cynthia makes a note to start herding everyone to the exit. They’re all several drinks deep into the evening, but Jane has the worst tolerance of any twenty-eight year old Cynthia’s ever met. She’s become a good indicator of when it’s time to start heading out. “What are we toasting this round?”
It’s a Pink Ladies tradition, begun in high school after Cynthia came out (the first time), to toast with each round of drinks, no matter the occasion, no matter how little the toast. It makes them feel like a kid again, each of the Pinks falling silent to make an attempt at the best toast. This far into the night, there’s a shortage of options (the no repeating rule was cemented after Hazel and Jane graduated college, where they’d all gone around in a circle toasting the new graduates until Nancy got sick of it and Jane got actually sick) so silence descends over the table, letting the noise of the rest of the club flood in.
They’ve all changed so much since high school, since college. Cynthia hadn’t bothered like Hazel and Jane had choosing instead to pursue a career in music, channeling their high school and young adult angst into a series of viral hits that blossomed into something they needed an agent and manager and small team to manage. They’d not been famous but they’d been on the rise, touring once before the break-up and then they’d fallen off the map completely, fading into partial irrelevance. It’s nice on nights like this, when they need to simply spend the night with their closest friends.
None of them are quite famous, but they border it and it’s enough to keep all of them on edge when they go out. Hazel has the best chance of not getting recognized, renowned in astronomical and space aeronautic circles but that’s about it, and Nancy could reasonably slip through the cracks if she’d let herself. Jane’s got it worst of all but she knows how to smile politely and shake hands, something Cynthia is not good at (same with selfies, which they loathe ) and when it’s dark and the music is loud they all can lose themselves to anonymity for a while.
Cynthia’s in no mood for toasting, so they don’t even try to come up with something. Instead, they scan the club, letting their eyes wander over the patrons, nearly all of whom look to be enjoying themselves. There’s a pair of women a stone’s throw away dancing like their lives are ending, and another couple not far from that. It makes their heart twist in their chest dangerously and they look away before it’s more than they can take. Then they catch sight of her and the evening goes from decent to absolutely horrific.
“Lydia,” they say, and their voice breaks halfway through. It’s drowned out in the din, of course, but they can feel all the Pink Ladies turn to look at them and, even after so many years, all those eyes on them make them feel as self-conscious as supported. They can’t look away, though, unable to pull their gaze away, unable to stop tracing the line of Lydia’s body with their eyes.
“We’re not toasting that…that…” Jane struggles for words, as do the other girls but Cynthia waves a hand.
“No, not toasting her, she’s–oh shit , she just looked over here.” Cynthia tears their gaze away, but it’s too late. They’re eyes had met for only half a second but it was long enough that Cynthia’s gut and heart wrapped around each other and pulled tight, stealing their breath.
Two years. It’s been two fucking years since they’d seen her, since she’d thrown their ring in their face and walked out of their ( shared ) apartment. Cynthia had been crushed, has only just recovered and started testing the waters again, more hesitant and cynical this time round. Two years since they’ve performed live, two years since they’ve released a single fucking song because they keep coming back to the break up—back to getting dumped twice by the same girl— and they can’t write another album about it. They already know they seem desperate, they don’t need to be seen as stupid too. Two fucking years.
The Pinks murmur and the bass of the club doubles up with their heartbeat but they can’t help seek Lydia out again. They’re a glutton for punishment, and it’s so easy to spot her in the crowd. She’s not changed much, and this time Cynthia’s caught staring but they can’t help it, it’s like a wound ripped raw. Someone touches Cynthia’s shoulder and they jerk around, jumpy, and Jane holds up a hand, seeming much more sober; she says something that they don’t hear and they turn their attention back to where Lydia is standing by the bar, drink in hand. She leans over, says something to the bartender and then she’s moving and oh fuck–
Lydia starts to approach the table and Cynthia panics , scrabbling out of their seat like they’re possessed. Nancy calls after them but they’re already weaving through the crowds towards the bathroom, hoping against hope Lydia doesn’t pursue, that the Pinks intercept her. They dodge patrons, muttering apologies as they go, ignoring the indignant grumbles and slurred warnings to “watch it” as they shove past. Someone is shouting their name over the music but they don’t dare look back; if it’s Lydia, they’ll not be able to keep running.
There is, blessedly, no line at the restrooms and Cynthia shoves their way inside, making a split second decision to hide in one of the stalls. It’s like being in middle school all over again, dodging bullies and cutting class. They pull their feet up onto the seat of the toilet, bracing against the stall walls and take in, for just a moment, how insane this is, how childish. All this, to avoid a bad break up, but they’ve committed, and the door swings open. Heels click against the tile, and Cynthia prays it’s Olivia or Nancy or literally anyone other than–
“Cynthia?”
Fuck.
They don’t answer, of course, but the temptation is so strong their mouth is open before they catch themself. The thumping beat of the current song vibrates through the wall but the restroom is quiet enough that Cynthia can hear when the shoes stop right in front of the stall they’re perched in and hear the quiet sigh that follows.
“I know you’re in here,” Lydia says. “I just want to talk?”
Cynthia can’t stop themself this time when they say, “And I wanted to talk two years ago, but it didn’t matter. Why should I talk now?”
“Fine, can you listen?” Lydia asks, and Cynthia’s too busy cursing their stupid impulse control (and distinct lack thereof) to give a proper response. “I’m sorry.”
Cynthia is off the toilet with the door yanked open before they really understand that they’re moving. Rage boils with old hurt and new hurt and something that tastes like grief and they’re not acting of their own accord but out of a primal, biting thing that wants nothing more than to make Lydia hurt for what she did. Lydia doesn’t flinch as Cynthia gets right in her face, rocking up onto their toes to make it so it’s a little fairer of a fight.
She looks the same . It’s not fair, she looks like she did the night she walked out, maybe a little paler, a little more haggard, but fundamentally the same. Her hair still rests like it did, just at her shoulders, and she’s wearing one of her berets from high school and Cynthia’s going to claw their eyes out.
“You’re sorry?” they ask, incredulous. Their voice breaks halfway through the sentence and they ball their hands into fists to make it less obvious how shaky they are. “After two years, you finally say sorry?”
“Yes,” Lydia says, and they want to cry and run away and make her hurt like they hurt but they can’t do anything, they want to throw up, but only stand and shake and blink rapidly to keep tears from falling. “I…I was an asshole. I was the asshole, and I was an idiot. I am an idiot and you have every right to hate me, I never blamed you for hating me but I couldn’t let it sit any longer and fester…it hurts so much, Cyn, surely–”
“You don’t get to call me that,” Cynthia says, and they draw back to put a bit of distance between them. “You lost–you can’t–how dare you walk in here and act like I want to see you.” They want to see her. They always want to see her, but now they can’t look at her. She’s still so beautiful, her charm has them by the throat and is holding tight. That’s why they're gasping. Or it might be a brewing panic attack, but only time will tell with that. “You broke my heart , Lydia. I couldn’t–I was a wreck for months, for a year. I haven’t been able to do anything with my life since you threw our entire relationship away for what? Your career? My career? God, I don’t even know why you walked out, only that you’re a–a coward who would talk all day about how I was the one terrified of commitment but it was you, all along.”
“I–”
“Don’t bother, I don’t want to hear it,” Cynthia snaps, and it feels good to see the hurt flash across her face. For a moment, anyway, and then they feel nothing but guilt and overwhelming sadness. They move towards the door but Lydia grabs their hand, gentle enough to be a breeze to break from but firm enough to be making a point. Cynthia, against their better judgment, against everything in their gut, stays.
“I made a mistake,” Lydia says. “A huge mistake, and I’m sorry–”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to hear it’ do you not understand?” Cynthia asks, incredulous. This entire situation is more surreal than they had accounted for, and they shake their head.
“ Cynthia, ” and God, that’s the way she used to say their name when she was annoyed, exasperated but in love and Cynthia’s going to throw up, they’re going to lose their internal organs and they won’t be able to stop it. The door opens and one of the club goers steps through the door, pausing before turning on their heel to exit. Cynthia can’t look away from Lydia, and she’s pleading for something with her eyes. “I don’t deserve a second of your time. I know that, but please, I–”
“Say you’re sorry again,” they say. “Like you mean it. Like you regret it and not like you want to ease your fucking guilty conscience.” There’s an edge to their voice they don’t recognize and they’re sobering up and everything is coming into a hot clarity, skin itching, heart racing.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia says, and dammit, they believe her. How could they not? “I’m so sorry. You’re right, I was scared, I was terrified, and I let it control me and–”
What happens next is a mistake, but they don’t regret it, even hung over the next day, mouth fuzzy and head aching. They take the lapels of Lydia’s stupid jacket and pull her in for a searing kiss. It’s messy (they’re still drunk and Lydia is startled) but they find their rhythm again easily enough, years of history and desperation make it quick. A stall wall collides with Cynthia’s back, and even though they’re the one grasping at Lydia’s jacket, Lydia’s the one with a hand on the back of their neck, kissing them like she’ll die if she doesn’t. It grows more and more heated, hands wandering, little noises escaping the back of Cynthia’s throat before a hand wanders too far and they’re a little too loud.
It’s a Herculean effort to pull away, but Cynthia just barely manages, gasping for breath. Lydia is breathing harshly and they stare at each other for a heavy second. Cynthia’s running the math, and they’re sure Lydia is too. This…whatever this is, it’s stupid. It’s more than stupid, it’s career ending (as if Cynthia hadn’t already tanked their career once over this girl already) and they hook their fingers into the belt loops of Lydia’s pants, pulling her closer.
“If you don’t want this,” they say. “Say the word. I’ll stop. I don’t want…I don’t want to do anything you don’t.”
There’s a flash of pink as Lydia’s tongue passes over her lips and then they’re kissing again, more coordinated, deeper than before. Cynthia surrenders themself to the sensation, grinning against Lydia’s lips before turning their attention to the well-worn path down her jaw to her collarbone. Their fingers flit through the ends of her hair before pulling the beret off her head and throwing it to some unseen corner of the room. Lydia grunts, indignant but a flash of teeth has it fading from memory.
Cynthia’s head hits the stall wall and soft hand fiddles with the hem of their shirt before slipping under, cool against the hot skin of Cynthia’s stomach. They exhale sharply and Lydia grins and Cynthia knows they’re absolutely fucked.
————
They exit the restroom several minutes later, and Cynthia is straightening their clothes, tugging at the collar of their Pink Ladies jacket, brought out of storage for the night. They’re scrubbing at the lipstick stuck to the side of their neck and peaking just above their collar, and Lydia tugs at the hem of her skirt, clearing her throat. Her flush is obvious even in the dim light of the club and Cynthia takes her hand, pulling her towards the door. There’s nothing to be done for Cynthia’s hair, but they run a hand through it to try and tame the spots where Lydia had gripped a little too hard.
They forget, briefly but crucially, about the other Pinks. Cynthia’s heart promptly drops out of their ass.
Jane stands in their way, arms crossed over her chest and Olivia looks just as judgemental at her side. Nancy’s face is pinched in concern, of all things, and Hazel looks surprised only, thankfully not disappointed. Cynthia’s rush dies out of them and they tug their hand from Lydia’s, knowing that whatever the Pink Ladies say it’s not going to be good . Jane, ever their ragtag leader, goes first.
“Cynthia.” It’s in the way she says their name, a way that reminds them so much of their mother. They wince at the tone, rubbing the back of their neck. There’s a tiny pain at what they’re sure is a blossoming hickey. “What are you doing with her?”
“Uhm,” Cynthia says, quite eloquently for them, and Nancy zips forward, pulling them away from Lydia with surprising strength. They stumble but move towards the Pink Ladies, fumbling a response to Jane’s question. “Guys, guys, it’s ok, I just–”
“Let’s get out of here,” Olivia says, and someone takes the collar of their jacket in hand and drags them away like a scolded puppy. They struggle, of course, and glance back at Lydia, who looks disappointed and hurt.
Perhaps it’s better like this. A poor choice, a one night stand, leaving it all behind them and trying to move forward. They’ve said what they’ve wanted to say for two years, maybe they should let it be.
But Cynthia isn’t one for smart decisions, they’ve proven as much already. They tear out of the Pink Ladies grasp and walk back to Lydia, tugging an old receipt from their pocket. One scribbled phone number shoved into Lydia’s hand and a promise to call and talk later, and they’re dragged away again, this time far more willing. The Pinks scold them for the decision, Nancy looking the most disappointed, but Cynthia’s far too wrapped up in the past to pay any of them much mind.
The noise of the club fades as the group spills out the doors into cool night air, and Cynthia regains their legs and walks on their own, Nancy’s arm slung over their shoulder, presumably to make sure they don’t run back; she needn’t know they have no such intentions. The ball has never really left Lydia’s court, but at least now they know she’s seen it.
——————
The story, at the end of the day, is simple. High school sweethearts don’t make it (statistically, according to Nancy, when she’d sat on their sofa after the first break-up and held them closer) and Cynthia isn’t special. Lydia had…she’d made it big and then she was gone, the first time, flying across the country to pursue her career, leaving Rydell and Cynthia in the dust. She’d not looked back.
Junior year, Cynthia joined the theatre club not because they want to, but because they’re strong armed into it, mostly to avoid severe disciplinary action. They’re not happy in the slightest slightest, and quickly grow to resent the way all of the members seem to look down their noses at the scruffy butch, who wants nothing more than to break a couple noses and get the proper discipline over with. They hate the ringleader of the bunch most of all, a stuck up, pretentious girl who’s been at Rydell since middle school. Cynthia should know her name with all the classes they share, but they only learn it once they’re forced to hear it a dozen times in the first session of the club.
Lydia.
They’re rivals from the start. Cynthia is desperate to break the bounds of convention in the club, a pastime that’s been shoved upon them without any sort of say so from them. They take it in stride, though, and set about pulling stunts that land them in even worse trouble than being forced to join the drama club.
Then they get cast in Romeo and Juliet, as Romeo playing opposite Lydia. It’s a travesty but Mr. Vaugn demands more practice between the two of them (if they recall correctly, his words erred on the side of “if you can’t make me believe you tolerate each other, the audience will never believe you’re in love”) which leads to second rehearsals alternating between the two houses.
Lydia kisses them one night, and it changes their life, and the rest is history. Things go well through Junior year (the Pink Ladies get in heaps more trouble but Cynthia’s able to lock pinkies with Lydia during assemblies and they make out in janitor’s closets and closed gymnasiums) and everything is exactly as they dreamed. They have a friend group that loves them, that actually includes them, a girlfriend who stands at their side and defends them when bullies make their life hell and, though no one would approve of their relationship (the few that know about it) they make it work.
They come out, first to Lydia, in tears, unable to keep their own words from haunting them. Too girl to be one of the boys, too boy to be one of the girls, over and over and over in their head until they want to throw up. Lydia tugs them close and presses a kiss to the crown of their head and says,
“I will love you no matter what.”
For what it’s worth, the Pinks say the same thing, and though they struggle a bit to separate public and private pronouns, they’re nothing but supportive. Cynthia doesn’t tell anyone else, terrified of the reaction of their peers, their teachers, their dad, but when Lydia whispers, in the shelter of her bedroom “My handsome girlfriend” something in them wraps up tight and warm and never lets go.
It’s paradise.
Then Lydia breaks through, lands a lead in a decent sized production, and she’s packing her bags and moving to San Francisco. She pleads for them to join her but they don’t want to leave the shop, their dad, don’t want to leave the Pink Ladies on a whim. Lydia stares burning holes into their soul, face composed, for the most part, but hurt shining just behind the stoic mask she dons around them for the first time in a year.
“You have to be all in, Cyn,” she says.
“I…” Cynthia can’t answer. It’s too soon, all of this, they want more time to figure things out. Lydia scoffs, shakes her head. “I don’t know, I have a life here, the Pink Ladies need me and–”
“You aren’t steady ground,” she says, and Cynthia can barely hear it over the sound of their heart shattering. “You should go.”
They finish senior year heartbroken and, in a fit of inspiration with Olivia spurring them on, they write a song. They go fucking viral , blowing up around the country; the song is, of course, about Lydia, and they get a call from her not two days after the video has made its rounds.
“You made me the bad guy,” she says. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“You broke my heart,” Cynthia says, and hangs up. It’s not as easy to forget about her.
They make mistakes. They always make mistakes when it comes to Lydia, and this particular time they catch a bus to San Francisco the night Jane and Hazel are off to New York for college, a week before Nancy sets off to follow the two for fashion school and they follow suit because if they’re going to leave Rydell, might as go where their friends are. They don’t realize where they’re going, or why, until they’re at Lydia’s apartment, knocking on the door. She opens the door, sleep eyed, and they wring their hands.
“I’m sorry,” they say. And then, checking their phone: “I’d like to show you how sorry.”
She lets them in (a miracle) and pours them a drink (a bad idea–they don’t question how she got the alcohol) and they sit in silence for several agonizing seconds before Cynthia pulls out their phone again.
“I wrote this…” they say, then restart. “The Pinks didn’t want me to release this. My dad either, but I’m not too good at listening to him. You were right. It was more complicated than I made it seem and since I told the side of the story where you were the bad guy, I figured I’d take a shot at the side where you’re not.” It’s midnight as they say this and, feeling sick to their stomach, they press play on the audio file that’s been sitting in their drafts since they first went viral.
Later, swamped in silky sheets, still breathing hard, a little tipsy with their newest release playing in the background, Cynthia takes Lydia’s hand and kisses her knuckles, searching her face. Her hair is messy, unkempt, her face flushed down her neck to the top of her chest. She’s also breathing hard, and there’s a glow about her that has them convinced they could write a dozen albums and it still won’t be enough to convey their feelings. The words will never cease to come to them, they’ve composed half a dozen lyrics in the span of looking at her face, but they’re certain of only one thing they have to say.
“I’m all in,” they say. It’s the best (and worst) statement they could have chosen.
———————
Lydia calls them a week later. They’re at her hotel within the hour, she’s only in New York for a few days before it’s back to San Francisco so they don’t have much time. New movie to start filming or something, Cynthia doesn’t know the specifics and Lydia doesn’t give them, instead extending an invite to them and promising to leave the door unlocked. Cynthia’s never been one to waste an opportunity, however, and as soon as they’re through the door they’re kissing Lydia like she’s water and they’ve been wandering the desert for years.
It’s like high school, like the second go they gave it, the third, the fourth. Kissing Lydia doesn’t get old, and it’s an annoying fact of Cynthia’s life that they’ve shared only with Nancy and only under intense, drunk, duress. They’re obsessed, they just can’t get enough, and neither can Lydia if the way she drags her teeth against their bottom lip is anything to go by. They don’t want to pull away, don’t want the moment to end, but Lydia eventually places a hand against their chest and pushes gently.
“We should talk,” she says, and Cynthia wants anything but that. There are a dozen other things they could do other than talk (most of which involve Lydia’s lips on their again, her skin under their fingers) and Cynthia is about to suggest any one of them when Lydia holds up a hand. “I’m serious, there’s…I want to clear the air.”
“Air’s clear, babe,” Cynthia tries, shooting for flirty and missing the mark by a mile. Lydia isn’t backing down and their will is weak when it involves the woman. She reads something in their expression, they can tell by the way she squints at them for half a second before pulling further away. The physical space between them seems cavernous.
“Stop that,” Lydia says.
“Stop what?”
“Acting like this isn’t…what it is.”
“And what is it?” They’re being difficult on purpose and Lydia’s face twitches the way it does when she gets annoyed and they try not to grin. They fail, and Lydia’s hands are in the collar of their jacket (not their Pink Ladies one this time, it felt a little mean) pulling them in for a deep, messy kiss. Cynthia leans into it, and then the jacket is getting shoved off their shoulders, Lydia’s hands going to the buttons of their shirt, plucking at them but not undoing them.
“I think you know,” she breathes against their lips and it has them melting into a puddle. “Is this alright?” she plucks at another button. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do,” and Cynthia grins, kissing her rather chastely.
“Totally,” they say, sure to keep to their habit of seeming unsexy at exactly the right moment. “Pretty girl like you? I’d be stupid to say no.” They blush, even as their overshirt is shed, leaving them in a plain white t-shirt and jeans. Lydia pulls them in again and kisses them like she’ll go mad if she doesn’t.
———————
“I’m not a girl,” Lydia says, staring at the ceiling, certainly not making eye contact, resolute, and Cynthia turns onto their side, taking in the slope of Lydia’s cheek. There’s a single lamp on, at their back, casting sharp shadows, and they can’t help drink in the sight before them. Still…
“Oh, uh–”
“It’s just…you called me pretty girl. Earlier.” They can hear Lydia swallow. “I’m not a girl.”
“Alright,” they say. “That’s cool.” The silence that follows is uncomfortable and their fingers twitch at their sides as they try to scrounge up the right words to say. Lydia had been wonderful all those years ago, after all, and they should return the favor, sordid history be damned. “Uhm. What pronouns–”
“She’s still fine,” Lydia says. “Just…they too.”
“Is this…recent?”
“Yes,” Lydia says, and they seem reluctant to say it. Cynthia, smartly, backs off.
“Cool,” they say. “Great.”
——————
It happens too often. That it happens twice is too often, but it happens every time Lydia finds themself in New York which is a stupid amount now that Cynthia’s paying attention to it. They’d not been paying attention to it very effectively but they get a call every time the plane lands and somehow they end up back at a hotel with a charming grin and a box of takeout or some cheap wine or some expensive whiskey. They’re almost dates, these meetings and each time Cynthia thinks that they have to derail the train of thought before it goes too far.
Lydia opens up about the project she’s working on, a relatively small film that, if the way she talks about it is any indication, has captured her heart. Cynthia is interested, they are, but they can’t help the way they stare at her lips when she speaks and usually ends up interrupting her just as she’s getting to a good part. Lydia doesn’t really seem to mind much.
Cynthia doesn’t tell the Pink Ladies. They wouldn’t understand. Nancy, also stationed in New York in the second bedroom of Cynthia’s decently sized (and egregiously expensive) apartment, is suspicious of where they’re going all the time but they make up excuses about the studio, about running errands, about needing fresh air. Each excuse gets worse and they can tell she doesn’t believe them but she merely nods and tells them to be safe and to check in later in the evening. They usually remember.
It’s not a bad arrangement, at the end of the day. The sex is wonderful, the company better, and Cynthia doesn’t try to put at a label on it and that is what keeps everything from spiraling out of hand. So what if the hotel visits turn to trips to bars turn to sleepovers at Cynthia’s apartment when Nancy is out of town? So what if weeks of the arrangement turn to months, and so what if Cynthia starts to look forward to phone calls?
So what if Lydia’s holding their hand when they drive her to the airport?
Because it’s the two of them, because they’re caught in an endless cycle, shit hits the fan. Cynthia gets too attached, starts treating Lydia like their girlfriend-almost-fiancee again and Lydia lets them. They bring them flowers, open doors, do everything short of declaring their undying love.
Then Nancy walks in on them making out on the couch in the center of the apartment and it’s just as bad as the first time around, only so, so much worse.
She looks between the two of them and Cynthia does their best to subtly remove their hand from where it started to slip under Lydia’s shirt. The way Nancy’s eyes zero in on the movement lets them know that they failed rather miserably. She points a rigid finger at Cynthia, brow furrowed.
“You, my room, now. ” There’s no room for argument, so Cynthia shoots Lydia an apologetic glance and pulls away from them, standing from the couch. Nancy, however, isn’t finished giving out orders and whips her attention to Lydia. “You, stay put. I wanna talk to you too.”
“Nance, that’s not nece—“
“I don’t want to hear it Zdunowski. Now move.” She’s shooing them into her room, casting the occasional look back to flare daggers at Lydia, who seems frozen to the spot.
The door slams shut behind them and Cynthia doesn’t wince but they want to so bad. Nancy circles the spot where they stand, arms crossed over her chest, until she’s standing right in front of them.
“What the hell is Lydia doing here?” Nancy asks, in the way that she does that has Cynthia convinced she’s going to sneak into their room and murder them. “I thought we were past this, Cyn.”
“Well…” Cynthia trails off, unable to hide the stupid grin that crosses their face. At Nancy’s glower, they clear their throat. “It wasn’t supposed to last this long. After that night at the club, they called me, we met up and…it all sorta just spiraled.” Nancy lifts an eyebrow and Cynthia feels suddenly like a child again, scolded by their mother for taking craft scissors to their hair. “It’s nothing, alright? Just sex.”
“It’s never just sex with the two of you,” Nancy retorts. “Face it, Zdunowski, you’re down ba–”
“Don’t even…look, Nancy can you just…just let me do this?” They sound desperate, they are desperate, and Nancy frowns, disappointment morphing immediately into concern. It makes them feel worse, if that were even possible. “She—they—I can’t let them out of my life again, I just got them back.”
“Cynthia, I am begging you to reconsider this,” Nancy says. “They said you weren’t steady ground but they’re not.”
“I know, I know,” Cynthia says. “But I—“ They don’t let themself finish but Nancy hisses through her teeth.
“You’re supposed to be over her. Wasn’t that what the entire album was about?” Nancy asks, and she’s correct, and they don’t want to admit that, but it’s more complicated than she’s making it out to be.
“That was about getting over the breakup,” Cynthia says. “I don’t think I’ll ever be over her.”
There must be something in their tone, in the way they turn their attention to the ground rather than Nancy, because they’re suddenly wrapped in an (albeit awkward) hug. Nancy doesn’t let them go for a long time, until they’re physically squirming away from her.
“Well, I expect notice if they’re going to be over,” Nancy says. “I don’t want to walk in on any…shenanigans.”
————————
They don’t tell Lydia, but they’re writing songs again. Songs about her, about the two of them, about the fucked up situation they keep finding themselves in, about love . It’s dangerous, they know, to even think the word, let alone keep a record of half thought lyrics jotted down in the notes app on their phone, and really, it’s only a matter of time before they slip up.
Cynthia is good at making mistakes, this has been a fact, a staple of their life since their mother walked out because of a haircut, since they were fifteen and terrified and kissed the wrong girl, since they almost dropped out of Rydell to follow Lydia. They write lyrics like their life depends on it, and their notes app fills far faster than it should and they get sloppy. Lydia catches them one night, when they’re lounging in bed and they think she’s asleep.
“What are you doing?” Lydia mumbles, their voice raspy, blinking slow. Cynthia freezes, their fingers poised over a phone keyboard, and they look down. Lydia could barely be called awake, but they’re in perfect view of Cynthia’s phone and can easily see the words they’ve been typing across the screen. “Are those–”
“Nothing,” Cynthia says, slamming their phone onto the bedside table. Lydia, instantly suspicious, sits up and starts to lean over to take their phone. They haven’t changed the password in the two years since the break-up, and Cynthia has to think fast, grabbing Lydia’s wrist and flipping them, pinning them down.
“Cyn…”
“Not in the mood?” Cynthia asks, starting to retreat, but Lydia pulls them down and kisses them, hard. They’re distracted for a long moment, long enough for Lydia to grab their phone and open it. “That’s playing dirty,” Cynthia complains, but they give up, wincing as Lydia skims through the current set of lyrics which, thankfully, is less incriminating than the night before’s. Still, they look up at Cynthia, eyebrow raised.
“Cynthia, what’s…”
“Just workshopping some stuff,” they say, rolling off Lydia’s lap. It’s obvious nothing’s going to happen and hopefully this way she can’t feel the racing of their heart. “My managers been on me about getting back in the game so…” They let the sentence trail off, sensing that Lydia has lost interest. The actor is skimming through the lyrics, mouthing them to herself. She’s got the rhythm all wrong, Cynthia can tell just by watching, but it’s entertaining and more than a little nerve-wracking.
“This is about us, isn’t it?” Lydia asks, eventually, then they’ve finished reading and Cynthia’s just started to think they're safe.
“There’s an us ?” Cynthia can’t help themself, nor can they help the bitter edge to their voice. “Wasn’t aware of that one.”
“That’s not fair,” Lydia says. “We’re practically a couple again–”
“We’re not exclusive,” Cynthia says, and they don’t want to have this conversation, not here, not now, not ever . It feels like everything ending again. “Not a couple.”
“Have you seen anyone else?” Lydia asks, prodding their side. Cynthia squirms away from the touch.
“Well, no but–”
“I haven’t either,” Lydia says.
“You don’t want to be my girlfriend,” Cynthia snaps. “Or my fiancee or my wife or spouse or anything like that, so let’s just–just not put a name to it and then we can both be happy, okay?” They start to get out of bed, with every intent of sleeping on the couch, Nancy’s questions in the morning be damned, but Lydia scoffs, and that makes their blood boil. “What?”
“You’re just going to run away again?” Lydia asks. “We go through all this, we go through the last decade and you’re just going to run?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Cynthia asks. “You want me but then you don’t, you say you want to marry me and then you run away–Goddammit, this is why I didn’t want to talk about all this! We just end up arguing and–”
“What game are you playing?” Lydia asks. “You–you demand an apology, you ask me to essentially grovel at your feet and I think I’m never going to see you again, so why not the chance for a little closure and then you kiss me like nothing ever happened and give me your number and we spend months acting like pseudo girlfriends, and when I finally decide to ask for a little definition, a little clarity–”
“You remember what you said to me, the first time?” Cynthia asks, and they’ve shared dozens of first times, a billion firsts together, they can see it in Lydia’s eyes, that she doesn’t know what they’re talking about. “Unsteady ground. I almost named the album that, after the last break-up.” They chuckle, but she doesn’t take the bait and the fight drains out of them. “We keep hurting each other. We shouldn’t do this anymore.”
“Cyn, wait—“ They close the door to the bedroom and make their way to the couch, curling up on the well-worn and extremely comfortable cushions.
In the morning, they pretend to be asleep when Lydia whispers their name into the early morning air of the apartment. They hear Lydia take their keys, shuffling across the tiny room they call a lounge, hear the door close, hear their footsteps down the outside steps. Only then does Cynthia sit up, blanket falling around their hips, and stare at the door. They feel frozen in place, like rock, ancient and heavy and full of eons of pain.
Nancy emerges from her room about this time, takes in the sight of her and sighs.
“I’ll call the Pinks,” she says, like that’s supposed to make them feel better.
It takes a week to get all the girls assembled in one spot, and by the time they’ve crammed themselves into Cynthia’s apartment, they’ve cried themself dry a dozen times already. New break-up lyrics spring forth (unwanted, mind) and they look so pitiful next to lyrics written only a week prior. Cynthia, put shortly, is a wreck.
Nancy’s the one who opens the door against a hail of knocks, and she’s the one to guide the Pink Ladies in, each talking over the other, demanding to know exactly how Cynthia is. She’s the one to fix everyone drinks, citing a need for “something strong to get through this” and she brings out a few snacks too. It’s the first food Cynthia’s had all day and the food tastes delicious and that’s how they know it’s getting bad. That, and the way Jane frowns at them, motherly and almost doting, and the way Olivia rests a hand on their knee, comforting, and even Hazel reaches over and pats the top of their hand twice before pulling away.
“What did Nancy tell you?” Cynthia croaks eventually.
“Only that you needed us,” Jane says.
“And that it was about Lydia,” Olivia adds. She and Jane exchange a look and Cynthia doesn’t have time to dissect that, they’re too busy drowning. “What did she do?”
“She didn’t do anything,” Cynthia says. “It’s what…oh you guys are gonna be so disappointed.”
“You didn’t,” Olivia says immediately, because she’s smart and has known them the longest of anyone in the room. “Cynthia, you didn’t. ”
“Didn’t what?” Jane, ever wanting to be part of the conversation, looks to Olivia and Cynthia drops their head into their hands.
“You can not be fuckbuddies with your ex and expect it to go well,” Olivia says, and Cynthia winces, full body, shying away from the truth. Olivia dons pity like an old jacket and it makes them feel even worse . “Sorry, Cyn, I just…what part of you thought it was a good idea?”
“No part of me thought, that’s the problem,” Cynthia snaps, feeling distinctly like they’re being mocked by the people around them. “I know I’m an idiot, okay? I know it was stupid and naive and whatever word you want to throw at me. Doesn’t change the fact now, does it? They still get under my skin and stick there.” They don’t want to cry again. They’ve cried enough over Lydia, but their eyes start to itch and they scrub at them without a second thought.
“You’re not an idiot, Cynthia,” Jane says gently and she wraps them up in a hug that feels like home. “You love them, that’s not stupid, just complicated.” Everyone turns to look at her and Jane flushes, glancing down at the hand that is not currently perched on Cynthia’s shoulder, keeping them close. “What? It’s obvious.”
“She doesn’t love me,” Cynthia says. “And I can’t…she’s already hurt me so much, you guys, I don’t think I could stand it again. And I’ve hurt her. We really fucked up with this whole situation, I should have known that sex couldn’t be ‘no strings attached’ all we are is strings and we keep getting knotted and twisted around each other and–I’m losing the metaphor, aren’t I?”
“A bit,” Olivia admits. “Cyn, you know we can’t tell you your heart.”
“But you get where I’m going?” They ask, and, at a confirming nod from the majority of the Pinks, continue, “I ended it, that should be a good thing. Why does it hurt so much?”
“Honey, you were writing love songs about them,” Jane says. “It was always going to hurt.”
“What I don't understand,” Hazel begins, speaking for the first time since she came through the door, “is why you don’t just date them.” She’s sitting across from Cynthia, with Nancy and she’s got an almost cold, calculating look that chills them to the bones. “I mean, you keep saying they don’t love you but why else would they keep coming back to you? No, no, think about it for a second,” she holds up a hand when Cynthia starts to protest, expression stern. “ They approached you at the bar. They called you. They stuck around, you’re both equally culpable of the events of the last few months.”
“That means there’s interest, Zdunowski,” Nancy says, cutting in with an almost bored expression. “Look, I’ll be real, we all know the two of you are like, soulmates or whatever. It’s disgusting, but if you don’t get your head. Out. Of. Your. Ass, then you’ll lose her forever and then we’ll ,” at this, she gestures to the surrounding group, “watch you wither into the life of a spinster lesbian, which is a future I think nobody wants.” She looks around at the group, seeming proud of her speech. Cynthia casts their gaze to the side to watch Jane’s expression, which is pained but not taut in the way it goes when she disagrees.
Cynthia hates to admit it, but they don’t disagree either.
“You were against this before,” they say, argument feeble, voice even more so. “What changed?”
“They got you writing again,” Nancy says. “They seem to be the only one who can do that. Even if you’re not soulmates, she’s your muse, Cynthia, and the sooner you accept that the better off I think we’ll all be.” She looks around to the other Pink Ladies, and they all nod in agreement.
Cynthia knows what they have to do, but they definitely don’t want to do it.
———————
It takes Cynthia two days to muster the courage to give Lydia a call. It’s a miracle they muster it that fast (it’s Nancy at their back, threatening to kick them out even though it’s their name on the lease) and they’re practically shaking while they’re waiting for Lydia to pick up.
“‘Lo?” the voice on the other end is sleepy, and Cynthia belatedly realizes that they’ve worked themself into such a frenzy that they forgot the time difference, and it’s early in New York, even earlier San Francisco. “Who is–”
“It’s me,” Cynthia says before Lydia can speak further, before they lose their nerve. “I’m sorry, can we…can we talk? Please?”
“…I’m listening.”
“I’m sorry,” Cynthia says again. “I made a mistake. I made a lot of mistakes but Lydia I…” They had a whole speech planned. They had a script to follow (they didn’t print it, they’re a little more self aware than that) but it means nothing when Lydia is waiting on the other end of the line. A list of excuses? Pointless. “I love you.”
That was not meant to come out.
There’s silence on the other end of the line and Cynthia worries that their heart is racing so loud that they missed the click of Lydia hanging up. Them there’s a sound like a choked sob, rustling on the other end of the line and Cynthia grips the table they’re leaning against like a lifeline.
“You can’t say that,” Lydia mumbles. “You can’t say that and mean it, Cynthia, that’s not…”
“I know,” Cynthia says, the immediate urge to soothe overwhelming them. “I know it doesn’t make sense but we don’t make sense, Lydia. The only thing I know is when—when I’m with you I want to write songs and buy a house and get married and go domestic and do all the stupid shit I made fun of when we were kids.”
“Cynthia…” there’s a pain to Lydia’s voice, a hint of longing that Cynthia tries to pinpoint immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Cynthia says again, a third time, stronger now. Fuck their planned speech. “I’ll say it as many times as you need me to, but I realized…I can’t have a life without you in it.” They take a breath, and when there’s no response, they say, voice soft, “I’m all in.”
There’s a pause, a lag, and Cynthia’s convinced they hear a muffled sob. When Lydia speaks again, their voice is broken, pain and hope warring within each word.
“I’m all in too,” she says, and Cynthia’s eyes itch and they’re beaming, ever the idiot. “I’m sorry. For walking out, for throwing this away, for taking you for granted when I should have—we wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for me in the first place.” She pauses, presumably, to collect herself. “I love you. I always have.”
———————
They take it slow—slow for them, anyway. Despite numerous implications (read: dramatic monologues) from Nancy that she’s going to be kicked to the streets in favor of Cynthia’s girlfriend, Lydia keeps themself confined to visits between projects.
Cynthia bursts back onto the scene with an EP, and they don’t go as viral as before, but their community welcomes them back and, more importantly, Lydia loves it. They aren’t public yet, still testing the waters in private, but Cynthia decides to tell the Pinks before they get walked in on.
It’s not perfect. They fight. A lot but Cynthia lets themself feel the anger and then lets it go and it works out. Bit by bit, they make it right. Nancy teases them relentlessly about it, about Lydia, but they don’t mind that much because they’ve got someone who loves them and a group of friends at their back (they’ve always had the Pinks but it feels complete with Lydia in the mix too).
They gather at Christmas, even though Cynthia’s not really celebrated for years (neither has Hazel or Lydia, and Nancy never did) to take a moment, reminisce, close out the year together rather than apart. They check to make sure that inviting Lydia is alright–the others demand her presence. The Pinks gather at Jane’s home in Rydell; Cynthia is late, Lydia is early.
It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in a month, four long weeks of phone calls and texts and press tag that they’ve made a habit of. Cynthia sinks immediately into their girlfriend’s embrace, offered as soon as they slip through the door. Lydia’s perfume greets them, an old lover, and they tuck their nose against the juncture of Lydia’s shoulder and neck, breathing in deep.
“Hey,” Lydia says softly, a greeting they return as a mumble against skin.
Someone clears their throat and the lovers pull apart and Cynthia grins, mischievous at Nancy and Olivia’s gagging. They peels away from Lydia to embrace the girls, squeezing them tight.
“It’s been too long,” they say and, arms over their shoulders, they cross into the kitchen, where Jane is bustling around, cooking like her life depends on it. Hazel sits on a barstool, watching her with interest, and she greets Cynthia as she walks through the door, but actually gets up to hug Lydia. Cynthia beams at this, their tiny, ramshackle family (sans a few members) and their girlfriend (soon to be fiancee, if they can convince her this time around) and goes to give Jane a hug, stealing a bite off the turkey as they pass.
Jane, rightly, swats at them with a towel and they scamper off to pester Nancy about her latest fashion line. Lydia trails behind them, politely nodding to Jane (they’re still struggling to fit in but the Pinks are trying and their trying so Cynthia thinks it best to leave it be) and if Cynthia notices the way Olivia looks at Jane, at the way their fingers brush ever so slightly while the work to assemble the rest of the meal? Well, they don’t say anything. That, they know, will come in its own time. For now, they simply curl an arm about Lydia’s waist and stare up at them with as much love as they can muster.
“It’s been a good year,” they say when Nancy asks. “I’m looking forward to the next one, though.” And Lydia smiles at them and Cynthia doesn’t pay any mind to the Pinks gagging in the background.